Those of the Margin: a Paranormal Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 2)

by T Patrick Phelps

  "My wife is still living in Quebec. See, I don't plan to stay here the rest of my life, however long that may be. Just plan to spend some time here till I'm strong enough to move back home. I think she still touches base with Maggie from time to time, and I know that she stayed with them at their house a few times when she came down to visit with me."

  "Do you have any idea why I'm here to visit with you?" Derek asked. The sun was setting and taking with it any remaining warmth, leaving the already frigid winter air free to increase its chilling attack.

  "Jack Bryant stopped by a couple of weeks ago," Ron said as his eyes drifted away from Derek and towards the distant ocean. "Asked me if I messed with his boy's head. I think those were the words he used. Asked me if I told Robby about ghosts and spirits. He accused me of telling him stories about how ghosts can come back from the dead and haunt little boys."

  "Any truth to his accusations?" Derek asked.

  Ron breathed deeply, pausing several seconds before turning his head towards Derek. "Ghosts, Mr. Cole. Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "Not sure who said it first, but I always say that I don't believe in ghosts, but I'm afraid of them."

  "Ever see something out of the corner of your eye? A quick shadow or something that your eyes tell you isn't really there? Ever think you spotted someone who you know died? Feel that you're not alone in a room when the rest of your senses tell you that you are? Ever feel something brush against you when nothing is around you?" His gray eyes steadied their hold of Derek's. "Have you ever felt, when alone at night, that someone or something is just outside of your field of vision?"

  "So," Derek said, breaking his gaze from Ron's eyes, " I guess it's safe to say that you believe in ghosts?"

  "What do you want to know, Mr. Cole?"

  "What did you tell Robby about ghosts?"

  "Private conversations are no business of yours," Ron said, his voice deep and steady.

  "But when they may have negatively affected a young boy, the whole privacy thing kind of goes out the window."

  "Maggie and Robby visited me a few times when I first got here, like I said. She even left Robby alone with me a couple of times when she had errands to run. I didn't mind. That Robby is a good kid. Minds his business, unlike other people," Ron said, holding his gaze on Derek. "Did we talk about ghosts? Sure did, but not until he told me about his visitor."

  "Robby told you that he believes he has a ghost visiting him before you mentioned anything about ghosts?" Derek asked.

  "Last time he was here, alone with me. He was very quiet that day. I knew something was bothering him. Expected he had some asshole bully giving him the runaround at school. I told him that he could tell me anything and that I wouldn't go blabbing to his mom. That's when he told me about his friend."

  "And what did you tell him about his friend?"

  "Mr. Cole, I asked you if you believe in ghosts, and you never gave me a real answer," Ron remarked.

  "I don't know what I believe, honestly."

  "I know why the Bryants hired you. Would you like me to tell you why?"

  "If you'd like," Derek said.

  "They think 'Phillip' is the result of me or someone else convincing Robby that a ghost is around him. They believe that someone caused this whole thing. They hired you, I must believe, to find out who said what to Robby. Once they discover who is responsible, they probably will demand that the culprit tell Robby that ghosts aren't real and that everything that person told Robby about was all just a joke. Sound about right, Mr. Cole?"

  "So far, so good."

  "Strange, isn't it?" Ron said as he pulled himself closer to his telescope.

  "What's strange?"

  "The name of Robby's visitor. Phillip."

  "Why is that stranger than any other name?" Derek asked.

  "Do your research. You are an investigator, aren't you Mr. Cole?"

  "I am, and I believe that me sitting here with you is me doing research."

  "No. What you're doing here is a witch-hunt. What you're doing is nothing more than placating your clients, whom, I'm sure, have a story that you don't believe at all. I imagine that you took this case either due to boredom or an empty bank account. Which is it, Mr. Cole? You broke or bored?"

  "Neither, actually. I took this case because Robby needs help. I'll admit that this isn't my normal type of case, and I'll also tell you that I don't plan on spending a lot of time on it." Derek stood, sensing the conversation was reaching a conclusion. "But as long as I am being paid by the Bryants, I will do my job."

  "Do your research, Mr. Cole," Ron said as he placed his eye on the eyepiece of the telescope. "The name 'Phillip' is an interesting name for a ghost, don't you agree?"

  "I'm getting the sense that you think it is," Derek said.

  "Spirits exist," Ron said. "Some are just more real than others."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Derek sat in the front seat of his rental car, he could make out the distant figure of Ron standing on the third-story porch. He had seen whatever it was that he needed the aid of the telescope for and was now just standing, looking down at Derek.

  "Strange old man," Derek said as he started his car. "Strange dude."

  It took Derek much longer than he had expected to find a hotel for the night. Most were either closed for the season or had no vacancy due to a social worker convention that was being held in town. After nearly an hour of searching, Derek pulled his car into the "Foot Bridge Beach and Spa's" near-empty parking lot.

  "We usually don't get too many visitors this time of year," the front desk clerk said to Derek. "What brings you up to town? Convention?"

  "Work, actually."

