by Nathan Roden
“I’m sorry Bruiser,” Dallas said. “People are disrespected every day—”
“Disrespected?” Bruiser said. “Have you been paying attention to me?”
“People are murdered every day as well,” Dallas said. “If we do nothing but seek revenge from the living then where does this all end?”
Bruiser thought for a few seconds. His body heaved with every passing second.
“I can’t worry about the whole world—dead or alive, Dallas. What I can tell you,” Bruiser’s arm shot out to his side. He pointed a finger toward the stairs. “Is that there ain’t one livin’ soul at this castle who ever shed one tear for us—and I’m hungry for my ounce of flesh. We got no feud with you or your folks, but tonight belongs to us.”
A dozen ghosts behind Bruiser gave off a war cry and thrust their fists in the air again.
“Just what exactly can you do, Mr. Brady?” Elizabeth asked, taking a step forward. Dallas threw up his arm to stop her.
“We can do plenty,” Bruiser said. “Just watch.”
“There are few among us who can move so much as a piece of paper,” Elizabeth said. “The ablest among us is our eight-year-old daughter. This is our home, Mr. Brady. If we can’t stop you, then you should let us know your intentions and what you are capable of.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Ma’am. This was our town long before you folks showed up,” Bruiser said. His nostrils were flaring. “But if you’re that concerned, you’re welcome to watch. I assure you that while I am capable of a thing or two, Little Dougie Day is a regular Tasmanian Devil. Throw me something, Dougie.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, lunging toward Bruiser. Dallas held her back.
Little Dougie Day looked around the hallway. His gaze fell on a foot-high metal statue of a knight on a rearing horse. He picked it up with both hands—steadied himself—and hurled the statue toward Bruiser. The throw was high and several feet to Bruiser’s left. Bruiser jumped for it but the statue passed through his hands and clattered against the wall.
Dallas and Elizabeth looked at each other for a moment. They floated to the second story railing to look down. Their eyes met Holly McIntyre’s scowl.
“Uh-oh,” Elizabeth said. “We’re about to have company.”
“What is going on up here?” Holly hissed between clenched teeth as soon as she cleared the stairs.
“And who is…who are you?” she said to Bruiser Brady.
“You can see us?” Bruiser asked, leaning in toward Holly. She took two steps back.
“Yes I can see you, and get out of my face, Sir, ” she said, making shooing motions with both hands.
“Who is making the noise up here?” Holly asked Elizabeth and Dallas. “Please tell me that Charlotte dropped something. We are about to start the first tour.”
Elizabeth held Charlotte to her side and began to shake her head.
“There’s more for you to fear than the terror of little tiny girls, young lady,” Bruiser growled. “There are grown angry men with hell to unleash.”
Holly stepped back toward Bruiser, her fists clenched. She looked up at the enormous man and said, “You’ll unleash no hell here today, Sir. I’m ordering you to leave and take your friends with you.”
Bruiser turned his head and pretended to spit on the floor.
“And I’m telling you, Sister,” he said. “You’re welcome to try and stop me. Why don’t you just kill us?
“Again.”
Bruiser turned and left through the far wall, his entourage behind him.
Holly stared after them.
“They aren’t leaving,” she said to no one in particular.
The McIntyre family stepped to Holly’s side.
“Baron McIntyre,” Holly said. “Is there anything that can be done to stop them?”
“Nothing that I know of, lass. If they won’t be reasoned with, then we have no power to dissuade them.”
Holly exhaled and let her chin drop to her chest.
“Well, let’s, at least, hurt his feelings,” Charlotte said. “Let’s tell him that he’s fat.”
Nora giggled.
“He’s fat and he smells bad,” Charlotte said.
“He does not smell bad, Charlotte,” Holly said. “If he did I would know it.”
“Well, he looks like he smells bad,” Charlotte said.
“I can’t argue with that,” Nora said.
Elizabeth smiled.
“And all of God’s children said…”
Nora and Charlotte looked at Holly. She was unable to resist the completion of the routine that they had performed so many times over the years.
“Amen!” the three girls sang out together.
Twenty-six
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
The lances were in position on the suits of armor. I didn’t do it. I followed Holly outside, so I know that she didn’t do it. I couldn’t think of anyone else that would have done it.
After all thirty guests “Ooohed” and “Ahhhed” over the suits, they followed Holly into the castle. I tried not to blink as I stared at the suits of armor. I had about given up when I swear I saw the arms of both suits lift and throw their lances. That time, they didn’t just clamor to the floor. One of them hit the wall just behind the last guest at about shoulder level. The other one crashed into the chandelier in the entry, raining down shards of glass. Several of the guests screamed and huddled together.
Holly took charge immediately. She walked to where I stood and whispered in my ear. “Put them back. Please.”
I put the lances back where they belonged. Holly explained to the guests that we were having some “freshman jitters” and that some of the furnishings were settling after a long trip across the ocean.
