Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

  He was the first among equals.

  No one spoke as he made his way to the dark, carved chair that was his symbol of authority. He was conscious of the way his cane thumped on the floor, and of the weakness in his legs as he walked. When he reached his chair, Harlan managed to pull it away from the table without any semblance of weakness.

  He sat down, hung his cane up on the arm of the chair and picked up the goblet. Harlan held it in front of him for a moment before he intoned, “Our watching is nearly done.”

  The others lifted their goblets and together they each took a sip of the dark red wine.

  "Hello, everyone," Harlan said, looking around at the fifteen people. "I trust your travels were uneventful. I apologize for the suddenness of this meeting, but we seem to have a situation which has the potential to get out of control."

  “What exactly,” Zane Ketch said, “is the situation? We have not had many details, other than the loss of some of our more important facilities.”

  “I have heard of a gentleman by the name of Shane,” Clair Willette said. “Evidently he is causing us a bit of trouble?”

  “A bit,” Harlan agreed. “He is the reason for this meeting.”

  “Really?” Zane asked. “A single man?”

  Ingrid Brown leaned forward. "He is extremely accomplished, Zane. He is not an amateur. I was with Harlan when we watched Shane, and his compatriot, Frank, enter the Slater Mill. They were prepared, utterly, for the encounter. I've seen few as capable as them."

  “So,” Clair said, “what have you done to contain him?”

  The tone in Clair’s voice told Harlan that she already knew. What was more, it told him that she and Zane were working together in regards to the Shane issue.

  They were maneuvering to place one of them in Harlan’s seat.

  Harlan smiled. “We have attempted to contain him several times, but each has failed, I am sorry to say.”

  Zane seemed taken aback by Harlan’s honesty.

  Which was what Harlan wanted.

  Clair, one of the smartest Harlan had worked with, was not distracted by the naked truth. She fixed a cold glare on him, her thick lips paling.

  “I expected better from you, Harlan,” she said in a harsh tone. “What is the damage so far?”

  “Are you interested in the damage sustained while I have tried to neutralize Shane, or in the damage caused by Abigail’s mismanagement?” Harlan asked. “Or perhaps both?”

  Clair's eyes widened, and she pushed herself away from the table.

  Out of everyone at the table, it had been Clair who had been most vocal in her support of Abigail as the one to lead the organization into the future.

  Abigail’s abject failure was a direct reflection of Clair’s vision.

  “Has anyone heard from Abigail?” Zane interjected, seeming to remember where his loyalties lie. “Her vanishing with a significant amount of funds isn’t a reflection on anyone.”

  Clair visibly relaxed, nodding along with several others.

  “I doubt,” Blaine Worthington said, “we’ll ever find her. She was far more adept at hiding her funds than we thought.”

  “I know where she is,” Harlan stated, and he told the gathered leaders about her place at Borgin Keep. Several of the members paled, and Imogene Herdman hurried from the room. Harlan could hear her vomit in the bathroom.

  “Harlan,” Clair said when he had finished. “Tell me, what damage has the organization suffered after Abigail’s removal?”

  Harlan nodded. His answer had to be chosen with care.

  “It began simply enough,” Harlan stated. “I attempted to intimidate Shane and Frank by using the Hitchcock team to send a message. Next, I secured the house across from Shane's with our top observation agents. If you have read the brief I sent along, you'll remember that 125 Berkley played a significant role in the organization prior to the cultivation of Slater Mill as an asset."

  Several members nodded, and when no one spoke, Harlan continued.

  “They were more than adequate team,” Harlan said. “The man and woman had undertaken numerous observation and termination missions.”

  “Then what happened to them?” Zane asked.

  “Shane and Frank happened to them,” Harlan said, his tone one of disgust. “They made their way into the structure, took our operatives by surprise, and executed them both.”

  “Protocol dictates arson,” Blaine reminded them all. “Did you follow that, Harlan?”

  “Considering I wrote the protocol for such an incident,” Harlan snapped, “I should think I did.”

  “Was the arsonist successful?” Zane asked.

  “No,” Harlan responded.

  Angry murmurs raced around the table.

  “What happened?” Zane asked.

  “Somehow,” Harlan answered, “the arsonist lit himself on fire.”

  “Now, Harlan,” Clair said in a voice heavy with anger, “would be an exceptionally fine time to tell us how you have succeeded in having Shane Ryan assassinated.”

  Harlan ground his teeth and shook his head.

  “I haven’t,” he grumbled. “Not yet.”

  “Have we lost anyone else?” Clair demanded.

  Harlan nodded.

  “Who?” she snapped.

  “Another officer in the Nashua Police Department,” Harlan replied.

  “We only had one more!” Zane yelled, jumping up and knocking his chair back. “My God, you’ve left the entire southern portion of New Hampshire bereft of assets!”

  “What else?” Clair hissed in the sudden silence which dominated the room. “There’s something else, I can tell.”

  For the first time in quite a long while, Harlan felt unsure of his position within the organization.

  Such was his fear that Harlan considered, if ever so briefly, a lie.

  In the end, he told the truth.

