by Ron Ripley
Cam got to his feet, gripped the hatchet in his hand and eased himself around the trailer’s edge.
An older man stood at the entrance of the shop, fighting with the lock. He had a large, battered steel thermos in his free hand and he cursed profusely as he tried to get into the building.
Cam took a deep breath and sprinted across the road, his footsteps echoed when he reached the gravel. But as the other man turned to see who it was, Cam reached him. He dropped a shoulder and plowed into the stranger’s back, driving him into the door, and sending him crashing through it.
The older man went limp and rolled across the battered door to rest against a display of fishing lures. Cam ignored the stench of tobacco and the pungent odor of bait. He found cheap, black grocery bags behind the counter and he hurried through the few aisles. Canned goods and beef jerky, potato chips, and trail mix, all of it went into the bags. Water went in next, and then he pried open the register. There were less than a hundred dollars in it, but it was more than he had.
Cam stuffed the money into his front pocket before he carried the bags of food and water out to the unconscious man’s car. The vehicle was an older model Crown Victoria, the sides battered, and one window held up with silver duct tape.
He opened the passenger side door and winced at the smell of stale cigarettes and body odor.
It’s for her, Cam reminded himself. Everything. Everything is for her.
With that thought serving as a mantra, Cam put the bags into the car and went back to the shop to take the stranger’s keys.
When Cam reached the man, he found the stranger’s eyelids fluttering, blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth. Cam ripped the keys out of the man’s hands, and the stranger reached down.
For the first time, Cam saw the pistol holstered at the man’s side.
Plucking the weapon free, Cam examined it quickly. A snub barreled .357. He cocked the hammer back and said, “Get up.”
Hatred blazed in the other man’s gray eyes as he said, “Can’t. Legs are no good.”
Cam considered the statement, took into account the obesity of the man on the floor, his obvious age, and poor health, and then nodded. He eased the hammer back, put the pistol on a shelf next to him and said, “Understood.”
The other man smiled at the reprieve, and then Cam smashed the hatchet into the man’s skull.
It split as easily as all the others had.
The weapon did not come out with the same ease as before, and Cam had to work to free it. When he did, he wasn’t pleased. Grumbling, Cam wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt, then hunted around for a whetstone. He found one on a rack behind the counter, next to a few scaling knives. Cam pocketed the stone, walked back to the corpse, took the gun down and slipped the bloodied hatchet between his belt and waistband.
Pausing, Cam bent down and took up the thermos.
Maybe it’s coffee, he thought. He hummed as he glanced around once more.
“Billy!” a voice called.
Cam looked to the door in time to see a young man step into the doorway. The new stranger’s eyes widened, and Cam put a bullet into the man’s chest.
The shot thundered, and the young man staggered back, blood blossoming in the center of the white shirt he wore. As the stranger collapsed, Cam left the store, stepping over the young man. He glanced down at his most recent victim and considered a second shot to finish the job.
Why waste a bullet? he asked himself.
And as the stranger watched with wide, pain-filled eyes, Cam slipped the hatchet free.
Chapter 23: The Post Office
Bontoc sat in an apartment on the third floor of Pittsburgh Street in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. From his seat beside the window, he could see the entrance to the post office across the street, and he waited. Stefan Korzh would eventually show himself.
Of that, Bontoc had no doubt.
There was a pattern in the way Korzh mailed out his items. He doubted the man even knew he had established a rhythm, but he had.
And like all good hunters, Bontoc had discovered it.
Within the next few days, Korzh would arrive and mail out a haunted Japanese, Netsuke figurine. Bontoc knew this would occur because he had purchased the item and it would be mailed to a false address in Maine. It had not been difficult to identify Korzh on eBay, nor had it been difficult to win the bid since money was not a concern.
The apartment had been far more difficult to procure, and in the end, Bontoc had been forced to hospitalize the resident. An unfortunate necessity, but the medical world could do wonders, Bontoc knew, and many people functioned quite well with only one leg.
Bontoc had a sip of his water and ate a handful of dried cranberries.
He watched people come and go on the street below him, the ebb and flow of traffic mildly interesting. It kept him from losing his focus as he searched the cars for signs of Korzh. Whatever vehicle the man drove would be innocuous, something people wouldn’t look twice at, and therefore Korzh wouldn’t be noticed.
At least not by the sheep on the street.
Bontoc smiled and shook his head.
He had no doubt that Korzh was skilled. The man was elusive and dangerous, traits Bontoc admired.
But Korzh seemed to be resting on his laurels, not being nearly cautious enough.
Bontoc understood that, and the driving passion for revenge. He had felt the same way about his own father, and thus his own hatred had almost cost him his life for he had underestimated his father’s skills.
Never again, Bontoc told himself. Each opponent would be weighed and measured, approached as was needed.
Korzh especially.
Bontoc ate a few more cranberries, sipped some tea and kept his eyes on the street.
***
Uniontown was a strange place, one that set Stefan’s nerves on edge.
He left the pickup truck in the parking lot of the apartment complex next to the post office and got out. He took several small packages with him, not bothering to lock the door when he closed it. There was nothing to steal, and less than a quarter of a tank of gas.
