by Ron Ripley
The new shooter case was, as they say, nothing more than a box of crazy. He would have had more luck with questioning a litter of cats than with the supposed witnesses.
So it was with little expectation that he allowed the men to speak to him.
Jeremy, the older of the two, was as worn and thin as his much younger partner, Victor, happened to be.
The two men wore exhausted expressions and they twitched upon hearing the occasional odd sound.
“Detective,” Jeremy said, “I don’t suppose you would be averse to our dispensing with any pleasantries?”
Micky chuckled and shook his head. “I’d appreciate it if you did.”
“I thought as much,” Jeremy said, smiling. “Now, the young Miss Janel has stated that she believes the shootings were done with an M1 Garand.”
Micky nodded. “It’s a solid theory. There’s not much information on the weapon in the system, with regards to shootings, that is. We’ve got some reference points coming in from the FBI database, but there’s always a lag in delivery time.”
“So I would assume,” Jeremy said, smiling. “Have you reached out to the local gun dealers and ammunition suppliers?”
“It’s on the list of things to do as soon as my captain stops playing phone tag with the governor,” Micky grunted. “Why?”
“Whoever owns this weapon,” Jeremy continued, “purchased it from an individual that my friend and I would very much like to speak to. We were wondering if it might at all be possible to learn where the weapon originated from, should you learn of it yourself.”
Micky nodded to Victor and asked, “Can you close the door?”
Victor did so.
Lighting a cigarette, Micky looked at Jeremy and asked, “And why would you want me to do that?”
“Whomever it is has some crimes to answer for,” Jeremy explained.
“That’s pretty vague,” Micky said, exhaling the smoke towards the ceiling.
“They killed my wife,” Victor said in a flat, bitter voice.
Micky coughed on the cigarette smoke, blinked away the tears that sprang up, and said in a rough voice, “Damn. That is a hell of a lot more specific. Murder’s a crime, by the way. Can you prove this person did it?”
“Not in any way that would stand up in a court of law,” Jeremy replied.
“Now that,” Micky said, “will be a bit of a problem. What can you tell me about the situation?”
Victor told him, in short, clipped sentences about the death of his wife, a haunted toy, and other possessed items. When he finished, Micky wasn’t sure if he was angry with the lies, or impressed by their complexity.
He stubbed out his cigarette and said, “That certainly is one whopper of a tale.”
“You don’t believe us,” Jeremy said.
“Not one bit,” Micky confirmed. “Did you really expect me to?”
“No,” Victor confessed, “but I hoped you would.”
“Why?” Micky asked, bemused.
Jeremy took an old magazine out from an old leather satchel and placed it on the desk.
Micky picked it up and saw it was a catalog, not a periodical, and it described an upcoming sale focused on haunted items. Protruding from the top edge was a green tape flag, and Micky flipped to it.
On the page was a photograph of an old M1 Garand rifle. He read the description several times and felt an uncomfortable, tingling sensation dance along his spine. After a minute, Micky closed the catalog and returned it to his desk.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Micky said and found he was disturbed by the hollowness of his statement.
Jeremy seemed to notice it as well. The older man leaned forward and said, “You sense something, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Micky cleared his throat and got himself a fresh cigarette.
He contemplated what to say next as he lit the cigarette. Then he inhaled, held the smoke in for a moment, and let it out slowly through his nose.
“Yes,” Micky admitted. “There’s something not right about the shootings. I don’t know what exactly. I can’t put my finger on it. We’re chasing down leads, looking for anyone who may have sold ammunition to the shooter. But that’s all we have right now.”
“You know there will be more,” Victor said, his voice hard and fierce.
Micky wanted to disagree with him, but Victor was right.
There would be more shootings, at least until the killer is caught. And that itself might be a bloody affair.
“And all you want from the shooter is the name of the person who sold the weapon to him?” Micky asked.
Jeremy and Victor nodded, the older man adding, “And we would be more than willing to help try and find him.”
Micky raised an eyebrow and asked, “How would you do that?”
Jeremy smiled. “It’s been called a parlor trick before, although I personally disagree with the description of it as such.”
“Alright,” Micky said, “I’ll bite. What’s the parlor trick?”
“I know when something’s haunted,” Jeremy replied, and the smile fell from his face. It was replaced by a raw, pained expression which vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived.
Micky chuckled in spite of himself and said, “Tell me then, is there anything in here that’s haunted.”
Jeremy offered a quick nod as a reply.
“Really?” Micky asked, surprised. “What is it?”
“The toy on your desk,” Jeremy replied.
Micky stuttered, cleared his throat and managed a simple, “What?”
“The toy,” Jeremy repeated. “The small dinosaur.”
Micky felt his face flush, and he snapped, “That’s a god damn low trick.”
“Your sister doesn’t think so,” Jeremy said softly.
Micky was too stunned to reply.
Jeremy looked as though he had run a couple of miles. His face was pale, sweat appearing on his brow and his legs trembling. His breath came in short snippets and if Micky hadn’t been so shocked by what the man had said, he would have called for a paramedic.
