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

by T Patrick Phelps

  The only word that stuck with Rita was "tried."

  "What do you mean that I 'tried' to kill Vanessa?"

  "You don't know, do you? That's right, mother, you failed. My sister is alive, and very soon she will wake up and confirm every part of my story."

  "Listen closely, Jack," Rita said. Jack listened and heard movement through his cell phone's earpiece. Then he heard the stifled cries of a young boy. "I am willing to talk with you, Jack, but only if you come here. And bring your son, too."

  "Mother, leave Matthew alone."

  "Another commandment, Jack? Really, I thought I was clear. I have my mission, Jack, and He is not patient. Please use the Marginal Way entrance, as I do suspect my front door is being watched. And Jack?"

  "What?"

  "Do be careful driving here," Rita said. "This storm is certainly one for the ages, and I'd hate for anything to happen to you and my grandson. I'll expect you here in 30 minutes."

  #####

  Robby was, as he had always been, Jack's first priority. When Jack's mother had called him earlier in the day and told him of her plans, Jack knew he had to protect his son. He raced over to Robby's school, made up a story about a doctor's appointment and got his son far from the reach of Rita Bryant.

  Over the past several years, things had been calm. Though he knew that there were still people with an active interest in solving his father's murder, Jack felt that at least his mother presented no threat. But the calm evaporated like morning fog on a steamy day when Ron White started digging around.

  He had tried to get Ron to stop investigating, suggesting that he and his family had been through enough.

  "Leave well enough alone," he pleaded with Ron. "I didn't kill my father and don't know who did. Please, leave my family alone."

  He lied, of course. He was there that day his father came home stumbling drunk. He was in the kitchen when his father dropped himself into his favorite armchair and started crying and carrying on about the evil in the world. Jack watched from behind the kitchen's door frame as his mother charged into the living room and demanded that her husband shut his mouth and to "not invite evil spirits into her home." And, after the alcohol in his blood had grown too heavy for his consciousness to defend against, Jack watched his mother deliver a crushing blow to his father's head with his baseball bat.

  He remembered how he felt that day and often wondered why he was concerned whether or not he would ever be able to hold that baseball bat in his hands again. It was the bat he used to hit the walk-off home run in the playoff game the season before. It was the bat his father had given him just two years before as a reward for getting straight "A's" in school. And now the bat, his bat, was lying on the living room floor, marred with his father's blood, and clumps of skull and hair.

  "Help me move him," his mother called to him. "I don't want his dirty blood all over my living room carpet."

  Jack walked silently into the living room and, grabbing one of this father's arms, helped his mother drag his own father through the kitchen, and out through the back door, before dropping him in a snowdrift in the backyard.

  "The cold won't protect him from the fires of hell," his mother said as she slammed the door and went about the task of cleaning the blood-splattered living room walls.

  "You have his blood in your body," his mother said to him as she scrubbed the walls and he stood motionless behind her. "One day, you will need to be cleansed and all of your offspring as well. Keep yourself pure, Jack, and maybe the good Lord will spare you."

  Jack had been successful in blocking out most of the events of that day. He even had trouble when recalling the time he saw his mother hitting herself on her back, arms, and legs with the same bat she eventually used to kill his father.

  "Why are you hitting yourself, Mother?"

  "These bruises were caused by your father. These bruises are the result of his sins and gluttony. Never forget that, Jack. Your father caused my wounds."

  It was only a couple of days after her bruises began to fade that his mother employed his baseball bat for its final purpose.

  Jack knew that, for his mother, the time for him and his son to become cleansed had arrived. And he knew that going to her house with his son was inviting tragedy. But Matthew was there, and Jack couldn't let Matthew die because Jack couldn't control his own mother. He loved Matthew like he loved Robby. He spent as much time with Matthew as he could, but always away from the prying public. Jack knew that if Maggie were to ever find out about his sister and Matthew, that he wouldn't be able to keep them a secret. He knew, eventually, that his mother would learn that the bloodline she so wanted to erase had spread beyond the blood running in his and in Robby's veins.

