Mr. Grey and the Spirit from the Sky

by A. J. Matthews

  "How're things at the school?"

  "We're doing fine, but I'll tell you all about that when you get home, dear. Are you bringing your gentleman friend?"

  She stifled a giggle. "Yes, Mom, Martin's coming home with me to meet the rest of Clan Mackenzie."

  "You said he's a tax inspector?" Her mom sounded dubious.

  "Yeah, Mom, but he's on a sabbatical right now." She felt her ear growing warm and changed the cell to the other, missing her mom's next words. "Sorry, what did you say?"

  "I said good, they're so respectable."

  "I'll tell him that," she said with a grin, thinking of ways in which Martin was positively disreputable.

  "Are you getting along okay? When you told us you'd met him, it all seemed to happen between you so suddenly."

  "We're doing just great, Mom."

  "And you're sleeping together?"

  "Mom!" She briefly took the phone away from her ear and stared at it, as if she could look her Mom in the eye. "What kind of question is that?"

  "It's the question most mothers worry about, dear. We like to think our daughters will take their time to get to know a guy before committing themselves that way. It just makes us feel better, okay?"

  "Mom, we're doing fine. I can tell you now, I love Marty." She felt her face grow warm. "When I'm with him, I feel so complete, y' know?"

  "Well, if you're sure, dear. Like I said, it seemed to happen so fast; I'd hate you two to burn out."

  "It won't happen, Mom," she said.

  "Good to know, Claudia. Look, I've got to get back to class. You take care, give my love to Martin, and I'll talk to you later."

  "Okay, Mom. Love you!"

  "Love you too, Claudie. G'bye now."

  She closed the connection and laid the cell in her lap. "Burn out? Huh!"

  * * * *

  Bruce sat quietly, attentive but uncomprehending as Martin gently questioned the ghost. A tape recorder lay on the desk between them, recording at least Martin's side of the conversation. He wrote the ghostly side on his notepad. The figure sat heavily on the window seat and squinted at him with bleary eyes.

  "May I ask your name, sir?" Martin began.

  "Gerry, Gerry Maguire."

  "I'm Martin Grey, from England."

  "A Limey?"

  "Er… yes."

  "Thash jake! Fought alongside o' you fellersh in the war. Neat bunch o' guys."

  "Thanks. Where are you from, Gerry?"

  "Albany, though I was born in Klamath Falls, Oregon. Where ish thish place?"

  "The Knight's Lodge resort, near Gainesville, New York State."

  "Gainesville? I landed not far from here. Knightsh Lodge reshort?" He shook his head heavily. "Never heard of it."

  "It was after your time, I think," Martin said mildly. "You say you landed near here?"

  "Yep; I'm a pilot," he said proudly. "Best damn pilot to come outta Oregon."

  "When did you land, Gerry?"

  "Around two in the mornin', I think. In a valley back up in the mountains a piece."

  "Which date?"

  "Date?" Gerry scratched his head. "Guess it was the start o' September."

  "Which year?" Martin asked, hardly breathing. Bruce stirred and looked nervous.

  "1929."

  "That's a coincidence," Martin murmured.

  Bruce leaned close, casting a nervous glance at the window. "What is?"

  "The spirit says he landed somewhere near here in September 1929," Martin whispered. "Early in the morning. When I was in the Gazette office I found a reference to a shoot-out between gangsters and FBI officers in Gainesville on the third."

  "Yep." The spirit nodded, a broad smile on his face, not paying attention to their exchange. "They said it couldn't be done but I did it! Ha! I showed ’em."

  "Bruce, do you know of an airfield near here?" Martin asked, keeping an eye on the spirit.

  "There isn't one nearer than Payneton, fifty miles from here."

  "I didn't need no proper airfield," the spirit laughed, wagging a finger. "No, sir! I put the bird down in that field as easy as kish your hand."

  "You didn't use an airfield; was it a private hire, Gerry?"

  "You could say that." The ghost nodded, winked, tried to tap the side of his nose and succeeded on the third attempt. "Had a li'l job on." He winked again. "Bunch o' boysh from New York hired me."

  "Really? Excuse me a moment, Gerry." Martin relayed what the spirit had said to Bruce.

  "An early morning flight, to a field somewhere near here," Bruce said thoughtfully. "Hired for a private job…" His lips twisted and he looked grim. "Nowadays we'd think in terms of drugs. Back in '29, it'd be illegal hooch. He must have been bootlegging."