  “I had to use Mrs. Henderson,” he said.

  Murmurs filled the air, and more than a few of his compatriots wiped their brows. First one, then another chuckled.

  “Harlan,” Blaine said with relief, “you could have led off with that, old man. We all would have felt considerably better about the situation.”

  Harlan shook his head, and the murmurs were silenced.

  "She was unsuccessful," Harlan said. "At least in regards to Shane Ryan. While I have no way to confirm it, I believe he managed to speak with her, and she was the one who killed Lieutenant Owen."

  “Then Shane is still alive?” Clair asked.

  Harlan nodded.

  “Shane is alive,” Clair said again, “and you have effectively neutered the organization in Southern New Hampshire.”

  Anger spiked in Harlan, and he straightened up.

  “You listen to me, Clair,” he began.

  Clair held up her goblet, and Harlan went silent.

  Every person around the table, except Harlan, lifted theirs as well.

  "No," Harlan growled. "No. You will not oust me. I have obtained this position by right, and I will keep it by the same."

  Clair took a sip, and the others followed her example.

  Before Harlan could protest, a length of rope was looped around his neck. The fibers were sharp and painful as the cord dug into his loose flesh. He tried to fight but his old body couldn’t. His killer pulled him out of his chair, sending the heavy bit of furniture crashing to the floor. Harlan was dragged backward, away from the table.

  As he gasped and desperately tried to breathe, he saw Clair stand up. She walked to the head of the table, pick up the chair, and straighten it before she took her place in it. Someone took Harlan's goblet away, and another handed Clair hers. She lifted it up and said, "Our watching is nearly done."

  They were the last words Harlan heard, as his life was choked out of him.

  Chapter 41: Listening to Death

  David could hear her crawling somewhere in the darkness.

  He sat on the floor, backed into a corner. The dead had stripped him of hi
s clothes, but they had yet to touch his limbs.

  He took it as a blessing.

  David ignored the way the cold of the stone seeped into his flesh or the way his joints throbbed with pain. Instead, he focused on the chair he had found.

  It was old, held together mostly by dowels.

  But he had cut his finger on a nail. Not only a steel nail, but an iron one.

  David had touched the metal with his tongue and tasted it.

  So as he sat in the darkness, he used his fingers to pry the nail free, a centimeter at a time. He would remove it. The effort might last hours, perhaps days.

  David wouldn’t be able to tell. Time was too fluid. Trying to count the minutes would plummet him into madness.

  Something scraped along one wall nearby and then a woman let out a wordless moan.

  The sound caused David to shudder and his fingers to slip on the iron, tearing a bit of his fingernail away. He winced but kept his mouth clamped shut.

  With great care, he sought out and found the head of the nail again. He tried to ignore the sounds Abigail made as he moved the iron back and forth, attempting to loosen the grip of the old wood upon it.

  The nail wouldn’t be much, but it would be something to use against the dead, and something was all David needed.

  Just a little bit of an edge, and if he had an edge, David believed he could get out.

  “Where are you?” Abigail hissed, her words difficult to understand.

  David tilted his head to the left, angling it so he could hear her better. His fingers continued to wiggle the nail free.

  “I can smell you,” she said, her words tinged with mania. “And I’m hungry.”

  The nail came free, and David sighed with relief. He squeezed it in his palm for a moment, then he swung the chair and shattered it against the wall. David was left with a single leg in his hand, and he listened.

  The sound of skin being scraped against stone filled the air. David closed his eyes in the darkness and tried to visualize the distance. Abigail drove herself forward, shimmying and dragging herself along.

  David held his breath, listened past the sound of his heartbeat, and then brought the leg of the chair down with a crash.

  Abigail’s shriek told him he had judged the distance correctly.

  Again and again, he smashed the chair leg into her. He kept it up until her shrieks became grunts, and until there was nothing at all.

  David sank to the floor, dropped the leg and sought Abigail’s throat. He found it, and a faint pulse as well.

  David sat down beside her, wrapped his hand around her neck and choked the last bit of life from her.

  Chapter 42: A Steadier Hand

  Harlan’s body would be found in the South End of Boston. The man would be seen as a victim of a robbery, another senseless death. One amongst many.

  Clair nodded to Jenna and Gabby as the women picked the corpse up off the floor.

  “Send me a status report as soon as you’re complete,” Clair said.

  “Okay,” Jenna answered, and the two of them dragged Harlan to the elevator.

  Clair turned her attention to the group still seated at the table.

  "Shane Ryan and Frank Benedict have proven to be too much of a drain on this organization's resources," Clair said, looking around the table. "Now, we have two acceptable options before us. The first is to ignore them both, to allow them to continue on with what they're doing. As far as we know, they don't have much more than a basic grasp of what the organization's purpose is."

  “And our second option?” Blaine asked.

  “We send in a team and have them killed,” Clair said. Those around the table nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Harlan used the Hitchcock team,” Blaine said. “We’ve had excellent results from them in the past. Occasionally a job may run over, but they haven’t failed.”