  "What kind of work do you do?" the young woman asked.

  "Varies, but it looks like I'm a professional researcher today. Can you tell me how many liquor stores there are in town?"

  "Ones that are open this time of year?" she asked.

  "Those would be the ones I would probably find more helpful," Derek said, trying hard not to let his sarcasm reveal itself.

  "One that I know of is in Ogunquit, two or three towards the Kittery outlet stores, and maybe one or two in Wells. We have a few bars open, if you'd rather."

  "Not looking to drink, just need to do some research."

  Derek took the room key, walked the two flights of stairs to his room, dropped his travel bag onto his bed, and then headed back outside to his car. He still didn't think he could help Maggie, Jack, and Robby but felt that since he had promised to give them two days of his time, that they deserved every second of those days.

  After getting directions to the liquor store that the hotel clerk believed was owned by the Jeffries family, Derek got into his car, punched the liquor store's address into his GPS, and dutifully followed the voice-guided, turn-by-turn directions. As he drove, Derek dialed the number of Ralph Fox, hoping that his friend could do some research for him. Ralph not only saved Derek's life after Derek was shot in the stomach as he was trying to save his client, but also became his good friend.

  "So how is my little freelancing detective feeling?" Ralph asked.

  "Cold as hell," Derek said. "I'm in Maine on a case and was hoping I could ask your help on something."

  "I suppose that I can use my access to my vast resources to help out a friend. What do you need?"

  Derek explained the Bryant case as well as what Melissa Humphrey had suggested. "She said that if I do some investigating into the parents that I would find some skeletons. Not sure what she meant."

  "I'll see what I can dig up about the parents," Ralph said. "And Derek?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't get shot this time, okay? As much as I love Maine, I ain't planning on running up there to save your ass again."

  Derek pulled into "Marginal Spirits" a few minutes after ending his call with Ralph. The parking lot was nearly empty except for three cars. When he opened the door and entered the liquor store, Derek was certain that the man sitting behind the counter was so
und asleep.

  "Mr. Jeffries?" he asked, his voice intentionally soft and low.

  "You got 'em. How can I help you?" Bill Jeffries said.

  "Two things; first, and most importantly, can you point me to your scotch?"

  "Against the far wall, about half-way down. I keep the good stuff on the top shelf and the really good stuff up here behind the counter."

  "I'm more of a bottom-shelf scotch drinker," Derek said.

  "Not sure why anyone would choose the cheap stuff, but who am I to judge? That's your first thing you wanted. What's the second?" Bill Jeffries seemed to have a permanent smile plastered on his face. His thinning gray hair, his thick white beard, and bright, blue eyes reminded Derek of his grandfather.

  "My name is Derek Cole. I'm a freelance detective up here helping Maggie and Jack Bryant solve a particularly challenging problem."

  "I can't say that I know Jack Bryant," Bill said. "But Maggie Bryant sure is a nice woman. She's one of my most consistent customers." His smile faded quickly. "That's not to suggest that she has a problem, mind you. Just that she's a valued customer of ours."

  "I wasn't reading into what you said," Derek said. "Melissa Humphrey thought that you might be able to help me with my case, and I think you just may have."

  "Melissa Humphrey," Bill said, his smile returning. "Now she is one interesting woman."

  "How so?" Derek asked.

  "Seems to know a little about everyone in this town and is more than willing to share what she knows with anyone not smart enough to ignore 75% of what she says. Since you walked in here knowing my name, I have to assume that good ole' Melissa told you that I would confirm whatever suspicions she might have about Maggie."

  Bill crossed his flabby arms across his chest.

  "She suggested that the problem I am working to solve with my clients may be caused by my clients."

  "And I am willing to bet a dozen donuts that she told you that Maggie has a pretty big drinking problem?"

  "She may have shared her suspicions," Derek said.

  "Derek," Bill said as he stood and began walking towards Derek, "Maggie Bryant is one of the most polite, respectful, and kind persons I've ever met. Yes, she does buy a bottle of Jack every Thursday, but I have never seen her intoxicated, and I've never heard any of these townsfolk say anything about seeing her drunk. No one except Melissa, who seems to see things that no one else does. Listen, son, I don't know what problem it is that you are helping the Bryants overcome, and it really isn't any of my business, but I will say this to you: Maggie is one fine woman, and I wouldn't give credence to anyone who says otherwise."

  "Thanks, Bill," Derek said, feeling a sense of relief that surprised him. "I think I'll grab a bottle of your cheapest scotch and be on my way."

  "Why cheap scotch?" Bill asked.

  "Hurts more. Makes me drink less of it."

  "I have to say that is the strangest reason I've ever heard for drinking the cheap stuff. There's a ten-dollar bottle on the bottom shelf. Burns like hell going in and out. That should suit you fine."

  After Derek found the cheapest bottle of scotch in the store, paid Bill the ten dollars plus tax and turned to leave the liquor store, he paused when he reached the door.

  "I hope that our conversation can stay between us."

