Walter's Rifle (Haunted Collection Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  Victor shook his head with a short chuckle. “No. I would appreciate a cot.”

  “Excellent,” Jeremy said, smiling. “Come, I’ll give you a tour as well.”

  Victor shook his head and laughed, then followed Jeremy as the older man began to point out various pieces and explained their provenance.

  Chapter 41: Along a Winding Road

  Walter stumbled through the dusk, whispering to himself as he followed a slim game trail. The M1 Garand was slung over his shoulder, his thumb hooked into the strap to keep the weapon steady.

  Brown kept pace beside him, a half-seen specter drifting between and through trees.

  “How are you feeling?” Brown asked in a low, gentle voice that Walter had come to distrust.

  “Why?” Walter asked, bristling.

  “You look tired,” Brown said. “Terrible for a man as young as yourself to be so tired. Maybe you ought to lie down. Get a little rest.”

  Walter stifled a yawn, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion possessing him. He tried to shrug it off but couldn’t.

  “Stop it,” Walter muttered, switching the rifle from one shoulder to the other.

  “Stop what?” Brown asked, feigning innocence.

  “You know what,” Walter snapped. “We’re almost there.”

  “Are we?” Brown inquired.

  Walter nodded, trying to keep his eyes open and focused on the ground. There were patches of the trail that were threaded with roots and deadfall.

  “Is it a good place?” Brown continued.

  “Sure,” Walter said, nodding. “Good cover. Runners and walkers use it. Excellent spot to shoot from.”

  “And is it a safe place?” Brown asked.

  “Yup,” Walter answered. “What’s the point of a hiding spot if it isn’t safe?”

  “Can you rest there?” Brown whispered. “Will you be able to close your eyes and get rid of some of your tiredness? You’re exhausted, kid. You need to rest.”

  Walter yawned and nodded his agreement, then he came to a stop, turned to face the dead man and in a voice that quivered with rage said, “Knock it off!”

  Brown chuckled. “I don’t want to wait. This is boring. Sure, you’ll kill some more folks, and that’s fun. But it’s not nearly as much fun as convincing someone to do themselves in. There’s this excitement when it happens, Walter. When you finally get them to put the barrel in their mouth and pull the trigger.”

  The ghost shuddered with sick delight and let out a laugh.

  “Oh, kid,” Brown said, sighing, “you’ve no idea of what I’m going to do to you.”

  “You’re not going to do anything,” Walter hissed. “You can’t!”

  “I can,” Brown said, his voice becoming hard. “Do you know how long it’ll take you to die if I have you shoot yourself in the gut? Or how about I talk you into taking a carving knife and gelding yourself? Oh, there are so many ways, kid. So many. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about them.”

  “Well, if you don’t stop messing with me,” Walter complained, “then we’re not going to get to the hide. And if we don’t get there tonight, we won’t be able to shoot in the morning.”

  “You won’t be able to shoot,” Brown corrected. “Me, I’ll get my thrills from watching you die, and then someone else will pick up the rifle. Trust me, it’s a pattern I know well.”

  Walter stared at the ghost and had a horrific realization.

  Brown wasn’t kidding. There was no note of jest in the dead man’s voice.

  Brown had every intention of watching Walter die, and suddenly Walter knew that there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  Chapter 42: Patience is a Virtue

  Micky could do nothing more than wait.

  It had taken them days to find out exactly where Walter lived, and to get the search warrant for the man’s small house. When they had served the warrant earlier, the man wasn’t there.

  But there was no denying Walter was the shooter.

  Shell casings and all the equipment necessary for making rounds littered the kitchen, and maps of the area had been tacked up on the walls. Maps that focused on popular running trails with additional marks that correlated with the previous shootings. And since both the man and the M1 Garand weren’t in the home, Walter was considered armed and dangerous.

  Micky sat in his cruiser, parked far from where all of the action would occur, and it was driving him mad. His qualifications to be in on any sort of takedown were no longer valid, at least according to the Tactical Services Unit.

