Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  By all accounts, Bette was mentally impaired to the point she was unable to communicate, but I still felt compelled to see her. I thought a surprise visit might be the best way for us to meet, rather than knocking at the front gate, which would just get us sent away.

  Neither of my running-mates thought this was a particularly good idea, but they were always up for an adventure that involved trespassing. Problem was, we’d have to scale the fence, and there was no way that Byron could get over it.

  “Go ahead, I’ll stay here,” he said with his typical confidence, but I could tell it hurt him. We never left each other behind.

  Carter declared it a “dumbass” idea, and that I was an idiot to even think of it. He started walking in the other direction to make his point. But Byron protested, “Go ahead—I don’t really know what you’re going to get out of it, but I trust JP’s instincts.”

  Carter grudgingly agreed, and the two of us climbed over the fence. We headed across the yard, toward the house. I expected a blinding floodlight to flash on and an air raid siren to go off, but it remained deathly quiet. We found a large oak tree and took cover, buying time to figure out how we were actually going to accomplish this. Time went by, maybe ten minutes, and then we heard a sound behind us. We instinctively turned—Carter pulled his gun.

  Sitting before us was Byron.

  “How the hell did you get over that fence?” Carter asked.

  “I didn’t get over it—I went under. I remembered what J-News had said about there being underground tunnels connecting the buildings at that mental hospital, and that they might still be there. So I did some checking around while I was waiting for you two to get yourselves into trouble, and sure enough, I found an entrance.”

  Carter acted unimpressed, and looked to me. “So you got a plan yet? Or do you need me to knock and pretend I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I said.

  “How is that not a bad idea?” Byron asked.

  “The knocking part, anyway. I doubt Bette gets many visitors. Maybe she’ll be happy someone is here and we’ll be invited in.”

  “I thought she couldn’t talk?” Byron asked.

  “My kind of woman,” Carter added.

  “That’s what I was told, but I want to see for myself.”

  Byron whispered, “Big Ugly has been known to scare off small children and bunny rabbits. I should be the one to go—people are never in a rush to push away a handicapped guy asking for money. I can be our ticket inside.”

  Carter shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

  A voice rose up behind us, “No need—we’re the ones who will be doing the knocking out.”

  I turned to see a man brandishing an assault rifle, and wearing camouflage attire. It didn’t deter Carter, who relished any confrontation, and reached for his gun in the back waistband of his jeans.

  Before he could, another well-armed guy sent him to the ground from behind.

  “Down on the ground!” he ordered me. And for once in my life I chose discretion over valor.

  Part Two —

  Curses Be Damned

  Chapter 18

  Monday—Labor Day

  I’d spent many nights in confined places with Carter and Byron—often in war-torn countries, with the sounds of gunfire as the background music. But that didn’t prepare me for spending a night with them in a cramped jail cell.

  The good news was once Woodrow Hastings was informed that his potential candidate had been arrested for trespassing, he not only dropped the charges, but apologized to us for the overzealous security.

  On the downside, our release wouldn’t be made official until morning, so we were forced to have a slumber party at the Rockfield police barracks. Rich Tolland finally arrived just before seven to fill out the paperwork, and didn’t look happy to be starting his Labor Day in this manner. But he didn’t appear to be surprised.

  However, I was surprised to see my brother Ethan waiting outside to offer us a ride. He explained that the Jeep was still registered in his name, so he was called after it was reported being “abandoned” near Samerauk Bridge.

  He drove us to his house, where he had taken the Jeep. It was also where Ethan and Pam would be hosting their annual Labor Day picnic later in the day. There was a lot of buzzing around the yard—tables being washed, tents being set up. Carter and Byron immediately offered assistance, but I wouldn’t be able to join them.

  “I wish I could help out, but I’ve got something I need to do,” I said.

  “That’s what I figured,” Ethan replied, with just enough condescension to annoy me.

  I flashed what he always called my “smart-ass smile.” “Don’t worry, I’ll be back later to eat your food and drink your beer,” I said, and headed for my Jeep.

  I drove to town and purchased a coffee and donuts, along with a copy of today’s Gazette. I was confident that our arrest came after the paper had gone to print, but was still relieved not to see myself on the front page. Of course, Allison probably had it up on the online version—damn technology!

  I drove to a neighborhood off Zycko, and found the house where Mr. Delaney was installing a new deck. Working on Labor Day didn’t seem like much fun, but since he had three kids, a widowed mother, and his grown daughter currently living at his house, he likely was looking for any excuse to get out of there.

  We shook hands, his grip still more like a vice-lock than a handshake. “Did you come here to help me out all on your own, or did Gwen force you?” he asked with a smile.

  “She only makes me do that on Father’s Day,” I said, as he finally released my hand and the blood began to flow again. “I’m actually here to see one of your workers—Levi Campbell. Is he here?”

  Mr. Delaney looked puzzled by the request, but pointed me to where Levi was pounding nails under the deck. When he saw me coming, he looked frightened.

