by Ron Ripley
“Excellent,” his grandfather said. “Jim, would you mind putting some water on for coffee, please?”
“Sure,” Jim said, and he left the room wondering who Charles was, and what he might be bringing to Rye.
Chapter 51: Brian has a Chat
Brian was exhausted, and he missed Jenny terribly. He picked at the remnants of a less than satisfactory cheeseburger and wondered how long Charles and Ellen would take.
“Brian.”
Brian nearly fell out of his chair at the sound of Leo’s voice.
The dead man stood by the hotel room’s door, and he looked at Brian with some concern.
“You know your heart is bad?” Leo asked.
“Yes,” Brian said, nodding. “I’m aware of that, Leo. Thank you. Did you know scaring the hell out of me doesn’t help its condition?”
“Yes,” Leo said seriously. “I am, however, far more concerned with the additional stress put on your heart by the level of beef you are eating. I have observed your intake of whiskey as well.”
Brian frowned. “Leo, have you been spying on me?”
Leo cleared his throat. “No. I have been watching you. Spying implies I would be gathering information to use against you.”
Brian held up a hand, and Leo stopped. “Never mind, Leo. Never mind. Why have you stopped by?”
“Do you know Detective Daniel Brown died this afternoon?” Leo asked.
“Yes,” Brian said. He picked up a soggy french fry, tore it in two and popped one-half into his mouth.
“Did you know he was researching the man who now lives in the house on Indian Rock Road?” Leo asked.
Brian nodded.
“Good,” Leo said with a smile. “Then he must have told you Miles Cunningham is a murderer who was recently released from prison.”
Brian almost spit the french fry out in surprise. “No, Leo. No, he did not tell us. He died before he could.”
“Oh,” Leo said. He frowned, and then he smiled. “Ah, I had forgotten. I spoke with him shortly after he died. He was upset he had not been able to inform you about the homicidal past of Miles Cunningham.”
“You know, Leo,” Brian said, sighing. “There is a really, really big difference between those two things.”
“Yes,” Leo agreed. “There is.”
Brian shook his head. “Okay, so this guy Cunningham who lives in Montgomery’s house, he’s a murderer. Who did he kill, and how did he do it?”
“He killed a Catholic Priest,” Leo said. “And he strangled him to death.”
“Alright,” Brian said. “Now, how old was Cunningham when he committed the murder?”
“Eighteen,” Leo answered. “There is more, however.”
“Tell me ‘the more,’ Leo,” Brian said, eating another fry.
“Miles Cunningham accused the priest of sexual misconduct,” Leo said.
“Did they refuse to prosecute the priest?” Brian asked.
“For what?” Leo asked.
“Sexual misconduct,” Brian said.
Leo shook his head. “The priest was a genetic eunuch. In addition to this, he had never spent any time alone with Miles Cunningham.”
“Oh,” Brian said. “What else?”
“The parents of Miles Cunningham were Protestant missionaries in Japan. He speaks the language fluently, and he is quite familiar with the customs,” Leo said.
“If his parents were Protestant missionaries,” Brian said, “then what was he doing in a Catholic Church?”
“Murdering the priest,” Leo answered.
Brian repressed a frustrated sigh. “Okay, Leo, okay. But why did he accuse the priest in the first place?”
“He saw the priest looking at him in a bookstore. He believed the priest sexually assaulted him with his mind,” Leo said.
“Jesus,” Brian murmured.
“You should be extremely careful, Brian,” Leo said. “He was rather brutal in the way he killed the priest.”
“Strangulation is brutal any way you look at it, Leo,” Brian said.
Leo nodded. “Yes, but Miles Cunningham strangled the priest to death with the man’s own intestines.”
“His intestines?” Brian asked, after a moment.
“Yes,” Leo said. “The police report, which Detective Daniel Brown told me about, stated Miles Cunningham managed to extract six feet of the lower intestine.”
“Leo,” Brian said, interrupting the dead man.
“Yes, Brian?” Leo asked politely.
“Please, please do not tell me any more about the death of the priest,” he said.
Leo nodded. “I shall not.”
“Thank you. Does he still have three of the skulls in the house with him?” Brian asked.
“I believe so,” Leo said. “But I am sure he will bring another skull to the Church tonight.”
“Why?” Brian asked.
“Miles Cunningham converted to Shintoism when he was a young man in Japan. He believes the ghosts are Gods. The only fitting place for a God is in a temple, or a Church,” Leo said. “Since he was raised Protestant, Miles feels a Protestant Church is the best place for them.”
“Leo,” Brian said, shaking his head, “how can you possibly know that?”
“I spoke with Miles this morning,” Leo said. “I asked him why he was putting the skulls in the Church. And he explained his reasoning to me. It is unfortunate he is homicidal and delusional, Brian. Miles Cunningham is an extremely intelligent man.”
“Great,” Brian muttered. “Just great. Leo, did you tell him we were looking for him?”
“No,” Leo said, looking confused. “Would you like me to? To be honest, Brian, I thought if I told him what you were planning, it would not work out well.”
“No, please, God, no. Leo, just don’t communicate with him again, okay?” Brian asked.
