Mr. Grey and the Spirit from the Sky

by A. J. Matthews

  "True." Pete grinned. "Although I doubted the still would be hidden anywhere near the buildings. Those things have a distinctive smell all their own, Martin. Gottlieb couldn't hide the smell from visitors to his farm, but he could keep the still somewhere on his land where folks wouldn't go.

  "I decided to check it out by going under cover at Knight's Lodge as a general handyman. I'm good with plumbing and electrical work. With a few fake references supplied by the agency, I got the job. I spent a deal of time prowling around the place, trying to figure out what was left of the old farm. The surprising answer is, quite a lot still remains under the existing work.

  "By the time you came on the scene, I'd covered pretty much everywhere and drawn a blank, so I was getting kind of frustrated. I was then wondering if John Gottlieb had shown the Minottis another hiding place in the locality. You've more or less confirmed it."

  Martin shook his head. "Gerry Maguire's spirit was the one who helped there."

  The spirit beamed. "Thanks, feller!"

  "Yeah, right," Pete muttered.

  * * * *

  After several minutes of walking, they came to the rise and the whole of Canning's Vale lay beneath them. Martin appraised the area, making the mental adjustment for the change in point of view to ground level. He pointed off to the left, where a scarp of granite rose up to form the southern side of Canning's Vale. "I think the cavern's over there."

  "This was all open in my time," Gerry muttered, looking at the lay of the land. "I set my bird down, no trouble at all."

  "Do you feel anything, Gerry?" Martin asked softly.

  Gerry screwed up his face in thought. "Yeah, there’s a kinda pull." He nodded heavily. "Reckon I can lead you to the place all right. Damn! I feel so tired!"

  "Wonder why it was called Canning's Vale?" Claudia asked.

  "I did some checking when Mack told me where she had flown Martin," Doug replied. "There was a farm here, owned by the Canning family. They sold up in the early 'fifties and the Parks Commission took over." He looked around as they followed a faint trail down through the light covering of trees. "It's hard to believe there were once buildings, fields and meadows around here."

  "What's that?" Sheriff Lacon was pointing to something ahead. They followed him over to a place where the vegetation had been crushed by a wheeled vehicle of some kind.

  "Motorbikes?" Pete asked, studying the tire marks.

  "I think it might be a quad bike," Doug said, measuring the space between the marks. "My cousin's got one on his farm; it makes tracks like these."

  "They're fresh, no more than a few hours at most," Pete said and looked around. "Don't think there'd be tourists up here at this time of year."

  "It could be a park ranger, or maybe a guy from the utilities," Lacon mused. "There're a few pylons running through these mountains." He stopped and held up his hand. "Whoa! Wait one." He pulled out his radio. "Brad? Lacon here." When the deputy responded the sheriff grimaced as a burst of static surged through his earpiece. "Ouch! Poor reception up here. Brad? That second truck you found has a trailer on the hook. Is it big enough to take a quad-bike?"

  He listened to the reply then nodded. "Okay, keep on watch in case they come back." Stowing the radio he looked at the others. "Yep, the trailer's big enough to hold a quad bike."

  "Then whoever it is, they're around here someplace. Keep your eyes open, guys," Pete commanded.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As they walked further down the slope, the great scarp of granite seemed to rise until, as they made a turn towards it, it filled the view ahead.

  "The ground's pretty level here," Doug observed. "It must be one of the old fields."

  "According to Mack, it would've been perfect for setting a biplane down on," Martin replied. "Take away the trees and picture it in your mind's eye."

  Doug squinted and nodded. "Yep, reckon Mack's right. I wouldn't fault her on anything to do with aircraft."

  "Keep the noise down, guys," Lacon advised. He pointed at the ground. "Those tire tracks are heading right for the bluff. We could have company."

  With an unspoken accord, he and Pete drew their handguns once more and rechecked them. Martin and Claudia glanced at each other and instinctively hung back. Only Doug went forward, his journalist's curiosity overcoming his caution.

  The sound of a musical clinking carried to them on the still air. "Bottles?" Lacon mouthed silently to Pete, who nodded.

  Following the noise, after a few minutes they saw ahead of them a dark mass of ivy spreading over the rock. Tracing the line of a fault down the face of the bluff Martin saw a darker area amidst the vegetation which resolved itself into a sizeable cave mouth some sixty feet across. The clinking sound grew louder, and someone was whistling a happy little tune.

