Kurkow Prison (Berkley Street Series Book 5)

by Ron Ripley

  “This is our place,” the captain said. “And this was our time for retribution. Your interference has robbed us of our pleasure. Do you have any idea of how I’ve had to work, to keep them all in line? To keep them all focused?”

  Shane ignored the question and tried to free himself, but he couldn’t. The dead were too strong.

  "Reloading!" Mason yelled.

  "Damn it, so am I!" came Frank's reply as Shane continued to struggle. In horror, Shane watched as the captain reached out for Shane’s ring finger.

  When the dead officer grabbed hold of it, Shane screamed. As pain tore the sound out of his voice, Shane saw a shape racing towards them. It was another ghost; a woman.

  And she was running straight at the Captain. She was barefoot, and wore only pants and a bra, loose hair hanging about her shoulders. A snarl curled her upper lip, and she slammed into the dead officer. The temperature around Shane plummeted, and he blacked out.

  When Shane opened his eyes, the captain and the woman were gone. The ghosts who had held Shane upright dropped him to the snow.

  Shane fell to his knees and watched the dead turn to run, but they vanished instead. Frank and Mason passed by him, focused on the last few of the dead who were present. The men pushed through the snow with slow steps. Shotguns were pressed to their shoulders, and Shane could watch the muzzle-flashes. Frank continued to fire as Mason stopped and reloaded with the grace of a dancer, each movement fluid and precise.

  Then Mason was firing and Frank was reloading.

  And the dead were gone.

  Shane could hardly think through pain as the world slammed back into full speed.

  "Is that all of them?" Mason asked, his flushed.

  "I hope so," Frank answered.

  Mason offered Shane his hand and helped him to his feet.

  "How you doing, Gunny?" Mason asked.

  Shane held his left hand up in reply.

  Mason’s eye’s widened as he whispered, “Oh hell.”

  “Shane,” Frank said. “Are you in pain?”

  Shane shook his head. In a hoarse voice he said, “Not too much. Mostly the ear. I can’t feel much in those two fingers.”

  “Alright,” Frank began.

  The sound of a car horn interrupted him, and all three of them turned to look toward the noise.

  It was the Jeep. Someone was laying on the horn, and a dead guard was rushing towards them. The man slammed into Shane, throwing him backward into Mason, their heads colliding.

  And even as Shane collapsed to the ground, Frank fired the shotgun, the ghost instantly vanished. Salt ripping the snow apart only inches from Shane.

  “Come on, Frank!” Shane yelled.

  With his head pounding, Shane rolled over onto the snow, and felt pain blossom where his left ear should have been and shook his head.

  "What is it?" Frank asked. "Are you hurt again?"

  "No," Shane said, groaning.

  "What then?" Mason asked groggily.

  "There's always one more," Shane spat. "Always one God damned more ghost."

  Chapter 63: A Final Conversation

  Shane sat at his kitchen table.

  He had finished his cigarette and his whiskey, and he still dreaded the task which stood before him.

  On the old, dark wood of the table top, standing between a pack of Lucky cigarettes and a half empty bottle of Jameson's whiskey, was a box of salt. A dark blue, rectangular piece of cardboard with the top torn off.

  The current resting place of Courtney DeSantis.

  She had been going mad, slowly, but surely. Shane had done some research, digging through internet pages, looking at old books. All of them had said the same thing, that sometimes ghosts lose their minds.

  Something broke inside of them. Some became despondent, and could be seen moaning their fate.

  Others, like Courtney, became violent.

  And from what Shane had read, there was no salvation for them. No way to talk to them and bring them back from the edge of the precipice of insanity.

  Courtney would become worse, and there was nothing Shane could do about it. She would lash out, attacking. At some point, she might even kill.

  Shane sighed and shook his head.

  Part of him wanted to take the coward's way out, to stuff her into a lead box and hide her away. Perhaps take her out years hence when he had worked up enough courage to do so.

  But he wasn't one to put things off, as his many scars reminded him.

