by Ron Ripley
Gabriella nodded and slipped away.
“Alright,” Ruby said. “Let’s do this.”
“Yeah,” Marian agreed. "The sooner, the better."
The young women walked along the sidewalk across from the Mill. They kept to the shadows, trying to see if anyone was on the outside of the building, or if they had already gone in.
There was no one by the front door.
“I’m not going in,” Marian said. There was no negotiation in her voice.
“Me neither,” Ruby declared. “We can shoot him just as easy when he walks out.”
“Yup,” Marian said.
The girls moved back into the dark shadow of an empty doorway. They leaned against the cold brick walls and watched the front door, waiting for their victim to return.
Chapter 38: Inside the Slater Mill
As soon as the door closed behind him, Kurt knew he shouldn't have entered the building.
It stank of death, and the air was brutally cold. His breath streamed out in long white tendrils, and he shivered as he stood on the old worn floor. From the second floor, he could hear the sound of heavy machines thumping.
With his free hand, Kurt reached into the side pocket of his khakis and removed his flashlight. He thumbed the button, and a red light burst out. His hand shook as he swept the beam back and forth.
The hallway was surprisingly clean, as if someone had swept away the dust of decades, revealing a shining floor. Fine cracks spiderwebbed through the horsehair plaster on the walls and Kurt could feel the vibrations of the equipment rise up through his boots.
He let out a shaky breath and approached the stairs cautiously. When he reached them, he walked along the edge of each riser, cutting back on the amount of creaking each step elicited from the stairs.
Kurt reached the second floor and paused. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he wondered if he would pass out from the fear he felt.
No, he reprimanded himself. You will not.
Kurt straightened up, panned the flashlight’s beam across the hallway, and found a tall door set in the right wall. It was painted a dull white and set in faded gray tracks. The door would slide to the left and open into whatever workroom was beyond it.
A small, rational part of Kurt refused to believe there was a ghost beyond the old, thick wood. That rational portion of his brain demanded that he accept a logical explanation for the noise.
The Tree Streets were notorious for moving narcotics through the city, funneling the drugs to smaller towns and cities in New Hampshire.
What you’re hearing, Kurt told himself, is someone who got the bright idea to package the product with old equipment in order to get it ready to go out. All you’re going to find in there are some punks and a lot of dope.
But Kurt didn’t even believe his own idea.
A large-scale dealer would have been noticed long before the first death. The temperature in the building couldn’t be attributed to any sort of machinery.
And finally, Kurt knew there was something far worse in the Slater Mill than a dealer with a couple of hired guns working for him.
Kurt walked to the door, grabbed it by the handle, and jerked it open.
The tracks screamed as the door’s wheels scraped down their un-oiled length and Kurt winced at the noise he made.
With the room open before him, Kurt shined the flashlight into its depths and felt his breath catch in his throat.
Dozens of machines filled the long chamber, some of them running, others still. People stood at those machines which ran. A pair of boys at one, an old Hispanic man at another. None of them looked at Kurt or acknowledged him in any sort of way.
At the far end of the flashlight’s beam, on the left, at a machine that sputtered and coughed, stood Bill.
He was dressed in his uniform, bent over the machine. The flashlight didn’t illuminate Bill as much as it passed through him. As it passed through all of them.
Kurt panned the light toward the opposite wall, the pounding of his blood suddenly loud enough, drowning out the noise of the machinery. From the shadows on the right, a man emerged.
It was the same one who had struck down Bill.
Yet he was unlike the others. He was almost solid, absorbing the flashlight’s beam. His smile was crooked, wicked. Hatred danced in the man’s eyes and twitched at the corners of his mouth. His black hair was greasy, slicked back away from his forehead and tucked behind his ears.
If he had been a regular man, Kurt would have pulled him over to see what he was up to.
But Kurt knew he wasn’t.
And the man knew it too.
At a gesture from Bill's killer, all of the ghosts stopped and turned around to stare at Kurt.
The man asked Kurt a question in what sounded like French, but Kurt didn’t know the language. He couldn’t answer the undead killer.
Kurt started to hyperventilate. He raised the iron railroad spike up in front of him like a B-movie actor lifting up a gaudy crucifix in a vampire film.
But unlike the movie, Kurt’s relic had no effect on the dead man.
On any of the gathered dead.
Terrified, Kurt dropped the spike, turned, and fled from the room. Behind him came the sound of people laughing, and it chased him down the stairs.
Chapter 39: Too Easy
“Did you hear that?” Marian asked.
Ruby straightened up, nodding.
The two of them pulled their weapons out and clicked off the safeties.
They would kill the two men together, so neither one could rat the other out if caught. Ballistics on the weapons would show that the men were shot by both of them.
The girls did everything together, and they’d go to prison together too.
If they had to.
Neither of them planned on prison, though.
That was for chumps who couldn’t get the job done.
Marian and Ruby could.
The door to the Mill slammed open, and a man ran out. He raced to the fence, slammed through the gate, and the man's bald head reflected the gleam of the street lamp's light.