“Of course, Brian,” Leo said, smiling. “Brian, may I ask you a question?”
“Sure, Leo, shoot,” Brian said, and instantly regretted his word choice.
Leo frowned. “Shoot what?”
“No, Leo, go ahead and ask me your question,” Brian said, forcing himself to smile.
“I was curious, how is Jenny doing?” Leo asked.
“She’s great,” Brian said, bemused. “Why do you ask?”
“Sylvia was wondering,” Leo said. “She will be glad to hear Jenny is well. In fact, I will tell her now.”
Leo vanished.
Brian was alone in his hotel room with half a fifth of Jameson’s, limp fries, and a new concern.
Miles Cunningham is crazy, Brian thought. He poured himself a drink, enjoyed a little of it and shook his head. I don’t know which is worse. The murderous ghosts, or a murderous man.
Guess I’ll find out.
He knocked back the whiskey and poured himself another.
Chapter 52: The Hurlington House gets Loud
Vic Brooke had lived in flophouses for most of his adult life. He liked to drink more than he liked to work. Hell, he liked just about anything more than work.
At seventy-six years of age, Vic had spent sixty of them in and out of various single men’s homes from the Florida Panhandle to Nova Scotia. And after six decades, he knew how to ignore what he heard.
Life was just easier and happier when you minded your own business.
Vic’s room was the center of his world. He had two pairs of pants, three pairs of new socks, three pairs of underwear, two tee shirts and one comfortable sweater. He even had a pair of new boots. All of them were courtesy of the kind sisters who ran the Gray Nuns Thrift Shop on Eleventh Street.
Vic always kept his room locked, especially when he was in it. He didn’t have much, but people stole just about anything. Vic had done the same himself when he was depressed, and he had been that way more than a few times.
As the evening sun slipped behind the pines of ‘Mirkwood’, Vic reached up from his narrow bunk and turned on his small lamp. He took a sip of Popov vodka and enjoyed the warmth of the room
.
Dry clothes, clean sheets, a bottle of vodka, and some privacy were the little things he treasured.
A glass broke in the hall, and the Swede swore loudly.
The man was a clumsy drunk, and an angry one, too. The whole reason why Vic didn’t drink with him anymore.
Vic closed his eyes and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of the vodka as it worked its way into his system.
Glass shattered at the end of the hall and Vic’s eyes snapped open.
Sounded like the bathroom mirror, he thought with a sigh. Old Hurlington said he wasn’t going to replace it if we broke it again.
Vic didn’t use the mirror much, not unless he had a problem with one of the few teeth left in his mouth. The reason they couldn’t have nice things, though, was because people like the Swede broke them.
The Swede let out a scream and Vic sat up.
The man yelled furiously in Swedish. Someone laughed, and the Swede went silent.
Something heavy dropped in the hallway and the whole floor shook.
More voices rose up, and Vic heard doors open. Someone screamed, another yelled, and he heard dozens of feet pound past his room towards the stairs.
No fire, Vic thought. The alarm’s not going off, and Hurlington makes sure they work. Old man doesn’t want to get sued.
Vic took a nip of the vodka to steady his nerves and looked at his door.
He didn’t smell any smoke, and within seconds the hallway was quiet. Not a single sound to be heard.
After another quick drink, Vic put the bottle back on the floor and stretched out again.
Just as he closed his eyes more, noises broke into his silence.
These came from below, on the second floor.
Screams.
Yet these didn’t end. They got louder. Worse.
A resident, Vic couldn’t quite make out who was begging whom to stop.
Laughter answered the pleas.
The screams grew hoarse.
What’s going on? Vic asked himself.
He got off the bed and peeked out the window. On the street in front of the house, he saw most of the other residents. They stood in a rough circle, each face focused on the house. One of them saw him, pointed, and all the others looked as well.
Vic saw Bobby Malone, who jumped up and down and waved his arms.
Vic raised his shade, opened his window and leaned forward slightly.
“Get out of the house!” Bobby yelled, desperation and fear in his voice. “Oh for Christ’s sake, Vic, get the hell out of there!”
The gathered men took up the cry and beckoned to him.
“Go out the window and onto the roof, Vic!” Bobby called up.
“Christ, Bobby!” Vic yelled. “I’m seventy-six, are you out of your damned mind?”
Before Bobby could answer the doorknob to Vic’s room rattled.
Vic backed out of the window and turned around.
The door was locked, as always, and he shook his head. He started to go back to the window, but he stopped as the wood of the frame groaned.
Something heavy tried to get in.
The cheap lock broke, and the door sprang open.
A headless man stood in the opening. He wore a uniform, and he was filthy.
Vic could smell death on the man as he took a step into the room.
In one tan hand, the dead man held a pistol which looked like a Luger, the barrel of which pointed at Vic.
“What the hell?” Vic asked.
Flame erupted from the pistol’s mouth, and Vic crumpled over and staggered backward. A terrible, brutally cold fist had slammed into his stomach and knocked the wind out of him.
The pistol barked again, and Vic spun slightly to the right. His leg caught the wall, his hip the window ledge. A third shot punched him in the chest and knocked him through the window.
