by Ron Ripley
She knew what was done to them, and it was an experience she preferred not to have.
Composing herself, the thief left the building, turned down a nearby alley, and made her way towards the nearest T stop.
David needed the alpha file, and she was going to get it to him.
Chapter 11: Rousseau Goes to Amherst
The town of Amherst was small enough that people noticed when Rousseau pulled up and parked his Volvo by the village green in front of the Congregationalist Church. He nodded and waved to a few, a smile on his face as he walked around to the back of the car. From the trunk, he removed a few cameras, a camera bag, and a floppy sunhat that made him look ridiculous.
When the curious town folk saw his equipment, they lost interest in him.
He was another person from out of state looking to get some pictures of their beautiful town. Someone, therefore, of absolutely no concern.
Rousseau whistled some piece of pop music he had heard on the radio, shut the trunk and adjusted the hat. While he did so, he brought up the memory of the maps he had studied. He positioned himself with the church on the left and looked at the town hall. Beyond it, he knew, was a path that would lead into a small neighborhood. From there a street would lead to an entrance into conservation land.
And it was in the virgin woods that he would find the parcel the Watchers were concerned with.
Putting his hands in his pockets Rousseau strolled along, smiling at people he saw, pausing to snap a picture here and there. In a short time, he passed the town hall, and after half an hour, he made it through the neighborhood. He stopped at the edge of the conservation land. A pair of crooked granite posts flanked either side of a narrow entrance that led into the land. Between the two posts was a length of thick, one-inch chain. The steel was painted orange and served as a barrier to anyone who tried to drive into the woods.
Beyond the barrier was a path, wide enough for a single vehicle, but grass grew in the tire ruts and he doubted anyone had driven on it in recent memory.
Rousseau climbed over the chain as awkwardly as he could for the benefit of anyone who happened to watch him enter the forest. Tall trees pressed close to the road and he felt a shift in temperature after he had traveled twenty yards along the path.
It wasn’t from the shade of the trees, he knew. The cold was deep, far more penetrating than the weather dictated.
Rousseau recognized the chill as the mark of the dead. Either a great many of them, or a particularly strong one.
He didn’t like either option. For a moment, he hesitated, considered a retreat from the wooded lane, and then he shook his head.
As Clair had pointed out, he had a job to do and he would do it.
Rousseau continued along the path. It wound on, the forest tight on either side. Eventually the trail he followed grew wider. The ruts vanished. He shivered as the temperature plummeted, his breath coming out in great white clouds as he exhaled.
Rousseau paused, stripped the cameras off, and left them on the ground before he continued. From his pocket, he took several iron rings, fitting them on his fingers while walking deeper into the forest.
Part of him screamed to stop, demanded that he go back into town, and find a place to buy a shotgun.
But he couldn’t stop.
Something tugged at him. A deep seeded curiosity demanded him to follow the path.
Ahead of him a giant tree loomed, the likes of which he had never seen before. The branches were tremendous, each one filled with leaves and he knew, deep within his gut, that he needed to be there.
He knew he had to walk beneath the boughs of the tree.
Rousseau quickened his pace, stumbling over the occasional root or fallen branch, but he never stopped.
The forest darkened and he broke into a jog.
Then he was there.
Before him stretched a small burial ground and at the back was an old house. Almost ancient.
In front of it was what he had come for. Rousseau knew that.
The boy had called him, somehow, and that, Rousseau felt, was wonderful.
The boy sat on a rock and smiled. When he saw Rousseau, he waved and Rousseau, with excitement surging through him, returned the gesture.
Across from the boy was a woman. Or what had been a woman. She was emaciated, her clothes filthy and ragged on her thin frame. When she turned to face Rousseau, it looked as though someone had stretched plastic wrap over a skull. Her lips were cracked and her eyes sunken in their sockets. It seemed as though her head was the only part of her which moved.
“Hello,” the little boy said.
“Hello,” Rousseau said, smiling at the child.
“What’s your name?” the boy asked.
“Rousseau.”
“How nice,” the boy said with a grin. “This is my friend, Madison. Have you come to talk with me, too?”
“Yes,” Rousseau whispered. “Oh yes, I have.”
The boy smiled. “Come then, Rousseau, sit with us.”
And Rousseau stumbled forward, a sense of joy burning within him as he sought the company of the boy.
Chapter 12: A Vengeance of His Own
Shane had never pretended to be a nice man. Or a kind man. He had flat out refused to consider himself as a hero.
Heroes didn’t do the sort of acts Shane did.
Or those he planned to do.
Every day that he could, Shane kept to the habits and rituals that had helped him survive years of nightmares and memories. The destruction of Vivienne, his childhood tormentor, had eased those pains, but had not erased them. Walking helped him to think, and so he walked.
When he could.
For the past week he had been able to get out before the sun set. He smoked a few cigarettes, walked out to Concord Street and then up to Greeley Park. The Park, a hundred acres set aside in the center of the city for public use, had several paths he found perfect for contemplation.
