Ghosts of the Past

by Mark H. Downer

“Sorry!” Ferguson turned and walked to her grabbing both suitcases from her hands. “I was admiring all the artwork, It’s spectacular!”

  “Thanks, but only a few of them really fit that bill. The others are some mid-level works, and the oil over the fireplace is from a relatively unknown artist as a birthday gift.”

  “That’s funny, I rather liked that one the most.” Ferguson embarrassingly admitted.

  “Me too!” Courtney replied. “It’s actually my favorite. It’s value is purely sentimental though. I’m still trying to get him on the map.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve got enough to hold me. If I get desperate, I’ll go shopping.”

  Ferguson picked up the two suitcases, while Courtney went to an elaborate control panel on the wall. She punched in a variety of commands on the keyboard, while several of the lights around the room dimmed or shut off completely. She turned to see Ferguson at the front door waiting, picked up the shoulder bag and walked to the alarm panel next to the door.

  As she opened the door to let him out, she programmed the alarm system and followed him through, locking the door behind them.

  The security guard, all 5'3” and 135 pounds soaking wet, leaned up from his reclined position behind the reception desk to greet the stranger that had entered the Willow’s lobby area. He casually deposited the latest issue of Hustler magazine in the top drawer of the desk and took a quick look at the bank of video monitors, as if to give the appearance that he was in charge and quite important in his position of authority.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m detective Warren Steele. I’m investigating a homicide, and I need to speak with a Miss Courtney Lewis. Could you please tell me which apartment she’s in?” He obligingly removed a leather wallet from the breast pocket of his sport coat and flashed a detective’s badge at the guard.

  “Miss Lewis’ apartment is on the ninth floor, number 901. I’ll ring her and let her know you’re comin’, I just saw her come in about a half hour ago.”

  “That’s not necessary, she’s expecting me.”

  “Well Mr. Steele, I’m supposed to check with our residents before I let anybody…”

  “I said that won’t be necessary,” he interrupted; snapping shut the wallet, his eyes meeting those of the guard, who got the message loud and clear.

  “Yes sir, detective.”

  Directed to the elevators, he entered the open car and pressed the brass button with the number nine. The elevator smoothly ascended the nine floors and with a subtle ding, opened up to a beautifully appointed anteroom that had two hallways leading off in opposite directions. He took the one to the left that had a brass plate that read ‘901-903’ with an arrow guiding him down the hall. Much to his surprise, Courtney Lewis and Matt Ferguson were at the other of the same hall headed directly at him.

  “Excuse me, Miss Lewis?”

  Courtney and Ferguson stopped in the hallway, just down from her door. “Yes. Who’s asking?”

  “My name’s Warren Steele. I’m a detective with J.C.P. homicide.” Once again he displayed the badge. “I need a word with you please.”

  “I’m headed out of town detective, and I’m already late for my flight.” Courtney lied. “Can we not do this in a few days when I return?”

  “Now Miss Lewis! Let’s step back into your apartment please.”

  “Detective, are you sure we can’t do this at a later date?” Ferguson asked.

  “I don’t know who you are, but this is none of your business. On second thought, I’d like to speak to you, too. Both of you step inside.”

  The three of them re-entered Courtney’s apartment. After Courtney switched off the alarm and Ferguson deposited the bags by the door, they both turned around to find Mr. Jones staring at them with the barrel of the Walther PPK, silencer enhanced, waving at them in a motion toward the center of the room.

  Instinctively Courtney and Ferguson lifted their arms in the air and stepped backward in shock.

  “I don’t think the gun is necessary detective.” Ferguson said. Alarm bells were going off in his head as he noticed the large cylindrical silencer attached to the front of the pistol. That doesn’t look like a standard issue police weapon!

  “Did he say gun?” Garagua pulled himself up from the back seat and leaned next to Bolivar.

  The two of them had fully expected to find Ferguson and Courtney exiting the Willows shortly, but the commotion of them re-entering her apartment and the voice of a third party had peeked their interest.

