Gray's Ghosts

by Carey Lewis

  The taser. She electrocuted Hector while he was holding her. The voltage must’ve transferred from his body to hers while he was holding her. It felt like the worst anxiety attack she’d ever had. She wanted to move, to run, to do something to get this energy out of her, to get the feeling of the foot off her chest even though it was pressed against the floor, but she couldn’t move.

  “You’re awake,” a voice said.

  Everything at once. She couldn’t focus. She wanted to place the voice, place where she was, who was there, to know what happened. She tried to speak but only a moan came out. Huey. Did Huey shoot himself?

  “How you feeling?”

  The voice again. She tried to speak. Nothing came out.

  “I’m going to move you, is that okay? Just sit you up so you can catch your breath.”

  Then she saw a set of feet, saw the legs crouching in front of her. She felt pressure on her shoulders and then she was propped up and leaned against the door frame. Brooke was relieved to feel things in her body - the hands on her shoulders that let go, the door jamb in her back, the cool blood her hand rested in.

  “I didn’t know if I should move you or if you’d get hurt. You hear all the time paramedics telling you not to move people, can do more harm than good.”

  She looked up to see the man from before, crouching again against the wall across from her in the hallway.

  Brooke looked to see her right hand still holding the taser.

  “That was brave,” the man said. “You must’ve landed on it, why I didn’t see it.”

  Brooke tried to ask what happened. She was surprised when nothing but a moan came out of her mouth.

  “I rolled Hector off you then saw you were still breathing. Thought I should leave you be until the pros get here. I’d ask if you want some water but I don’t want to go fiddling with the crime scene.”

  The crime scene. The house. The one made to look like a drug deal gone bad. No videotape. She had to let Deacon know he was in the clear. Get him out of danger.

  She heard sirens in the distance.

  “Speaking of,” the man said, rising back to his feet.

  “Wait,” she tried to say but was unsure if she said anything at all. She tried to remember. She zapped Hector, she remembered that. She fell. She saw the man fire two shots. Did she fall on the taser? Did she still have her thumb on the button when she fell on it? Her mind was in a fog while she tried to think. If she got zapped when she got Hector, then her muscles would’ve tightened, flexed. It’s possible her thumb was stuck to it, pressing down when she fell. She could’ve continued to zap herself.

  The sirens were almost deafening. She guessed they were right out front.

  Brooke looked down at her hand, her thumb still on the button. She tried to flex it. There was no life coming from the taser. It was possible she drained the thing into herself. It was also possible she wasn’t moving her thumb at all.

  She heard the man’s footsteps go away and followed the sound with her eyes. She looked up to the door to see the man talking to an older man at the front door. She wondered if he saw the sign telling people trespassers will be shot. They had a few words she couldn’t make out before they walked in and stood in front of her.

  “She was his hostage,” the man said to the older one who was looking around. “I moved her, she seemed alright. I know you’re not supposed to move them but she seemed okay.”

  “She say why she was with him?”

  “She’s not saying much of anything. She managed to zap the guy with the taser in her hand there.”

  The older man crouched in front of her. Brooke felt the taser slip out of her grip. The man looked at her and she tried to focus.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Brooke nodded. A pleasant smile appeared on the man’s face.

  “I’m Detective Whitmore. Do you understand?”

  She nodded again.

  “She fell on the taser, why I didn’t see it before,” the other man said. “Think she might’ve kept it on when she landed.”

  Whitmore looked over his shoulder to the man, then back to Brooke. “There’s paramedics outside going to take care of you, you understand?”

  Brooke shook her head. She had to warn Deacon. They had to come up with a story how they got caught up in all this to begin with. She could feign her symptoms long enough to clear her mind, to come up with something, but Deacon needed to be told. He didn’t have the luxury of time.

  “They’re going to look you over and take you to the hospital, make sure you’re okay. You’re very brave,” Whitmore said.