The two girls fired simultaneously. The pistols bucked in their hands, and the first shots went wide, striking the side of the Mill. By the time the third and fourth rounds had left the barrels, the bullets found their mark. In silence, the girls advanced on the man as the force of the bullets punched him backward.
He staggered, half spun and fell. Not a noise escaped his mouth, but he struck the pavement with a loud, wet thump.
Marian and Ruby reached him and emptied the pistols into him.
With the thunder of the guns still ringing in their ears, the girls turned away from the body and went home. Around them, the Tree Streets were silent, because no one saw anything, ever.
Chapter 40: A Failure at the Most Basic Level
The phone let out two, abbreviated rings, followed by two long rings.
Without turning on the light, Abigail Horn sat up. In the darkness, she reached out, plucked the handset out of its cradle, and listened.
“A man was killed outside of the Slater Mill,” a woman said.
“One?”
“One,” the unknown woman confirmed.
Abigail frowned. “Ryan or Benedict?”
“Neither.”
“Explain,” Abigail demanded.
“A police officer out of uniform. Our observer confirms that it was the two girls hired by Dell.”
Abigail contained her rage with difficulty.
“Does Dell know this?” she asked.
“No,” the woman answered.
“See that he doesn’t find out. And make certain he doesn’t leave his home,” Abigail said.
“Yes.”
The call ended, and Abigail replaced the receiver. For several minutes she sat in the bed, thinking. Finally, with her decision made, she picked up her cellphone and dialed a number she hadn't used in years.
“Hello,” a woman said.
“Slater,” Abiga
il stated.
The woman on the other end asked, “Name?”
Abigail gave her all of the information relevant to Shane Ryan and Frank Benedict.
“Collateral damage?” the woman asked.
“Acceptable,” Abigail said.
“Preference?”
“Whatever gets the job done,” Abigail said through clenched teeth.
“Time frame?” the woman asked.
“ASAP.”
“Alright,” the woman replied, and she hung up the phone.
Abigail put her cell phone back down on the nightstand and remained upright in bed. She knew she wouldn't be able to return to sleep. Her body throbbed with an anger that bordered on hatred.
Shane Ryan had cost her more than anyone had, and she despised him.
Chapter 41: An Interrupted Sleep
At four in the morning, someone decided it was necessary to pound on the front door. The noise jarred Shane out of an uneasy sleep, one rife with nightmares, and forced him out of his bed. He met Frank in the hallway and in silence, they went down the stairs.
Several of the ghosts were near the front door, interested expressions on their faces.
“Get out of here,” Shane said, motioning them away with his hands. When he reached the door, he called out, "Who is it?"
“Marie,” the detective said. There was a hard, harsh bite to her voice, a hoarseness that penetrated the heavy wood and rolled through the cool air of the house.
Frowning, Shane opened up the door and saw her. She was dressed in what he knew was her work attire. A no-nonsense suit that didn’t hide or accentuate her femininity. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a baseball hat with the brim down low that clashed with her clothing.
“Marie,” Shane said, nodding. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you invite me in, Shane?” she asked.
The rough tone of her voice was different than anything he had heard before from her.
The hackles on the back of his neck stood up, and he took a step closer, keeping a firm grip on the doorknob. "Why don't you tell me what's going on first?"
She gave a small shake of her head. “No, Shane. I think we need to have a talk.”
“What’s going on, Detective?” Frank asked over Shane’s shoulder.
“I need to speak with Shane. And you as well, Frank,” she said.
“Sure,” Frank said. “You going to let her in, Shane?”
“No,” Shane replied. There was something strange about her. A wrongness he couldn’t place.
“We need to talk,” Marie said.
“We can talk right here,” Shane responded. “I can hear you just fine from where you’re standing.”
“This isn’t something we can discuss outside,” she snapped. “Do you understand me?”
Shane felt a cold grin spread across his face.
“I understand you just fine,” he said, his voice low. “Maybe, Marie, you don’t understand me. I don’t care if you’re mad at me. I don’t care that you’re a cop. I am not letting you into my house until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Shane,” Frank said. “What the hell is up?”
“Look at her,” Shane said. “Look at her and tell me something’s not wrong with her.”
“Frank,” Marie snapped. “Will you talk some sense into him, please?”
“Come on, Shane,” Frank said.
Shane turned his head slightly toward Frank, and Marie struck.
Her foot lashed out, kicking the door out of his hand and sending the edge of it into his shoulder. He stumbled back, knocking Frank off balance.
Marie was inside in a heartbeat, moving faster than Shane had ever imagined she could. Shane caught himself on the wall and dodged a kick from Marie that would have crushed his kneecap if it had connected.
She slammed the door behind her, the entire frame shaking as wood struck wood. The baseball hat fell from her head, and the ponytail with it.
A woman, slightly older than Marie, was revealed. Her black hair was clipped short, her face sharp and the jaw set.