Two days prior, he had discovered he wasn’t alone on his walk.
A man and a woman followed him.
They were young and trendy, wearing the latest fashion trends and pushing a stroller.
Shane might not have paid them any sort of attention if he hadn’t had to tie his boot. They passed by, he nodded, and noticed how they hurried past him.
It was odd, and at first, he assumed it was only because of his fearful appearance.
But as they moved away and he straightened up, he noticed their clothes were brand new. The fabric still creased from where it had been folded on store shelves.
He also noticed the stroller was empty.
There was no child in it.
The next morning they had followed him again. And as he turned into Greely Park, lighting a cigarette, he caught sight of them once more.
Shane kept his pace steady though his heartbeat quickened. With the empty stroller and the new clothes, he suspected they were Watchers. Though apparently new to the task of trailing someone.
Which didn’t make them less dangerous.
In fact, Shane felt it made them more so. They would be more inclined to take risks, to try to complete their objective, whatever it might be.
When he reached the trail he wanted, Shane quickened his pace.
“Stop!” the man behind him barked.
Shane broke into a sprint.
A loud cough sounded and something slammed into the tree to his right.
Suppressed weapon, Shane thought, and he leaped off the path and into the woods.
Neither the trees nor the underbrush were sufficient to hide him, so he looked for a place to defend himself. Several shots hit the trees around him, and one cut close by his ear. Shane didn’t stop running.
It seemed that they meant to take him alive, which would mean torture and eventual execution.
Shane had no intentions on letting that occur.
Ahead he caught sight of a large boulder, and he knew it was there that he could make his stand. He sprinted for it, feet flying over gnarled roots
and down trees. When he reached the tall boulder, he scrambled up it to stand and look down as the man and the woman raced to him.
They had semi-automatic pistols with suppressors and their faces were flushed with the exertion of the run. Yet their hands were steady as they pointed the weapons at him. Their faces wore expressions of determination.
“Shane Ryan,” the woman said. “Come down.”
Shane’s hand trembled as he removed his cigarettes and lit one. Exhaling he replied, “No. I don’t think so.”
“You need to come down,” the man stated. “I have no issue with blowing your knee caps out.”
Shane nodded. “I appreciate your honesty.”
The woman frowned. “Where’s Frank Benedict?”
“Busy,” Shane replied, catching his breath.
She glanced at her colleague. “We can’t wait any longer. We need to take him now.”
“Agreed,” the man said, bringing his pistol up.
“Hold on,” Shane said, holding up a hand. “I have a statement to make, for the next time you use the stroller on someone. Make sure you have a kid in it.”
“What are you talking about?” the man asked.
“Kids,” Shane said with a sigh. “You should have brought one. I brought my own.”
Shane gave them a grim look, reached into his pocket, and clasped the small finger bone he had placed there before his walk. He took a deep breath and hoped his plan would work as he whispered, “Eloise.”
The dead girl appeared in front them and smiled as she said, “Hello.”
Shane watched as both the woman and her companion fumbling in their pockets.
Before Shane could warn Eloise about iron, the dead girl was in motion, a blur that struck both man and woman down.
Sitting on the boulder, Shane shook his head, lit a fresh cigarette, and watched the little dead girl murder his attackers.
Chapter 13: At Marie’s
“How are you feeling?” David asked, helping Marie into her chair.
The detective shrugged. “Same. Be better when I can get back to work. If I can get back to work.”
“You will,” David reassured her. He lifted the cozy from the teakettle and filled Marie’s cup. When he returned to his own seat, he found her eyes on him.
“What?” he asked, grinning.
“You,” she replied. “I’m still surprised at how graceful you are.”
David shrugged, saying, “I keep telling you, I used to be a dancer. Before the Watchers.”
Marie chuckled, winced and let out a sigh. “They keep telling me the pain will go away eventually.”
“I don’t know,” David said. “I’ve never had to come back from an injury like yours.”
She grunted. “Neither did they. The doctors have it randomly categorized as a traumatic brain injury.”
“I think they’re spot on,” David admitted. “It was traumatic, and it occurred to your brain.”
His phone chimed and interrupted his next comment. Frowning, David picked the cellphone up from the table and saw it was a text about the alpha file. Surprise must have shown on his face as Marie asked, “What is it?”
David had kept her up to date as to the informant within the Watchers’ organization, so when he told her what the text concerned excitement filled her eyes.
“Will she bring it here?” Marie asked.
“It would be for the best,” David said. “Boston is too dangerous. As is Shane’s for her. She is too prominent in the organization. I’m afraid she would be recognized instantly.”
“Then have her come here,” Marie said. “Where is she right now?”
David sent a text asking the same. The reply came in less than thirty seconds later.
“A town called Hudson,” he said.
“It’s the next town over,” Marie said. “Give her my address. Tell her to come on up.”
David smiled as he typed the message in.
After he had sent it Marie asked, “Why are you grinning?”
“You continue to impress me, Marie,” he said.
“All my years as a cop,” she said, grinning.