  Pete shook his head then looked a question at Lacon, who grinned and nodded. Cupping his hands to his mouth he called, "Hey! You in the cavern! This is the sheriff! Come out with your hands up!"

  The bottles clattered and something crashed loudly. Martin winced. "There goes a few thousand dollars' worth of Scotch!"

  "No loss!" Gerry muttered. "I'm sick o' that stuff."

  "Don't shoot! I'm coming out, I'm coming out!" came a nervous voice.

  A small figure appeared, clad in a bright orange waterproof jacket, his hands raised as high as they could stretch. He blinked at the group nervously through spectacles covered in condensation. "I'm not doing anything wrong!" he quavered.

  "Are you alone in there?" Lacon demanded, keeping the man and the cave mouth covered.

  "Yeah!" the man cried after a pause.

  Lacon and Ashby shared a knowing glance. "Bullshit! Come on out, get down and spread 'em!" the sheriff ordered. "Agent Ashby? Would you cover me while I check out this joker?"

  "With pleasure, Sheriff."

  The man lowered himself clumsily to the ground and spread his limbs and Lacon executed a quick and thorough body search as he lay trembling on the wet grass.

  Martin looked around. "You can't see this place until you're up close," he said to Doug, who was busy taking pictures. "When the trees are in full leaf, it'd be practically invisible."

  "An ideal place to hide a plane." Claudia nodded then shivered and thrust her hands deep into her jacket pockets. "Or two bodies."

  "He's clean," Lacon called. "Okay, feller, get up and state your name and business here."

  "Michael, Michael P. Ryan. I…" He glanced back at the cave. "There's an old airplane in there, along with a load of old booze; real quality stuff."

  Lacon glanced at the cave. "It's well hidden. How did you find it?"

  Ryan looked at the open display of the law around him and seemed to sag. "I guess you may as well know. I was up here earlier this year on a charity hike through the mountains and I got lost. There was a storm coming on so I looked for shelter. I found the cave, saw all the booze. It's like an Aladdin's cave for alcoholics! Four crates of the stuff, all full of genuine old Scotch!

  "When the storm cleared, I took a couple of bottles and left. I was going to tell someone about it, honest, but then I thought…" He hung his head. "I thought I'd come back with my brother's quad bike when Thanksgiving came and the tourist season was over and take it all home."

  "Yet you gave one bottle to the man down at the Knight's Lodge resort," Martin pointed out.

  No one missed the surreptitious glance the man cast towards the cave. "He did me a big favor. I wanted to repay him in some way, and figured the Scotch would do. I had another bottle. Two was all I could carry with all my hiking gear."

  "And if he hadn't taken the bottle, I wouldn't have got out of here." Gerry sighed, walking past the group and into the cave. "Give the guy a break!"

  "Come with us," Lacon commanded the hiker. "And don't try to run!"

  They moved forward to the entrance where a quad bike stood, its headlights shining into the cave, a metal rack hitched to the back and hung about with yellow and black bungee cords. A bright red plastic crate stood bes
ide it, filled with bottles of Scotch. Through the holes in the crate the liquid glowed in the reflected light with a rich amber hue.

  Sheriff Lacon drew a bottle out and held it up to read the peeling label. "Holy cow!" He laughed. "You could have a very happy Thanksgiving with all this booze."

  "Frankly, Sheriff, you can keep it," Pete said as he came up to examine it. "I'm a sour-mash man myself."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?" Martin murmured to Claudia, who hid a smile.

  Pete turned back to call Ryan over. "Have you found any papers in with this stuff?" he demanded.

  "Papers?" Ryan shook his head. "No, sir. This is all I got so far. There're three other crates in the airplane, though. They're wood with tarpaulin tacked onto 'em. I'm not sure if they're sound so I took care, got these bottles out one at a time."

  "Good. Now, Mr. Ryan, go and wait outside." Pete stooped to take the ignition key from the quad bike. "Just removing temptation," he added, and winked.

  Ryan walked away, crestfallen.

  The two law-enforcers switched on their powerful flashlights and the added light filled in more of the scene inside the cave.

