by Ron Ripley
“Oh,” Victor whispered. “Oh damn.”
Jeremy nodded. “There’s one other piece to the article that is of some bearing, I believe.”
“What’s that?” Victor asked.
“An orderly was murdered shortly before the boy made good on his escape,” Jeremy said. “He was crushed to death.”
Victor looked at him, confused.
“Without any visible weight,” Jeremy added. “Smashed into a concrete platform that broke beneath the pressure of an unknown force. It was, and I quote, ‘as though someone dropped a truck on him, picked it up, and walked away with it.’ Not especially eloquent, but it certainly does present us with an image of how he died.”
“What do you want to do?” Victor asked.
“Go after the boy and the book,” Jeremy replied.
“What about getting our hands on the rifle?” Victor demanded, growing angry. “What about finding the man who killed Erin?!”
Jeremy shook his head. “Victor, the boy is alive, and perhaps with the book, we can ask the same question. We can save the boy, Victor. We can save him.”
Victor wanted to scream, to howl, but all he could do was nod.
Erin was dead, and the boy was alive.
She would have wanted him to save the boy. No matter what.
Wiping tears from his eyes, Victor stood and stumbled out of the room.
Chapter 38: An Education
Tom was hungry, cold, and filled with hate.
The mixture of the three was not a pleasant combination.
He had walked for the rest of the night, keeping a steady pace and trying to remember everything he had read about avoiding the police. Tom knew that if they brought dog units out, they would follow his scent. He had found a stream, crossed it, gone a hundred yards in and then backtracked to the stream. In spite of the chill in the air and the water, he had forced himself to walk in the water until he could go no further.
Continued passage along the stream bed was blocked by a steel grate across the mouth of a culvert beneath a small bridge. Tom hesitated only for a moment before he climbed out of the water and up a steep hill. His feet slipped in the leaf debris, and he grabbed at saplings and low-hanging branches with his free hand.
Finally, he reached the road and looked around.
He was lost and had no idea as to which direction he should turn. With a shrug, he decided on left and walked along the road’s edge. The sky had begun to brighten in what he assumed was the east, and in the darkness, on either side of the road, he saw the occasional house light. He passed one home where a dog began to bark frantically and continued to do so until the homeowner yelled for the dog to be silent. As the sky brightened, exhaustion beat back the adrenaline that had been coursing through him since the hospital.
Tom glanced to either side, searching for some place to rest.
He found it a short time later.
The Lambtown Cemetery appeared out of the dawn’s gloom, spreading out toward the west with various headstones staring at him.
Staggering, Tom turned into the open gate, his eyes darting around the cemetery. At the far left he saw several small buildings, all of them painted green with old, dull gray roofs. Switching the book from one hand to the other, Tom forced himself forward. He followed the winding asphalt road of the cemetery, and soon he stumbled into the first building. For a few minutes, he leaned against the rough wood, gathering his strength before working his way around to the back.
He found a wide metal door, some of it rusted, and another part pulled out at an odd angle at the bottom. Tom tried the handle, but it was locked. Dropping to his knees, he tugged on the bent corner and was surprised at how much he could bend it. Grunting, Tom tugged harder, prying the metal open wide enough for him to squeeze through.
The room beyond was dark and had a sharp, metallic scent. Tom could smell old motor oil and fertilizer.
The groundskeepers have their equipment here, he realized. Tom waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and when they had, he looked around at the various shadows. Some, he knew, were lawnmowers and weed-whackers. Others he couldn’t make out, and he didn’t care.
He followed the edge of the room until he found a shelf. Under it was burlap sacks, and Tom dropped down to his knees. Sobbing with exhaustion, Tom rolled in and nestled into the pile of burlap. Clutching the book to his chest, Tom fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
***
The sound of male voices woke him up. Tom lay still, breathing and nothing more.
The voices came from the other side of the wall, and Tom listened to them, trying to make out what it was they were saying.
At first, it was nonsensical, words and phrases he didn’t understand.
It took him several minutes to realize they were speaking Spanish.
He listened to their tone and was relieved that there was nothing to signify they were concerned or upset. Instead, the men laughed, spoke, and went about their way.
It was then Tom saw the small, pencil-thin rays of light that pierced various parts of the building. He didn’t know how long he had slept, if the men were beginning or ending their shift, and if they had noticed him or not.
A few car doors slammed, engines started up and then faded away. Tom lay in silence, waiting for any other sound. When none reached his ears, he relaxed. He crawled out from beneath the shelf, his body aching from the beating, his feet from the long trip in shoes that didn’t quite fit as well as he thought they had.
He stood up, swayed and held onto the shelf until he had control over himself. Tom took a step towards the door he had come through and whimpered. His feet felt as though they were on fire. He considered searching through the shed for a first aid kit, but instead, he focused on the idea of a central office for the cemetery. Most of them, he knew, had at least a separate room where files and keys and such were kept.
The best chance of finding a first aid kit, as well as food, would be in an office.
Tom looked around, searching for anything that might be of use, and saw a door on the far right wall. He limped towards it, and when he drew near enough, he was able to read what was stenciled on the opaque glass.