Man, she’s good.
The same noises that happened during the first tour of the day returned—but louder, and with increased frequency. The guests were uneasy and so was I. Darkness infiltrated the castle, even though the lighting system is hi-tech and state of the art.
Holly brought the group into the main gathering area of the ground floor. She quoted her speech about the historic battles and bloody siege of the castle in fourteen twenty-one. The guests listened and marveled at the great room. Quentin had built a fire in the enormous fireplace. The glow lit Holly’s face as she spoke.
I was hypnotized and possibly even drooling—and I didn’t care who knew it.
Like most of my great moments, this one was interrupted, too.
A shriek erupted from the ceiling. The sound continued down the wall and into the middle of us. Holly fell silent. A wind swirled from out of nowhere and with no visible source. The heavy drapes that adorned every window in the room whipped about as if they were caught in a hurricane. Women screamed—and thirty people huddled back-to-back in the middle of the room.
The fireplace tools rose from their pegs and flew out into the room, rising toward the ceiling until they were propelled back toward the fireplace—one at a time. The miniature broom smacked against the wall. The poker impaled itself into the thick wooden mantel. It made a sickening sound like it had penetrated flesh. The small shovel slammed against the heavy-duty spark screen that protected the hearth from the burning logs. The shovel fell to the floor.
The shovel rose from the floor and slammed against the spark screen again—then again, and again. The last time, the shovel retreated toward the opposite wall and hurled itself at the screen, finally knocking the screen to the floor.
One by one, the burning logs rose from the fire grate and threw themselves directly at the huddled guests. Now, men and women were screaming. I watched a log bounce off of the forearm of a man who had thrown up his arms to protect his wife. Another log landed in the middle of an antique sofa that had cost a small fortune. The delicate fabric caught fire almost immediately. I ran for the nearest fire extinguisher—mounted next to the fireplace. I yanked it from its holder. I had to duck to avoid another flaming log. It missed me but hit
a twenty-foot-tall set of drapes behind me.
Holly was heading toward the same fire extinguisher. She got there just after I did.
“Get them out of here, Holly,” I yelled. “Get some help—there were a lot of people outside.”
Luckily, two people outside the castle were off-duty members of the local Fire Department. A dozen volunteers ran inside to help, and the fires were extinguished. The sofa and one set of drapes were a total loss, but we were lucky. The firemen made everyone go outside as soon as they were sure that the fires were out. Safety protocol, they said.
“That guy,” I heard a voice say. “Westerhouse.”
I recognized the voice and I turned to deal once again with Grady Plimpton.
He was pointing me out to three men in suits. These suits had ID cards clipped to them. They each had a detective shield hanging from their breast pockets. The men approached me. One of them grabbed Grady by the arm and dragged him along.
The elder of the three—the senior detective—flipped through his little notebook.
“You’re Westerhouse? Wylie Osborn Westerhouse?” the man asked in a voice that was born of a million Marlboros.
“Wow,” said the youngest detective. He was standing behind his senior and eating a Tootsie Roll Pop.
You know what? Some stereotypes exist for a reason.
Everyone paused and looked at the young detective.
“What?” The senior detective asked.
The man cleared his throat and lowered his sucker.
“His initials. W-O-W. Wow.”
The senior detective blew out a breath and turned back to me.
“Osborn, huh?” he said. He wanted to be my new best friend, I guess. “Pretty unusual middle name.”
“My parents didn’t give us middle names. They took us to the courthouse on our tenth birthday and let us pick out our own,” I said.
This grizzled veteran had never heard of such a thing.
“Us?” he grunted. “Who is us?”
“My brother and I, sir. He went first, of course, since he was older.”
“What name did he pick out?”
“Spiderman. Sir.”
The crew of men burst out laughing, even Grady until the man in charge silenced them with a stare.
“Full name?” he asked.
“Wylie Osborn Westerhouse.”
The man slapped his notebook against his thigh.
“I know that, Son,” he said, preparing to write in his notebook. “Your brother’s full name.”
“Oh,” I said. “Duncan Spiderman Westerhouse.”
More snickers—and then more staring.
“Our parents were hippies, sir,” I said. “They said that choosing our own name was their gift of spiritual freedom.”
“Well, good luck to your brother getting a job after he puts ‘Spiderman’ on his application,” the detective grumbled. He continued to write. After he finished with his notes, he looked around.
“So, is he here? Spiderman?”
“No sir,” I said. “He died ten years ago.”
“Oh,” the man said. He dropped his arm to his side. “I’m sorry. Tell you the truth I was kind of looking forward to meeting him. Anyway, son, I understand that you are an employee of Mr. Lynchburg’s company and that you accompany the tours?”
“Yes, sir. Why are you talking to me? I don’t know any more about what happened here than anyone else.”
The man turned and glanced at Grady Plimpton.
“It has come to our attention that you were not accounted for during parts of the tour.”