  He parked his car in Perkins Cove, and he and Robby began the walk to his mother's house.

  "Why are we walking to Gramma's house this way?" Robby asked, shielding his face and eyes from the driven sleet and snow.

  "Gramma is very sick, Robby," he said to his son. "I need you to listen to me very closely when we get to her home. Okay?"

  "Okay, but why do we have to walk this way and not drive up to her house in the car?"

  "Because this is what Gramma wants."

  Jack hated lying to his son, and he hated knowing that he was putting him in jeopardy by bringing him to his mother's house. But he knew that Robby would understand once he saved Matthew, got him back with his mom, and made sure that Gramma was taken care of. Jack didn't know exactly what taking care of Robby's Gramma would mean, only that whatever it turned out requiring, he was committed to doing it.

  As hard as it was to deceive Robby, lying to Maggie and in such an aggressive way, was much harder for him. He felt sick as he and Robby started trekking through the calf-high snow on the Marginal Way's path. The words he had used when he had last spoken to his wife crashed back into his memory. She didn't deserve to be lied to, and she didn't deserve an absentee husband. From the day he married her, Jack's past had begun creeping up on him. He tried to keep his mother under control as well as to bury the memories of what he saw that day in his childhood home so many years ago. But his mother was slowly falling victim to her diseased mind. Each step in that progression pushed Jack further into his past and away from his life.

  "When this is all over," he thought, "I'll tell Maggie everything. I'll be the husband she deserves and the father Robby needs."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Mark Irish stood at the Bryant's living room window, dismayed. The latest weather report he had heard suggested that the storm raging against the coast of Maine would continue dropping a heavy and dangerous mixture of snow and sleet onto the region for the next several hours before the temperatures began dropping.

  "Expect another six to nine inches of snow before this is all over, folks. Expect overnight lows down below zero." The weatherman said. "Town officials have already declared a snow emergency for most of the southern coastal area. Police will be enforcing a 'no driving restriction' for all non-emergency vehicles. Huddle up close to your fires. This isn't over yet, and it's only going to get worse."

  Nothing was moving outside the window. Irish's team of troopers had been sent back to the barracks or to their homes and were placed on "emergency standby." It was the worst possible time for the storm to have hit. He had no idea where Jack Bryant was and no safe way to search for him. Maggie Bryant was last seen leaving her husband's hunting cabin outside of Kennebunkport and was headed to who knew where. Rita Bryant's home had been under surveillance, but when the trooper stationed near her home reported that no lights had been turned on and no activity was noted, Irish told the trooper to return to "barracks and wait for further orders." Every one of the people he was interested in were in unknown locations, and he had no way to find them.

  Mark thought about making the short drive over to Rita Bryant's home. He needed to do something besides wait for the unlikely outcome that Jack or Maggie would be pulling into their home's driveway any second now. Though he was accustomed
to winter storms, having lived in the area for all of his 38 years, he had never seen the dangerous combination falling from such a heavy sky and in such quantities before. He knew he was going nowhere until the storm ended and snowplows were able to clear the roads. Never before in his 14 years as a Maine State Trooper had Mark Irish felt more useless.

  The trooper that Mark assigned to remain with him at the Bryant home had fallen fast asleep on the living room couch. Normally, seeing a trooper asleep on the job would make Mark's blood boil. But as Mark stood gazing at the blizzard through the window, the sleeping trooper's snores were more of a serene comfort; a calming suggestion of patience.

  However slight the sounds of Mark turning and walking to the dining room table may have been, they were enough to startle the sleeping trooper awake. He jumped into an immediate state of readiness, his hand hovering over his holstered pistol and eyes wide and seeking their fix.

  "Hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep, Trooper," Mark said, feigning displeasure.

  "Sorry, captain."

  "No worries. Not this time, at least."

  The trooper stretched his back as he walked over to get a visual update on the storm's progression.