  “Yeah! Quiet!” Bolivar replaced the headphones over his ears and simultaneously plugged them into the receiver. He listened intently, while Garagua waited anxiously in the back.

  “We’ve got ourselves a problem!” Bolivar finally said.

  He jerked the keys out of the ignition and handed them to Garagua. “In the trunk is a Papa John’s pizza bag with a couple of pizza boxes inside. There’s also a hat and sweatshirt to match. Put them on and grab the pizza bag. Take your gun with you”

  “You want me to go in?”

  “Yes. Get in there and get the girl out. I don’t care what happens to anyone else. You understand? We want the girl… alive and well.

  Garagua, dressed the part of pizza deliveryman, ran down the side street, across Locust Lane, and slowed to a walk as he entered the Willow’s lobby.

  “I’ve got a delivery for Courtney Lewis. She said it was apartment 901.” Garagua addressed the guard, who once again had risen to his feet as if in complete control.

  “Go ahead.” The guard directed his right hand, thumb extended, toward the elevators. He decided against calling to announce the pizza. Miss Lewis sure got busy in a hurry. That wasn’t the usual pizza guy? Hell, the damn Mexicans are taking over every job there is. The son-of-a-bitches will be after my job soon enough. He sat down and reached for the top drawer of the desk to retrieve his reading material again.

  Mr. Jones had waved Courtney and Ferguson over to the comfort of the overstuffed leather couch, and had positioned himself opposite them in an antique wingback chair. He stared at them in silence, as if evaluating what to do with them. The desired effect was taking its toll on both of them, as they nervously looked at each other and then back at Jones.

  Finally, Ferguson had had enough. “What the hell is goin’ . . . .”

  Jones raised his free hand facing the palm toward the two of them. “Shut up! I’ll be asking the questions.” He shifted his weight, dropped his hand down, leaned back into the chair, and crossed his legs.

  “Mr. Ferguson, you have proven to be very elusive. And Miss Lewis, you seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Ferguson immediately felt the sweat emitting from every pore in his body. His mouth went dry. He suddenly had a chilling epiphany; this was the man who was responsible for all the problems that had taken place in the last 48 hours. This man was big trouble, and things were about to get worse before they got better.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s going on here.” Courtney replied.

  From the expression on his face, Jones was certain that Ferguson knew. “Why don’t you explain it to her Matt… you don’t mind if I call you Matt do you?” It was more a statement of fact, than a question.

  “My guess is this is the gentleman that has been wreaking all the havoc lately. I presume Dr. Karls’ murder, along with the attempts on my life, were all his responsibility.” Ferguson sighed. “How am I doing so far?”

  “Close. I would like to take credit for everything, but I am just a small spoke in the wheel. Nevertheless, you left out the ‘why?’”

  Courtney’s shoulders nearly fell to her waist. She went pale, and grabbed at the cushions for balance.

  “Why?” Ferguson asked, as he grabbed for Courtney’s right arm
to steady her.

  Jones snapped forward in his chair and aimed the pistol directly at Ferguson’s head. “Don’t play games with me. You know why… and where, and most importantly, what. We want the letter! All of it! Not just the list, but the map as well.”

  Ferguson knew the secret was out. If he denied the letter’s existence now, he was liable to get a head full of lead. I can acknowledge the letter, but I have to make sure he needs me to get it. If I give it away now, we’re both dead. We’ll never make it out of this apartment. He said ‘we’. How many bad guys are there?

  The doorbell and knock on the door startled all of them.

  “Miss Lewis, it’s the maintenance man.” Garagua called through the door. He had decided to drop the pizza disguise; because he knew it was possible he would never be let inside for just pizza. Therefore, he crafted a better idea on the way up in the elevator.

  Jones leapt to his feet and redirected the gun at Courtney, waving it toward the door. “Get rid of him.”