The stranger’s face was a cold, immovable mask as she threw a punch at Shane. He twisted at the last moment, the blow glancing off his left arm. There was a power and strength to it.
She tried to stomp on Frank's ankle, but the man rolled, her booted foot smashing down onto the floor. The woman spun back toward Shane, her right hand sliding into the depths of her suit coat.
Her hand reemerged seconds later, a semi-automatic pistol held in it. The weapon had a suppressor attached to it, the pistol grotesque in appearance as she pointed it at Shane.
The expression on her face never changed as she pulled the trigger.
Chapter 42: Shock and Awe
A sense of cold detachment dropped down onto Frank, and he recognized it instantly. In some of his worst battles, it had appeared. It was a filter; a magnifying glass that afforded him a preternatural ability to focus.
It seemed as though the world slowed down. Frank could see everything.
He saw the brutal determination on the stranger’s face, a murderous glint in her eye. Her hand was steady, the pistol rock-like in its stillness. When she pulled the trigger, her finger went backward without the faintest hint of hurry.
Frank watched the slide on the pistol move back and then jerk forward. The spent shell casing spun with all the grace and care of a pinwheel out of the ejection port.
Frank didn’t see the round itself, but he watched as Shane twisted his head to the right. A bright red line leaped into life along the left side of his head above his mutilated ear.
The round smashed into the stairs, and the world exploded back into full speed.
So too did Frank.
He launched himself forward, striking the woman in the elbow, forcing the arm up and sending the next round wild. She spun to face him, trying to bring the butt of the pistol down on his face.
But Frank had been in more fights than he wanted to remember, and with killers who had been at their peaks. He had left more bodies than she could imagine in places like Afghanistan and Iraq.
A quick snap of his hand broke her wrist, the weapon dropping to the floor as she grunted. The stranger was skilled, though and focused. Even as she lost her pistol, she brought her left hand around, trying to rake her fingernails down Frank's face. Frank parried, and by the time she brought her right knee up towards his groin, Shane was there.
What Frank and the woman had in finesse, Shane had in pure rage and brute power.
Shane plowed into her, his shoulder catching her in the ribs, breaking them while lifting her up off her feet. She exhaled and grunted all in one motion as Shane drove her into the wall. Pictures fell from their hooks, landing on the floor with a shatter of breaking glass.
Blood ran down the side of Shane's face, some of it slipping along the line of his cheekbone and spilling down over his mouth. The lower half of his chin became a grotesque imitation of a clown's smile and his teeth were stained red as he stepped back.
Frank opened his mouth to speak but didn’t have the chance.
Shane stepped forward and smashed his fist into the woman’s face. Her head snapped back, putting a dent in the horsehair plaster as her eyes rolled up to show the whites. She slid, seemingly boneless, to the floor.
"Kitchen?" Frank asked, his voice loud and harsh in his ears.
Shane shook his head. “Bathroom. The blood will be easier to clean there.”
Together they took the stranger by her arms and dragged her up the stairs.
Chapter 43: A Conversation between Friends
Shane's head pounded, and his hands trembled as he lit a cigarette. He was alone in the bathroom with a stranger. They had searched her and come up with a phone, a small coil of wire, a detective’s badge that said she was Lisbeth Walker, and far too much money for a police detective. She lay in the bathtub, bloody and battered, and Shane had no doubt she was still extremely dangerous in spite of her injuries.
&nbs
p; Frank leaned in the doorway with a shotgun, a pair of rock salt shells loaded into it.
“She’s awake,” Frank said.
Shane looked at her. The woman’s expression was unchanged, but he didn’t doubt Frank’s assessment.
“Who are you?” Shane asked.
Her eyes snapped open, and she glared at him. A fine mixture of hatred and anger filled her eyes.
“I’m exactly who it says I am,” she said. Her words were cold and flat.
“Detective Lisbeth Walker,” Shane said.
She nodded.
“Then why, Detective Walker,” Shane said, “did you come here to kill us this morning?”
She looked from Shane to Frank, seemed to assess the situation, and said, “I’m not leaving here alive.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Shane replied.
Lisbeth scoffed. “I’m going to kill you, Shane. And you, Frank. The first opportunity that presents itself.”
“Why?” Shane asked. He was surprised and curious.
“It’s what I’m paid to do,” she responded.
“By whom?” Frank asked.
“Someone who is extremely upset with you,” Lisbeth snapped. “You’ve stepped on some toes, Shane. And you as well, Frank. You’ve interrupted a process of cultivation, and they’re going to stop you.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” Shane asked.
A cold, calculating look appeared on her face. Her eyes lacked any sort of empathy, any sort of emotion.
His own face must have been easy to read, for Lisbeth gave him a cold and brutal smile.
“Life’s not what you thought it was, is it, Shane?” she snickered. “No. Not at all. And here’s a little bit of information for you. Something to wrestle with during your sleepless nights. They’ve been watching your house since before your parents bought it. They knew about the girl in the pond. They’ve always known. And when your parents bought the house, they wondered how long you would all last.”