by Michael Jahn
“Oh, I don’t know,” Frank said. “Native Americans had serpent gods, in India snakes devoured the world, in the Middle Ages Europeans ran from fire-breathing dragons, and Jonah just barely got out of the belly of the whale.”
“I didn’t realize you studied these things,” she said.
“Stuart did. He was kind of obsessed with mythology. He’ll make a great spirit.”
“I’m glad you got to see your friends one more time,” she said, picking up one of his hands and holding it in both of hers.
“I have a feeling they’ll never be far away,” Frank said.
He turned his head and kissed her on the forehead. It was then that he saw something he had wanted to see for a long time.
“It’s gone,” he said.
“What’s gone?”
“The tattoo. You’re no longer marked.”
“I guess my time isn’t up yet,” Lucy said, getting to her feet and offering her hands to help him up. “But it is time for you to go and get healed. Pay attention to your doctor.”
“I was just getting accustomed to this morgue,” he said, but allowed her to help him to his feet nonetheless.
Nineteen
Frank stood on his front lawn, holding a mug of hazelnut coffee that Lucy brought him from the Dunkin’ Donuts. Dawn’s long sun rays were cutting through his house where the unfinished beams stood fragilely in the crisp, dew-filled air. It was a gloriously clear day, one in which you could see for miles out to sea. The lobster fleet was out in force, and smoke poured from the twin exhausts of the ferry as it chugged its way from Fairwater to Plum Island. A light wind was coming down from the hills, and it rustled the old tarps and bits of plastic Frank had put up, over the years, to cover the holes in his unfinished house.
There was a roar as the bulldozer driver powered up his engine. It was followed by a crash as the gigantic hunk of metal smashed into the side of the house, splintering timbers.
Frank took a sip of coffee and watched his house come down.
“I always said you’d never finish that house, Frank,” said the Judge. He was off to Bannister’s right, the upper part of his body saddled to Rustler. His legs stood nearby, ready to follow him wherever he went.
Frank gave his old friend a fond smile and rested a hand on his shoulder.
There was an especially loud crash as the first wall came down, sending splinters everywhere and impelling several giant crows to go cawing and flapping off in search of a quieter neighborhood.
“I’d call it finished, Judge,” Frank said.
“You spent a good old buffalo’s age sittin’ inside those four walls, waiting for something to happen, wasting a lot of time.”
“You sound like you don’t have much faith in my ability to get things done.”
“Well, look at it this way. For an architect, you sat up a lot of nights in little more than a shack.”
“It suited me,” Frank said. “It was unfinished. So was I. Say, did I tell you I decided to get my license back?”
“The way you drive, I’m surprised they didn’t take it away long ago,” the Judge said.
“No, I mean my architect’s license. I’m going to bone up and take the recertification exam. I think I can get a job in town.”
“It’s time to start building things again,” the Judge said. “I’m right proud of you, the way you took a couple of green frighteners and turned ’em into something good. It damn near killed you.”
“It did kill me. Twice.”
“I’m gettin’ outta here before you decide to make it three,” Judge said. “I came here today to tell you I’m leaving.”
“You’re taking the corridor?” Frank asked.
“Nope. I’m taking the interstate,” the Judge said proudly.
“To where?”
“I’m going west, son. Me and Rustler are goin’ west.”
Frank glanced down at the Judge’s legs, which were kicking at the dirt restlessly.
“Aren’t you gonna walk?” he asked.
The Judge shook his head sadly, then lowered his voice. “Me and my vitals have come to a parting of the ways.”
Frank nodded knowingly. It was a tender moment, such as happens when two old friends part for good.
“So this is good-bye, Frank.”
“Goodbye, Judge. You take care of yourself.”
“You, too, son. Let’s go, Rustler.”
With that, he doffed his hat and wheeled Rustler around, urging him forward. The Judge’s legs followed, pausing briefly to kick a can into the bushes.