Office.
Tom chuckled, tried the doorknob and was happy to find it unlocked. When he pushed the door open, he found himself in a small, dim room. The shades were drawn and probably had been for as long as he had been alive. A second door led to the outside and beside it was a first aid kit. Tom went to that first, wrenching it off the wall before sitting down on the floor.
His hands shook as he unlocked the metal case and opened it. Methodically, he removed the items he thought he might need, and then lined them up neatly. His new shoes were removed next, as were his hospital socks. The skin on the soles of his feet was pale and tender to the touch.
Blisters, he thought, sighing. He searched through the first aid kit, found a pair of tweezers and took them out. Holding up his right foot, Tom took hold of a large patch of blistered skin and pinched it with the tweezers. He hissed at the burst of pain and winced as he did the same to the remaining blisters on that foot, and then moved on to the other. When he had finished, Tom put the tweezers down and clenched his teeth as he pressed all of the fluid out of the narrow tears he had created.
After several painful minutes, Tom searched through the first aid kit and tried to remember everything he could about what he had seen in movies and in his freshman year health class. After rummaging through the kit he found a bottle of alcohol and poured it over the cuts. The result was instant; pain flashing through him and causing him to gasp. It took him longer to recuperate from the alcohol, and when he did, he went about the careful process of applying antibiotic cream and wrapping his feet in band-aids and bandages.
Finally finished with his feet, Tom sat back against the wall, letting his heartbeat slow down and his breathing return to normal. The angry grumbling of his stomach served as a reminder of how hungry he was. He scanned the ro
om and saw a mini-fridge tucked beside a small filing cabinet. Tom wanted to turn the light on, but fear of being found kept him in the semi-darkness.
His stomach rumbled again, and Tom forced himself into motion. He crawled and scooted himself across the rough tiled floor. When he reached the fridge a reassuring wave of cold air emanated from it. Not the harsh, cruel chill he had come to associate with the dead man who had killed his parents, but one based on fond memories of what seemed to be a distant past.
Tom shook the thoughts of his mother and father out of his head before they dominated him, and opened the fridge. A pale, yellow light slipped out, and Tom pushed the door until it was almost closed. He pressed an eye against the crack and peered in at the food.
There wasn’t much, but it was food. Tom opened the door wide enough to allow his arm in and pulled out a sandwich, a bottle of water, and an orange. The sandwich turned out to be peanut butter on white bread. Tom did a quick check for mold, didn’t find any, and began to eat. He forced himself to do so slowly, remembering some bit of writing that had spoken of people becoming sick from eating food too fast.
A primal part of him screamed for the sandwich to be devoured, but Tom remained in control. Slowly the sharp hunger pangs subsided, and he broke the seal on the bottle of water. He drank it a sip at a time, and he felt energy returning. With the sandwich eaten, Tom turned his attention to the orange. He turned it around in his hands and found a large, moldy spot on one side. Sighing, he put it back in the fridge, closing it once more.
His attention drifted to the desk, a large, steel monstrosity that looked ancient. He worked his way over to it and then went through each drawer, pushing aside files and office supplies until he came up with a half-empty bag of chips and a candy bar of dubious age.
His stomach rumbled at the sight of the additional food, but he focused instead on the computer that was on top of the desk.
Ignoring the screaming complaints of his feet, Tom pulled himself up and sat down in the chair. The monitor stood on top of a small desktop, and both the monitor and the desktop were on, although the screen was black. Tom reached out, moved the mouse around and was pleased to see a login prompt pop up in the center.
Tom frowned. The login information was already there, but the password was not. Beneath the password entry was a prompt that said, Password Hint.
With a shrug, Tom clicked on it and then laughed.
Password1234.
Chuckling, Tom typed it in, hit enter and shook his head as the screen lit up. He adjusted the brightness on the monitor and thought, they must not be too worried about people using this computer. Stupid.
Mr. Krupp, his computer science teacher, would have had a heart attack if he had seen a password like that.
The smile on Tom’s face faded. He couldn’t go back to school, as much as he had hated it. And he couldn’t go back home because the ghost in Caesar’s book had killed his parents and put him in a mental hospital.
His painful passage from the facility to the cemetery had burned the sedatives out of his system, and as painful as his memories were, they stood at the forefront of his thoughts.
Tom would lie to Dillon, and he would find help. Someone, somewhere would be able to help him locate the man who killed his parents. And maybe, if he was lucky, he would find someone who would know how to punish a ghost. Until then, he would have to settle on getting control of the situation.
A grim line settled onto Tom’s face as he brought up Google and typed in a simple question.
How to get rid of a ghost?
Chapter 39: Searching for the Boy
“What do we do about Jean Luc?” Victor asked, coming out of the bathroom and running his fingers through his hair.
“Do?” Jeremy asked. “We do nothing. He is quite alright here, and he will be fine until Leanne returns.”
Victor stopped and said, “What do you mean? She’s going to make it?”
With a nod, Jeremy said, “I have every reason to believe that she will. Especially after having passed us the note that she did.”
“I thought you said her throat was cut,” Victor argued, “How the hell do you come back from something like that?”