  Brooke shook her head but Whitmore didn’t see it. He waved to people outside and before she knew it, she was surrounded by paramedics.

  “Walt,” she heard the man say, taking Whitmore to the side, further down the hallway. “He didn’t have a gun.”

  “Thing like this, it’ll turn up. Any of them say what happened here?”

  “Drug deal gone wrong is what Hector said.”

  She felt hands on her body, straps being put around her arms. She heard one of them ask if she could move. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off the two men.

  “Those files I looked up?” Whitmore said. “We got some guys on this one’s crew. The skinhead, goes by Motley. The one in the kitchen with the black eyes was the one got pinched but released. Supposed to pick up some of the medical shit from Colorado in Raleigh. Just had him at the scene so we couldn’t hold him.”

  The paramedics lifted Brooke to her feet. She felt like she was on noodles.

  “You think it’s like Hector said?”

  “I’m willing to bet the others are Cuban by way of Florida. It’s not unlikely. Curious why Huey brought you here though.”

  “Wanted to show me what I was getting into.”

  “He mean it like a threat?”

  “I took it as him wanting to give me a warning.”

  The paramedics started moving Brooke toward the door, taking their time with her, being gentle.

  “Walt,” the man said. “I don’t think he had a gun.”

  Whitmore put his arm around the man. “These things have a way of working themselves out,” he said, smiling. “Seems to be a room full of them.”

  Brooke was led out the door and toward an ambulance. She needed her phone. She needed to tell Deacon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CARTER DIDN’T HAVE A LOT of experience following people, but it sure looked like the driver of the Acura knew he was being followed. Carter wondered if he was that bad or if Deacon told the driver. If he told the driver, it had to be wondered under what circumstances he did. It was clear he already got his head busted open.

  If the driver was going to put an end to Deacon, it would be in the abandoned lot the Acura turned in. And if the Mexican was going to finish off caving in Deacon’s skull, Carter would have to step in and act. Instead he kept driving along the street, slowing to see what they were doing. He was ashamed of himself.

  Carter Grant was a Deputy US Marshal, entrusted to do all the noble things Marshals are supposed to do and carry on the long tradition of badasses that were laid out before him. Instead, he drove slowly along the street like his dick was limp.

  When he was out of sight of the car, he turned around and parked on the shoulder, waiting for the Acura to come out. Maybe it wasn’t that noticeable. Maybe driving by and not coming into the parking lot, the Mexican would think it was nothing more than a car going in the same direction. Maybe he would get a second chance to prove he wasn’t impotent.

  Sure enough, the Acura came back out of the abandoned lot and Carter continued to follow it, trying to be more careful. He watched the car do things he saw in movies - make lefts from the right lane, double back around to the same spot by going in circles and so on. It seemed like the only thing the guy didn’t do was drive into head-on traffic. It was actually comical - so much so that for a moment Carter felt he was Gene Hackman in the French Connection.

  Then they
were driving along the long farm routes so Carter held back, able to keep an eye on the Acura by the sun gleaning off it. Ahead, he saw the car turn into a farm and Carter’s heart sank again. He slowed the Town Car, trying to buy some time. He’d give them a few moments. Let them get out and do whatever they were doing there, make sure they weren’t around. He’d drive by, take a quick look, then park down the street and come in on foot, sneak around until he had the advantage. Hopefully Deacon would still be alive.

  Wouldn’t that be something? Carter could sneak up on the Mexican from behind as he had Deacon on his knees, ready to put a bullet in his head. He’d come up from behind, arrest the guy, tell everyone back at Florence what happened, what a hero he was. Maybe then he could go out and do some actual Marshal work instead of being a paper jockey. Maybe that would take him off prisoner transports.

  He didn’t realize how slow he was going as he was looked for a break in the bushes to see the Acura. Then he was in front of the drive.

  The Town Car crawled past, the two of them standing there, staring at him. When he was out of sight, he stopped the car and wondered what the hell he just did. The slowest drive-by ever is what he thought.