  After the warrant had been served, a canine unit had picked up the man’s scent behind the house, and according to the dog’s handler, the trail was fresh. Evidently, Walter had left on foot for his next shooting, and the tactical team had scrambled to plot out the possibilities. One of them overlooked a winding road with a blind corner for any traffic, foot or otherwise. According to one of the local police, there was an excellent, natural hide in the area as well. The last storm that had blown through had taken down quite a few trees, creating a perfect nest from which to shoot atop a nearby ridge.

  Micky sat in one of the cars blocking the north end of the road, ensuring that no one would walk through what was undoubtedly going to be a bitter, brutal fight.

  Other vehicles had secured the southern end of the road and tactical teams from the Vermont State Police, New Hampshire State Police, and ten other towns and cities had thrown up a cordon around the area. The goal was to take the shooter alive, but no one had any illusions about what would happen if he opened fire on them.

  They would neutralize the threat and keep themselves alive.

  Walter’s rights to a fair trial wasn’t on anyone’s list of priorities.

  Micky reflected on the promise he had made to Jeremy and Victor, and how he had told them they would be able to speak to Walter once he was in custody.

  If he had his way, Micky would stand over Walter with the Garand’s barrel pressed against the man’s temple, and blow his brains out.

  Walter was no better than a sick dog, and his dying on a lonely stretch of road would be best for everyone. The families of the victims wouldn’t have to suffer through a trial, and the state of Vermont wouldn’t have to bear the burden of keeping Walter alive in a correctional facility until nature or some other prisoner finished the man off.

  Micky glanced at the car’s two-way radio and wondered what the situation was. Radio silence wouldn’t be broken until Walter was in custody or down.

  All Micky could do was wait.

  And he hated waiting.

  Frowning, Micky took out a cigarette, lit it, and stared at the radio.

  ***

  “How are you feeling?” Brown asked.

  “Fine,” Walter lied.

  “Feeling good? Alert? On your toes, as it were?” the dead man asked with a snicker.

  “Yes, why?” Walter demanded.

  His answer came a heartbeat later.

  “Put the weapon down!” a voice bellowed from behind a tree. “Drop it now and get on the ground!”

  Walter did neither.

  Instead, he dropped his shoulder, letting the sling slide down his arm.

  Before he could take hold of it, the first bullet slammed into his shoulder.

  Walter fired off a single round, chambered a second and ran. The sound of rapid gunfire filled the air as he ran, and Brown was nowhere to be found. Bullets punched into trees and cut branches down. Several grazed Walter as he sprinted through the undergrowth. Leaping over a rock, Walter stumbled when he landed. Another bullet pierced his side, a blaze of agony swept over him and his breath burned in his throat.

  Spinning, Walter saw several police running towards him. They wore black and olive green tactical gear, faces hidden, and heads protected by helmets. As he brought the Garand up, two of the men moved towards cover while a third took aim.

  Walter fired and grunted with satisfaction as his bullet smashed through the face mask of the anonymous officer. More off
icers started to flank him on either side, spread out and firing and moving with efficient coordination. Men called to him to surrender even as their compatriots filled the forest around him with bullets.

  Walter wouldn’t surrender.

  He couldn’t.

  Even if he wanted to, Walter was certain Brown wouldn’t let him. There would never be the chance to. Brown would either kill him, or convince him to kill himself.

  As if on cue, the dead Marine whispered in his ear.

  “Here we are,” Brown purred. “You’re not getting out of this. You understand it, don’t you?”

  Walter didn’t respond. Instead, he fired off the last three rounds of the clip, ducked, and switched it out with a fresh one. He popped up over the rock, squeezed off another shot and felt a blow slam into his side.

  Coughing, Walter tasted blood and spat it out onto the rock. The blood was dark red, arterial.