  "Thash right!" Gerry grinned. Getting to his feet he wove across to Bruce, passing through the desk as he did so, and stuck out his hand. "Thought you were a dumb schmuck for not seein' me but you got it now." Bruce didn't react and Gerry's smile slipped, his hand came down. "Aw, he still don't see me!"

  "Most people can't, Gerry. You do know what happened to you, don't you?" Martin asked gently.

  "Yeah, damn straight I do." Gerry returned to the window seat and sank down upon it, leaning forward on his knees and clasping his hands, suddenly the picture of dejection. "That bastard killed me."

  "Who, Gerry? Who killed you?"

  "One o' the gang that met me." He nodded; his head seemed too heavy to move. "Yeah. See, I made a deal the end o' summer with a bunch o' guys to fly the booze from Canada one night." Gerry's drunken slur faded somewhat and the dark eyes glittered with painful memories. "I needed the dough; things weren't too sharp in aviation just then. I had a wife and two kidsh to shupport and I was running behind with payments on the airplane. So, I arranged to meet these guys in a valley someplace around here.

  "Everything was clean and clear that night. I got the booze loaded at a place called Dundas up in Canada. The weather was good and I lifted on time. Didn't want to fly across Erie but had to, to avoid the copsh and Revenooers sheein' me."

  "Were you alone on the flight?"

  "Yeah. The bird's a Spartan C-3, got space for three people." Gerry cracked a smile. "I was in the cockpit; the other spaces were full of bootleg hooch! Thousands of bucksh worth. Lighter than carryin' folks, made it easier to gain height when I got near the Catskills." He shook his head slowly, a wide grin spreading on his face. "Took some doin', navigatin' through thosh hills at night, but I did it! I'm the best…"

  He sighed. "Was the best, I guess I should say. I'm kinda dead, yeah?" Martin nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, well… I found the valley after a couple hoursh. The guys had a truck up there, had the headlights shinin' on the field, waved a red-shaded torch, the works. All as agreed. When I landed, they came up, three o' them. Then I saw it wasn't the guys I'd dealt with. Just some sly-lookin' little Wop pricks I'd never seen before. I said, 'Where're the other guys?' Next thing I know, the lead honcho had a gun to my head. 'They ain't comin'!' he says, grinnin'. 'We're in charge now!'"

  "They took me into a cave in the bluff, dragged the plane in after it. 'What'll we do with the jerk?' one o' the others asks. 'We're gonna ease him off,' says the head prick, smirkin' all over his kisser. 'But first we gonna give him a nice goin' away present for bringin' us the hooch.'"

  Gerry went very still. Martin glanced at Bruce, and leaned forward. "What did they do, Gerry?"

  "The lil' prick made me drink a whole bottle o' that Scotch," Gerry sighed. "Waited 'til it got me reelin' drunk then…" He shrugged. "The lights went out. I think he shot me."

  Martin took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. "Okay. How do you come to be here, after all this time?"

  "That's the eashy part," Gerry said, perking up. "Took a long time before it happened. Those guysh left the plane and the truck, dunno why. They never came back. I was just… there, in that cave. I could sense time passin' outside, but I couldn't go beyond the cave.

  "Then theresh a big storm, this li'l guy comes in soakin' wet,
sees the plane and the truck and everythin'. I tried talkin' to him but he didn't see me. Then he found the hooch, all loaded nice an' tight in the plane. When he read what was left of the labels he went real still, y' know? He put a bottle in his pack and high-tailed it out when the storm was over. Dunno why I thought it'd work, but I kinda wanted myself to go with the bottle." He spread his hands and sat back. "And here I am."

  "Bruce, the spirit is tied to that bottle of Scotch," Martin said urgently. "Whatever you do, keep it under lock and key!"

  "No! Wait!" the ghost cried, leaping up. He reeled, put out a hand to steady himself and somehow managed it, even as his hand went through the wall. "When you put that bottle inshide anything, I can't get out!"

  Martin relayed this. "That must be why no one sees him that often. Bruce, when you came up here that time in early May, did you open the drinks cupboard?"