  “I thought the other night was just between us—I swear I didn’t say anything about you and Miss Delaney.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, Levi. There’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

  “Oh, you’re here to buy some stuff. I get my lunch break at noon. Meet me behind the pavilion at Lefebvre Park.”

  “I’m not here to buy anything, but I am interested in that pavilion area. You were at Lefebvre Park Saturday night, correct?”

  “Um … I thought we weren’t gonna talk about that? Is this some sort of test to see if I’m loyal?”

  “No test—I just want to know if you saw anyone else there that night … before me and Miss Delaney arrived.”

  He thought for a moment, before it came back to him. “Yeah—those stuck-up swimmers. They thought they owned the school when I was there—I was hoping I’d get away from them after I graduated, but they’re like those zombies that never die.”

  As a stickler for accuracy—zombies are actually dead, brought back to life by an evil sorcerer, sort of like this curse. I needed him to help me find the sorcerer. I also didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news for Levi, but the biggest jackasses from your school days will follow you around until you die. It’s called the Law of Bobby Maloney.

  “Were these the same kids who were involved in that accident by the bridge that night?”

  “Yeah—they must have been doing some messed up stuff. I’ve had some bad trips, but I’ve never started seeing ghosts in bathrobes.”

  “So they were doing drugs when you saw them?”

  “No, but they all went up to The Tower, and why else would someone go up there?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  He stood with a blank look on his face, before a thought drifted into his head. “They brought shovels with them. Not sure what that was about.”

  “Maybe they were burying a body,” I said with a light laugh. But Levi didn’t see the humor. In fact, he looked like he was going to be sick.

  “Ah, man, and I’m a witness. Now I have to testify against th
em, and go into witness protection or something,” he groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

  “You’re not going to have to testify against anyone,” I patted him on the back. But he was right about one thing—he was a witness. And a good one. He not only confirmed that the “swimmers” had been at the park, and that they were up by the pavilion, which explained why I found Callie Faust’s earring there. She didn’t lose it when she was thrown over the bridge, as she said. He also led me to believe they had buried something there, and now it was time to figure out what that was.

  I drove directly to Lefebvre Park, and hiked up to the spot by the pavilion where I’d found the earring. I took a shovel from the Jeep, and didn’t have to dig down very far before coming across an object.

  I pulled out a shoebox. When I brushed off the dirt, and opened it, I understood how Geraldo felt when he opened Capone’s vault—the only thing in the box was a dead bird, and by the smell of it, it had been there for a while.

  I called on the knowledge of the many spy novels I’d read as a kid, and decided that there must be something hidden inside the bird … some sort of clue. I took it into my hand, held my breath, and apologized to the little guy for the indignity that was about to occur.

  The bird was brittle, and when I attempted to break it in half, it crumbled in my hands. There was nothing hidden inside.

  We were taught as children that one of life’s golden rules was: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. But as I looked down at the remnants of the dead bird in my hands, I was quickly learning that the rules didn’t apply to this story.

  Chapter 19

  “I gotta take off, JP, but we’ll definitely hook up at Ethan’s on Monday,” were Noah’s final words to me, as he left the Rockfield Fair last year, heading to catch up with an “old friend,” who we both knew was the spirit of Lisa Spargo.

  But we wouldn’t hook up at the party. In fact, it was canceled on account of Noah’s death. There was some talk of not having it this year, but my parents stepped in and set everyone straight about the best way to honor Noah’s life, which was to live ours.

  I felt his presence here today. And it made me think that maybe he did come through on his promise … just a little late … which was my brother in a nutshell.

  Even though I had prepared myself for this event, and had all my force-fields in working order, I still felt overwhelmed, just as I had at the bridge on Saturday night. I could have used the comforting touch of Gwen, but she was working diligently as the middleman between the kitchen and the barbecue. It didn’t seem as if she’d lost a wink of sleep over her boyfriend spending the night in the pokey. Perhaps my screw-ups were becoming blasé.

  I did find a consolation prize in Murray Brown, who was the best dressed attendee, decked out in a large straw hat and beige linen suit. While fashion can be subjective, it was a fact that he was the wisest man in the group, as he had been since the day we first crossed paths, when I was assigned to his journalism class at Rockfield High.

  And to provide balance, my cellmate, Jeff Carter, was also present, and was neither well dressed nor wise. His partner in crime, Byron Jasper, had struck up a football-related bromance with Ethan, and was assisting him with the cooking.

  “John Pierpont—your incarcerations seem to becoming less creative these days,” Murray said, reminding me of a past trip to police headquarters during my search for Noah’s killer.

  He looked to Carter. “I’d like to say you’re a bad influence on him, Jeffrey, but I’ve known John Pierpont long enough to know he’s the ringleader of his own personal circus.”

  “I think it’s a mutual bad influence—we bring out the worst in each other,” Carter said, like it was a good thing, and the three of us nodded in agreement.

  I got back to the reason I sought Murray out. “So was the Thomas Archibald case prominent back in the day?”

  Murray chuckled. “You mean back when us dinosaurs roamed the earth? Honestly, no. When I’d arrived in town, and started up the Gazette, I was here for almost two years before the name Archibald was even mentioned—and believe me, in those days we were looking for juicy stories to bring attention to our new venture. I attempted an investigative series to mark the twentieth anniversary in 1979, but it became a much smaller project, as most of the town wouldn’t speak on the record.”