  Out of the darkness there loomed a hulking shape, a great insect of rust-red and tattered silver. Two sets of wings, once proud and tight, now sagged dejectedly. The fat rubber tires had long since rotted and burst, leaving the aircraft resting on the rusted metal wheel rims. Next to the aircraft and partly covered by a rotted tarpaulin was a battered Ford truck of 1920's vintage.

  Pete walked toward the aircraft and raised a hand, almost tenderly, to touch the rotting remains of a wooden propeller. A brief flash of actinic light made everyone jump as if galvanized. Pete turned on Doug who was lowering his camera. "For Chrissakes! You stupid fuck! Warn people before doing that again!" the agent snapped.

  Doug grinned sheepishly.

  "There she is." Gerry sighed, oblivious to the fuss. "A Spartan C-3. My sweet li'l Sally-Jane. I named her after my wife." Gerry walked over and patted the hulk. "I called her that 'cos like the real Sally-Jane, I climbed into her three times a day and took her to heaven and back." Martin winced. Gerry looked sheepish. "Yeah, I know. It seemed funny and kinda sweet at the time. Sally didn't mind, she thought it was a hoot." He looked back at the old airplane and sighed. "Poor ol' girl. She's not much to look at now, but boy! She flew like a dream back then."

  "I believe you," Martin murmured.

  He moved past the rusted hulk, the radial engine a solid lump of corrosion sinking slowly back into the rotting airframe. The three cockpit and passenger spaces were tattered holes, through which the remnants of tarpaulin-covered wooden crates were visible. Just legible were the words Sally-Jane, painted in black script on the doped fabric. Another three modern crates stood on the ground by the rear-most cockpit, three gleaming bottles nestling in one. A fourth bottle lay smashed on the floor, the contents adding the rich aroma of Scotch to the wet green odor in the cave.

  The sheriff shone his flashlight into the deeper shadows at the rear of the cave. "Mr. Baker?" he called. "We know you're in there! Make it easy on yourself and come on out with your hands up!"

  A stone clinked on stone in the darkness at the back of the cave. After a few moments a very sheepish looking Bruce Baker emerged, blinking into the light.

  Martin felt his skin tighten like a drum-skin as the air in the cavern turned a bone-chilling cold. Dark shadows oozed from the rock walls to coalesce into two humanoid shapes between the aircraft and the old truck. Gerry stepped back, his fists swinging up into a fighting pose as the two black figures solidified into grinning skeletal forms wearing sharp suits and fedoras. One had a toothpick wedged in an absurd fashion between its rotting teeth. Martin realized he was looking at Joe Minotti and Ezra Ellis.

  Claudia gave a strangled cry. "Marty!"

  "I see them!"

  Still around, fly-boy? Minotti scoffed, but Martin could sense the surprise behind the words. When the empty eye sockets turned to him they glowed a deep red and the surprise turned to outright fear. You too? Fuck!

  "Yes, Minotti; your little trap back at the ravine failed," Martin sneered. "Removing that warning sign was a nice touch! I saw where you'd thrown it when we were making our way back."

  The skeleton rounded on Gerry. You made a bad move comin' back here with your friends!

  "We ain't afraid of you, you li'l bastard!" Gerry growled moving his fists in a milling action. "You killed me already, what can you do to me now?"

  This…

  The ragged tarpaulin covering on the old airplane flapped violently and flew into the air. Twisting and writhing, it took the form of a black shrouded figure, which swooped on the startled people with an unearthly shriek. The air in the cave was suddenly filled with windblown debris, filling ears and eyes and noses.

  Instinctively Sheriff Lacon fired his gun, the round passing harmlessly through the shrouded thing. It lunged at him, forcing him to duck and roll.

  "What the hell?" Pete yelled, as the shroud soared up to hover over their heads. It shrieked again, forcing the agent to clap his hands over his ears. The whiskey bottles rattled in the crates.

  Martin grabbed Claudia's arm and dragged her to the cave mouth. "Stay here!" he shouted.

  "What are you going to do?" she yelled.

  "I'm going to get the others out of there!"

  Martin ran back into the cave, quickly scanning for human and ghost alike. Sheriff Lacon lay stunned under the aircraft, his flashlight spinning slowly on the floor. Pete Ashby was crouching by his side, casting quick glances around for the deathly shroud. Martin soon spotted it.