The two men across from him remained silent until Micky found his voice and asked, “How do you know that belonged to my sister?”
“She’s here,” Jeremy said, sounding as uncomfortable as he looked, “standing beside you.”
Micky twisted in his seat to look to the left, but Jeremy shook his head. Changing his position, Micky faced right and felt the hairs on his forearms stand up. He felt foolish as he stared at the wall and the various flyers and notices tacked on it. In spite of his disbelief, he asked, “Why is she here?”
“I don’t know,” Jeremy answered. “I can see them, sometimes, but I can’t speak to them. Not unless they can be heard by all. There are others who have that ability. I do not.”
Struggling with his emotions, Micky asked, “What does she look like?”
A small smile played across Jeremy’s face as if Micky was asking him a question he had heard many times before.
“She’s a little girl,” Jeremy said, the smile fading, replaced by a look of concentration. “Perhaps five or six. Her hair is a bright red, and her face is full, covered with freckles. And she has brilliant green eyes. She’s wearing a San Francisco ‘49ers t-shirt, and a pair of jeans and purple Converse All-Stars.”
Micky’s breath caught in his throat, and he dropped his head down into his hands. It took him almost a minute to regain his composure. When he did, he straightened up and said, “That was her favorite outfit.”
“Did she die young?” Victor asked.
Micky shook his head. “No. Just a few years ago. She was in a head-on collision down in North Carolina. Marybeth, my sister, lasted a couple of days on life-support, but she was brain dead.”
He reached out and picked up the small, yellowish-green plastic dinosaur. Micky smiled at it as he turned it over in his hand.
“This,” he said, holding it up, “was given to her by a little boy who was at th
e accident scene. She had been thrown from the car, and he put it in her hand to make her feel safe and good.”
Micky choked on the last words, struggled once more to compose himself and managed to continue.
“They had to pry it out of her hands when she went into surgery,” Micky continued. “I went down there to sit with her, and when she died, I tried to return the dinosaur to the boy. But he told me she wanted me to have it. It’s been on my desk ever since.”
He turned the dinosaur over in his hands and then put it back on the desk.
“I don’t know how you do your parlor trick, Mr. Rhinehart,” Micky said, “but, I believe you. When I find the shooter, you’ll get a chance to question him.”
“Detective,” Victor said before Jeremy could reply.
“Yes?” Micky asked.
“How do you know it’s a he?” Victor asked.
Micky gave him a tired smile. “Shooters like this always are.”
Chapter 14: A Visit with the Patriarch
The flight had been as long and uneventful as the ride from the airport had been short and bothersome.
After Stefan had parked the car along the curb, he entered the house, listening for anything strange or out of the ordinary.
Nothing seemed out of place, so he flicked on the light and went up the stairs to the second floor. He approached the bound door that led to his father’s room and stopped several feet away from it.
His father’s proud, demanding voice pierced the wood.
“You’ve returned, Stefanushka,” Ivan Denisovich Korzh said.
“Yes,” Stefan said, struggling with the fear and sense of inadequacy he always felt when speaking with the dead man.
“Why?” his father asked. “What have you come to tell me? Have you come to let me know you succeeded? Is there some joyous news you wish to impart? Tell me, have you finally decided to protect your mother’s collection? Or, and this last question I doubt the most, have you found a woman to marry and pass along our name?”
Anger rose up within him, and Stefan was unable to answer.
“Hmph,” his father snorted from the other side of the door, “you are ever the consummate disappointment, Stefan.”
Stefan clenched his hands into fists and forced himself to calm down.
“I came to ask you about the man who is hunting me,” he finally managed to speak. “I want to know where he is, and how close he is to me.”
His father’s laugh shattered the stillness of the house and sent the other dead behind the door howling. Above their complaints, Ivan said, “That is on you, Stefanushka. I told you to beware, to be cautious of what you were about to attempt. But you did not listen.”
“I need help,” Stefan complained, hating the whining tone that filtered through.
“Of course you do,” his father sneered. “You have always thought you were clever, but you’ve merely been a lucky, stupid boy. Even now you are older but no wiser than some foolish child.”
“Really?” Stefan demanded. “I seem to be doing alright on my own here, Father.”
His father chuckled before he answered, “Retrieve Anne for me, Stefanushka, and we will speak about this man who hunts you.”
“Anne?” Stefan asked, confused. “Why do you want her back?”
“Why I want her returned to me is none of your concern,” Ivan Denisovich snapped. “I have a task for her, one which only she can do.”
“How can I get her?” Stefan asked angrily. “I don’t even know where she is.”
“But I do,” his father said, his voice becoming sly.
“How the hell do you know that?” The surprise he felt caused Stefan’s voice to raise a full octave.
“When I tell you these walls do not hold me,” his father said in a low voice, “why do you not believe me?”
“You’re bound there,” Stefan snapped.
“No,” his father whispered, “there is so much you do not know about the dead. There are doors for me to travel through. Did you never wonder why I spent so much time with my own dead, here behind this door?”
