Hank's Radio (Haunted Collection Series Book 4)

by Ron Ripley

  The hospital staff that dealt immediately with Tom were easily swayed to keep their ideas and comments to themselves. They also managed to successfully hide the boy’s presence and treatment in a wealth of paperwork and creative accounting. The surgeon who was going to operate on Tom was a separate case entirely.

  Bontoc sat beside Tom’s bed. While he had been treated and released, Bontoc felt a measure of loyalty to the boy for having risked his life to save him, and no small amount of admiration. And so he sat alone beside the sedated boy, waiting for the surgeon.

  The door opened, and the man appeared. He was a short, swarthy man, perhaps in his early thirties. His hair was black, and Bontoc suspected it was dyed that color to hide the grays that sprang up in spite of the coloring. The man was exceptionally groomed, his eyebrows trimmed, and his small goatee perfect. His scrubs were a dark blue and creased, as if they had been purchased only a few minutes before, or ironed prior to his shift.

  The man glanced disdainfully at Bontoc and stepped up to the boy’s bedside. Without turning to face him, the surgeon asked, “Why are you still here? It is my understanding that you have no relation to the boy.”

  “I’m here,” Bontoc said in a low, measured voice, “to ensure that there is no record of the boy being treated here.”

  Bontoc had already said the same to the man earlier, and he received essentially the same response.

  “There will be a record, and if you continue along this line of discussion, I will have you removed from the hospital,” the surgeon said without looking back.

  Bontoc rose to his feet in silence and covered the distance between himself and the man in two long, quiet steps. In a heartbeat, he had the surgeon’s chin cupped in his left hand and his right hand pressing into the small of the man’s back. He applied pressure with both hands, pushing with his right and pulling with his left.

  “As a doctor,” Bontoc said in a low, conversational tone, “I am sure you are aware that should I continue to both push and pull, I will either break your back or your neck. You cannot call for help because I am holding your mouth closed. You are thinking that perhaps I will not kill you. You are assuming that your worth to this boy exceeds the threat of violence, and here you would be making an incorrect assessment of your value to me.”

  Bontoc felt the man’s heartrate accelerate.

  “Yes,” Bontoc continued, “I would appreciate you performing the surgery without any paperwork. You must remember as well that you are not the only interested party here. There are a great many other staff members involved with my young friend’s care. Both pre- and post-surgery. Their financial situation will either increase or remain the same, and all this because of you. I will also remind you that no, you are not the only one who can do it.”

  Bontoc paused and smiled at the man and then continued. “Now, there are other doctors in other hospitals, and I am quite willing to move the boy to one where the surgeon would be far more flexible in regards to the said paperwork. If you are not, then I will bend you until you break. I will leave you crippled on this floor, unable to operate even a toilet without assistance, should you survive. Do you understand?”

  The surgeon gave a small nod.

  “Excellent,” Bontoc said. “Now, let me add this. Should you agree and then call for help when I let you go, I will kill you outright. I will then begin to methodically work my way through your entire family. Wife and children, if they exist, parents and relatives. When that is done, I shall kill everyone who you were friends with. Then the members of your surgical team, and their families as well. I have nothing but time, sir, and I enjoy killing. Is this understood?”

  Again, the surgeon nodded, and there was real fear in his light gray eyes.

  “You’re doing wonderfully, sir,” Bontoc said, smiling. “Finally, when this is finished, and there is no paperwork of young Tom ever having been here, you will be paid well for your efforts. And if you are worrying about the police with regards to the explosion that brought us here into this fine medical establishment, do not. I am, as you may have noticed, quite capable of convincing people of what they should and should not do. Well now, sir, will you operate upon my young friend and leave out the paperwork?”

  The surgeon nodded.

  “I cannot tell you,” Bontoc said, releasing the man, “how pleased I am that you accepted my offer. I shall wait here until the operation is begun and concluded.”

  Without a word, the surgeon left the room, shaking as he went, and leaving a wet trail.

  Bontoc’s nose wrinkled for a moment at the powerful scent of fear and urine that trailed behind the man. Then he pushed the aroma out of his mind.

  The mixed stench was one he had experienced many times before and was certain he would smell again.

  Chapter 40: Under Pressure

  The Arel community was rife with tension.

  All of the female residents found themselves fearful of their neighbors, men, and women whom they had known for years. A few had even begun to fear the staff, regardless as to how well they thought they knew the employees. The female residents spent as little time alone as possible, and some of them even began to have sleepovers. They rotated between the apartments, and while some of the others in the community felt the women were foolish, others did not.

  Patricia Boch and Ellie Pennington were two who felt comfortable visiting each other for more than one day. After the third murder, they had set up a schedule that best fit their long days. Each woman worked as a volunteer at St. Joseph’s Hospital, and they both did a significant amount of work at St. Patrick’s Church on Spring Street, right behind Main. They were the epitome of good Catholic women, and while their married names hid their nationality, their maiden names spoke it plainly.

  The two women were sisters, part of the large O’Brien clan that had migrated from Ireland shortly after the end of the Second World War. They had come to America seeking jobs and husbands, and they had found both.