  "Only thing I'll keep in my memory bank is your reason for drinking cheap scotch. You take care of yourself and Maggie Bryant. She's a good woman, and I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her."

  #####

  It was close to nine pm before Derek made his way back to his hotel room. Before removing his shoes, Derek grabbed the small, brown, and poorly insulated ice bucket that was sitting beside the sink in his room to get some ice from the machine that was a few rooms down the hallway from his room. Once he was back in his room, Derek poured himself a three-finger tall drink of the cheapest scotch Bill Jeffries had in his store into a plastic cup. As he stood looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see the rising moon over the Atlantic Ocean. Its light charging back and forth in competing directions, desperate to find a direct line.

  Derek drew deeply from his cup of scotch and cringed as the whiskey sank its teeth deeply into his tongue.

  "Damn," he said. "This actually may be the worst scotch I've ever tasted."

  He took another draw, shook his head then refilled his glass. As much as he enjoyed drinking scotch, Derek never allowed himself too much enjoyment while working a case. After he topped off his drink, he screwed the bottle top back on tightly and slid the bottle into the nightstand's drawer.

  With his hotel room lacking a desk, Derek sat in a chair positioned in the corner of the room. He pulled out his iPhone and notebook from his pocket and laid them on his lap as he closed his eyes. It was too early for sleep. The thoughts that were racing through his mind told Derek that, no matter what the time may be, sleep would not come easily.

  He checked his iPhone for any missed calls, text messages, and emails. Though very few people knew his cell number, his email address was available to anyone who visited his self-designed web page. As expected, he had well over 36 emails that needed attention.

  Once he finished reading, responding to, and deleting his emails, Derek opened up his notebook, grabbed a pen off the nightstand, and tried to organize his thoughts of the case. He sat, pen in hand, a blank page staring back at him for several minutes, before closing the notebook, dropping the pen to the carpeted floor, and closing his eyes again.

  "Not a good sign if I have no idea what notes to write," he said.

  His thoughts returned to Ron White and Ron's strange suggestion that the name "Phillip" was important.

  "Why would the name of a ghost be important?" he thought to himself. "Maybe it means that either the ghost can actually speak to Robby or that Robby is trying to tell us something about naming his friendly, neighborhood ghost." He took another tug of scotch. "Or maybe Ron White is off his rocker or is trying to get me to chase down a dead-end clue." Another sip, the two ice cubes losing their battle against gravity and crashing into Derek's teeth. "Or maybe, just maybe, everyone involved in this case is a ghost, and I actually am dead and just don't know it yet. That would really suck."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The rectory of St. Mark's Church was set a hundred yards behind the small church. The simple, one-story ranch was humbly decorated. Its lawn and landscaping suggesting care. Above the mahogany door, a small, wooden cross was hung.

  Derek knocked on the door, stepped back, and waited no more than 20 seconds before the door swung open. The man who opened the door was a small man: no taller than 5'6" and weighed no more than 140 pounds. The man smiled broadly.

  "How can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Father John Flannigan. Is he at home?" Derek asked.

  "Well, look no further," the man said. "I'm John Flannigan."

  John stepped onto the porch, his extended hand seeming to Derek to be an extension of his smile.

  As Derek shook John's hand, a sudden gust of wind kicked up, displacing the long strands of hair John had combed to cover his balding head.

  "Oh, my vanity," he laughed, still shaking Derek's hand. "Please, come inside before this wind blows away what's left of my hair."

  Once inside, John turned to Derek.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

  "Derek Cole. I'm a freelance detective and have been hired by Maggie and Jack Bryant to help them solve a particularly challenging problem."

  "A freelance detective? I'm afraid I've never heard of that occupation before," John said, his smile never wavering.

  "Pretty much the same as a private investigator, but I liked the sound of 'freelance detective' more than Private eye."

  "As do I," John said. "As do I."

  "Thank you, Father."

  "So, you were hired by the Bryants to help Robby, and you believe that I can help as well?"

  "I'm not sure, Father. I'm not sure I can help them either, actually."
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  "Please," John said, gesturing towards the hallway leading from the door into a small parlor, "come in, sit down, and tell me how you think I can help the Bryants."

  Derek sat on a small, tan couch, and John sat in a very firm looking high-back chair.

  "Can I get you something to drink, Derek?"

  "No, thank you, Father," Derek replied.

  "Please, call me John. The only people who call me Father are those old enough to actually be my father."

  "If it's all the same, I'd prefer to stick with Father. My mother is very Irish-Catholic, and if I ever told her that I was calling a priest by his name, she'd make me work the rosary beads for a few hours."

  "If it makes you more comfortable, Father it is. So, how can I help you and the Bryants? While I can't say that I know Jack, I know Maggie and Robby quite well. They both attend mass every Sunday, and Robby has been going to our Sunday school for at least the last five years."

  "Father, I understand that what is said to you in confidence is held in confidence. Sort of like a 'priest code.'"

  "I've never heard it called a 'priest code,'" John laughed. "But yes, when in confession, it is called penitent privilege. When not in confession, I call it good manners."