  "The only way we are getting out of this house is by foot," he said to Mark.

  Mark was standing in the dining room, glancing over the file that was now spread out across the table. When he heard the trooper speaking, Mark froze in thought. A few seconds later he was quickly moving towards the living room.

  "Trooper," he called as he gathered his coat and trooper hat, "how far is it from here to Rita Bryant's home?"

  "About two and half miles. You're not thinking about trying to drive there now, are you?"

  "Not at all. That would be foolish. I'm going to walk there."

  "Are you serious?" the trooper asked, a tentative smile crossing his lips. "In this storm?"

  "I can't stay in this house doing nothing for another minute, storm or no storm."

  "What are my orders?" the trooper asked, hoping that he wouldn't be asked to accompany Mark on the walk.

  "Stay awake and contact me the second anything happens here. And I do mean stay awake. Understand?"

  "Yes sir."

  #####

  They made it as far as they could before the car slid off the snow- and ice-covered road and into a shallow ditch that lined the road.

  "Looks like we're walking from here," Derek said to John.

  Derek and John were less than a quarter of a mile away from their desired parking spot, which was in the Ogunquit Beach parking lot. But as the two trudged through the heavy snow and reached the parking lot, both saw that the snow, driven by the ocean's strong winds, created, at points, eight-foot-high snow drift barriers blocking any potential entrance to the lot.

  "I think we made a good decision to park where we did," John said, trying to keep the mood light. His stomach was turning in fear and doubt. Though he had learned to trust Derek, John was still questioning why Derek felt compelled to return to the Marginal Way.

  "Glad you are so optimistic, Father."

  "So," John said as they made their way towards the beginning of the Marginal Way, "are you going to share why you feel so compelled to have us marching through knee-high snow?"

  "Father," Derek said, slowing his hurried pace when he noticed that John was already breathing heavily, "there's absolutely no way we could be driving around looking for Maggie and Robby. I highly doubt that even the police are out looking for them in this storm. This is all we can do at this point."

  "But you saw something in that picture of Luke and Jack that convinced you to come back here. What was it?"

  "Something I read in Ron's notebook. The one you gave to me. He wrote a note to me in that journal and told me everything he believes about Luke's murder, Jack's involvement, and even his theory on ghosts."

  "Are you seriously telling me that we are here to do something that only has to do with Phillip?"

  "I don't believe that is the only thing we will be doing once we get to the spot."

  "The spot where Ron's telescope was aimed?" John asked.

  "In the picture, Luke and Jack are standing at the same point. In the background of the picture are the same trees that still line the Way. But there's something else in the background of the picture. Something that I didn't notice when Maggie and I were there earlier."

  "And that would be?"

  "A house."

  #####

  The walk from the Bryant's house to Perkins Cove and the path to the Marginal Way was much harder than Mark expected. Between the wind-whipped snow and ice mixture and the foot-plus-high snow, Mark's legs and lungs were burning with exhaustion when he finally reached Perkins Cove. The cove, like the streets, was deserted. He passed no vehicles during his walk and only saw a couple of abandoned cars lining the snow-covered streets. He did, however, see the two vehicles parked near the Perkins Cove entrance to the Marginal Way.

  Shielding himself under the overhanging eves of a seafood restaurant gave Mark just enough buffer from the howling winds and blowing snow to make a phone call.

  "Trooper Girard, what is the make and model of Father John Flannigan's car? I know that Maggie Bryant was driving it and think I just found out where she drove it to."

  "2010 Volkswagen Jetta. Silver. Give me a minute, and I'll pull up the VIN."

  "No need. Just give me the same info on Jack Bryant's vehicle."

  "It's a 2011 Ford F150. Dark blue, four doors. Don't suppose you want that VIN either?"

  "Not needed. Thanks."

  "Where are you, Captain? You need backup?"

  "All set, Trooper. Stand by, just in case. Radio can't cut through this storm so keep by the phone."

