Blood in the Mirror (Haunted Collection Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  The ghost in the child’s mirror had shattered that belief, and the fear in the dead man’s voice had confirmed it.

  While the removal of Ariana and the knowledge of how his father had been able to infiltrate his house were important to Stefan’s ability to sell more items, he was still left in a state of flux.

  His father had lied to him.

  Lied.

  Stefan was in a foul mood as he stalked down the sidewalk, barely noticing the people around him or any of the stores on either side.

  It was his stomach that finally brought him fully back to a conscious understanding of his surroundings.

  The smell of true Boston baked beans filled his nose, and Stefan turned, trying to pinpoint from where the odor had emanated.

  His eyes spotted it a few moments later.

  Several storefronts up the street on the opposite side of the road, was a small diner. The name of the restaurant was Around the US. A middle-aged couple strolled out of the front door, and Stefan’s stomach encouraged him to go in and see what the restaurant was about.

  He crossed the street, reached the opposite side and hurried along towards the door. His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn't had any coffee.

  Pulling the door open, Stefan entered as a bell above him chimed and announced his arrival.

  A middle-aged waitress arrived a minute later, a battered notebook in her hand.

  “Just one, sweetheart?” she asked.

  Stefan nodded, and she led him to a booth labeled, New York, New York. Images of the New York City skyline were framed and hung on the wall, and a chalkboard with the words, New York City Pizza Slice written down on it.

  “What’ll you have?” the woman asked.

  “Coffee, eggs, home fries, and a rack of bacon,” Stefan replied.

  She nodded, jotted it down, and left to get his food.

  The bell above the door chimed, and he twisted to see who had set it off.

  His heart skipped a beat when he recognized the man from video footage taken on Long Island.

  It was Jeremy Rhinehart.

  ***

  Jeremy was furious and barely able to contain his rage.

  His chest ached, as did his neck and head. Victor had been attentive when administering first aid, but essentially ineffective.

  It hadn't helped that Nicholas had been not only freed from the cell Jeremy had put him in, but that he and Tom had arrived in Pennsylvania.

  And, Jeremy thought bitterly, that I owe them my life.

  Nicholas had been adamant that Jeremy be punished for his indiscretion and so-called traitorous act. Tom had remained silent, and Victor had wanted to know why Jeremy had imprisoned Nicholas.

  Jeremy shook his head, then his thoughts were interrupted by Nancy, the middle-aged waitress he had come to know through his frequent visits to the restaurant.

  “What’ll it be today, Jeremy?” she asked, flashing a grin of off-white teeth at him.

  “What do you have available?” Jeremy asked in return.

  “Just one,” she answered.

  Jeremy smiled and replied, “Well, I suppose that beggars can’t be choosers. Lead on, my dear.”

  He followed her to the booth, set his cane down beside him and glanced at the chalkboard with the day’s special, gumbo, written on it.

  “May I have the special?” he asked her. “Surf, if you have it.”

  “Sure,” Nancy answered. “But it’s only turf today. No deliveries from the coast. Something’s going on. You still want it?”

  “A pity,” Jeremy said, “but yes, I’ll still have it.”

  “Water?” she asked.

  “Please,” Jeremy said.

  Nancy gave a nod, jotted it down, winked at him, and hurried away.

  ***

  Stefan took off his coat and listened to the woman take Rhinehart’s order, and he considered what he should do.

  It was obvious that Rhinehart didn’t know what Stefan looked like, and it seemed more than likely that the man didn’t know Stefan was even in Fox Cat Hollow.

  Prudence suggested to Stefan that he should eat his meal, return to his rented room, and then decide what to do next.

  But Stefan had been doing an exceptionally large amount of retreating as of late, and he didn't like it. And, if he was honest with himself, he was rather irritated over his father's relationship with the half-sister he had never known about. Part of him wondered if he might have had a better relationship with the man if Rhinehart hadn’t murdered Ivan Denisovich.

  That was only a small part.

  The rest of his conscience understood that he had hated his father long before the man's death and that there was little chance they would ever have reconciled their differences.

  Still, he thought, he did kill my father.

  The booths were back to back, so Stefan turned partially in his seat, called to Rhinehart and asked, “Say, what’s the name of the booth you’re in?”

  ***

  “I’m sorry,” Jeremy said, coming out of the fugue state he had drifted into after Nancy had left. “What did you say?”

  The customer in the booth behind him said, “I asked what booth you’re in.”

  “New Orleans,” Jeremy answered.

  “What’s the special?” the stranger asked.

  Jeremy closed his eyes, wishing the conversation would stop, and answered. “Gumbo.”

  ***

  “Gumbo,” Stefan repeated. He took a small knife out of his pocket and cut a slit into back of the seat. From the holster in the small of his back he removed the .22 caliber pistol, he kept the weapon there and wrapped his jacket around both the weapon and his hand.

  “Any good?” Stefan asked, sliding the end of the barrel into the hole in the seat.

  “It is,” Rhinehart answered, his voice tired.

  “I’m glad,” Stefan replied, and he pulled the trigger twice.

  Chapter 51: Paternal Blessings

  Ariana sat in a hotel room in Philadelphia. Her injuries had been bandaged by a medical student in need of extra cash for a growing prescription painkiller addiction. She had the blinds drawn and the television off. Her entire body ached with the steady thrum of the injuries she had sustained, and she looked at the small compact on the table.

  She was reticent about opening it. Ariana wanted to speak with her father, but she was ashamed of her failure.

  With a shudder, she reached out and opened the compact. In a soft voice, she whispered, “Father, remember the watch.”

  In less than a heartbeat, Ivan Denisovich was in the room with her.

  The solitary light by the bed dimmed, and when her dead father spoke, she didn't hear anger, only concern.

  “My daughter,” the dead man whispered. “You are alive.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I failed you.”

  He chuckled. “No, I think not, my little one. It is Stefan who has failed me. From the moment he first drew breath. You, on the other hand, are my finest work. I need you, and the thought of you dying at the hands of your witless brother pains me.”

  Relief combined with joy, and the two emotions swept through her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You will rest now,” her father ordered. “You will get better.”

  “What of Stefan?” she asked.

  “He is of no concern right now,” Ivan Denisovich said. “Bontoc is looking for both him and the lost items. Anne has been set loose, and we will, soon enough, pick up Stefan’s trail. You, on the other hand, must get better, or else there will be no one remaining to carry on our legacy. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, tears of happiness in her eyes.

  “Excellent,” Ivan said. “Now, listen close, my daughter. There is a man who would see Stefan dead as well. I do not know his name. What I do know is that Stefan was the cause of the death of this man’s wife. You will find out who he is, and you will stop him. Stefan will die on my order, and by a tool of my choosing. Not this stranger
. You will stop him, even if it means leaving another body on the ground.”

  “Yes, Father,” Ariana said in a hushed voice.

  “Excellent,” Ivan Denisovich said. “Go and rest, daughter. We shall speak again soon.”

  When her father vanished from the room, Ariana reached out, closed the compact and got up. She limped to her laptop, turned it on, and began to search for this new man.

  Chapter 52: A Thief

  Death, Victor realized dully, was a thief.

  It robbed an opportunity to say goodbye, and to make amends.

  Victor wished he could have apologized for arguing with Jeremy. He would have liked to thank him again for his help, and for taking him in.

  That chance was gone.

  Victor stood in the viewing window of a small morgue, Jeremy’s body stretched out on a metal slab and half covered with a white sheet. The bandages Victor had put on his friend’s chest were gone, the vicious wounds visible to all.

  “Yes,” Victor managed to say. “That’s him.”

  The female detective who had picked Victor up and brought him to the morgue motioned to the attendant.

  “How did he die?” Victor asked, turning away from the viewing window as the morgue attendant covered the body.

  The detective said, “Severe trauma from a small caliber gunshot wound. We have a description of the man who shot him, but unfortunately, there aren’t any cameras in the restaurant. I was hoping you could tell me about those wounds on his chest and throat. And the gunshot wound to the shoulder. Does it have anything to do with your own injury?”

  “No,” Victor lied. “I had seen the bandages on his throat this morning, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about his chest. As for the gunshot wound, well, someone was showing him a collectible rifle and had failed to make sure the weapon wasn’t loaded.”

  The woman nodded, and Victor could see that she didn't believe him.

  He didn’t care.

  “You two haven’t had any problems lately?” she asked.

  “We were friends, detective,” Victor answered. “I lost my wife recently. And my home. Jeremy gave me a place to live, and he was keeping me from sinking into depression. Nothing more.”

  Again she nodded, but this time he saw belief in her eyes.

  “I hate to sound like a television cop,” she said a moment later, “but you’re not planning on leaving Fox Cat Hollow anytime soon, are you?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not at all. I plan on being here for quite some time, Detective.”

  “Good, I may have some more questions for you,” she said.

  Victor nodded and turned to leave.

  “Where are you going now?” she asked, as his hand took hold of the doorknob.

  “Now?” Victor asked without looking back. “Now, Detective, I am going to go make arrangements for the burial of my friend.”

  And without saying anything else, Victor left the room, certain that it was Stefan Korzh who had slain his friend.

  Chapter 53: A Burial

  The ceremony had been brief and painful.

  Several members of Moran and Moran had arrived and attended the graveside service, as had Shane Ryan and a friend of his named Frank. Victor didn’t recall the man’s last name, only that he too had served, as the majority of those in attendance.

  The air in Middletown, Connecticut, where the State Veterans Cemetery was located, and where Jeremy had a plot, was crisp and smelled faintly of snow.

  In his ears, Victor imagined he could still hear the faint echo of the 21-gun salute fired for Jeremy. He held the flag that had been draped over his friend’s coffin, vaguely remembering the professional soldier who had extended her condolences when she had presented him with it.