  “I don’t think they will,” Clair said. “It doesn’t matter how much training Shane or Frank received during their military careers.”

  She looked around the table, meeting each member in the eye. “Do we all agree that this is an acceptable course of action?”

  Each person gave their assent.

  “Excellent,” Clair said. “I’ll call their broker shortly and establish all of the logistics necessary.”

  Imogene, who had been with the organization for almost forty years, looked at Clair and asked, “And what if Shane and Frank defeat the Hitchcock team?”

  Clair and several of the others burst out laughing. Wiping a tear of mirth from her eye, Clair said, “I don’t think that Shane, regardless of his skills, will be able to resist the talents of the Hitchcock team.”

  Imogene opened her mouth to protest, but Clair held up a hand. “Let us not dwell any longer on the issue of Mr. Ryan. I believe we have some news regarding the One.”

  A hushed silence swept through the room.

  Zane nodded.

  "We have received word," he said, "of the discovery of a burial ground in Amherst, New Hampshire. It is tucked away on private property, and the landmarks correspond roughly with the documentation that we have."

  “When will we know for certain?” Clair asked, trying to control her excitement.

  “The research firm is establishing ownership,” Zane replied. “Once that is done, we can see about obtaining the property.”

  “At any cost,” Clair stated.

  Zane gave a short bow. “Of course.”

  “Until such time that we have confirmation of the burial ground,” Clair said, “we will continue to prepare the House. What free time we have will go in the securing of Shane and Frank.”

  Clair took a deep breath and smiled at her compatriots. The unpleasant removal of Harlan was pushed out of her mind as she said, “Remember, we are almost done. We are close to realizing the goal which has driven this organization for one hundred and fifty years.”

  Clair lifted her goblet high and said, “To the One!”

  They emptied their goblets as one and brought them down with a simultaneous crash to table. Clair grinned, the warmth of the wine rushing through her.

  The future, she knew, would be as dark as they hoped.

  Chapter 43: Not Quite Asleep

  Shane spent more time in the library than in any other room of his house. He had brought in blankets and a pillow, choosing to sleep there on most nights. Carl disliked it, but the dead man was overprotective most days.

  Shane stripped down and slid between the blankets, pulling them close. No sooner had his head reached the pillow that he heard Courtney.

  The noises of her passage came from the corner with the oubliette. As Shane got as comfortable as the floor would allow him, the room’s temperature decreased significantly.

  Courtney moved about the room, rattling the shades and moving books.

  Shane waited for her to remember he was there, or to return to the oubliette.

  She walked closer to him, the cold causing him to shake.

  “Are you sick?” she asked.

  “No,” Shane replied. “I’m concerned.”

  “What’s bothering you?” she inquired.

  Shane gave her a brief synopsis of everything that had happened since the discovery of the two observers in the house across the street.

  “They’ll be coming back,” Courtney said after he had finished.

  Shane nodded. “I hope so. I may not be here when they come.”

  She snorted dismissively. “They will receive a cold welcome.”

  “I believe it,” Shane said, adjusting the dog-tags around his neck.

  “Wherever you go, Shane,” Courtney said, then hesitated a moment before she continued on, “you go, will you take me with you?”

  “Yes,” Shane answered.

  “Thank you,” she said, a pleasant sigh escaping from her.

  “We’re going to a bad place,” Shane said after several minutes of silence.

  "Don't you always?" she asked, and even though there was no humo
r in her question, Shane chuckled.

  “That’s a fair point,” he replied.

  “What do you think you’ll find in this new place?” Courtney asked.

  “I don’t know,” Shane answered truthfully. “It’s supposed to be bad. Really bad. I’m kind of worried about you going in there.”

  “I’m already dead, Shane,” Courtney reminded him. “Not a whole lot more can be done to me.”

  “Don’t believe that,” Shane murmured. “There’s always something that can hurt us, whether we believe it or not.”

  “And what’s going to hurt you?” she asked.

  “Losing you,” Shane answered.

  “I’m dead,” she whispered.

  “But you’re not gone,” he replied.

  “Shane,” she started.

  “No,” Shane said, getting into a sitting position and interrupting her. “It was bad enough losing you the first time. Then I almost lost you to madness.”

  “I haven’t beaten the insanity yet,” she said, her voice quivering. “It is a struggle each day. Sometimes I don’t think I can hold out. Other times never seem to end. It is a terrible situation.”

  Shane shook his head, the sadness sweeping over him. He dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he wept.

  Behind him, Courtney began to sing, and the pain was nearly too much to bear.

  Chapter 44: 125 Berkley Street

  At 3:20 in the morning, the Hitchcock team approached Shane Ryan’s house through the woods. They moved cautiously, wary of any alarms.

  The building, they discovered, was unprotected.

  In a matter of minutes, they had secured the front and rear exits. The lines of communication were cut. A cell phone disrupter was set into position and turned on.

  Each member of the team had memorized the layout of the house, although some of it had seemed strange. Rooms identified with question marks, the legend at the bottom of the original map explaining that the map maker didn’t know if the rooms existed or not.

  The team leader approached the front door, reached out and tested the doorknob.