  Carter pushed on the gas, brought his car up to the entrance of the next farm and turned around. He came back out onto the road and parked on the shoulder, wondering what he was supposed to do. He just wanted to go fishing, have some beers, and lie to his friends about the important Marshal work he was doing.

  If this was about him trying to feel brave, he decided he didn’t have it in him and he’d go back the way he came. But there was a guy down there that was probably in very real danger. A danger Carter more than likely added to. So what was he supposed to do?

  Before he knew it, he had the car in gear and was driving back toward the farmhouse. He would do the simplest thing he could think of to figure out what was going on. He was going to ask.

  Carter turned the Town Car to the right and came down the drive, watching the two of them outside the Acura, still staring at him. He parked the Town Car inches away from the Acura so it couldn’t move, then got out.

  “HOW’S IT GOING?” THE guy asked as he got out of the Town Car, coming around to sit on the hood. The same guy from the restaurant. Another guy with a tin star, around his neck this time.

  “Suppose you’re going to tell me you’re a Marshal too,” Cesar said.

  “Get a lot of those do you?”

  “So what, you’re his partner or something?”

  “Who? Deacon?” Cesar watched the man look from Deacon, back to him. The man saying, “I wouldn’t say we have a partnership.”

  “The bondsman, what’s he call himself? Carter? He goes and checks up on Huey and I’m stuck with the B-Team?”

  Cesar watched the man trying to play cool, saw genuine confusion cross his brow, looking at Deacon again for clarity.

  Deacon leaned in to Cesar, whispered, “This is US Marshal Carter Grant.”

  “Deputy Marshal,” the man said.

  “I heard a Marshal was calling about me so I thought I’d look him up,” Deacon said.

  Cesar turned to see the smug smile on Deacon’s face again. It pissed him off, the privileged TV star looking down on him, getting one over on him. It was all Cesar could do to smile back.

  “No shit?” Cesar turned back to the man. “Seems the name Carter Grant’s pretty popular. You got any ID on you Deputy Marshal?”

  “Deputy’s fine. You strike me as the type I wouldn’t want to make a quick movement around.”

  “I wonder why you say that.”

  “Don’t suppose the gun and star are enough ID for you.”

  “They seem easy to come by.”

  Cesar watched the man move his hands out to the side, saying, “It’s in my pocket.”

  “Where else you going to keep it?” Cesar asked. The man moved his hand down to his side, the same side as his gun. Cesar put his hand behind his back, ready to take the Glock out from his waistband, their eyes locked on each other.

  “Might want to think twice about shooting a Marshal Cesar,” Deacon said. “They attract more attention than skinheads.”

  “Deputy Marshal,” the man said again, pulling the wallet from his pocket.

  Cesar just about had enough. Here was the TV star playing cute, telling this guy in a clever way Cesar killed Motley and his crew. He was surprised and impressed by his own restraint as he reached out and took the wallet, open to a picture ID and another tin star. He examined it, not believing his eyes.

  “If you’re a Marshal who the fuck’s the other guy?”

  Cesar watched the man, the real US Deputy Marshal Carter Grant, look back to Deacon, completely confused. He threw the wallet to the ground, then said, “How about one you can answer? What were you doing at Bubs?”

  Carter looked from the wallet on the ground to Cesar. “You called me.”

  “I didn’t call you, I called the other one.”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you are? Maybe go someplace nicer so we can have a chat?”

  Cesar smiled. “Sounds like a great idea.” He walked over to the wallet on the ground and picked it up, then walked over to Carter to hand it to him. As Carter reached out to take it, Cesar pulled the Glock from behind his back. He looked back to Deacon. “Where’s your smile now?”

  He collected the gun from the shoulder holster of the Marshal and made him and Deacon walk in front toward the house. If the guy was a Marshal, which Cesar doubted, he could always blame his actions on Deacon trying to pin Motley’s murder on him. He’d tell Carter he had no idea what Deacon was talking about - they all went for dinner and Pablo wanted to pick Deacon’s brain about TV, that was the last he saw of them.

  With that plan, Cesar said, “Whatever happened with you and Pablo, Deke?”

  “You’d know better than I would.”

  “Last I heard, you guys were getting along great. Sent me home. You guys run into Motley, why you’re talking about skinheads?”

  Deacon looked over his shoulder, that smile finally off his face. Cesar grinned as he watched the two of them walk up the steps of the wraparound porch, coming to the screen door.

  “And you, Mr. Marshal, I think you’re going to be making a call to your buddy. Tell Huey he’s got some work to finish up here.”

  Carter didn’t turn around. Instead he opened the screen door and stepped to his right. Deacon froze in the doorway so Cesar pushed him inside. He stumbled forward and that’s when Cesar saw Ben Miller sitting on a chair facing the door with a shotgun in his lap.

  “You’re not taking my house,” he said.

  CARTER WAS HAPPY FOR THE chance to sit down. He didn’t know how much longer his knees would hold him up. The man with the shotgun, Ben he called himself, told him to sit on the stairs, and told the other two to sit on the couch on the other side of the room. Carter hoped he was playing it as cool as he thought he was. In his mind, he was shitting himself. He wasn’t sure which scared him more; the fact that this guy had a shotgun and a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him, or that he didn’t seem to care that Cesar also had a gun.

  Ben slid his chair along the old wooden floor, to the back of the room, near the fireplace, where he was able to keep everyone in sight. He sat back on his chair and took another swig of whiskey.

  “You sure you want to keep pulling on that?” Deacon asked. “Seems like you might be seeing double.”

  “Good thing I loaded all four barrels then.” Ben smiled, patting the double barreled shotgun on his lap. “You know I sold my truck? Started thinking about how I’m going to pay for these repairs and that truck was the only thing I had. What the hell you got stuck to your head?”

  “Napkins.”

  “You look like a goddamn tampon.”

  Carter looked at Deacon and Cesar on the couch. Cesar had the Glock hanging loosely in his hand, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. The other Glock was missing, the one he took from Carter. He must have put it behind his b
ack again.

  “So what’s your plan here Ben?” Carter asked.

  Ben looked at him, closing one eye to focus. “You know I called some people,” he said to Carter before putting his attention back on Deacon. “My son went on the Internet, did some research on you. Found a haunted house, big ad there says ‘As seen on Gray’s Ghosts’ up near Boston way. You know there’s a town up there called Salem that’s known for witches?”

  Deacon didn’t say anything.

  “I called this guy, Joe something, he tells me you tried doing the same thing to him, run him off his land. Tried getting his old lady spooked so you could go in and buy their property. That true?”

  “We investigated their house and told them there’s a good chance a spirit’s there.”

  “That so?”

  “Couldn’t tell him which one was the spirit. Lot of people were killed on that land. By Joe’s grandparents.”

  “He went and told me his kin fought for that land for generations then here come the city folk trying to force him off by giving him some bullshit about it being haunted.”

  “He and his kin are racists looking for an excuse.”

  “You tell me if that’s what you did.”

  “I told him if he wants to sell I know a guy who could help him.”

  Ben was grinning. “That the same guy you brought over here made me sign away my house?”

  Deacon looked to Carter, then back to Ben. “It wasn’t real.”

  Ben didn’t say anything. He stared at Deacon, the shotgun on his lap still pointed at them, his finger still on the trigger. Carter saw his eyes narrow, could see the anger boiling on his face.

  “Ben?” Carter asked. “Ben right?”

  Ben looked at him, the anger still there.

  “What’s your plan Ben?”

  “I wonder who you are.”

  “Deputy US Marshal Carter Grant,” he said, motioning to go for his wallet. Ben nodded and Carter showed him the star and ID.

  “You in on this with them?”