The Rising: A Badlands Novel

by Morgan Brice

  “No, it’s quiet here,” she told him. “Off-season and people are spooked by the storm warnings.”

  “It’s been dead here,” he said, then winced at the choice of words. “Actually, that’s what I need to talk to you about. Did we have any ancestors who might have been privateers?”

  Cassidy was quiet for a moment. “What makes you ask?”

  Simon caught her up on what had happened, and how everything seemed to circle back to what he saw in his vision, the Annabelle, and the Gallows Nine.

  “One of our ancestors, Dante Morris, was the captain of the Vengeance,” Cassidy said when Simon finished. “Coltt, the first mate, was Dante’s best friend.”

  “So I’m related—distantly—to the Vengeance’s captain?” Simon repeated, thinking of the dark-haired man who had given him such an intense look in his vision. “Do you think it’s possible that what I saw in my vision might have been real? Could that have been Dante and the Vengeance?”

  “My visions work a little differently from yours,” Cassidy replied. “Since I’m working off stored memories in actual objects. Most of what I see is like getting snippets of a movie. I don’t have your ability with ghosts. If Dante’s spirit hasn’t moved on, then maybe he sent you a warning.”

  “I heard that the Vengeance was the ship that captured the Gallows Nine. If they’re back, could their ghosts possibly know that I’m a descendant of Dante’s? And is it true that Dante was a witch?”

  He held his breath while Cassidy mulled that over. “I need to look into that and get back to you,” she said after a moment. “I’ll ask the family historian,” she added, in a tone that left Simon thinking there was another, hidden meaning to her words. But before he could ask, she went on. “You know, if the storm’s coming your way, you and Vic are welcome to come here. We’re not supposed to get hit as badly as Myrtle Beach.”

  “Thanks,” Simon told her. “But Vic’s going to have to work emergency shifts, and I promised to help out at the shelter if it really gets bad.”

  “Just…be careful, Simon,” Cassidy warned. “I have a bad feeling about that wreck and the pirate ghosts. And I’ll check with my history sources about Socastee Manor and the Dunwoods. You know that down here, everyone’s related to everyone else one way or another. If there’s a story, I’m connected to the people who are going to know.”

  “Thanks, Cassidy. And thank you for offering to take us in. We really do want to come down and visit, but it would be more fun when we aren’t storm refugees.”

  “Stay safe, and I’ll call you back as soon as I know more,” Cassidy promised. Simon said goodbye and ended the call, musing about the conversation. He always had a feeling that Cassidy knew more about some of the supernatural stuff than she let on, and he vowed to get to the bottom of that someday.

  He headed to the front, taking the packet from Edith with him. Pete had done all the daily chores and most of the weekly chores, so he now sat at the register, losing another game of solitaire. Simon fetched them both fresh coffee, then spread out the papers and began to take notes.

  8

  VIC

  Jacob Platz’s apartment was several blocks back from the ocean in Surfside Beach. The building looked like it might have been a hotel at one time. Each unit opened to an outside hallway that doubled as a balcony. Vic and Ross looked around before they let the forensics folks loose.

  The one bedroom rental didn’t have the extras common in new, more expensive places. The galley kitchen was tidy, but looked well-used, suggesting that Platz cooked many meals himself. A worn but serviceable couch and recliner plus a coffee table filled the living room, and a small table doubled as a desk. Most of the furnishings were older, but the flatscreen TV was recent, although Vic recognized it as a less expensive brand.

  A few car magazines lay on the coffee table, along with an empty cup. A set of bookshelves held some action movie DVDs, quite a few mystery and adventure paperbacks, and a framed photograph of a younger Platz standing arm-in-arm with a woman Vic guessed was his wife.

  “Sixty years old, widowed, no children,” Ross read off the report. “Clean record, no arrests, no trouble of any kind. Been a landscaper all his life.”

  Vic glanced into Platz’s bedroom, only to find a neatly made bed and a set of furniture that looked as old as the couch. “Guy kept things tidy for being on his own.”