Lucy slipped up alongside Frank and slipped an arm around his waist. “Take care, Judge,” she called out.
“Good-bye, missy,” he said, waving his hat as he and his strange mount disappeared into the tall grass across the street.
Frank gave Lucy a strange look. She had said good-bye to the Judge, whom she wasn’t supposed to be able to see, and he had replied.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.
Frank turned to her, and Lucy kissed him tenderly.
“That’s the same thing you told me this morning,” he said.
They kissed again.
“And it’s the same thing I’m going to tell you every morning for the rest of our lives,” she said, hugging him.
He rested his cheek atop her head. The bandage—the one put on at the hospital the week before—was itching him, so he reached inside his shirt and pulled it off. Then he tossed it onto the ground.
“Let me see that,” she said, opening his shirt and inspecting the scar.
“How am I healing?” he asked.
“I wish all my patients were this healthy. Which reminds me, do you want to keep Ray’s rowing machine? If not, we can have a yard sale and get rid of it and the rest of his things.”
“Let’s have a yard sale. I prefer to walk for exercise.”
“Smart man,” she said.
“I must be . . . I’m marrying you.”
“After a suitable time, of course,” she said. “I mean, you’re a distinguished member of the community now. A hero, in fact, ever since the town found out how you caught the crazy woman who had killed your wife years ago and who was responsible for those recent deaths.”
“A hero, huh? Well, whaddaya know? It’s too bad I can’t rub Magda Ravanski’s nose in this.”
The bulldozer had half the house down and was making even more of a racket than before, so Frank and Lucy walked away from the house, down the driveway to the edge of the road. They just got there when Sheriff Perry drove up in a squad car—the same car, it turned out, in which Dammers’s had kidnapped Lucy.
Perry huffed and puffed his way out of the car. He had put on even more weight in the week that had passed.
“Hi, Walt,” Frank said.
“Good morning. Sheriff,” Lucy said with a smile.
“Sorry to interrupt, folks. Whaddaya know about Ouija boards, Frank?”
“Not a lot, Walt.”
“That’s too bad. We found a whole stack of them up at the Bartlett House. It looks like Patricia had herself a direct line to her dead boyfriend.”
“I think she did,” Frank said idly, mainly trying to be agreeable.
“Oh, well, it was a lead. Say, Frank, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You know, I got a lot of vacation time owed to me. How about you and me collaborate on a book about all this? It could be my ticket outta the force.”
Frank shook his head. “Sorry, Walt, I don’t know how to write. Why don’t you get that Bayliss kid to write it with you?”
“Who? Oh, the boy reporter. Jeez, you scared him so good that one night I think he’s still running. By the time his dad got there to bail him out, he had given up the newshound business for good.”
“Did he go back to the lobster boat?”
“Nah, he wanted to get out of this town. I heard he’s down in Boston writing poetry for an underground newspaper.”
Fr
ank smiled.
“I guess that beats working on the lobster boats,” Perry said. “Are you sure you won’t write a book with me?”
“I’m sure,” Frank said. “Then he pointed at the back of the squad car. “You could try asking your guardian angel.”
Sheriff Perry spun around with alarm, but found that his car was empty. After a moment’s pause he chuckled.
“That was a good one, Frank. You really had me going for a moment.” Then he laughed, hopped back into his car, and gunned the engine.
Frank waved sweetly, and not just to the sheriff. For the ghost of Milton Dammers stared sourly out of the backseat of Sheriff Perry’s car.
“That guy Dammers, he sure looks pissed,” Lucy said.
Frank did a double take at Lucy, then at the receding car, and then back at Lucy. She saw the Judge. She saw Dammers.
“You want to tell me about it?” he asked.
“Sometimes, Frank,” she said with an enigmatic grin, “when people go through a trauma, it changes them . . .”
Table of Contents
Back Cover
Titlepage
Copyright
Dedication
THE FRIGHTENERS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen