Slater Mill

by Ron Ripley

  “Excellent,” Abigail said. She went to put the phone down but stopped when she realized the woman was still on the other end. Abigail brought the phone back to her ear and asked, “Do you have more information?”

  “I have a suggestion,” the woman said. “Turn on the New Hampshire news.”

  Then the woman did end the call.

  Abigail returned her cell phone to its place on the desk and did as the woman suggested. For the second time in the day, she found the Channel 9 news site and scrolled through the top stories.

  The headline screamed at her when she found it.

  Police find detective’s car abandoned in Tyngsboro, Massachusetts.

  Abigail continued to read.

  The article was concise and badly written. In spite of the latter, Abigail was able to obtain the information she needed. A longtime Nashua detective, Lisbeth Walker, was missing. She hadn't shown up to work, and she was not at home. The Nashua police were concerned, especially following the murder of another police officer, who in turn was Detective Walker’s ex-husband. There was additional information as well. An unnamed source stated that Detective Walker was a person of interest in the murder of the other officer.

  Abigail closed the site and sat rigid in her chair.

  It could be a coincidence that a female detective had gone missing.

  Coincidences were always possible.

  Abigail had never known who the asset in Nashua was, but she knew how the organization worked. They tended to recruit from law enforcement. Abigail herself had been the one to recruit Allen in Nutaq. It would have made sense to recruit a detective in a large city like Nashua. And a female asset would have been a coup.

  People always underestimated women. It was a psychological defect of American society and one which Abigail had exploited to her benefit on more than one occasion.

  So, the disappearance of a female detective could certainly fall under the umbrella of coincidence.

  But Abigail didn’t think so.

  Not at all.

  Her hand trembled as she picked up her cell phone and dialed the asset’s number.

  It rang five times and went to a generic voice mail.

  Abigail didn’t leave a message.

  Instead, she ended the call and put the phone back on the desk.

  She sat and counted to thirty, and then she reached out and pressed the intercom button.

  “Yes ma’am?” her secretary asked.

  “I’d like a coffee from the corner shop,” Abigail said, keeping her voice steady. “A bagel as well.”

  “Toasted with butter?” her secretary inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” her secretary said, and the intercom clicked off.

  In less than sixty seconds, Abigail heard her secretary leave the office. When the door closed, Abigail stood up, walked to her closet and opened it. She quickly stripped off her work clothes and pulled on her jeans, sneakers, and sweater. Abigail kicked her good clothes into the closet, removed a plain, battered red backpack, and closed the door. She put on a pair of non-prescription glasses, tugged her hair into a messy pony-tail, and yanked a beaten Red Sox baseball hat out of the back.

  She shouldered the pack, which contained power-bars, a change of clothes, a significant amount of cash, and a new identity.

  The organization didn’t suffer fools, and she found herself with that title.

  In less than two months, she had lost three assets and a major link in the supernatural chain.

  For a moment, she considered finding Shane Ryan and how she would enjoy killing him.

  But only for a moment.

  Abigail was nothing if not practical, and seeking revenge on Shane Ryan would only give the organization more time to kill her.

  It was time for Abigail to cut her losses.

  Without a second glance, Abigail left her office and took the stairs down to the first floor. She exited the building even as her secretary entered it, and neither of them looked back.

  Chapter 52: Sweating and Afraid

  Shane had faced his share of monsters, both living and dead. He had encountered horrific creatures who pretended to be men, men who killed for pleasure, and who tortured for the same. Shane had seen the dead, and he had lived with the same. He had broken both the living and the dead, and he hoped to do the same again.

  Shane had never been stupidly courageous. He knew his limits. Fear was a rational response, and he had suffered through it more often than not. He remembered boot camp, which he foolishly had thought his life in a haunted house had prepared him for. Shane remembered being afraid of the Drill Instructors, believing every horrible threat and nightmarish promise.

  He also recalled his graduation from boot camp, the glorious belief, if only for a short while, that he was invincible.

  As he dug deeper into the earth beneath the tree, Shane longed for that feeling of invincibility once more.

  He paused, straightened his back for a moment, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  Frank stopped too and looked at him.

  “How far down do you think Jack is?” Frank asked.

  “Too far,” Shane answered.

  “No,” Eloise whispered. “Only a few more inches.”

  “Why are you whispering?” Shane asked, a chill racing along his spine.

  “Because I don’t know where he is,” she answered.

  “Great,” Frank muttered, and he began to dig again.

  “Have you found all of the bones?” Shane asked.

  She nodded.

  “Each and every one?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, pouting. “All of them. I didn’t miss a single one, Shane Ryan. You’re not being nice to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Eloise,” Shane said, and he meant it. “I’m nervous.”

  “So am I,” she said in a small voice. “But we will win through.”

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Shane said.

  “Your language is nearly as bad as your drinking,” she scolded.

  Shane rolled his eyes as Frank laughed.

  “What about his smoking?” Frank asked.

  “That too,” she said, shaking a finger at him.

  Shane laughed, the absurdity of a dead girl’s ghost lecturing him was too much.

  “Go on,” Frank said, chuckling. “Would he be better off without tobacco and alcohol?”