  “Not everyone’s a slob, Vic,” Ross replied without looking up, but Vic saw a hint of a smile.

  “You get anything from the landlady about him?” Nothing in the apartment triggered Vic’s cop senses. Platz seemed like a decent guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Said he was friends with Gus Thompson, down in 4B. I guess they played poker together, watched a lot of football.”

  The forensics team started to swarm, making the small apartment feel even more cramped. “Let’s let them do what they do.” Vic said with a nod toward the technicians, “and see if Gus is at home.”

  A rangy man with salt and pepper hair sat in a retro metal lawn chair outside apartment 4B, watching the cops arrive. He looked like he might have played college football in his younger days, and had the leathery tan of someone who spent a lifetime outdoors.

  “Are you Gus?” Vic asked.

  The man nodded. “You come to find out what sorry son of a bitch killed Jacob?” His blue eyes held fire.

  “That’s as good a description as any,” Ross replied and introduced them. “The landlady said you and Jacob were friends.”

  Gus shrugged. “We got along good. He didn’t cheat much at poker, and we rooted for the same football teams. He was a decent guy. And he didn’t deserve what happened to him. So I hope you catch the bastard and send him away.”

  Vic leaned against the railing. “Did Jacob have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

  Gus raised an eyebrow. “Is that a way of asking if he played the horses or owed a bookie? Far as I ever knew, no to all that shit. Never saw him gamble. Liked a cold beer after work—who doesn’t? But never saw him get drunk. Seemed to have enough money to do what he wanted to do.”

  He gave a wave toward the parking lot, filled with older-model cars. “In case you didn’t notice, this ain’t the Ritz. Rent’s affordable, bugs aren’t too bad, and the neighbors—for the most part—keep the noise down and don’t bust up the place. Folks here do too much work for too little money and don’t cause problems. Jacob liked to go out for breakfast on Sunday to the waffle place, and now and again we saw a movie. He was widowed; I’m divorced. It was nicer to do some things together than by ourselves.”

  Vic nodded. “Did Jacob say anything that might have made you think he was worried about his safety?”

  Gus thought for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “He’d gotten hired on to work at some old mansion that was getting redone. Jacob liked that, because his dad had done the landscaping there back in the seventies, and Jacob said he spent time helping his dad when he was young. He liked the work, but the boss man was an asshole. No surprise.”

  “Jonah Camden or Trevor Nichols?” Ross asked.

  “Camden,” Gus replied. “Nichols was okay. Jacob liked him. Camden was a stuck-up prick, but those kinds usually are.” Vic wondered whether “those kinds” meant bosses, executives, or people with money—maybe all three.

  “Did you notice any changes in Jacob’s routines right before he died?” Ross asked. “Sudden plans to go out of town, acting like he might be afraid someone was following him? That sort of thing?”

  “Jacob was just Jacob,” Gus replied. “We were going to go to the bar and watch the big game together this weekend. He was talking about taking a couple days off so we could go fishing when the storm blew over. So I don’t think he was worried about getting killed.” He lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

  “The only thing Jacob talked about that worried him were the ghosts.”

  Vic and Ross exchanged a look. “Ghosts?” Vic asked, wondering if
Gus was pulling his leg.

  “You can believe or not, that’s up to you,” Gus replied. “Jacob said that the mansion and the grounds were haunted. It didn’t bother him much—said that the ghosts left him alone. Thought maybe they remembered him being around as a kid. Like he belonged there. But lately, they seemed to be riled up more than usual. Not the ghosts outside, the ones in the mansion. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but he worried that the workmen might get hurt.”

  “Thank you,” Vic said and handed Gus his business card. “If you think of anything else, give us a call. We want to find the person who did this just as much as you do.”

  Vic and Ross walked back out to their unmarked department sedan. “You get any vibes from Gus?” he asked.

  Ross shrugged. “Seemed to be telling the truth. I’m not surprised—were you expecting Platz to be running a drug ring or something?”