“Victor,” Jeremy said, “tell me, how old do you think Leanne is?”
“At least in her mid-sixties,” Victor said, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if she were a little older.”
“She’s not a little older,” Jeremy replied. “She’s a great deal older. I don’t think you would believe me if I told you how old.”
“What, a hundred?” Victor asked. “Because you’re right, I wouldn’t believe you.”
“She’s much, much older than that,” Jeremy said. “She was my friend’s Demetri’s great-grandmother several times removed. Leanne was in Detroit when she came across Jean Luc, and that was in the late eighteen hundreds.”
Victor scoffed, saw that Jeremy wasn’t joking and said, “You’re being ridiculous. No one is that old.”
“No one that you knew of,” Jeremy corrected. “They are few and far between, and they remain hidden, known only to a few others.”
“That’s not possible,” Victor said, shaking his head.
“Not probable, but certainly possible,” Jeremy argued. “You didn’t believe in the disturbing powers of the dead until you had your unfortunate experience with them. Nor did you believe in the fairy folk until you met Jean Luc. Allow your mind to expand, Victor.”
Victor threw up his hands in exasperation, sat down at the table and said, “Okay. Sure. Why not? Fine, Leanne is over a hundred years old. Well over a hundred. Okay, and that is mind-numbingly incredible. And, when this is all said and done, I want to know exactly how old she is, and what she is. But for now, Jeremy, for now, all I want to know right now is where do we find the boy who’s gone missing?”
“Ah, yes,” Jeremy said, nodding. “His name is Tom.”
“Fantastic,” Victor snapped. “Where is Tom?”
“Somewhere in Connecticut,” Jeremy answered. “I believe the last sighting was when he fled the hospital in Ledyard.”
Some of Victor’s ire settled as he asked, “You have a house in what, Norwich?”
Jeremy nodded.
“How close is that to Ledyard?” Victor asked.
“Fairly close,” Jeremy said with a slight smile. “And the good detective has promised to continue to keep us appraised of the progress they are making in the search for the shooter and the rifle.”
“Alright,” Victor grumbled. “Okay. Are you ready to leave? It’s almost time.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said, “I will say my goodbyes to Jean Luc, and we can go to the airport. I purchased tickets for this afternoon.”
“Good,” Victor whispered. “I want to find him.”
“The boy?” Jeremy asked, using his cane and getting to his feet.
“Korzh,” Victor muttered, “but the boy too.”
Jeremy nodded and left the room, the cane thumping. A moment later, Victor heard the man speak in Patois, and the gruff voice of Jean Luc answered.
Victor closed his eyes and imagined how good it would feel to kill Korzh.
Chapter 40: Norwich, CT
Jeremy Rhinehart’s permanent house wasn’t simply a house, it was an old Congregationalist Church. The building was plain, sided with white-clapboard and with a massive chimney at the back of the structure. A small cemetery, protected by a combination of stone walls and wrought iron, stood off to the left while woods crept up on the right and rear of the building. What little property there was consisted primarily of a driveway and the graveyard.
And for some reason, the entire scene spoke of peace and tranquility to Victor as he stepped out of the car and looked at it.
“A happy place,” Jeremy said, walking around to join him, “although I must confess not the most orthodox of homes.”
Victor nodded and followed Jeremy into the man’s house.
Pausing just inside of the doorway, Victor looked around, impress
ed with what he saw. Lighted glass cases lined the walls between tall windows. The cases stretched up into the rafters while smaller, glass-topped display tables formed aisles.
In all of them, something lay. Victor saw items as small as buttons and thimbles, and others as large as scythes and candelabras.
Jeremy limped down the central aisle, leaning heavily on his cane while making his way toward a combination bedroom and kitchenette at the end where the pulpit had once stood.
“How long have you lived here?” Victor asked, placing his bag down beside a chair as Jeremy sat down.
“Since 1970,” Jeremy answered, laying his cane across his knees. “I purchased the building for a song, and I have been here ever since. It took me quite some time to make it livable, but once I did, I began to collect possessed items. Some of them are rather mundane. For instance, I have a small tabletop fan that decides at random hours that it needs to turn on. I haven’t figured out exactly why the gentleman who inhabits it finds the task necessary, but I hope to. One day.”
“How do you sleep with all of them around you?” Victor asked, understanding that each piece was possessed.
“Easily enough,” Jeremy responded. “The cases are all lined with lead, and the glass is sealed with the same. I have no fear that they will get out. Far from it. And, to be perfectly honest, I have secured this part of my home against such an occasion. Salt and iron coat every inch of the floor beneath my bed. So, should they make good on their escape, they will not be able to affect me for either good or ill after they do so.”
Victor shook his head. “It’s impressive. All of it.”
Jeremy bowed his head, smiling. “Many thanks, Victor. It is greatly appreciated. I so rarely get the opportunity to show my home to others. Mine is a lonely business.”
“I can only imagine,” Victor said.
“Well,” Jeremy said, “let us get settled in. I do believe I have a cot around here, somewhere. Unless you prefer sleeping on the floor.”