by Ron Ripley
Tom would take care of that problem if he made it as far as the old man’s house.
Focused on the screen before him, Tom began to search for cemeteries and to plan out the route to Jeremy’s.
Chapter 13: The First
It was nearly nightfall when he pulled into the driveway. Victor shifted into park and didn’t exit the vehicle. Instead, he let the headlights illuminate the house in front of him, and he knew Stefan Korzh wasn’t there.
All of the windows in the building were shattered, the glass glinting on the small porch and in the long grass of the yard. From what he observed, Victor suspected some sort of explosion had wrecked the house. But what it might have been, he couldn’t figure out. If it had been gas, then the entire building would have been destroyed.
It wasn’t gas, Victor thought. From looking at the destruction, he knew that Stefan had been there, but the man was gone.
The killer had lost control of one of his items, or perhaps someone had attacked him.
Victor turned off the engine, opened the glove compartment and put on the white gloves he kept in there. After he put them on, Victor took out a small iron bar and clenched it in his left hand. He withdrew a flashlight, and got out of the car. Victor advanced towards the house, wary not only of the large shards of glass on the path to the front door, but of what might be lying in store for him.
As he neared the structure, the temperature dropped sharply. His breath came out in thin clouds, streams of which thickened and filled the air around him the closer he got. He reached the stairs, climbed up, and went to the front door. Victor hesitated. Then, without knowing why, he raised his hand and knocked.
To his surprise a deep voice boomed out, saying, “Come in!”
He opened the door and stepped into a dim hallway.
“I am in the kitchen,” a man said, his voice carrying a trace of an accent. “Straight down the hall, young man.”
Swallowing dryly, Victor walked down the hall, conscious of small noises coming from the closed doors on either side of him. When he reached the end, Victor walked into the kitchen. The room was destroyed, torn apart. The back door was missing, and most of the home’s kitchenware was in the backyard.
A large man stood in the left corner, his arms folded over his broad chest with a knowing smile on his equally broad face.
The man was dead, Victor realized, and he tightened his grip upon the piece of iron which felt incredibly small in his hand.
“You are here for my son, Stefan Korzh,” the dead man said.
“Yes,” Victor said, anger boiling up within him. “He murdered my wife.”
“He has murdered a great many people,” the ghost said, “but I am sorry your wife died.”
“Sorry because I’m going to kill him?” Victor growled, unable to keep the hurt and hate out of his voice.
“No,” the dead man said. “Not at all. I am sorry your wife died because she was your wife, and neither of you should have been brought into this. I am sorry that my son is a disappointment, and that eventually, he will have to die. Preferably by my hand, as he is my responsibility, but die he must.”
Victor had no response, for he wasn’t sure if he believed what the ghost said.
“You doubt me,” the dead man said, offering a small smile, “and I do not blame you for your disbelief. How can a father talk so about the murder of his own son?”
Victor offered a mute nod.
“See,” Stefan’s father said, “I understand. This decision that I have come to is not an easy one, and it has taken me a long time, perhaps too long, to reach it. But he does have to die, and it has to be by my hand. Do you understand me?”
Blinking, Victor realized he did know what the man meant. Furious rage threatened to erupt from him, and he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled.
“I want my hands around his God-damned throat,” Victor hissed, blood flecking his lips as he spoke. “I want him to know why he’s dying. I want him to look into my eyes and know what it is he did.”
“He knows what he did,” the dead man said, “and he does not care. Whether that is God’s hand or my own in that behavior, I do not know, and even as I am dead, the idea troubles me. But he is my son, and I cannot allow anyone except myself to kill him. Do you agree?”
“No,” Victor snarled.
“Then I fear we will be at odds,” Stefan’s father said with sincerity. “I offer you safe passage out of this house, but when we meet again in the race for Stefan Ivanovich Korzh’s life there shall be no peace between us.”
Victor hesitated, a reckless part of him wanting to rush the dead man, but he understood that the ghost was strong. Terribly so. Attacking Stefan’s father would be a poor decision and one that might cost him his own life.
The dead man watched him, an expression of interested curiosity on his face.
Finally, Victor nodded and said, “Thank you.”
Stefan’s father smiled sadly. “You are quite welcome. Remember this, even with that simple sentiment, you are far better than my son ever was. Again, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Me too,” Victor said hoarsely. And with a heavy heart, he made his way out of the wreckage of the house.
Chapter 14: Slipping Away
Tom had eaten as much as he could at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At each meal, he had pocketed dried fruit and crackers, sugar packs and bread rolls. He had stolen a pair of water bottles from the nurse’s station and filled his own again. He had memorized three separate routes from the facility to Jeremy’s house, and it would take him a day of solid, non-stop walking to get there.
But he wasn’t naïve enough to think he would be afforded the opportunity to move along at a steady, uninterrupted pace.
As soon as they discovered he was missing, the hospital would search the grounds for him. After that, they would inform the police.
Tom had seen two others try to slip away, and he knew he had an average of twenty to thirty minutes to cover as much ground as possible.
His only edge over those who would search for him would be their lack of knowledge. He had never told them how he had gotten to Jeremy’s house. They didn’t know about the stream or the cemetery.