  Vic shook his head. “Nah. And the last time I checked, drug lords don’t steal antique knives to use in their hits. I think it’s all tied together somehow—Platz’s murder and the suicides—but fuck if I know where the connection is.”

  Ross drove them to the next stop, which was the by-the-week hotel room where Sean Bradley, the dive poacher, had been staying. Vic recognized the area from the police blotter, a rundown neighborhood with more than its share of drug busts and domestic disputes.

  “Nice digs,” he said sarcastically as they pulled up in front of the motel. It looked like a 1950s one-story mom-and-pop sort of place, but the years had not been kind. Leaking rain gutters had stained the white stucco. A vending machine at the corner of the building appeared to have been broken into. Vic was glad he and Ross were both carrying.

  The forensics team had finished with Bradley’s room. The small space held a cheap bed, dresser, nightstand, and table, along with a coffee maker, microwave and a hot plate Bradley had probably snuck in against the rules. A small refrigerator and a plastic cooler sat in one corner. The room smelled of old cigarette smoke and cheap beer. An ashtray and a wastebasket full of empty cans provided proof.

  “Looks like he was living out of his suitcase.” Ross nodded toward where the bag had been rummaged through. “I guess he didn’t intend to stay long.”

  “If he really did make a living claim jumping other divers, he probably needed to keep moving.” Vic made a slow walk around the perimeter, not sure what he expected to see.

  “Bradley was thirty-six, former Navy diver. You saw his priors—he had a rap sheet as long as my arm,” Ross said. “Most of the charges didn’t stick, but where there’s that much smoke, there’s got to be fire.”

  Vic nodded. “Yeah. And plenty of enemies who are probably toasting his death. But how many of them could take on a Navy guy underwater—with a stolen knife?”

  “Maybe more than you think,” Ross replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of pro divers are ex-military. But why bother with an antique knife? And if they were going to jump him, it’d be a lot easier in the parking lot here, just sayin’.”

  “Was there anything you saw about him having a dive team? Because I wouldn’t think he’d salvage wrecks all by himself,” Vic asked.

  “Not that there’s a record of,” Ross confirmed. “But if he was looting other people’s projects, maybe he didn’t want a regular crew. Maybe he hired guys by the job who didn’t ask too many questions.”

  In a place like Myrtle Beach, finding divers wasn’t difficult. And it was never hard to find people who needed cash badly enough to look the other way on the details.

  “The hotel manager says Bradley mostly kept to himself, but he saw him walking over to that bar across the street several times,” Ross said, indicating a rough looking place with a sign “Buccaneer.” The motorcycles and the beat-up trucks in the parking lot made it clear the bar was a locals’ joint.

  “Let’s see what the bartender knows,” Vic said. “We can leave the car here and walk. Just as likely to get boosted either place.”

  Buccaneer was the kind of joint where Vic couldn’t make up his mind whether it was safer or more dangerous to be made as a cop. Mid-afternoon, barflies were already lined up on their stools, half-watching the sporting matches on a row of TVs. Most of the tables were empty, but a few guys in biker leathers were playing pool. Everyone looked up when Vic and Ross walked in, gave them the once-over, and went back to what they were doing.

  Vic led the way to the bar. He’d been in tougher places back in Pittsburgh, and he knew both he and Ross could hold their own in a fight if it came to that. But Vic hoped they could get their questions answered without causing any trouble.

  “What can I getcha?” the bartender asked. He was probably in his fifties, with a full head of dark hair and a bit of a belly. Vic guessed he was the owner.

  “Just a little information,” Vic replied and flashed his badge. Conversation stopped, and he felt the barflies stare.

  “I’ve paid all my taxes, and the license is good,” the bartender said. “And we card anyone who looks under thirty.”

  “We’re from homicide, not ATF.” Ross held up a photo of Bradley. “You know this guy?”

  “Seen him in here a few times,” the bartender said. “Just in the last couple of weeks. What do you want him for?”

  “Caught a knife in the back,” Vic replied, watching for a reaction. The barkeeper’s wince seemed genuine. “Wondered if he’d met up with anyone here.”