  “You were stonewalled?”

  “I wouldn’t say that—more along the lines of most people not being around when it happened. And those who were here seemed to have moved on, and weren’t eager to dredge up the past. But I sensed it was more out of apathy than some sort of coverup.”

  “Did you ever look into the Hastings family? Supposedly they had an ongoing feud with the Archibalds. So they had a motive.”

  “If memory serves, they also had solid alibis. And by the time I’d arrived in town, most of them had been gone for years. Joe Sr. and his wife had moved to California and had become successful in the movie business. As did their oldest son, Joe Jr., who was an actor. And of course, Bette, bless her heart, might have been here, but she was trapped within herself.”

  “Woodrow did attack Archibald just prior to his disappearance.”

  “Woodrow has played the most prominent role in town of those in his family, especially after he took control of the Hastings Trust in the early 1980s. For what it’s worth, he has always been willing to talk to me about this, or any subject I’ve brought before him. He certainly hasn’t been evasive. And like the rest of his family, he has an alibi for that night.”

  “Did you ask him for a quote on the possible break-in at his sister’s home last night?” I asked.

  Murray smiled. “He was very complimentary of you—almost as if you were his handpicked choice to go up against Maloney in the election.”

  “Have you met Bette Hastings?” I quickly changed the subject, before Murray convinced me to declare my candidacy.

  “I haven’t seen her in a long time, maybe ten years, but she used to make occasional public appearances—the entire family would come in for the parade and opening of the Fair, and Bette was always there with them. I recall when Joe Sr. died in the early 1980s, Rockfield had a ceremony to celebrate his life. Somehow during the event, Bette wandered away. And for a couple of panicked hours, the town was practically on lock-down as they searched for her.

  “They found her in the next town eating ice cream, no harm, no foul. The next day we ran the headline Run, Bette, Run! It was the only time I ever heard from Woodrow Hastings about something I’d written about his family, and he was hopping mad—you could tell he was very protective of his sister, which is understandable.”

  “This Archibald case sounds to me like a land dispute on steroids, and the ghost stories are to throw people off the trail,” Carter said, and he would know about such substances. “Can you please tell JP that there’s no such thing as curses? It’s either that or I’m going to have to knock some sense into him. And nobody wants that.”

  “I never said there’s a curse. Just that what happened the other night connects back to what went down with Archibald and Bette Hastings,” I defended.

  Murray looked to Carter. “What makes you say there’s no such thing as curses?”

  “Since I laid down ten grand on the Yankees to beat the Red Sox back in the 2004 playoffs, based on the ‘Curse of the Bambino.’ The only cursing came from me after I lost my money.”

  Murray eyed me. “And what makes you think the events of the other night are connected to a mystery over half-a-century old?”

  “The same gut feeling that told me that Noah didn’t commit suicide, when most of the town believed he did.”

  “But that same intuition also led to you and your compatriots to be taken hostage on multiple occasions, and is the reason you spent last night in jail. So it is hardly infallible.”

  “Then what do you think happened?” I asked Murray.

  “First, to respond to Jeffrey’s inquiry, I’d say that it is irrelevant if there is a
n actual curse—if a baby is delivered through a mother’s labor or delivered by a fictional stork, the result is still a baby. It’s simply a symptom, or perhaps a weapon, of the longstanding battle between the Samerauks and the Hastings family.

  “And there does seem to be a pattern of this curse reappearing when an important issue is at stake—in this case the casino, so John Pierpont would not be wrong to be suspicious of the events from the other night.”

  “I should have known you’d side with your little pet. Call me irrelevant all you want, but that doesn’t change that I’m right,” Carter countered.

  “You absolutely are, Jeffrey. Specifically about the root cause being a land dispute, which is yet to be resolved, almost two centuries later. The theatrics might have ended, or at least paused, when the Samerauks and Hastings family came together to have that ceremony to end the curse, but the dispute really just moved from Zycko Hill to the inside of a courtroom.

  “When Chief Vayo passed on, his daughter, Poca, took over, and she vowed that they would not stop until they secured the original land that had been granted to them by the Colony of Connecticut back in 1730. The painstakingly slow quest in the courts for federal recognition, which I’ve covered off and on for the last twenty years, and the resulting casino, are just tactics to achieve this. They’ve become the new curse, so to speak.”

  “Chief Poca can have my land anytime she wants,” Carter quickly changed his tone, as he often does when an attractive female is involved.

  Murray smiled. “I’ve covered her since the day she took over for her father, back when we were both much younger … although, we don’t seem to be aging at the same rate. And yes, Jeffrey isn’t the first to be impressed with her womanly assets and frolicsome nature, which she has been able to use to her advantage, just as the woman her nickname was based on, Pocahontas, did with the new settlers. But they also share a trait of fearlessness—legend tells us that the original Pocahontas once put her own head atop John Smith’s just as her father was about to behead him, saving his life.”