There was always the chance of the authorities having figured it out, that someone would immediately begin to follow him and catch him.
He shook those thoughts away and took out a spare t-shirt. Tom tied the neck into a knot and then did the same for each arm. He was left with a small pouch in which he was able to fit all of his stolen food and water into. From under his bed, he took an extra pair of hospital-issued sneakers. They were a bright, hideous white with Velcro straps. As much as Tom didn’t like them, they fit, and he would be able to wear them on the first leg of his trip. He would switch to his regular sneakers after he was done with the water.
Socks, he thought, shaking his head. I need an extra pair of socks.
Tom went to his dresser, dug out a pair of socks and tossed them onto his bed. As the balled up undergarments bounced on the blanket, he heard a pair of voices approaching his room.
He felt his eyes widen and he hurried back to his bed. Frantically, he swept everything off onto the floor and pushed it out of sight.
A heartbeat later, someone knocked, and he flopped down onto the bed, snatching up the paperback of Dune he was reading. Keeping the book closed, Tom said in an exasperated tone, “Come in.”
The door opened, and both Dr. Greene and Dale entered the room. Neither of them looked pleased.
The hair on his neck rose and so did he, sitting up and setting the book down beside him. Frowning, he asked, “What is it?”
“Tom,” Dr. Greene said, “we’re a little concerned by your behavior today.”
“What do you mean?” Tom demanded, looking from the doctor to the nurse. “It’s seven at night. Why are you bothering me?”
“You seem to be, well, furtive,” Dr. Greene said, smiling apologetically.
“You’re hiding something,
” Dale said in the big sister voice Tom despised.
He wanted to speak harshly, to say some nasty little thought, but he knew it would only make them more suspicious. As would trying to hide behind grief or anger.
Tom forced his fear and anger down, saying, “I’m not happy. Today’s been a rough day for me.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Dr. Greene asked. “We could certainly go to my office.”
Dale nodded sympathetically.
“No. Thanks.” Tom rubbed at his temples, a sign, Dr. Greene had told him in a previous session, which meant Tom was having difficulty with his parents’ murder-suicide. He had used it several times to get out of painful conversations.
Tom saw a shared glance between the doctor and the nurse, and he felt an inward sense of relief. To finish with the ruse, Tom added, “I was wondering though if we could meet tomorrow, before group session.”
“Just the two of us?” Dr. Greene asked, and Tom caught the hint of a trap.
He shook his head and answered, “No. I was thinking maybe Dale and Dr. Shira, the new psychiatrist. I’ve been considering what you said about possibly taking some medication. Something other than the Ativan to help me sleep.”
A relieved smile appeared on Dr. Greene’s face as he said, “Yes. Yes, I think that’s a definite possibility. And you, Dale?”
Dale’s smile was broader than the doctor’s, but it held the same sense of relief. “Yes. I’ll speak with Dr. Shira when we get ready to go. He’s covering the new arrivals tonight.”
“Then we have a meeting for tomorrow,” Dr. Greene said, still smiling. “Have a good night, Tom.”
“You too,” Tom said, and he offered a half-hearted wave to both of them as they left. Once the door clicked shut, he collapsed onto his bed and let out a sigh. A sense of guilt settled over him, and he couldn’t shake it off.
He knew that Dale and Dr. Greene wanted the best for him. They were genuinely concerned, and they had come into the room to make sure everything was alright. Even in the facility and under close supervision there were patients who attempted suicide, and some occasionally succeeded.
But Tom didn’t want to kill himself.
It was the opposite.
He wanted to save his own life, and he knew that every moment he stayed in the hospital increased the likelihood of being trapped there.
Tom hadn’t given up on the hope of one day finding the man who was responsible for his parents’ deaths, but he had been prepared to wait.
That option had been removed with Dr. Greene’s refusal to let him out, and now Tom needed to go.
Not yet, he told himself, picking up the paperback. They’ll be leaving soon. Once they’re gone, then I can make a break for it. Then I can get away.
Taking a deep breath, Tom let it out slowly through his nose, opened up Dune, and went on to read about the desert planet as he waited to make his escape.
Chapter 15: The Third Day
Jeremy had never been a fan of driving, not after Vietnam and the wound he suffered. Yet he had promised Leanne that he would bring Jean Luc back to Pennsylvania, and the only way to accomplish that was to drive.
By 11:15 in the morning of the third day, Jeremy was less than an hour from Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania, and he was looking forward to a cup of coffee made in the house and not in a gas station. His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the sudden banging of Jean Luc from the trunk of the rental car.
Jeremy grimaced at the sound, but he looked for a place to pull over.
The creature continued to make his presence, and his desire, known for another five minutes. Jeremy wanted to yell back to Jean Luc, to tell him enough was enough, but he had no desire to be pulled over by the police because someone had reported an old man in a car yelling frantically at nothing.
Jeremy pulled off the highway in West Virginia, went around to the rear of the rest stop and backed the car up, all in an effort to keep Jean Luc’s existence hidden from any prying eyes.
Shutting the engine off, Jeremy got out, stretched, and stepped over to the back end. A quick glance in either direction revealed that they were alone, and he unlocked the trunk.