Stefan crossed the street, making certain to be as forgettable as possible. He wore battered work boots, threadbare jeans and a flannel shirt that had seen better days. The trucker’s cap on his head was old and beaten, the Bass Pro symbol more of an after-thought than any sort of advertising at this point in its life.
He climbed the stairs to the front entrance of the postal building with slow, measured steps, wincing as he went. Stefan acted like an old steelworker, one who had given his all to some factory and then been injured.
The wallet in his back pocket would reaffirm that for anyone who demanded information from him. An old, tattered union card, a license showing him in better health from several years earlier. The brown leather of the wallet was faded and worn, smooth in some places. Each plastic sleeve was cracked, the images battered as well. A high school sweetheart. Photos of friends from the army.
None of them real. Each one window dressing on the story he would tell if pressured to do so.
Stefan opened the door and hobbled in, taking his place in line, waiting his turn to walk down the narrow corridor to an available clerk. He kept his eyes downcast and a grim expression on his face, as if standing in line was an effort in and of itself.
Stefan shifted the packages from one arm to the next, and waited, eager to be done with the task and on his way home to safety.
***
The old steelworker caught Bontoc’s eye and held his attention.
He straightened up, leaned closer, and watched the man limp down the sidewalk, away from the post office toward the street corner. When the steelworker lifted his head to check for oncoming traffic, Bontoc grinned.
Korzh, he thought.
A sense of satisfaction swelled up within him.
Korzh’s head dropped down again as he crossed the road, and Bontoc lost sight of him. Bontoc’s heart rate sped up, but he controlled it
. He forced himself to stay in the seat, knowing that he would see the man again in a moment. Korzh would appear to the left or the right, on foot, or he would drive out.
On foot, and Bontoc could chase the man down.
If Korzh drove out, while it would not be as satisfactory as snatching Korzh immediately off the street, Bontoc could still work with it.
He would be able to work with whatever happened.
Several minutes passed by, and then a large, battered pickup truck left the parking lot. An old, faded United Steel Workers bumper sticker was on the back window, and Bontoc recognized the driver as Korzh.
He memorized the make and model of the truck as well as the license plate. They would prove to be useless in the search for Korzh’s hiding place, but they would be excellent for keeping track of the man.
Bontoc watched the truck until it turned up off a side street and disappeared.
When it was gone, Bontoc picked up his phone and sent a text to Ariana.
Chapter 24: An Exercise in Futility
Tom held onto either side of the toilet bowl and threw up again. His eyes watered and mucus dripped steadily from his nose. The foul taste of bile in his mouth caused him to vomit again and the sensation of a giant fist wrapped around his stomach, squeezing mercilessly, sending him into spasms.
When he was certain he wouldn’t throw up again, Tom cleaned himself and the bathroom up. He turned on the shower, stripped down and climbed into it, letting the hot water beat on his back.
“Are you alright, Tom?” Nicholas asked from the other side of the shower curtain.
“No,” he answered weakly. “Good God, how much did I drink?”
“More than you should have,” Nicholas admitted. “I will not encourage you so much next time.”
Tom rolled his eyes and then groaned. That simple act had felt like someone rubbing the insides of his eye sockets with sandpaper.
“This is miserable,” Tom complained, washing up.
“Hangovers usually are,” Nicholas agreed. “Do you wish to go out again, tonight?”
Tom did, but he knew his body couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle anything even remotely close to it.
“No,” Tom said after a moment. “No. I can’t.”
“Ah.” Nicholas’ voice was thick with disappointment.
Tom didn’t care. Another night of drinking like the one before and he felt sure he would die.
Maybe that’s what he wants, Tom thought. Aloud he said, “Hey, give me some privacy, alright?”
“Certainly,” Nicholas said. When the temperature in the bathroom increased, Tom felt as though he could relax a little and take stock of the situation.
The dead man seemed to be far too comfortable in Tom’s body.
He would have to stop drinking so much if he was going to keep hold of himself.
Cutting back means not finding Korzh, Tom reminded himself. And not finding him is unacceptable.
Korzh needs to die, even if I get sick every time, Tom thought angrily.
He finished with his shower, dried off and got dressed. His stomach roiled unpleasantly, and Tom sat down on the floor. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall and thought about what needed to be done.
I need a way to record what goes on when he’s behind the wheel, Tom thought. If I can see what he’s doing, maybe I can figure out where to go next. Not that it matters too much. Victor will be back soon, and when he does, I won’t be able to have Nicholas in control as much.
The sharp, dissonant ring of the landline telephone interrupted his thoughts, and Tom held back the urge to vomit again as he got to his feet. He made his way out of the bathroom, down the hall and into the small office. By the end of the third ring, he answered the call.
“Hello?” Tom asked.
“Tom, it’s me,” Victor said.
“Hey,” Tom said, sitting down. “You on your way back?”
“No,” Victor said with regret. “Change of plans. Do you remember Shane Ryan?”
“Of course,” Tom said.