  “You can’t come in right now, I’ll have to let you in later,” she yelled out.

  “Miss, you have a leak in your bathroom pipes, and it’s pouring water into the apartment below. Either you let me in right now, or I let myself in.”

  Shit! Jones did not anticipate company. He waved Courtney over to the door, pointed the gun back at Ferguson, and mouthed the words ‘don’t move’ in silence. Courtney and Jones reached the door together.

  “When I tell you, let him in, and point him to the bathroom. After he goes in, we are leaving… together. Anything goes wrong, you are all dead. Do you understand?” Jones whispered. Courtney nodded. He sidestepped back toward the chair he was in, and sat down again. He picked up the Vanity Fair magazine from the glass coffee table and placed it over the gun, which he pointed again at Ferguson. Settled, he nodded at Courtney to open the door. The door opened, and Garagua stepped in quickly. He was still holding the pizza bag over the Gloch automatic in his right hand, and he scanned the room quickly, honing in on the stranger.

  Jones recognized the look of disbelief on Courtney’s face, and recognized the bag as a pizza warmer, not the tool bag of a repairman. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation. He wheeled around in the chair and clicked off two rounds that struck Garagua in the right thigh and middle of the chest. He wavered briefly, dropped the bag and tried to lift his weapon to aim. Jones stood up, and his third bullet hit him square in the nose as Garagua let off a wild shot that hit the kitchen counter. He pitched forward and fell face first onto the floor.

  Courtney screamed and fell to her knees, her hands clutching her chest. Jones hesitated as he looked over at her. It was all the time Ferguson needed. The second the first shots were fired, Ferguson seized the oriental vase seated on the concrete pillar display stand next to the couch, hurtled the coffee table, and took dead aim at the side of Jones’ head. It was an added bonus when he stood up for the last shot. Before he could turn back to cover Ferguson, the vase slammed into his left temple, shattering the Oriental heirloom all over the hardwood. Jones dropped to the floor like a rag doll. Ferguson never saw the gun hit the floor and slide under the couch. He searched frantically around the floor, while Jones moaned and Courtney sobbed hysterically.

  “Where’s the damn gun?” Ferguson met Courtney walking to him and grabbed Courtney by the shoulders, still looking around the floor for Jones’ weapon.

  He shook her once and then looked her in the eye. “It’s over, get hold of yourself! Take a deep breath. If I could find his gun, I’d finish the bastard off right now.” He let her go and started to search again.

  Jones was starting to regain consciousness. Courtney grabbed Ferguson’s arm. “I’ll call the police.”

  Ferguson took one last look, but still could not find the gun. Frustrated, he walked over to Jones and kicked as hard as he could at his exposed ribcage. He heard the crack of bones and a rush of adrenaline swept over him. He lined up on the face, and kicked again as if it was an inanimate ball. The crack of more bones, and a muted grunt from Jones. A wave of anger gushed forth out of Ferguson, anger like he had never experienced before.

  Courtney shook him out of it. “Stop it! We’ll get the police.”

  Ferguson looked down at Jones as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with both hands. A series of multiple beeps sounded off. Ferguson looked at Courtney in disbelief. Before he could say anything, an electronic voice crackled from the dead maintenance man.

  “Carlos?” Bolivar keyed the one-way phone. “Carlos, is everything okay amigo?” There was the sound of static and then the line went dead.

  “Shit!” Ferguson ran to the front door and looked down the hallway. Nothing. He sprinted to the front window, yanked back on the white slatted blinds and peered down the nine floors to the front entry of the tower. His eyes frantically searched the ground for any signs of activity. Under the street lamp across the street from the front entrance was just what he suspected, a single man running directly at the Willows.

  “What’s wrong?” Courtney asked, panic returning to her voice.

  “I was wrong, it’s not over!” Ferguson released the blinds and vaulted toward the front door, grabbing Courtney’s hand and yanking her along with him. “We’ve got company!”

  “Who?”