  Shane reached up, touched the bandage over the remnants of his left ear, and felt a small, bitter smile slide across his face. His left hand was heavily bandaged as well, the pinky and ring fingers having been amputated due to terrible frostbite inflicted by the dead captain.

  No, you never put things off, do you. He sighed, contemplated another cigarette, and, realizing it was another way to delay the inevitable, and pushed the thought down.

  Shane pulled the box close to him, shoved his hand into it and searched for the chain of his dog tags amongst the grains salt. He found it quickly, and as soon as he pulled them free, Courtney appeared in the kitchen.

  The temperature plummeted and the lights flickered.

  She solidified as the bulbs dimmed and stayed low.

  Courtney glanced around the kitchen.

  "When did we get home?" she demanded.

  "This morning."

  "How long was I in there?" she asked, a harsh, dangerous tone in a once pleasant voice.

  "Three days," Shane answered.

  "You left me in there for three days?" she snapped.

  He nodded.

  "Why?!"

  Shane sighed. "You attacked me."

  Courtney glared at him. "Who's Emma?"

  "The girl who you helped to rescue," Shane said.

  "I should have told you they were all dead," Courtney hissed. "Should have left her there to be butchered. You shouldn't have spoken with her."

  "Courtney–" Shane said.

  "No," she cut him off, her voice shaking. "I'm dead because of you. Your friends want you with a living woman. Not a dead one. I'll kill them, too. But I'll kill Frank slow. It's his fault. All of it. Every last bit of it. And your fault, too. I'm going to hurt you, Shane Ryan. And when I'm done hurting you, you're going to be with me."

  His shoulders sagged.

  "Courtney," he whispered.

  She took a step forward, the temperature in the room plummeting. Several of the lights flickered out.

  "Courtney," Shane begged. "Please."

  Courtney moved closer, and tears stung Shane's eyes. He dropped his chin to his chest, and said in German, "Now, my friend."

  Screams of rage echoed off of the kitchen's walls as the rest of Shane's dead friends raced into the room. Carl and Eloise, Thaddeus and the dark ones. The sounds were horrific, the cold so terrible that it set Shane's teeth to chattering.

  Courtney’s screams changed into high-pitched wails, and Shane looked up, blinking away the tears.

  Carl and Thaddeus had her, gripping her arms holding her up as she sagged between them, her head bowed. Eloise and the dark ones waited at the open pantry door. Beyond it was darkness, the shadow too deep to be natural. It was then that Shane knew they had opened the trap door into the root cellar.

  Courtney lifted her head, locked her eyes onto him, eyes filled with rage, fear, and sadness.

  “Shane,” she moaned, his name sounding like a curse as it left her lips.

  Shane sobbed and squeezed his eyes closed.

  Courtney let out a long wail, but it was silenced as the first door to the pantry, and then to the root cellar, were slammed shut.

  The light strengthened and Shane opened his eyes.

  Carl stood alone in the room. The others, Shane knew, had taken Courtney deep into the house. She would be in the walls, bound and kept from him, kept in some secret place only the dead knew of. A prison for the woman who had gone mad, and who loved him beyond death.

  Carl looked at Shane sympathet
ically.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you, my friend?" Carl asked in German.

  Shane nodded as he reached out and grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle.

  "What is it?" Carl asked.

  "Don't ever tell me where you've hidden her," Shane whispered. He removed the bottle's cap, and didn't bother with a glass.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Kurkow Prison, April, 1982

  Ronnie Ducharme stumbled out of the back of the French Canadian Club. The noise of the bar was cut off with the closing of the door, but the absence of sound didn't help his headache.

  Never should have had that damned tequila, he thought, wincing. Ronnie dragged a hand along the brick siding of the bar, not only to guide himself in the dim light of the alley, but to make sure he didn't fall down, too. Thirteen rough and painful steps brought him to the back parking lot. A full moon hung fat in the sky, the stars bright, a reminder of how cold the next day was supposed to be.