Jean Luc looked more like a moody teenager than he did a fearsome fairytale. The creature was stretched out on a pair of blankets with several empty beer cans near him. A crumpled bag of sour cream and onion chips lay beside him, and Jean Luc wore an expression of complete and utter disdain, one Jeremy was certain he had given his own parents on more than one occasion.
In the slow and difficult New Orleans patois, Jeremy said, “Hello, Jean Luc, what would you like?”
Jean Luc looked at him for a moment, then in words pronounced with clear deliberation, the creature said in his thick, harsh voice, “I wish to step into the woods for a moment and have a bit of privacy.”
“Of course,” Jeremy replied, and he stepped back. Jean Luc poked his head up, made certain there was no one was about and leaped from the trunk. The movement carried him into the woods, and he was gone a moment later, leaving Jeremy standing flat footed and surprised.
He shook his head at the speed of the creature, and leaned against the car, his back to the woods. For the millionth time during the trip, he wondered how Jean Luc would find Korzh. Jeremy had a definite lack of knowledge regarding goblins and he was curious as to how the deed would be done.
At the same time, Jeremy was concerned. He understood that the woman wanted vengeance, but he felt Victor had priority when it came to a claim of vengeance against Stefan Korzh. In fact, Jeremy wanted to see Victor achieve his revenge and to know that he had helped to end the life of someone as foul as Stefan.
Neither Ivan nor Nicole Korzh had been particularly praiseworthy, but they at least had a sense of decorum, as strange as it might have been. And while Jeremy had never agreed with Ivan, he still felt regret at having been forced to kill the man.
A grunt from the direction that Jean Luc had gone caught Jeremy’s attention and he turned to look that way. Another sound, a squeal instead of a grunt, issued forth. There was a plaintive, desperate note to the noise and Jeremy felt uncomfortable, as though he had heard the last utterance of a doomed creature.
Jean Luc confirmed that estimation when he appeared a few minutes later, sedately licking blood off his overly long nails.
Jeremy started to ask what had occurred, then thought better of it.
“Are you ready?” he asked the creature.
Jean Luc let out a derisive snort and replied, “To return to my stinking, vibrating cage? Aye, I suppose I am.”
And without another word, the creature clambered up into the trunk and Jeremy closed it.
Shaking his head, Jeremy limped back to the driver’s seat and started the car.
Less than an hour, Jeremy told himself, and he shifted into drive, leaving the rest area behind them.
***
Dawn Wilson pulled into the rest area near Kingwood, West Virginia. She spotted Emily Ann’s silver and gray Ford Ranger and felt a surge of anger.
How many times do I have to tell that damned girl? Dawn thought furiously. She cut the wheel hard and came within inches of knocking a taillight off the pickup. Her own Bronco shuddered as she slammed it into park, left the engine idling and got out of the vehicle. With the door hanging open behind her, Dawn cupped her hands around her mouth to form a rough amplifier and shouted out her daughter’s name.
When Emily Ann didn’t respond, Dawn peered into the cab of the pickup and saw a crumpled, empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes.
The brand Joe Wilkes smoked.
I told her to leave that boy alone, Dawn thought, grinding her teeth together and stomping into the tree line.
“Christ almighty, girl!” Dawn bellowed. “I know you’re out here. Let’s go! I’m going to put the fear of Jesus into you, see that I don’t!”
Fuming, Dawn waited for her disobedient seventeen-year-old to step forward and threaten her. They both knew how the argument would
go, and in the end, Dawn would end up grabbing the girl by her short, purple hair and dragging her back into the parking lot. She’d stuff Emily Ann into the passenger seat of the Bronco and leave Joe Wilkes to find his own way home.
Dawn inhaled to yell again when she caught sight of one of Emily Ann’s pink Converse All-Stars. The heel of the shoe could be seen protruding from behind a tree. Dawn wanted to laugh at the stupidity of the girl when she realized there was something strange in the way the foot was angled.
It wasn’t natural. There was no way its position could be comfortable. Not in the least, and Emily Ann, unfortunately, was all about comfort.
“Emily Ann?” Dawn said, all the bluster and bravado gone from her voice. “Girl, you okay?”
Her daughter didn’t respond, and the foot didn’t move.
Dawn’s hand started to tremble, her voice taking up the tremor as she said, “Don’t scare your momma now, Emily Ann. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You know it’s because I worry.”
Still nothing.
Dawn’s breath caught in her throat, a terrible sensation that increased the panic she felt rise within her. She knew she needed to walk forward, to make sure that Emily Ann was alright.
But part of her fought the urge. Screamed against it, insanity clawing at the maternal instinct propelling her forward.
She’s just high. Or drunk, Dawn lied to herself. I’ll find her passed out, half-dressed and on top of that good for nothing Joe Wilkes.
The lie was hollow, false even as she thought it. Her own voice seemed to echo in her head, much like her scream ricocheted through the forest as she rounded the tree and saw her daughter and the much-maligned Joe Wilkes.
Both of them were dead, their heads severed from their bodies, with Emily Ann’s atop Joe’s ragged neck, and his adorning hers.