“No,” Stefan answered. “I didn’t even think about it.”
His father laughed and said, “You have always been a terrible liar, Stefanushka. Now listen, I will tell you where to find Anne, and when you have brought her to me, I will tell you of the one who hunts you.”
Stefan leaned forward and listened.
Chapter 15: In Darkness, He Despairs
The lights had gone out shortly after his father’s death, leaving Tom alone in the dark with his father’s corpse. It seemed as though the creature that had killed his father also robbed the house of its electricity.
The clock on the stove went dark, and the refrigerator was silent, its steady hum gone.
Tom had no way to judge how long he remained in the kitchen.
Finally, he summoned up the courage to move, using the faint glow from the street lamps filtered in through the windows to guide himself to the landline mounted beside the side door. When he picked up the receiver, there was nothing.
No dial tone.
Silence.
Shivering, Tom replaced the handset and reached out for the doorknob. When he grasped it, something cold and hard slammed into his chest, sending him stumbling backward, tripping over his own feet.
He landed on the kitchen floor with a groan, placed his hands on the cold linoleum and scrambled to his feet.
“No,” the voice said, chuckling, “you can’t leave that way, boy. Find another.”
By touch and with his heart pounding in his chest, Tom retreated from the kitchen. He stumbled along the hallway to the stairs, and then fumbled his way up. At the top, he pitched forward, biting his tongue and tasting blood as he landed on his chest. Gasping for breath, Tom clawed his way to his bedroom, moonlight streaming through his window and illuminating the doorway.
Once he was inside, he kicked his door shut suspecting the door wouldn’t do anything to help him against the unseen creature, but not caring.
Tom collapsed onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, catching his breath. The memory of his father on the stove played itself on a continuous loop through his thoughts, and he struggled to keep them under control.
At least mom’s not here, Tom thought. All I have to do is get out. Get out and warn her. That’s it. Easy as pie. I’ll go out a window. It won’t be expecting that.
Tom’s line of thought was cut as he heard the sound of his mother’s car from outside. Her Volvo had a distinct rumble to it, one that was unmistakable, especially in the still of the powerless house.
Tom sat up, his eyes wide.
No!
He grabbed hold of the bed, pulled himself to his feet and hurried to the door, jerking it open.
The same cold hands he had felt in the kitchen pushed him backward, forcing him onto his bed.
“Now, now, boy,” the voice said. “You can’t spoil my fun. You’ve no idea how many years I spent cooped up in that house. You would think that perhaps one of them would have opened the book. But no, nary a one did. Not in that house. The Korzhs were too clever for that. Even that wretch of a son of theirs, he knew better than to play with me. Now I’m out, boy, and I plan on enjoying myself until someone puts me away again. So, stay in your room. I do believe I should like a few words in private with your mother.”
“No!” Tom screamed, jumping up and racing for the door.
The voice laughed, and Tom felt himself thrown, stars exploding in front of his eyes before darkness swam over him, dragging him into unconsciousness.
***
Maureen sat in her car for a moment, keys in her hand as she stared out the driver’s side window at the house.
None of the lights were on. Not even those on either side of the front door.
She bristled with anger, thinking of Anthony’s self-righteous remarks. Maureen was certain he was inside, texting like a teenager with his newest secretary.
Then she shook her head, thinking,
No, that’s disrespectful to teens. Even Tom doesn’t act like that.
She sighed as she thought of her son. Tom was the only reason she had come back sooner than she had planned. She had tried to text him to let him know that she had left, but there was no charge on her phone. After an hour of driving around angrily, she had finally pulled over, gone into a 24-hour gas station and asked to use the phone.
She had gotten a busy signal.
Maureen was positive Anthony had taken the phone off the hook. He was petty and spiteful when he was upset, and he had definitely been upset when she left the house.
Shaking her head, Maureen got out of the car, taking the house key with her before she closed the car door. She wanted to get in and out of the house as quickly as possible. Tom was particularly sensitive to the recent fights between herself and Anthony, and she didn’t want to upset her son any more than she had to.
One of the subjects she had talked about with her own mother was the possibility of her and Tom moving in for a while. A breather so Maureen could figure out what to do with her life, while Anthony decided whether or not he wanted to be married anymore.
The idea of a separation, even a trial one, was crushing to her. She had always enjoyed the thought of growing old with Anthony, with seeing Tom reach adulthood, find a girl and give them grandchildren to adore and fawn over.
Where the marriage went wrong, whether it was partly her fault or all of Anthony’s, didn’t seem to matter.
The marriage was ending, and part of Maureen was dying with it. She had spent hours crying at her mother’s house, feeling more like a heart-sick teen than a forty-two-year-old mother and former defense attorney.
She felt the tears well up again, but Maureen fought them back. If Anthony was still awake, she didn’t want him to see her upset. He seemed to revel in it.
With a deep breath, she regained her composure and strode along the cement path to the front door. She had no intention of going in through the side door or sneaking in through the back. It was her house, too, and wasn’t going to skulk around.