  Ronnie took a deep breath and the knot in his stomach relaxed. The tequila and the mess someone had left in the bathroom had threatened to overwhelm his gag reflex, forcing him to go outside. Because if he threw up in the club, Henri would ban him for a week.

  A week at the house with Betty, he thought, or a week of doing overtime until she goes to the diner for the late shift.

  Ronnie shook his head. Neither one of the thoughts were pleasing.

  So he stood in the back lot, looking out at the dark, hideous blot that was Kurkow Prison. The building dragged his eyes to it and seemed to pull the starlight down from the heavens.

  Everything about the place was miserable, and Ronnie couldn't understand why the state hadn't ripped it down after the accident.

  Or why they didn't even tell anybody about the accident, he thought. Ronnie took out a cigarette, lit it and coughed out the smoke.

  "God," he muttered, spitting onto the ground. Ronnie stuffed his free hand into his pocket, suddenly cold. Movement caught his eye and he squinted. From where he stood, Ronnie could see the pair of doors that led into Kurkow.

  They were open.

  "I want a drink," a voice said from behind Ronnie.

  He twisted around and saw a shape in the alley.

  "What?" Ronnie snapped.

  "A drink," the man said, his voice thick with a Canadian accent. "You know. Some whiskey. Something. Anything."

  "Then go and get it," Ronnie snapped. "What the hell are you bothering me for?"

  "Get me a drink," the man snarled, stepping forward. "I don't want any of your lip. Go get me a God damned drink!"

  Ronnie stepped back, his cigarette falling from his lips. Sparks jumped up as the butt struck the pavement. He tried to talk, raising his hands in front of him. But his voice wouldn't work. Fear caused his throat to tighten, and it was an effort to force air into his lungs.

  The man in front of Ronnie was dead. Nothing more than a hint, as if the image of a man had been burned into Ronnie's eyes.

  Ronnie tried to move away, but his legs failed him. He couldn't breathe. He was having an asthma attack.

  And his inhaler was at home.

  "Get up!" the ghost shrieked, stalking forward. He grabbed hold of Ronnie by the neck, and the man's touch was cold and excruciatingly painful.

  Ronnie's vision clouded over, and the last image he had was of the dead man's bloated face in front of his own.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Nothing He Wanted to See

  Edmund Dumas had left the French Canadian Club a few minutes after Ronnie Ducharme. He had been getting ready to leave when Ronnie had exited the club, and thus had been forced to wait. It wasn’t that Edmund disliked Ronnie. In all honesty, Edmund didn’t like or dislike anyone.

  Edmund only despised conversations, and Ronnie was a chatterbox. Especially when he was drinking. Leaving the club when Ronnie did was a sure way to suffer through an exchange of mundane and mind-numbing pleasantries.

  Edmund didn’t want that, and most of Gaiman knew how he was. There were always a few, like Ronnie, who wouldn’t accept it, and seemed to find Edmund’s reluctance to speak, a challenge.

  So, instead of leaving, Edmund had ordered another Molson, finished it, and then left the club. He had parked his Volkswagen in the back parking lot. When he stepped into the alley which led to his car, Edmund had become aware of two important facts.

  The first was Ronnie hadn’t left.

  The Second, Ronnie was being choked to death by Fats Webb.

  Fats Webb, Edmund knew, was dead. Edmund had not only watched Fats die years earlier, but he had been responsible for the man’s death.

  Edmund closed the door to the Club behind him, making sure it latched without a sound. He leaned against the wall and watched Ronnie die, wondering how Fats could be present.

  The man had died in Kurkow Prison, like so many others.

  Ronnie thudded onto the pavement as Fats let him go.

  The prisoner vanished and Edmund was left with an unrestricted view of Kurkow. From where he stood, he could see that the double doors of the prison were open. Someone, for some reason, had gone into the facility, and left the door open.

  Frowning, Edmund walked down the small alley, stepped over the fresh corpse, and went to his car. The Volkswagen started up without any difficulty, and Edmund left the parking lot.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: At Home

  With the closing of the prison after the accident, Gaiman had started a long, slow decline. Years passed and people moved away. They went to where the jobs were, down in Concord and Manchester, Nashua and over the border into Massachusetts.