  Bruce looked thoughtful. "Yeah, I did, now you mention it. I'd found a new brand of whiskey I thought would be good for the main bar. I'd bought a sample but forgot to take it with me when I went downstairs." He looked at Martin. "Do you mean this ghostly guy will be around all the time if I leave this bottle out? I'm not sure I can handle that!"

  "Gerry? What do you say?"

  "No, man, I won't be around all the time. I get kinda tired, see. Gotta fade for a while, regain my strength."

  "You're okay, Bruce, he says he needs to rest sometimes. May I ask where you got the bottle of Scotch from?"

  Bruce looked at him with a furrowed brow, and then shrugged. "It was from a guy who was hiking around here. He was taking part in some sponsored charity walk across three states, I think. I helped him out of a jam when his gear was stolen and he gave me the Scotch as a thank you. It's special stuff, as you know, so I asked where he got it from. He said he had a local supplier but wouldn't say more than that. I thought it a bit weird at the time, but hey, it's good stuff."

  Martin thought for a while, and looked back at Gerry. "Gerry, can you remember the coordinates of the valley you landed in?"

  Gerry looked rueful. "No, shorry, feller. They never gave me no map references when I swung the deal. All I was told was to head for Dunkirk on Erie's shore, then steer on a compass course through the mountains for so many miles. The lightsh from the truck would tell me when I was in the right place."

  Martin whistled silently. "That was taking a big chance! Okay, we may not need coordinates. Bruce, do you know the hiker's name and address? We must contact him; find out where the plane is so we can find Gerry's remains."

  "His name was Mike; surname Ryan, I think. I never knew his address."

  "He didn't stay here, then?"

  "No, he had a tent. I was going to offer him a cabin after it had been stolen but the camping shop in town loaned him a tent and he said he'd prefer it; more in keeping with the spirit of his charity hike, I guess."

  "He's not been back since May?"

  "No."

  "Damn!"

  "Fellersh?" Gerry looked from one to the other. "You gotta help me! My family…" He slumped. "Sweet Jesus, my poor Sally! What did she do when I never came back?"

  "We can find out for you, Gerry. Albany's not so far away." Martin nodded emphatically, feeling the poor spirit's distress. "We'll do what we can. That's a promise."

  * * * *

  An hour later he met Claudia downstairs in the reception hall and brought her up to date on the morning's events.

  "What are we going to do to help the guy?" she asked.

  "We need to find the place where Gerry landed his plane so we can recover his remains. That's the priority. The poor guy should be properly laid to rest. We'll check the local newspaper archives again tomorrow. There must be a clue there somewhere."

  "It's a shame we can't trace this Ryan guy. Do you think he may have returned on the quiet to take the booze for himself? All that vintage liquor would be very tempting, if not to drink, then to sell. That Glenfidich is incredibly valuable." Her lips twitched. "I'm fairly sure my dad would give you any limb of your choice if you offered to swap a bottle for it!"

  "I'll make a note to get some for when I meet him," he said with a half-smile. Claudia had told him something of her father, and he sounded a formidable prospect.

  "I called my mom while you were with Bruce. She sends her love."

  "That's very kind of her. Is everything okay at home?"

  "Just fine. They're looking forward to meeting you for Thanksgiving dinner. Will we be finished here, do you think?"

  "I hope so, love." He chewed his bottom lip, and realized with a start it was a habit he'd picked up from her. "Whatever happens, we'll leave here in good time to get to Indianapolis. If necessary, we can always come back."

  "You'll need to learn to call it Indy, Martin, it's much easier," she said, a smile tweaking the corners of her mouth, and kissed him. "Okay, buck up, Sherlock; what about this Ryan character?"

  "I'm not sure." He scratched his ear. "Perhaps he did return to the cave, but I doubt he'd touch any human remains he found there. I wonder if the site can be reached other than by on foot nowadays. I've looked at a map; it's pretty wild up there."

  "Some places are bought out by the various State Parks Commissions and left to grow wild. The Indiana Commission did that to an area around my uncle's place in the south of the state." She grimaced. "They let loose a lot of timber rattlers down there too, but that's by the way. It may be worthwhile checking maps of New York State made nearer that time." She snapped her fingers and looked thoughtful. "Wait a moment. I know of a website which could help us here. We used it in the Phaeton Realtor office to research older properties in the sticks."

  "Excellent!" He kissed her again. "Perhaps you'll use the laptop and get onto it later."

  "Okay, you got it. Is there anything else we can do?"