  Ellie sat on the couch, knitting a scarf for no one in particular, and wondering how long her sister would remain in the bathroom. Patricia was hard pressed to remain on a regular schedule, and any sort of disruption to her natural order wreaked all sorts of havoc with her internal systems. Ellie shook her head and wished, not for the first time, that her sister would find herself a better doctor. Or at least one who would ask her questions.

  It was, Ellie knew, the least of their problems, but it was a problem with a possible solution, unlike so many others in their lives.

  The door to the bathroom opened and Patricia came out, grimacing and tying the bathrobe around her. Ellie watched her sister limp to the worn recliner she favored. Patricia paused, then lowered herself into the seat, sighing loudly as she did so. Ellie managed not to roll her eyes at her sister’s theatrics, and she set her knitting down even, as Patricia picked up her own.

  “Patricia,” Ellie said, her native Irish brogue making itself known when she spoke with her sister, “tell me, have you not spoken to your doctor?”

  “My physician is of no concern to you.” Patricia sniffed and tilted her head ever so slightly up.

  Ellie refrained from any comments about her sister’s overblown sense of self-worth and said instead, “So, any news from the other wings?”

  “No, nothing so much as we should be concerned,” Patricia said. Her hands, despite her arthritis, moved the knitting needles deftly. She too was making a scarf to donate to the homeless shelter. The next project would be hats, and then mittens. Possibly socks if they were truly well and bored.

  Ellie went back to her own knitting.

  “They say Mary Manchester escaped this lunatic,” Patricia said a few moments later.

  “And they say Judas was a saint,” Ellie replied. Her sister let out a snort of a laugh and Ellie continued. “Mary Manchester thought she was the queen of America for the better part of last year before they adjusted her medicine. Best not to listen to that talk.”

  Patricia grinned and nodded again
.

  The click and clack of the knitting needles continued, and the sounds were suddenly drowned out by the static of the radio in the old sideboard by the kitchen.

  Both sisters stopped and looked at it in surprise.

  The radio, a great monstrosity hidden within the confines of a pine sideboard, had been silent since the death of Ellie’s husband, Darryl, twenty-three years earlier.

  In shocked silence, the two sisters listened as the dial was adjusted, someone questing for a station. After almost a minute of static and half-heard words and phrases, the radio came to a stop, and classical music poured out of the speakers hidden behind burlap and latticework.

  “Vivaldi,” Patricia whispered.

  Ellie could only nod. Her own voice refused to work.

  “He was truly amazing, wasn’t he?” a voice asked.

  Ellie’s head jerked to the left, staring at the stranger standing in front of the apartment door. How he had entered without alerting them to his presence, she didn’t know, but she understood who he was, and why he was there.

  And so too did Patricia.

  “You best be getting out,” Patricia snarled, getting uneasily to her feet, one of her knitting needles clenched in her right hand.

  “Not me,” the man said, and Ellie was surprised at how smooth and pleasant his voice was. How easy the man was to look upon.

  “Come now,” he said, showing his empty hands to them, “what have you to fear from the likes of me?”

  “That I don’t know,” Patricia snapped, “and I’ll not find out, thank you very much. You best be leaving the way you came.”

  “You are not being an especially gracious hostess,” the man said, shaking his head. “You haven’t asked me my name or anything. One would think you’d been raised by savages.”

  “I don’t care what your name is,” Patricia began, but Ellie cut her off.

  “What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

  The man smiled at her, a crooked little gesture that sent butterflies rippling through her stomach.

  “They call me Hank, Miss,” he said, offering her a short bow. “I hope you will do the same.”

  Ellie blushed and nodded.

  Patricia looked at her, horrified. Then she focused her attention on Hank once more. “Out. Out now!”

  “That’s not nice,” Hank said in a sad tone. “Is that nice?”

  Ellie shook her head.

  Hank shrugged and said, “Well, what can we do?”

  Before Ellie could think of a response, Hank flickered. One moment he was in front of the door, the next he smashed into Patricia, launching her back into the chair. He was on her in a heartbeat, striking her in the throat and silencing a scream before it could truly begin.

  Ellie sat frozen in horror, unable to move as Hank advanced on her. She could see Patricia struggling to stand, but to no avail. Whatever Hank had done to her, it had rendered her incapacitated. Patricia’s eyes were wide, filled with terror as she watched Hank.

  Ellie remained where she was, her heart beating erratically.

  Hank knelt down in front of her and smiled.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Ellie,” she whispered.

  “Good,” he said, winking at her.

  She relaxed and felt a bit of her fear drift away at that simple gesture.

  “I want you to settle down, Ellie,” Hank said. “Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded, unable to look away from his handsome face.

  “Excellent,” he said, chuckling. “Now, we’re going to try something, alright?”

  “Yes,” Ellie whispered.

  “Do you know what it is?” Hank asked with a conspiratorial smile.

  She shook her head.

  He leaned forward, and she felt a terrible chill emanate from him.

  “Ellie,” he whispered in her ear, “I’m going to see just how many times I can bring you close to death before I can’t control myself anymore. Just to tease us both a little.”