  And as the people left, so did some of the stores, old Bertram’s gas station folded. There were empty houses on each and every street.

  Edmund thought about the events which had occurred since February 11th, 1974 as he drove home. He turned onto Mulberry Street, passed the dark houses of his neighbors, and pulled into his own driveway. After he turned off the engine, he stepped out of the car, locked the door, and tried the handle three times before he went up to the kitchen door.

  He let himself in, secured the deadbolt, then wiggled the doorknob three times.

  With his ritual satisfied, Edmund turned around and double checked the list that was taped on the cabinet door above the stove.

  Locks locked, he read, nodding to himself. Gas off.

  He twisted the dials for each burner five times to the left, and when he had finished, he looked at the list again.

  Get ready for bed.

  Edmund hung his car keys up on the hook to the right of the door, left the kitchen and went to his bedroom. He changed into his pajamas, neatly folded his dirty clothes and put them in the hamper which he would bring down to the basement in the morning. Before he got into bed, Edmund knelt down and said the Lord’s Prayer twenty-five times, exactly as his mother had taught him to do.

  When he finished, Edmund got into bed, pulled the blankets and sheet up under his chin, and stared at the ceiling.

  He wasn’t one for introspection. Edmund remembered what was important, and tended to forget what wasn’t.

  Some things, though, he could recall whether he wanted to or not.

  And the death of Fats Webb was one of them.

  Edmund remembered everything about the day Fats had died.

  Everything.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 4: February 11th, 1974

  Edmund was tired and irate.

  He had picked up an extra shift, covering Mike Folos’ second shift in addition to his own third. Gaiman had raised property taxes and Edmund had to get some more hours to make sure he wouldn’t be short in June for the mid-year payment.

  To make matters worse, Captain Ehrman had assigned Edmund the laundry room.

  Edmund didn’t like the laundry room.

  And it took a lot for Edmund to not like something.

  There was no order in the laundry room. No way to make sure the convicts were doing what they were supposed to. Impossible to keep track of
them, which meant it was impossible for him to make sure the job was done properly.

  Edmund needed jobs to be done right. There were steps to follow. Ways to make certain the world moved in a smooth and proper fashion.

  ‘Everything in its place, and a place for everything’ was a saying Edmund appreciated and lived by. Prisoners under his watch had to live by the same, or suffer the consequences.

  Edmund moved down the center corridor and paused. He could hear someone talking. A little farther off, down to the right where there shouldn’t be anyone. Prisoners worked at the huge washing tubs, their eyes turned away from Edmund. The men, dressed in denim pants and shirts of various shades depending on the age of the clothing, knew how Edmund liked things.

  Eye contact was not on the list of appropriate actions.

  And neither was talking.

  Edmund began to walk again, the sound of his boots on the concrete floor was lost beneath the noises of the machines. The voices of the men in the corner grew louder.

  None of the convicts at the washing machines made any attempt to warn the men. That would have earned a blow from Edmund’s nightstick, and in spite of his small size, Edmund knew exactly where to hit a man. Each strike inflicted maximum pain with minimum effort, a source of pride for Edmund.

  He slowed his steps as he reached the corner, his grip on his nightstick loose, but sure. Edmund walked past Dicky Marion, the old con bent over the controls of the washer, and came to a stop.

  Fats Webb and Nolan Derth argued, their hands moving rapidly, as if the violent gestures lent more weight to their words.

  Edmund watched them as he counted to thirty. When he reached thirty-one and the men still hadn’t noticed him, he moved. His steps were quick, his grip on the nightstick tightening.

  Nolan looked over at him, surprise on his face as Edmund swung the weapon. It was a black blur, smashing into Nolan’s exposed ribs and dropping the prisoner to the floor. As the man writhed and howled, Edmund stepped over him. Fats backed away, raising his hands up and shaking his head.