  While Jack's truck, more capable than the Jetta to navigate through the snow-covered roads, was carefully and deliberately parked, the Jetta appeared to have been simply abandoned. Mark confirmed that both vehicles were empty before checking for tracks leading from both vehicles. The snow was falling quickly, but not quickly enough to completely cover the single set of tracks leaving from the Jetta, nor the two sets of tracks, one a few shoe sizes larger than the other, leading away from the Ford truck. Mark could tell, based on the track's condition, that those made from the occupants of the truck were made first, but he was unable to gage the time span that separated the making of the tracks.

  He stood beside the Ford truck, and saw that all three tracks were heading towards the Marginal Way.

  "What are you up to, Jack and Margaret?" he said, knowing that his only audience was the snow. "Whatever it is you are doing, I know where you are doing it."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  "Mother, put the gun down."

  "Now Jack," Rita said, her .20-gauge shotgun held steadily in front of her, "you don't actually believe that I would harm you, do you?"

  "Then why are you pointing it at me?" Jack and Robby had walked in the back door of Rita's home. They had no sooner closed the door behind them and reached for a light switch, when the sound of the pumping shotgun and the voice of his mother telling him, calmly, to leave the lights off filled his ears.

  "A woman my age needs to protect herself, Jack," she said from the shadows. "God only knows what evil may be lurking about in this storm."

  "Well, you know it's me and Robby, so please put down the gun."

  "Come inside, Jack. But please, take your shoes off first. I just had the carpet cleaned and don't want you two tracking filth through my house."

  "Where is Matthew?" Jack demanded.

  "Remove your shoes, Jack, and I will show you that Matthew is just as snug as a bug in a rug." Rita paused. "Take them off, now!" she growled.

  Jack removed his shoes, then stooped over to help remove Robby's. He looked up and winked at Robby who returned the wink with a tentative smile. "Listen to me, okay?" Jack mouthed to Robby, who then nodded his response. Once their shoes were off, Rita, who had moved closer to Jack and Robby, motioned, using the barrel of her shotgun
, towards the living room.

  "In there, both of you. And if you are scheming anything, Jack, remember that 'whosoever is pregnant with evil conceives trouble and gives birth to disillusionment.' Psalm 7, verse 14. You're not pregnant with an evil scheme, are you Jack?"

  "Mother, I just want to make sure that Matthew is okay, and I want to help you."

  "Help me, Jack? You want to help me? 'He captures the wise by their own shrewdness.' Job 5, verse 13. Don't be fooled into thinking that I don't know why you are here, Jack. But rest assured, you're being here and bringing my grandson to see me is all the help I require."

  Matthew Jones was five years old. During those five years, his mother Vanessa had been his world. Though others might say that Vanessa was "overly protective," Matthew didn't seem to care. Beside his "one-on-one time" with his uncle Jack, Matthew had never been apart from his mother for more than six or seven hours. But when the strange woman arrived at his and his mom's apartment earlier in the day and started hitting his mother so hard with the baseball bat, Matthew knew that he was going to be away from his mom for a long time.

  "You," the strange woman said to him as she pulled off the plastic gloves from her hands, "need to be cleansed."

  Matthew was scared, but he felt that screaming or trying to run away would end poorly for him. He let the strange woman cover his mouth with thick, black tape and didn't try pulling away when she grabbed him by his arm and led him away from his mom, down the stairs, and into her car.

  "Know this," the woman told him once she bound his arms and legs and placed him lying down in the backseat of the car, "'let every person be quick to listen and slow to speak.' James 1, verse 19."

  Matthew wasn't sure what she meant but figured that the woman wasn't interested in hearing anything he had to say.

  When the car stopped, and the woman turned off the car, she turned to Matthew and told him to not move a muscle. Matthew thought that it was silly for her to say that since the woman put so much black tape on his arms and legs that even if he wanted to move, he wouldn't be able to. Knowing that she didn't want to hear his thoughts, he just nodded in agreement.