  Before the words could sink in, his cold hand was over her mouth, and something hard and thin wrapped around her throat.

  Chapter 41: It Begins

  Ariana’s phone rang, and she pressed pause on American Gods. The call was from an unknown number, but she answered it anyway.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Ms. Ariana,” Bontoc said. “I am about to go and have a discussion with your brother.”

  She straightened up. “You found him.”

  “I did indeed,” the headhunter said. “I would have spoken with him sooner, but there was an issue that came up.”

  “Would that be the gas station that blew up near Fox Cat Hollow?” Ariana asked.

  “It would,” he answered.

  “Was that you?” she asked.

  “In a way, yes,” he said. “However, it was your father as well.”

  Ariana frowned. “How so?”

  “Do you recall how I set Anne Le Morte free?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ariana replied.

  “The man she acquired to serve as her protector entered the gas station,” Bontoc explained, “I believe it was to do harm to your brother, but the man had already slipped away. As it was, Anne’s protector caused quite a bit of damage.”

  “And what of Anne?” Ariana asked. “Was she damaged in the explosion?”

  “No,” Bontoc replied. “She and her protector escaped. You know, I ran into a rather impressive young man at that gas station. It would have been worth her destruction to see this boy in action. But, she was not. And I must say, Ms. Ariana, you would have appreciated him.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  Bontoc chuckled, a deep, frightening sound that made Ariana uncomfortable.

  “Ms. Ariana,” he said, “you escaped from Stefan Korzh, no small feat. I know that someone capable of that will be able to appreciate courage and improvisation.”

  She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you. You’re correct, I do appreciate those traits.”

  “I thought so,” Bontoc said pleasantly. “Now, I do have a request. The young man in question is under the name Douglas MacArthur. He is at the Washington Health System Greene in Morrisville, Pennsylvania and there will be a substantial bill that needs to be paid. I know there was a significant amount of funding set aside by your late father for operating expenses. My young friend’s medical bills can be considered as such.”

  “Alright,” Ariana said, jotting the information down on a piece of mail. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to bring the conversation back to the initial subject of discussion. “You know where Stefan is. And you’re going to speak with him?”

  “Yes,” Bontoc confirmed. “I don’t know how willing he’ll be to have any sort of discussion with me. He will know why I’m there, and I doubt he will simply bare his neck to the blade.”

  “I think you’re absolutely correct on that,” Ariana said.

  Bontoc chuckled again. “I will go now, Ms. Ariana. If you do not hear from me in the next several days, you may correctly infer the worst has occurred.”

  He ended the call, and Ariana put the phone down. There was a frightfulness that surrounded the man, one that emanated even through the cell phone. She picked up the remote and pressed play, hoping she could focus on the show, and not what it would mean if Bontoc didn’t call back within a few days.

  ***

  When he ended the call, Bontoc put his phone away and glanced over at Tom.

  The boy’s dazed expression told him that Tom had woken up only a moment or two before.

  Bontoc smiled and said, “You’re awake.”

  Tom nodded and asked in a raspy voice, “Is there anything to drink?”

  “Yes,” Bontoc said. He stood up, crossed the room to a small counter and poured the boy a cup of water from a plastic carafe. Tom grasped it in his left hand, took a small sip and grimaced at the pain. Bontoc watched, impressed, as the boy continued to drink, despite the obvious dis
comfort he felt.

  When Tom had finished, Bontoc returned the cup to the counter and then sat down again.

  “My hand hurts,” Tom said, keeping his eyes on Bontoc.

  “Does it?” Bontoc asked, curious.

  Tom nodded. “It shouldn’t.”

  “How do you know?” Bontoc asked.

  “Because I’ve been knocked out for operations before,” the boy said, closing his eyes and resting his head on the pillow. “I can taste the narcotic on the back of my tongue. That means I shouldn’t feel anything in my hand. I’ve read about that.”

  Bontoc waited for the boy to continue, and he did so a minute later.

  Opening his eyes, Tom said, “They took the hand.”

  “They did,” Bontoc confirmed.

  “I don’t want to look,” the boy confessed. “How far up?”

  “To the elbow,” Bontoc stated. “The flesh was dead, and an infection was spreading.”

  “I hate the dead,” Tom said. It was stated in a matter of fact tone. There was no added emphasis or emotion. But Bontoc could see the hatred in the set of the boy’s jaw and the glimmer in his eyes.

  “I have little use for them myself,” Bontoc said.

  Tom looked at him, waited a moment, and then asked in a low voice, “I heard the name Stefan Korzh. How do you know him?”

  “How do you?” Bontoc asked, unable to keep a note of surprise out of his voice.

  The boy didn’t respond, although the surprise Bontoc felt was reflected in Tom’s eyes.

  “I am hunting his head,” Bontoc said, getting comfortable in the chair, enjoying the conversation with the boy.

  “Why?” Tom asked.

  “His father has hired me to kill him, and to bring the head in as proof,” Bontoc stated. “I will keep the head as a prize after.”

  “When you kill him,” Tom said, “will you bring his head to me, so I can see it?”

  The request caught him off guard, and Bontoc asked, “Why?”