“He caught up with me here in New Hampshire,” Victor explained. “Turns out there’s a piece from the Korzh collection that’s made itself known. I’m going to try and get it.”
Tom heard the subtle hint of fear in the older man’s voice.
“Alone?” Tom asked.
“No,” Victor said with a shaky laugh. “The pen was a little much for me. Shane has a friend who’s going to help. Evidently, they did some work together. Will you be okay for a few more days?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Plenty of food in the house. Plus, there’s that diner up the road if I don’t want a microwave dinner.”
“Okay,” Victor said. “Make sure you get your work done. And don’t go out wandering, alright?”
“Sure,” Tom lied. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Alright,” Victor said. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Probably in the afternoon. You have my number if you need anything.”
Tom confirmed that he did, said goodbye, and hung up the phone.
He looked at it for a long time before he stood up and returned to his bedroom. The Spanish workbook was on his bed, the half-finished bottle of whiskey on the table beside the lamp.
Tom picked up the whiskey.
Chapter 25: 125 Berkley Street
The house scared him.
Victor stood in the circular drive and stared at the brick-face front of the old home and realized there was something wrong, terribly wrong with the building before him.
He didn’t know what it was, but there was a darkness to the structure, one that left his skin crawling.
As he stood outside of his rental vehicle, the front door opened and Shane stepped out, smoking a cigarette and grinning his lopsided grin.
“Victor,” Shane said, “come on in. Welcome to my home, be it ever so humble.”
Shaking his head, Victor walked to the man, saying, “There’s nothing humble about this place.”
“Nothing whatsoever,” Shane agreed, stepping aside to let Victor enter. “And very, very few living things. You make number four.”
“How many unliving things are there?” Victor asked, as Shane closed the door, not bothering to lock it.
“Too many to count,” Shane said, and there wasn’t any hint of humor in the statement. “Come on. Everyone’s in the study.”
Shane took the lead and Victor followed him through the hall. Shadows flickered past at the edge of his vision, and the entire home was big and cold and frightening.
“How long have you lived here?” Victor asked.
“Since I was a little boy,” Shane said, gesturing towards a closed door. “There are passages in the walls.”
“Servant passages?” Victor asked, opening the door and entering the room.
“Too many of the damned things,” a man said from a chair by a large fireplace. Sofie Han sat across from the stranger. The man’s face was hard, stamped with caution, and marred by brutal scars. His brown hair hung about his face, and one of his eyes was milky. The stranger’s clothes were plain black and loose upon him.
“Victor, Frank. Frank, Victor,” Shane said by way of introduction.
“Pleasure,” Frank said, offering his hand.
Victor shook it and found the man’s grip firm and strong, the skin calloused. “Same here.”
“Frank,” Shane said, grinning at the other man, “has decided to try and grow out his hair to look like a grunge rocker.”
“Not everyone sports the shaved head the way you do, Shane,” Frank said.
“Bald, my friend, bald,” Shane said, running a hand over his scalp. “I’ve no hair to shave.”
Sitting down beside Sofie, Victor looked around at the tall walls, the shelves, and the paintings. He heard a whisper of what sounded like German, and Shane turned to a dark corner by the fireplace.
“See that they don’t disturb us, Carl,” Shane said. “And English, please, if you’ll be speaking. I’d rather not keep our fr
iends in the dark.”
“Yes, my young friend,” the unseen Carl said.
“Is there a door back there?” Victor asked, straining to see into the shadow.
Shane chuckled and shook his head.
“No door,” Frank answered. “Just Carl. And he’s been dead since before the Second World War.”
“Oh,” Victor said.
Shane sank down into a chair, picked up a fresh cigarette, and lit it off the remains of the one in his mouth. “I took the liberty of informing Frank as to the details of the situation. He is fully in the know. Sofie was about to tell us what she found out since we met yesterday.”
“Only a little,” Sofie said. “It may be enough. Most of the nurses and certified nursing assistants who were let go found other jobs pretty quickly. Only a handful of those didn’t. Out of that small list, I have two names, and that’s it. So, if they don’t pan out, well, it’ll be back to the drawing board.”
“Either of them violent?” Frank asked.
“Before the murders, I would have said no,” Sofie answered. She shrugged, adding, “Now, who knows. I mean, whoever it is, they’re using a ghost to strangle little old ladies. That’s hardcore. That’s a type of hate that if you keep it under wraps, you’re like serial killer crazy.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “You’ve got a point there.”
“With that being said,” Sofie continued, “there are two people. The first is Stephanie Moore. She hasn’t found a job yet from what I’ve heard, and there’s also a rumor that she was blackballed because of how she treated some of the residents. Nothing that could be confirmed, just little things. Bruises, scrapes. Stuff like that. The other one is Amy Marin. Unlike Stephanie, there’s no word out there about Amy at all.”
“Nothing?” Victor asked.
Sofie shook her head. “Not a whisper.”
“Who lives closer to the home?” Shane asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.
“That would be Amy. Stephanie lives somewhere in Massachusetts. Pepperell, I think,” Sofie answered.