  Shane shook his head as Eloise warmed up to the subject, and focused once again on the search for Jack's bones.

  Chapter 53: The Danger Spreads

  Cam Darby wasn’t a professional thief.

  He wasn’t an amateur either. He just couldn’t claim the title of ‘professional,’ although he was working on it.

  Cam had heard of the recent deaths near the Slater Mill, and he had also heard from a secretary strung out on meth that people were looking to leave the Clock Tower Condominiums. So many people, in fact, that her boss, the manager at Clock Tower, left the master key with her so she could hand it out to any real estate agents who showed up.

  And she had owed Cam a couple of favors.

  Cam stood in regular street clothes on the third floor of the condos, the key in his hand. The secretary had even told him which apartments were likely to be empty.

  The smile on his face was huge.

  Today, he thought, today is going to be your day, Cameron.

  And he knew it was. He could feel it. In spite of the cold air in the wide hallway, Cam knew it was going to be his day.

  He took in a deep breath, felt his lungs expand, and he grinned. A great, big, stupid grin that would have made him the butt of his friends’ jokes if they had seen it.

  Chuckling to himself, Cam strolled down the hallway as if he belonged there. He aimed for the condominium marked ‘7,’ and he rapped on the door with a firm hand.

  When no one answered after thirty seconds, he knocked again.

  No one responded to the second, or third knocks, so Cam let himself into the con
do. The place was dim, the shades drawn against the sun, and for a moment, he felt a pang of panic. He wondered if someone who worked the third shift was asleep, and a dull droning sound brought him to a standstill.

  After a moment, Cam recognized the sound of a refrigerator and felt a wave of relief was over him.

  He closed the door behind him and locked it. There would be a second exit down the center hall in the condo, and he followed it towards the bedrooms. A sense of excitement built up within Cam as he approached the open the door to the first room. From the hall, he could see a bureau and an unmade, queen-sized bed. Jewelry was scattered about the top of a small vanity, and the palms of Cam's hands dampened.

  He let out a low whistle, reached up under his shirt and took out the pair of thin leather gloves he had hidden there. Cam tugged them on, flexed his fingers and stepped into the room.

  He approached the jewelry as if it were alive, a cat that might dash off. His eyes darted around the room, searching for small cameras or anything else that might seal his fate in a courtroom.

  Nothing caught his eye, and a smile spread across his face. By the time he reached the vanity, he had grown silent. With deft movements, he picked up each piece of jewelry and examined it. He looked for markings on the gold and silver, chuckled at a small platinum ring he found. Whatever didn't end up in a side pocket of his cargo pants was placed in the exact place and position it had occupied before.

  Cam spent less than sixty seconds in the room.

  He moved from the first bedroom and into the next. It was a spare bedroom, and he doubted much could be found within it.

  But he knew, as an up and coming professional, that he needed to check everything.

  A tall, narrow chest of drawers stood off to the right, and Cam made a beeline for it. He started at the top drawer, which held nothing more exciting than folded hand towels with roses embroidered on them. The second drawer held face cloths, and the third, bath towels that were so soft Cam had to fight the urge to steal one for his bathroom.

  He slid a hand beneath the towels, as he had done to those in the first and second drawers, and his fingers found something.

  It was hard and metallic, and by the time he pulled it out and into the open, Cam knew what it was.

  A small caliber pistol. Its barrel was a bright silver, the handgrips a vibrant black. He had seen enough television shows to know better than to look down the barrel of a gun to see whether or not it was loaded. Cam also understood that he didn’t have any idea how to open it and check the cylinder.

  The pistol’s safety was on, he saw, and so he assumed it had bullets in it.

  He closed the drawer and straightened up, holding the gun in his hand as if it were a snake. Cam wondered if he should put the weapon back, but at the same time, he knew how much money he could get for it. He wouldn't move it himself. No, he had a few friends from high school who could do that for him, and they wouldn't even take too much of a bite out of the profits.

  Cam stiffened, his ears straining.

  For a moment, it had sounded as if someone else was in the room with him.

  With his heart pounding, Cam turned around.

  He was the sole occupant.

  His heart rate decreased, and he let out a sigh. The blood pounded in his head, and a wave of dizziness washed over him.

  I’m fine, he thought. Nothing wrong. Just nervous. That’s all. Just nervous.

  He turned back to the dresser and shuddered.

  A pair of young teenagers stood in front of the piece of furniture.

  And Cam could see it through them.

  Their faces were emotionless. Dead eyes stared at him and through him.

  He couldn’t force enough air into his lungs to allow him to think.

  Fear and a primal need to flee overtook all of his rational thought, and Cam tried to listen to those baser instincts.

  He spun on his heel and dashed for the door.

  But another teen was in the doorway. A battered and tortured individual who looked as though he had been thrown out a window, or down a flight of stairs. In the hall beyond, Cam saw a pair of adults and panic swept over him.

  He tried to run through the teen in the doorway, but he encountered a wall of air so cold and painful it tore a shriek from his throat. Cam stumbled backward and slammed into the room’s small bed.