  The barflies had gone back to watching TV or staring at their drinks.

  “He told me he was looking for guys who could dive in rough weather and who wanted to earn some good money. I gave him a couple of names. Don’t know whether he hired them or not. After that, he came over in the evening for a beer and a burger, but he didn’t say much, and he didn’t hang around.”

  “Who did you recommend to him?” At the barkeeper’s hesitation, Ross added, “They might be in danger if the person who killed Bradley thinks they have what he didn’t.”

  “Shit.” The barkeeper pushed a hand through his hair like he was debating two bad choices. “Okay. Yeah.” He wrote down three names on the back of an order slip. “Here. Look—these guys, they’re a little down on their luck, but they’re not bad people so go easy. Work’s hard to come by. They’re just tryin’ to get by.”

  Ross pocketed the slip. “We’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for your help.”

  When they stepped back outside and no one tried to follow them, Vic fished out his phone. “I’m going to call Simon, see if he can pick up anything of Bradley’s ghost from his room.” After a brief conversation, he pocketed his phone as they walked through the bar parking lot and breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that went better than it might have.”

  Across the street, their unmarked car exploded in a ball of flames.

  9

  SIMON

  All morning Simon’s gut warned him of danger. He checked his phone frequently, but Vic hadn’t texted, and there were no messages from any of his friends. Staying busy didn’t lessen the sense of impending doom. He stepped away from the few customers and took a couple moments in the kitchen to settle his thoughts, reaching out to the spirits to see if they were the source of his concern. None of the ghosts answered his call.

  “Everything okay, boss?” Pete asked, coming to the doorway.

  Simon nodded, trying not to be sick. “Yeah. Just getting a reading I can’t quite make out.”

  “I brought a six-pack of Coke. It’s in the fridge. Might help.”

  Simon drank a soda, and it kept him from throwing up. Still, he knew that his nausea was a portent, not the result of iffy lunchmeat. Something was going on—or about to happen—that was going to be very bad. Not for the first time he wished his psychic abilities worked like they did in the TV shows. He couldn’t pick up anything except the certainty of disaster. Just in case, he texted “be extra careful” to Vic mid-morning, willing to put up with some ribbing from his partner if Vic would just come home safely.

  Vic’s call caught S
imon in the middle of selling a t-shirt to a customer, but he promised to drive over as soon as he was done. Pete sent him on his way, and Simon walked to where he had parked the Camry, trying to figure out the best route to the address Vic had given him. In the distance, he heard the wail of fire trucks and the honking of horns, sounds that just magnified the distress he’d been trying to ignore.

  As he wound his way through the streets, Simon wondered what he would find in Sean Bradley’s room. So far, his attempts to contact the diver’s ghost had been unsuccessful. Maybe Bradley had moved on, or perhaps he hadn’t figured out how to make himself heard, even to a medium of Simon’s ability. Or perhaps he’s still afraid of whoever killed him.

  Simon didn’t have much cause to come to this part of town. It had a reputation for crime, and there was nothing here Simon couldn’t find elsewhere. But for a guy like Bradley, looking for somewhere to live on the cheap while he pirated dive projects, the neighborhood was probably perfect.

  The sound of sirens grew louder as he drove toward the motel, and an uneasy knot settled in his stomach. A block from the address Vic had given him, two squad cars and several wooden barriers blocked the road. Simon pulled into a parking lot and locked the car, then took his police ID from his pocket before approaching the uniformed officers at the roadblock.

  “I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to—”

  “Police business,” Simon said. “I’m looking for Homicide Lieutenant Vic D’Amato. He asked me to meet him here.”

  The officer looked to his partner then shrugged. “Go on, but stay out of the way. It’s a shitstorm over there.”

  Simon broke into a jog once he was past the roadblock, driven by a sudden, gut-deep fear. Black smoke billowed from near the motel, and several fire trucks and ambulances took up all the space in the small parking lot. Simon came to a sudden halt when he saw the charred wreckage of a car. And near the car, under a sheet, lay a body.