A pleasant silence fell over the two of them and they drank their tea. It was good, David realized, to be in the company of someone he had fought beside. And he recognized that Marie reminded him of Blanche, murdered in Borgin.
By the time David finished his tea, there was a knock on the door of Marie’s apartment. He glanced at her and she gave a nod. David stood up, unlocked the door and opened it.
His informant stood in the hallway, her face pale and her hair in disarray. David stepped aside and let her in, securing the deadbolt behind her.
“Marie,” David said, “this is my God-daughter, Shirley Coleman.”
Chapter 14: The Truth
Shane sat in the small, circular room within the house’s walls. The mirror was in front of him and Lisbeth was in the mirror. She watched him as she moved with nervous energy within the glass boundary of her prison.
“What do you want?” she demanded, and there was a shrill, fearful note in her words.
Shane said nothing.
Lisbeth sneered at him. Then the sneer faded, replaced briefly by a nervous grin. “Are you here to visit?”
“Not quite,” Shane said. “I need information.”
“I need to not be a prisoner,” she retorted. A genuine look of desperation appeared on her face.
“Let me go,” she begged.
Shane felt no mercy towards her.
“I need information,” he repeated. “When I have everything I need from you, then I will let you go.”
A whimper escaped her lips and she gave a small nod.
“I have a map,” Shane said, “which shows the location of all the Watchers’ properties. What I want to know is, if they were to lose a property, which one would hurt the Watchers the most?”
Lisbeth hesitated and her face contorted before she made a decision to speak. “There’s a house, one that belonged to a school teacher. They’ve made sure to keep him well supplied.”
“Are there others?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Tell me,” Shane demanded.
Lisbeth winced at his tone and nodded. She spoke to him about various properties, some nearby, others in the far corners of New England.
“You have to understand,” she finished, the words coming out slowly, “that these ghosts, some of them have been fed and cared for by the Watchers for over a hundred years. The organization helped them to perfect killing, and taught them how to properly siphon the energy of the dead.”
“Did that help them?” Shane asked. “Did the dead benefit from it?”
“You faced Emmanuel?” Lisbeth asked.
Shane nodded.
“Then tell me, Shane,” she said, saying his name as if it were a curse, “did it work for him?”
Shane nodded.
“He was the strongest,” Lisbeth finished. “But by no means the only one.”
After a moment of silence, Shane asked, “And that’s it?”
She looked up, surprised. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it?’ Isn’t that enough? The more bodies mean the stronger the ghost.”
Shane shrugged as he stood up. “How strong they are doesn’t really matter to me.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “You actually think you could face them?”
Shane looked at her and said, “I grew up with worse.”
Lisbeth blinked. “Impossible.”
“Next time Eloise feels like talking,” Shane said, “ask her about the pond.”
Lisbeth threw herself at the mirror, the glass humming in the frame as she bounced off it.
“What will happen to me if you die going after the Watchers?!” she screamed at him.
“Then you’ll stay here,” Shane said, “until someone lets you out.”
Silence followed him out of the room.
Chapter 15: A Corner Lot
The house was s
mall and set at the back of a corner lot in Pepperell, Massachusetts. Starlight supplemented the weak glow of the streetlights and the other houses in the neighborhood were dark, the residents fast asleep.
The house Shane and Frank were interested in was as dark as the others, but for a different reason. Its wood siding was painted a bright blue, the shutters a horrific shade of green. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front yard and the windows were absent of any light.
Shane sat in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette while Frank double-checked the loads on the shotguns.
They had received word from David earlier about the arrival of the alpha file. The man also said he would be by as soon as possible to share the information.
Frank had told the older man it was fine, and it was.
While the stolen file would help them find the location of the One, neither Shane nor Frank needed it to wreak havoc on the Watchers.
The map David had brought over would help with that.
They had zoomed in on the image, found a nearby house, and discovered that there was a ghost in the structure. Exactly as Lisbeth said there would be.
The spirit had accounted for seven deaths in the past twenty-three years. Not much when compared to the other ghosts Shane and Frank had faced. Or even when held up to those Shane had squared off against as a child. Yet Lisbeth said that this one was strong, and well fed by the Watchers.
And that the organization would be hurt by its removal. Which was perhaps the most important reason for Shane.
“So, what information do we have on this house?” Frank asked, handing a shotgun to Shane.
“From what I could find,” Shane said, putting the weapon on his lap, “there was a school teacher, Cody Gray, who used to live here. By all accounts, he was a great guy. Teacher of the year, donated time and money to underprivileged kids. Then, when he died, they found a hidden room with home movies and photos that showed him committing horrific acts. Hell, they even found the tools he used to torture people still hanging on the walls.”
“When was this?” Frank asked. “When did he die?”
“Nineteen sixty-two,” Shane answered. “House went unoccupied for a few years. Then someone from out of town bought it, and two years into their ownership, the husband strangled the wife and then killed himself. He left a note, apologizing for what he had done, but Mr. Gray had been telling him to do worse. Much worse, so he ended it before Mr. Gray could make him.”