The sound of breaking glass and laughter chased Vic onto the porch roof. He felt his heart stutter and fail as he rolled across the rough asphalt. He closed his eyes against the world as it spun.
And then Vic was falling.
He didn’t care, though. His heart had stopped. Cold spread through his limbs, and he knew he was dying.
He just didn’t know how.
Vic slammed into the ground, and thought, it wasn’t even the drink that’s done me in.
Chapter 53: Miles Cunningham thinks about the Future
Miles felt bad about the Reverend.
His parents, if they had still been alive, would have been extremely upset with him. Luckily, however, both of them had passed away in Japan when the tsunami hit.
Well, here’s hoping it was lucky, Miles thought. More than likely, both of them had been right with God, but then again, there was always the off chance they weren’t.
Miles walked into the kitchen, turned on the faucet and stuck his head into the sink. He took a long drink of the cold water, grinned, and then straightened up. The sunset was nearly finished, and soon he would be able to get the fourth skull over to the Church.
And once the Japanese are gone, he thought, wiping his mouth dry with his sleeve, I’ll be able to finish up with the other ghosts.
He wandered into the den, sat down on the floor and dragged his blanket over to him. He thought about the curious ghost who had visited him earlier, and wondered if he would see him again.
Either way, the conversation had been extremely interesting.
The ghost had questioned Miles extensively about the dead Japanese soldiers. He had asked why Miles moved them, and how he did it as well. And he was extremely polite.
Miles smiled.
He liked polite people. Especially polite dead people.
The Japanese men were not polite. They treated him as though he were inferior, which, he knew, he was.
But that’s beside the point, Miles told himself.
Leo was polite.
And Miles smiled again.
Leo had also brought up several good points, the most important one being what if the Japanese decided to kill him when they were all together again.
Miles had worried about the same.
The Japanese men were none too pleased with their move. Yes, he had given them all plenty of saké, but it only made them drunk.
Not forgetful.
They had been happy in George’s house. Perfectly happy to be in the fallout shelter with all of the other ghosts.
Miles hadn’t been happy, though. Especially when they had threatened to kill him.
It would only have been a matter of time before one of them did.
They liked blood a little too much.
And so Leo had posed a valid question.
How was Miles going to get away?
He hadn’t committed any crime, except illegally entering the Church, so he didn’t have to worry too much about the police. Although fear still nagged at him about any trace evidence left behind at the murder scenes.
No, the real worry was how to live after he delivered the last ghost.
I should bring Ichiru last, Miles realized. He’ll be able to talk them out of killing me. Yes. He’s the most rational of them.
He let out a long sigh and nodded to himself, happy with the solution he had discovered.
He turned out the light and snuggled down into the warmth of the blanket. He could faintly smell death, but he wasn’t certain whether it was the house or the dead in the fallout shelter.
It doesn’t matter, he thought. You need to get some sleep. You have another trip to make.
With a smile on his lips, Miles closed his eyes and waited for his dreams.
Chapter 54: Meeting with the Gottesmans
Brian and Shane stood in the parking lot of the hotel. They had the gate of Shane’s pickup down, and they waited in silence. Charles and Ellen were due to arrive at any moment, and they would have the containment unit with them.
Brian didn’t know what it was. Neither did Shane.
It’ll work, Brian told himself. They have done it before. Th
ey can do it again.
Several minutes passed and then an older model, blue Ford truck appeared.
“There they are,” Shane said, straightening up.
Brian did the same and waved.
The truck’s lights flashed, and it pulled into the space beside Shane’s truck.
Ellen got out of the driver’s seat and smiled tightly at both of them. She looked from Shane to Brian and asked, “Do I even want to know what it is you two have in the works here?”
“I doubt it,” Shane said.
“I’ve been telling her the same thing the whole way up,” Charles said, closing the passenger side door. “Come on ‘round the back.”
Brian and Shane walked over and waited as Ellen and Charles released several tie downs which kept a blue, plastic tarp in place. A moment later, Charles pulled the sheet aside and folded it.
Revealed was a large wooden crate, almost the size of an old, military footlocker.
“This,” Charles said, “is heavy as hell.”
“It’s lined with lead,” Ellen added. “Which is why Hercules here needed me to help him carry it.”
Charles grinned.
“So,” Ellen said, looking at Brian and Shane. “What are you two doing with this, tonight?”
“Tonight,” Brian said, “we’re going to try and put three skulls into it.”
Ellen looked over at Charles, and asked, “Whose?”
“We don’t know yet,” Shane said. “We just know we have half a dozen angry, dead Japanese soldiers, and we need to contain them.”
“How angry?” Ellen asked.
“Four dead, two maimed, and one hurt,” Brian answered.
“Oh my,” Ellen muttered.
Charles looked at Brian. “Boy, you sure know how to pick ‘em, Champ.”
“Yeah,” Brian said, sighing.
“Does Jenny know how bad this is?” Ellen asked.
Brian nodded.
“And what about you?” Ellen said, turning to face Shane.
“Me?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes, you,” Ellen said. “What brings you out of Nashua? Usually, you don’t go anywhere.”