  Victor was alone at the grave, and he knew he had to leave. The cemetery employees were politely waiting for him to step aside so they could finish with the burial. Victor knew they would put away the chairs and roll up the faux turf. The awning would come down and the mechanism used to lower the casket taken away.

  He had done this only recently, when he buried Erin.

  Victor let out a sigh, nodded to the grave and whispered, “Bye, Jeremy.”

  With his head bent, Victor walked down the slim path between the neatly arranged headstones to the smooth asphalt road. He switched the flag from his right hand to his left, and felt alone.

  He had only gone a hundred or so feet when he heard a cough.

  It caught his attention and he looked up, his steps faltering for a moment.

  On a small bench sat a young woman, who bore a striking similarity to Erin when she had been in her early twenties. The stranger smiled and said, “I’m sorry about your friend, Victor.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and then came to a stop.

  He felt an uncomfortable chill seep into him as he turned to face her.

  She wore a calf-length black coat, with matching gloves and boots. A cane rested on the bench beside her and she offered him a crooked smile.

  “Do you want to know how I know you?” she asked him.

  Victor nodded, moving onto the grass to avoid any cars.

  “It took a little research,” she said, “but my father pointed me in the right direction.”

  “And who is your father?” Victor asked, finding his voice again.

  “My father,” she said, straightening with pride, “is Ivan Denisovich Korzh. Which means, unfortunately, that Stefan Korzh is my brother.”

  Hatred spiked through Victor at the mention of Stefan.

  “My feelings exactly,” she said, reading Victor’s face. “I have been instructed by my father to tell you that he still must be the instrument of Stefan’s death. However, he also wants you to know that Stefan will remain, shall we say, pinned to southwestern Pennsylvania.”

  “How is he going to manage that?” Victor asked.

  She smiled. “My father will manage it. That’s all.”

  Victor watched as she took hold of the cane and pushed herself to her feet. She winced, smiled and said, “My brother will be much like a hunted animal. And he will be more dangerous than before. If you reach him before my father does, and deal with him, Ivan Denisovich will be displeased, and I doubt you will survive his vengeance.”

  “I don’t care if I survive it or not,” Victor hissed.

  “Yes,” the woman said, nodding, “we know.”

  In silence, he watched the woman limp away.

  After a moment, Victor took out his phone, and searched for an earlier flight back to Pennsylvania.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Quality Time

  “Does it sit well against your shoulder?” he asked her.

  “Yes, Father,” she answered.

  "Excellent," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. He smelled of coffee and vodka, old books and antiques well-kept, of strength and power. These odors wrapped around her, comforted her and made her understand that she was the most precious person in his life.

  “Now,” he said in a soft voice, “look down at the sight. Place the top of it on the center there. Yes, there.”

  He guided her hand ever so slightly, his rough skin gentle upon her own smooth flesh.

  “Always the center,” he whispered. “Yes?”

  “Yes, Father,” she replied in a hushed voice.

  “Slow your breathing, child, look only at what is in front of you,” he continued. “There is nothing else in the world right now other than the two of us, and what you see before you.”

  Dutifully she did as she was told, moderating her breath.

  “When you are comfortable,” her father said, “I want you to hold your breath. Remember, when you do that, you will be perfectly steady. Then you take up pressure. And only then.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Instead, she held her breath, felt her body become still, and she did as she had been taught.

  ***

  Alden Park placed his hand in the brown lunch bag and withdrew a ha
ndful of dried breadcrumbs. He scattered them at his feet and smiled at the pigeons that came up to eat. Their coos and various utterings were soothing to him. The early morning sun had crested the horizon a short while before, and soon it would glow in the still waters of the small, man-made pond in King's Park.

  He shifted his weight on the bench and winced at the pang of arthritis in his neck. It reminded him of his age, and of how he had a doctor’s appointment later that day.

  He sighed and glanced at his watch.

  Once more, the old-time piece was running backward, and he squelched a burst of anger. He had taken it to three separate jewelers, and one watch specialist and all of them had assured him that the watch was fine. Fantastic even, and the specialist had offered to purchase it from him for three hundred dollars.

  The watch was not for sale though. And it never would be. It had belonged to his uncle, and the man had been like a father to Alden.

  Alden inhaled sharply, wincing as pain blossomed in his chest. A heartbeat later, a dog barked once, the sound rolling across the pond.

  Alden dropped the bag of breadcrumbs to the ground, ignored the way the pigeons struggled against one another for the prize within, and reached up and touched his chest.

  His flannel shirt was warm and damp, and when he pulled his hand back, he found his fingers stained with dark red blood. Alden stared at it and took a shuddering breath. The sound was mimicked by his chest, and when he leaned down, he could see blood on his shirt. Small bubbles formed and popped with each ragged breath.

  He tried to move, to get off the bench, and when that failed, he attempted to call out for help.

  It was no use.

  His voice didn’t respond, and the reason he enjoyed King’s Park was that no one went there in the mornings.