“What did he tell you?” I said, probably a little too loud. I took a step toward Grady before I realized it. The detective grabbed my arm. This didn’t go unnoticed by Grady.
“It wouldn’t be the first time that somebody tried to stir up some cheap publicity for their little circus, would it, Detective Pike?” Grady snapped.
“That’s enough out of you, Grady,” the detective said. “Where is your father?”
Oh, that’s just great. I’m sure that this Detective gets the employee discount minus ten percent on his electronic and appliance needs.
“Oh, Dad is coming, all right. There have to be some responsible members of society who are able to protect the public from these crooks,” Grady said.
The young detective that still had Grady by the arm jerked him off the ground a little.
“Yeah, Boy. That why the public hires us.”
“So do I need to call my attorney?” I asked. “Am I being accused of a crime?”
The lead detective had gone as long as he was able without a cigarette. He made a show of lighting one. He took a long drag and exhaled dramatically.
“Don’t get your Fruit of The Looms in a bunch, Ozzy. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. We just have some questions.”
The only part of his reply I remembered was that the detective called me Ozzy. I tried for years to get people to call me that, and it never stuck. Thirteen years later, I finally get to be Ozzy to a chain-smoking Detective who thinks I sabotaged my own job on my friend’s property. How weird is that?
“You might ask Mr. Plimpton why he’s so anxious to see me blamed for this,” I said. “We have some history, you know.”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Westerhouse,” the detective said. “We’re just checking out any and all leads at this point.”
“Well, you might tell your ‘hostile witness’ that there are laws against perjury. Maybe he should think twice before he puts his daddy’s money in jeopardy.”
“What are you going to pay a lawyer with, Big Shot?” Grady said, “Your boyfriend’s money?”
“Quentin Lynchburg just pulled up, Sir,” the young detective said.
“Don’t leave the grounds until I speak with you again, Mr. Westerhouse,” The Senior Detective said. He paused to light a new cigarette off of the butt of his last one.
“What did they want?” Holly said. She had been standing just out of earshot waiting for the detectives to move on.
I pointed at Grady who was just turning to leave.
“Pencilneck there tried to tell those detectives that I was responsible for the fires.”
“Your day will come, Westerhouse. I’m going to lay you out,” Grady hissed.
I took one step toward him and he did the same.
“Wylie. What are you doing?” Holly said.
I faked a punch and Grady ducked. I pushed him hard in the chest before Holly grabbed me from behind. All of a sudden, I was dizzy and my legs felt like rubber.
The younger detective was standing opposite his boss and Quentin. He had spotted us but he made no move to intervene.
“Wylie. Listen to me,” Holly whispered into my ear, “You can’t do this. Not now. Not today. We’re in big trouble already, and you could bounce us right off of the cliff. Let’s go.”
I let her turn me around, and I walked it off.
“Hey, Bobby!” Grady yelled, “There’s something we didn’t think of. Tarzan listen to JANE. Tarzan AFRAID of Jane!”
Quentin was back, and unfortunately, so was the City Manager, Frank Winthrop. He was followed by a Sergeant with the Police Department, the Fire Marshall, and a smirking Porter Plimpton.
The policeman presented Quentin with a formal “cease and desist” order. All tour operations were suspended, pending approval by the Fire Department.
“You understand that this order is not legal, don’t you?” Quentin asked. “We’ve passed every necessary inspection—including the fire department’s.”
“Well, obviously something has been missed, Mr. Lynchburg,” the police sergeant said. “We’ve had thirty-six 9-1-1 calls concerning this location on your first day of operation.”
“Yes, and we have had two hundred people in and out of the castle today. How many of them are saying that we are a safety hazard?” Q asked.
“We are interviewing guests as we speak,” the sergeant said. He turned and pointed toward the street. Three
different pairs of uniformed officers were talking to guests from the last tour. “We had a team of detectives already in the vicinity. They were on the scene almost immediately.”
Q rolled his eyes and let his head fall backward.
We stood there on the sidewalk looking on as the officers completed their interviews. They came over and reported to the sergeant.
“We got nothing, sergeant,” one of the officers reported. “The people we’ve talked to say that someone must have bumped into the fireplace tools and the spark screen. Apparently, the spark screen hit the grate that the logs were on, and the logs bounced into the room. Some of them have no clue what happened. These people are pretty shaken up, Boss. They’re not telling us any more than that.”
“Well, all right then,” Quentin said. “Accidents happen. What do you say, Sergeant? I promise—no more fires during business hours.”
The Sergeant conferred with the Fire Marshall, who also had Porter Plimpton standing at his ear.
“The order stands, for now,” the sergeant said.
“But—” Q said.
“It may be for only tomorrow, Mr. Lynchburg. That is not a promise, but we have an obligation to the public. We will take twenty-four hours for a thorough inspection of the premises. We’ll wait that long to give any witnesses the opportunity to come forward with any new information.”