  Laughing, he took aim again only to feel an additional pair of bullets strike him in the left thigh. Walter tried to stand, to reload the weapon again, but instead, he felt his hands going numb.

  Another bullet struck him in the lower back, blowing out several ribs.

  Then the Garand fell to the forest grounds as two more rounds punched into Walter, knocking him backward. He bounced off a tree and tried to reach down for the rifle, which was only a foot away from him. All around him he saw and heard semi-automatic weapons. Bullets struck his arms and legs, jerking him to the left and right as if he were nothing more than a twisted marionette.

  Walter fell forward and landed hard on the ground, a root digging into his stomach. He found he couldn’t breathe, and his body wasn’t listening to him. Gasping, Walter stretched out his hand, clawing at the forest grounds for the Garand. At the periphery of his vision, he saw men approach him, but he couldn’t hear them, and it didn’t matter.

  Only the rifle mattered.

  Darkness stole over him, and Brown’ laughter ushered him into death.

  ***

  Micky was out of breath by the time he reached the shooting. Every man and woman on the task force was there, a wide circle spread out around the place of the killing. Each person was conscientious of the crime scene, being certain not to contaminate it.

  Everyone except for the Captain.

  The man had a huge, satisfied grin on his pasty white face, and Micky stifled the urge to slap the expression away.

  In undisguised disgust, Micky watched as the Captain went to the rifle and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, shook his head and smiled.

  The look on the Captain’s face turned Micky’s stomach.

  There was something unspeakably wrong about it.

  The Captain chuckled, slid the bolt back on the rifle and chambered a round.

  Someone called out, “Captain?”

  And the Captain shot a woman standing across from him.

  Within a matter of seconds, he had fired off two more rounds, killing a pair of troopers. Someone tried to tackle him but the Captain moved fast, twisting and clubbing the other man down and shooting a fourth person. Then, before anyone could stop him, he reversed the weapon, jammed the barrel into his mouth with enough force to shatter his front teeth, and blew the back of his skull out.

  As the Captain’s body collapsed onto Walter’s, the task force stood in stunned silence. Someone took a step towards the Captain, and Micky shouted, “Stop!”

  Everyone froze and looked at him.

  “Nobody touch anything,” Micky commanded. “No one touches a God damned single thing. Is that understood?”

  Hesitant nods answered his question.

  “Good,” Micky said, then he called out, “Rafferty!”

  Rafferty showed up a moment later. “Yes?”

  “Take this number,” Micky said, removing Jeremy Rhinehart’s business card out of his wallet, “and call him. Call him right now and get him on the damned line.”

  The task force, as one entity, looked at Micky.

  “No one says anything about this,” Micky said, staring hard at all of them. “Nothing. Not a single word.”

  “What’s going on?” a woman asked.

  “I don’t know,” Micky replied, “but we are sure as hell going to find out.”

  ***

  “Victor,” Jeremy said, jostling him.

  Victor looked at him, his mind reacting slowly. “What is it?”

  “The rifle has been recovered,” Jeremy said.

  Victor’s eyes widened and his heart thundered, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. “Will they send it to us?”

  Jeremy shook his head and Victor’s spirits crashed.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Jeremy said gently, “do not think that this is the end of the rifle. No, I’ve spoken with the detective and he has agreed to let us have the weapon. It seems as though it caused more damage than even I suspected it would.”

  “What do you mean?” Victor asked and Jeremy told him, in short, quick sentences, about the multiple homicides that had occurred after the shooter had been killed.

  “So what are they doing with it?” Victor asked.

  “They’re going to wait for a friend of mine,” Jeremy explained, “and he will bring it to us.”

  “Does he know what it is?” Victor asked, concerned. “And why would he agree to it? Doesn’t he know how dangerous it will be?”

  “He does indeed,” Jeremy answered, “but that does not mean it does not exist. My friend lives in Nashua, New Hampshire. He will drive up to Vermont, receive the weapon from the detective, and then he will transport the rifle down here to us, in Norwich.”