  Doug was crouching by the side of the old truck, trying to aim his camera at the shroud as it flew bat-like around the cave. Joe Minotti and Ezra Ellis glowed with an eldritch green light in the darkness, their mocking laughter echoing eerily in the roaring of the wind that filled the cavern. Gerry ducked and wove, his face covered by his arms; he seemed to be trying to close in on the other ghosts. There was no sign of Baker.

  "Doug! Look out!" Martin yelled.

  The shroud swooped. Doug gave a cry and tried to run, but the thing scooped him up and smothered him instantly. The mocking laughter rang louder as the journalist writhed within the folds of animated tarpaulin.

  Martin ran over to it and was appalled to see the surface turn from tatty fabric to a slick tar-like substance which formed itself tightly about Doug. As he tore at it, the substance stuck to his fingers—then began to creep up his arms, binding him to the creature. An oily stench rose from it, acrid and biting in his sinuses.

  Center! Center! Martin closed his eyes and strove to think as the foul mulch writhed higher. The tarp does not exist in this form. It cannot. It's an illusion.

  Amidst the shrieking wind and Doug's muffled cries, Martin forced himself to become calm.

  It's an illusion…

  As his mind became more ordered, more tranquil amidst the chaos, Martin could feel the clinging sensation fade from his hands. It's an illusion… The touch of old fabric returned, coarse and brittle under his fingers. He half-opened his eyes then opened them fully, forcing his will to override all extra sensory intrusion.

  Gradually the black muck returned to nothing more than tattered tarred fabric. Doug fought his way clear and gasped for breath, his eyes wild.

  Martin smiled. "Nice to see you again! Come on; let's get you out of here."

  * * * *

  Pete had dragged Sheriff Lacon out of the cave by the time Martin emerged, Doug stumbling along by his side. Michael P. Ryan had fled, leaving the quad bike sitting outside the cave.

  Claudia helped the battered journalist to sit on a pile of leaves well away from the cave mouth then rushed over to Martin. "Are you okay?" she demanded. "What the hell's happening in there?"

  "Joe and Ezra want to play," Martin growled. "I'll give 'em play, alright!"

  "Where're Bruce and Gerry?"

  "Bruce has vanished. Gerry's trying to get at the other ghosts." He saw her ex
pression and clasped her tightly. "Don't worry! Gerry's strong now; he'll hold them until I'm ready." He looked over to where Pete was tending to Lacon. "Is the sheriff okay?" he called.

  Pete looked up and waved. "He took a knock to his head. He'll live!"

  "What are you going to do?" Claudia pressed.

  "I'm going to put an end to this, once and for all." Martin grinned as he took a small plastic case from his pocket and extracted a paper-wrapped package from a compartment.

  Claudia shivered. His grin was not nice! "What's that?"

  He held it up. "This is the psychic equivalent of a stun grenade," he said. "It's a type of incense, blended to an old recipe."

  "Will it work?" she asked dubiously, glancing from him to the ominously silent cave.

  "Oh, yes." He nodded firmly, rising to his feet. "There're more extreme measures I can take, but, as a wise woman once told me, 'never use more power than you need to.' I firmly believe that."

  A quick search of the ground yielded a twig, which he used to impale the small cube of hard brown paste. Claudia looked at it dubiously. "That stuff looks illegal!"

  Martin laughed as he struck a match and held it to a corner of the cube. "I know what you mean. It can be awkward, sometimes, getting it through customs."

  The cube glowed where the flame touched it, then began to smolder. Martin blew on it gently, and a sweet, pungent aroma filled the air in spite of the breeze. He turned to face the cave mouth and set his shoulders. "Right! Here goes…"

  *

  With firm tread Martin walked into the cave, and into the midst of a howling, icy gale. Battered and blown, he held on firmly to the incense, which glowed brightly and gave off a thicker plume of smoke as the rushing air hit it.

  In the light of the quad's headlights and the discarded flashlights, Martin could see the figures of Gerry and the two gangsters, frozen in a battle of wills. A fourth figure, that of a tow-haired youth in dungarees had appeared beside Gerry, his face screwed up in concentration as he faced the gangsters. The air seemed to crackle around them, and the psychic backwash of their fight gave him a dull ache behind the eyes.