  "Yes, check the phone directory for Albany. We can do that here and now," he said, pointing at the reception desk. "I'm sure I saw the state directory under there."

  They went over and asked the duty clerk, who pulled up the directories for them. Taking them to one end of the counter they leafed through the Ma-Mc sections.

  After a while Claudia sighed. "Damn! There are dozens of Maguires in Albany and there's no way of knowing if the family moved since 1929." She cocked an eye at him. "Ever thought about checking the police missing-persons files for the time?"

  "Good point. I got the distinct impression Gerry didn't tell his wife he was involved with bootleggers. I guess Sally would have reported her husband as missing."

  "It's worth a try." She laughed. "Oh, no! Another case, and again we have to go trawling through the police archives."

  He touched her chin with his fingers and kissed her briefly. "At least this time we don't have a corrupt ex-cop to deal with."

  "That's a relief!" She thought for a moment, and he smiled inwardly when she unconsciously chewed her lower lip. "I'll send an e-mail to our old friend at the archives in New York. He may be able to get it to us as an attachment. Maybe he can find something on the Minotti Gang too."

  "Excellent idea." He glanced at his watch. "We can pay another visit to the Gazette office and see if they have anything more we can use. There's plenty of time before lunch."

  "And after that, we can eat at the diner."

  "I wouldn't mind looking around that place again," he said, thinking of the photograph and the odd feeling it engendered. "The idea of that shoot-out taking place there doesn't put you off?"

  "Oh no! I love it." Slipping her hand into his clasp, she led him outside. "You remember I told you back in New York, they called me 'Creepy Claudia,' at summer camp!"

  As they headed for the car, he laughed.

  "What's funny?" she demanded, poking him in the ribs.

  "I can't quite picture you as a schoolgirl, love."

  She gave him a saucy wink. "Play your cards right, mister, and I might just dress up as one sometime so you can get the idea."

  He felt a thrill at the sheer sexiness she could exu
de, and kissed her. "Oh, I look forward to that!"

  * * * *

  Up in the mountains the two spirits had found a lair in a deep cavern gouged out of the sandstone and conglomerate rock by eons of wind and weather. It was a place they had used briefly in the past, when they were alive, and it was an ideal place to lie up, to build their strength and plan their next moves. They also found another spirit, a wretched thing trapped there by misery and guilt. The fact they had been responsible for its physical demise was incidental to them. What was less reassuring was the evidence another spirit had been present until recently. The lonely spirit refused to reveal where it had gone. They tortured it without remorse until it screamed and gibbered for mercy, but learned nothing. At least it gave them something to do.

  Chapter Six

  Doug Kenyon opened the office door and smiled when he saw them. "Well, if it isn't the ghost-hunters!" They stared at him, mortified. "It's okay," Doug laughed, holding up his hands. "I'm not offended. I can understand secrecy plays a big part in what you folks do. And I'm a newspaperman; I'm used to people not telling me the truth!"

  Martin looked at Claudia and sighed. "I'm sorry, Doug. As you say, we have to be discreet. How did you find out?"

  "Someone from the resort was in the bar last night. I'm not saying who, I have to protect my sources," he said with a wink. "I've got to admit, it's a fascinating theme for an article. Will you let me do a write-up when you're done here?"

  "Sure. It's the least we can do, in return for your help in opening the archives."

  "I take it you want to look up something else?"

  "Yes, the 1929 file again, if you wouldn't mind. We think it may hold the key to what happened."

  "So, what's the story?" Doug asked, leading the way upstairs.

  "In confidence, Doug?" Martin asked.

  "Sure." Martin gave him the outline and he nodded. "There were a lot of things happening around here during Prohibition. Moonshiners, bootleggers, the Purple Gang, the Mob; you name it, they were here."

  He gestured to the microfiche desk where two fiche files lay in the in tray. "I pre-empted you. After you'd gone yesterday, I read up on the battle at the diner. It seems the Minotti gang was a trio of small-time hoodlums from New York, led by Joseph Minotti, with his kid-brother, Jack "Cutie-Boy" Minotti, and a thug named Ezra Ellis. The Feds investigated after the shoot-out; there's a follow-up in the January editions of the Gazette. The Minottis were suspected of muscling in on a bootlegging operation. Someone tipped off the Feds and they were hot on their trail."