  “And he’s okay with that?” Victor asked.

  Jeremy smiled. “Trust me when I tell you that for this gentleman, the rifle will be nothing more than a nuisance.”

  “Alright,” Victor said, yawning, “alright. Looking forward to meeting him.”

  Jeremy shook his head, saying, “You may regret that statement.”

  “Why’s that?” Victor asked, closing his eyes.

  “He’s not the easiest man to get along with,” Jeremy answered.

  Victor wanted to ask what Jeremy meant, but sleep overwhelmed him before he could.

  Chapter 43: Handing off the Problem

  Micky stood in the center of the crime scene. A cordon of police officers stood a distance away, many of them with shocked expressions. He had called Jeremy, explained the situation, and given the man the area of the shooting. Jeremy was sending someone to collect the weapon.

  “I don’t like it,” Rafferty said, coming to a stop beside him.

  “What’s that?” Micky asked, wishing desperately for a drink.

  “Switching the gun out,” Rafferty said, looking around uncomfortably as his voice sank. “I mean, come on, Micky. You really think this is going to work?”

  Micky nodded. “I do. I spoke to Janel.”

  “Janel?” Rafferty asked. “Up in Forensics?”

  “Same one,” Micky said.

  “Why? What has she got to do with it?” Rafferty demanded.

  “Girl’s got a Garand herself, and she’s willing to let it go into storage as evidence,” Micky answered.

  Rafferty shook his head. “That won’t work, what about the ballistics report?”

  Micky looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  Rafferty’s eyes widened and he said in a low voice, “She works in forensics. She can adjust the report.”

  Micky nodded.

  “All right,” Rafferty said, “if that’s how it’s going to play out, then why are we all here? Are we waiting on Janel?”

  “Yes,” Micky confirmed, “and on the driver as well.”

  “What driver?” Rafferty asked.

  Before Micky could answer, a pair of men approached the darkening trail. One was a young State Police officer. The other was an older man who looked as though he had been tied behind a car and dragged a couple of hundred yards over gravel. In one hand the stranger held the handle of a rifle hard
case. Micky watched as they came to a stop and the older man lit a cigarette.

  “Damn,” the man said, exhaling and taking in the bodies, “this is impressive. That it right there?”

  He nodded toward the Garand.

  “Yeah,” Micky agreed, “it is.”

  “Okay,” the man said. He put the case down, pulled out a pair of thick gloves and opened the case. Pulling on the gloves, the man hummed a Christmas tune. He turned, looked at the rifle and said, “Alright, my dead friend, you’re going into the box. Get ready for it.”

  Rafferty glanced over at Micky, and as he shrugged the world seemed to pulse as the man took hold of the rifle. The air became heavy and cold; the cloying, bitter stench of death filled Micky’s nose and he kept a gag in check through force of will.

  A profane tirade exploded from the stranger’s mouth as he slammed the rifle into the case.

  Pressure built in Micky’s head and he clapped his hands to his ears as a high-pitched squeal ripped through the air. Around him everyone except the stranger was affected by the noise.

  The stranger, in turn, continued to swear, finally managing to slam the lid down and locking it.

  As soon as he did, the noise stopped and Micky lowered his hands, working his jaw to relieve the pressure in his ears.

  The stranger stood up, looked at Micky and asked, “Do you want me to have Jeremy give you a call when he gets a hold of it?”

  “No,” Micky said, “I don’t ever want to hear about that damned rifle again.”

  “Fair enough,” the stranger said, and without another word he left the same way he had come in.

  Chapter 44: Tactics

  Tom had slept fitfully for several hours, waking to the sound of birds singing as the sun was setting. He glanced around, didn’t see Dillon, or feel the ghost’s presence, and got to his feet. Tom hissed at the pain, but he forced himself to limp back towards the work area where all of the equipment was stored.