  He struck it with the backs of his knees, forcing him down into a sitting position. The pistol in his hand cracked against the side of his knee, and a bright bolt of pain seared his nerves.

  The gun! Cam thought. His fingers fumbled as they searched for the safety. After several clumsy attempts, he found it and switched it off. It took all of his strength to aim at the nearest ghost and pull the trigger.

  The pistol seemed to explode in his hands. A tongue of flame leaped out of the barrel of the weapon, and he went deaf from the blast in the small room. The force of the blast caused both of his arms to jerk up, and it sent a reverberating shock into his shoulders.

  A large chunk of wood flew off of the dresser’s top drawer, the massive splinter tumbling through the air and striking the far wall.

  Cam tried to get a second shot off, but he couldn’t.

  The dead were already on him.

  Chapter 54: Frank Gets a Feeling

  Frank and Shane had gathered all of the bones from the first hole. They had even dug out six more from places Eloise had pointed out to them.

  But it was past noon, and they still had another twenty-one to dig out. All of them before Jack showed up to interrupt them.

  He will too, Frank realized. The dead man would show up when it was least convenient, or in the best interest of Frank or Shane’s continued well-being, and then the situation would get decidedly unpleasant.

  Frank glanced at the shotguns, and once more, he wondered if he should hold onto it while he dug. Or at least keep it closer than it was.

  He shook his head.

  “You’re in the wrong place, Frank,” Eloise called from her place by the pile of bones.

  Frank wanted to thank her, in an extremely sarcastic fashion, but he knew the dead girl was trying to help.

  “Thank you,” Frank said. He straightened up. “Left or right?”

  “Forward, a few inches,” she replied.

  Frank nodded and put the shovel down. “Here?”

  “Yes,” Eloise said. “It’s his jaw bone. Not many teeth in it, I’m afraid.”

  “Excellent,” Shane said.

  “Be nice,” Eloise pouted.

  Frank wanted to mimic the girl, but he was too tired. His sense of humor had left the situation when they were halfway through gathering the first batch of bones.

  Frank felt exposed.

  He appreciated Eloise’s assistance, but he didn’t think she would be anything more than a canary in a mine. The first to die.

  And Frank knew she could die, or as close as ghosts came to a second death. The idea of Eloise suffering again, and for him and Shane, set his teeth on edge. He refused to look at her because he had seen that she knew her situation as well.

  Frank often forgot her true age. At times, she acted like a child, but there was an old soul trapped behind her eyes.

  He glanced at Shane. The man’s dog tags swung with each motion of the shovel. Shane was focused. All of his humor, what little remained, was locked away. The battered man dug until he found a bit of Jack Whyte’s earthly remains, and then he went and dug some more.

  The fact that Shane had brought the tags with him bothered Frank. As insane as the dead woman was, he didn’t want her hurt for his benefit either. Shane’s face revealed he felt the same.

  What a sorry lot we are, Frank thought. He angled the shovel in the earth, put his boot on the metal lip and pushed down. The cutting edge clipped something hard, and Frank hoped it was the bone he sought and not another rock.

  Holding onto the handle of the shovel, Frank sank into a squat and used his free hand to push the dirt near the edge aside. A bit of ye
llowed bones appeared, and he felt a sense of relief. Frank dug out a little more, gripped Jack's jaw, and gave a tug. It came out of the earth grudgingly, and Frank saw Eloise had been correct in her assessment.

  Jack hadn’t had many teeth left at all.

  Frank remained in his squat, pivoted, tossed the jaw onto the pile of bones by the tree, and let out a sharp curse.

  Jack Whyte stood beneath the tree, his arms folded across his chest and a nasty smile on his face.

  “What friends has old Jack,” the dead man chuckled. “Here to make certain Jack finally has a proper burial, and a send off to go with it, eh?”

  “Yes,” Shane said, leaning on his shovel and bestowing a cold, brittle smile upon Jack. “We’re here to say goodbye to you. You entered my home without permission, Jack. I don’t appreciate that.”

  Jack waved a hand dismissively as he straightened up.

  “Come now, Shane,” Jack said, grinning. “Is your home not open to a friend such as myself? Do you not enjoy the company of the dead? Speak truth to me now, Shane. Speak it and let me rejoice in it.”

  “Truth,” Shane said in a soft voice. “Honesty is what you want?”

  Jack’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh aye, Jack wouldn’t have it any other way. No, not at all.”

  “Here’s a bit of truth for you then,” Shane said. “We’ve come here to gather your bones, to put them in a pretty little pile, and return them to the ashes from whence we all came.”

  The smile faltered on Jack's face. A corner of his mouth twitched, and a sneer flashed across his visage before it vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

  “You joke with old Jack,” the dead man said, his voice strained.

  Frank put down his shovel and took a casual step toward the shotguns.

  “Not a move, you!” Jack howled. “I know what you can do with yon guns, and I’d not feel the burn of the salt. Wretched mineral that it is. And to think I sought after it when I still took air.”

  Frank stopped, but he kept a wary eye on Jack as he judged the distance between himself and the first shotgun.

  “I can move faster than you,” Jack hissed. “Do you understand me?”