  “Friends of your repairman.”

  “He’s not the repairman…”

  “No kidding.” Ferguson interrupted.

  “He’s the guy from the restaurant, the one that was following us.”

  “Great! He could be the police, but we’re not waiting around to find out.” Ferguson scooped up the bags by the door, “Can you trip your alarm?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do it… now!”

  Courtney programmed the key pad and the alarm shrieked. “What about those two?”

  “One’s not going anywhere. The other one the police will get. We’ll call the police… that detective we met, from the car. We’ll explain it to him.”

  “We’ll have to turn ourselves in.” Courtney pulled the locked door closed.

  “Maybe, but not right now.” Ferguson led them to the emergency stairs. “You heard the one guy, he’s a small spoke in a big wheel. He talked in ‘we’s’. There’s a lot more of him where he came from. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”

  They reached the basement exit and stepped out into the garage entrance. Ferguson looked around for anything that moved. It was quiet. They calmly walked to the front lot and Ferguson’s car. Once outside, they inhaled the cool evening air as if it were their last breath on earth. With luck it had not been. They could hear the police sirens approaching as they drove away.

  Detective Shutt’s mobile phone was sitting on the kitchen table next to an empty bag from Jersey Mike’s Sub Shop, and the Gloch 38, safely encased in the leather belt holster. His wife Rhonda and all three kids had left town for the weekend, off to visit her sister in Nashville. Once Rhonda had heard the news of the murders, she knew her husband would be out of it for the next few days, and felt it wise to get out of his hair while the gettin’ was good. The phone began to ring less than ten minutes since he had discarded it.

  “Damnit!” Shutt cried out. “I can’t even eat dinner in peace!”

  He deposited the last half of his sandwich on the family room coffee table, walked to the kitchen and picked up the phone evaluating the incoming phone number in the display window.

  “Hello?” Shutt inquired, not recognizing the caller.

  “Detective Shutt?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Matt Ferguson, we met earlier this afternoon at Dr. Karl’s house.”

  “I remember. What can I help you with?”

  “Well… Miss Lewis, who you also met earlier, and myself, well… we’ve got a bit of a problem.

  “And what would that be?”


  “We we’re involved in an incident tonight that we believe is tied in with Dr. Karl’s death.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, unfortunately, as we speak, the police are responding to an alarm at Miss Lewis’ apartment at the Willows Tower. When they get there, they’re going to find another dead body, and the shooter unconscious on the floor.”

  “Mr. Ferguson, please tell me you’re pulling my leg.” Shutt responded in a calm and controlled voice.

  “I wish I was.” Ferguson said.

  “What the hell is going on?” The calm and control was slipping away. “Either you, or both of you are in some deep shit young man!”

  “Yes sir, but we’re not responsible for killing anyone. In fact, the man you will find knocked out on the floor of Courtney’s apartment is the one responsible for it all. He was going to kill us both until the dead man showed up and got in the way. I was able to knock him out before he could do any more damage.”

  “Why’d you leave? You should have stayed put, called the police, and waited for them to arrive.” Shutt regained his composure.

  “There were others.” Ferguson continued. “I don’t know who they were, but they were on there way up to the apartment and there wasn’t any time. I also wasn’t interested in getting into some gun battle.”

  “What do you mean others?”

  “Look, detective, there’s something that Courtney and I have… certain information that other people might be interested in. Information that could lead to a great deal of money. The interested party, or parties, appears to be much larger than one or two people.”

  “Then you need to come in and let us get you some police protection.” Shutt said. “Then we can sort out everything that’s been going on and find out who this so-called ‘shooter’ is and squeeze him for more information. Maybe he can lead us to the others.”

  “It’s not that easy. We’re safe for now. Let us talk over where we go from here and we’ll call you back.”

  “Wait… wait a minute, don’t hang up!” Shutt did not want to lose the conversation. “Is Miss Lewis with you?” He needed to keep them on the phone and talk them in.