Walter's Rifle (Haunted Collection Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  His online search had resulted in several, and he hoped he found reliable means of stopping and imprisoning a ghost. If they were right, Tom would need either iron or salt, and he didn’t know how to tell iron apart from any other metal, so he was pinning his hopes on finding some salt.

  Locking Dillon up was only part of Tom’s plan. The other focused on finding someone who would be able to help him permanently get rid of the ghost, and find the person who had sold him the book.

  One step at a time, Tom told himself. Iron and salt. One or the other.

  He continued to ignore the pain as much as possible, searching through dark corners and on shelves. After half an hour he found a black, jagged piece of rusted metal. It looked like the top spike of the old fences that wrapped around so many cemeteries.

  The metal was heavy in his hand, the flaking black paint stabbing into his fingertips and his palm.

  A phrase surfaced from his memory, and Tom felt a cold, hard smile arrive.

  Wrought iron fence.

  Clutching the broken spike in one hand, he continued his search. It ended a few minutes later when he found a battered five-gallon bucket half filled with rock salt. The words, For the Office Walkway, were written in Sharpie on a piece of silver duct tape across the bucket’s center.

  Tom put the spike into the bucket and then dragged it back into the office. By the time he had finished, Tom was sweating and shaking from the effort. He picked up the candy bar he had found earlier and devoured it, the chocolate stale and the peanuts painful to chew. When he finished, Tom washed it down with several sips of water, and then he turned his attention back to the metal and salt. He picked up the spike and clenched it. With his heart racing, Tom put the spike down at his side.

  He took several deep breaths, moved Caesar’s book to the edge of the desk by the bucket and said in a low voice, “Dillon.”

  Nothing happened.

  His heart thundered against his chest, and Tom raised his voice. “Dillon.”

  The air above the book shimmered, and the temperature in the room dropped. His breath rushed out in great white clouds, and he shook with cold and fear.

  “Ah, Tom,” Dillon said, looking around the room. “Curious quarters you’ve found here. But, it seems as though you’ve made good on our escape. I am pleased. In all honesty, I did not believe you would succeed. I am quite happy to have been proven wrong. How are you, my boy?”

  Tom cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “My feet are messed up. Blisters from walking in water.”

  “Why on earth did you walk in water?” Dillon asked, shaking his head. “Seems like a foolish thing.”

  Tom cut him off, saying, “In case they had dogs.”

  Dillon chuckled, then laughed. “Oh, you are a smart one. Yes, yes you are, Tom. I do believe you will be able to kill him. And then, Tom, and then the fun the two of us can have. The world will be open to us. Our oyster, as they say. What say you, Tom, does this sound pleasing?”

  “It does,” Tom said, nodding, and he drove the spike into the ghost.

  Dillon shrieked, and the room shook as the ghost vanished.

  Tom stood still, arm outstretched and shocked by what had happened.

  Then the floor rumbled, and Dillon appeared in almost the same place he had been before.

  “What in God’s name,” Dillon started, but Tom stabbed the ghost again.

  When the dead man disappeared for the second time, Tom didn’t hesitate. He knocked the book into the bucket of salt, dropped the spike, and fell to his knees. Using his hands, he hastily scooped the salt over the covers until nothing remained. Picking up the spike, Tom got back to his feet, his heart beating a mad rhythm against his chest. He held the spike out in front of him like a knife and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  The room grew warmer.

  Tom’s arm shook, and he lowered the spike, dropping to the floor. He sat there, shaking, feeling sick to his stomach, and trying to get control of himself.

  Tom let the spike clatter to the tile as he put his head against his knees and sobbed. For the briefest of moments, it felt as though his mother was beside him, and he cried even harder in the darkness of the cemetery’s office.

  Chapter 45: An Unforeseen Occurrence

  Stefan ate the last bit of a Power Bar, folded the wrapper, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. He sat in a battered, dull blue pickup truck. The interior stank of dung and chewing tobacco, which the drunk had smelled of as well. Stefan had left the nameless man in a ditch, choked to death on his own vomit.

  Chuckling, Stefan shook his head. There were times when life was good to him, and watching the stranger aspirate had been one of them.

  With one last chortle, Stefan opened his water bottle, took a small sip and continued to watch the parking lot of the Westminster State Police Barracks in Vermont. Stefan had learned that the M1 Garand used in the shootings was being kept in the evidence locker of the Westminster Barracks. And soon, according to the information Stefan had paid for, the evidence custodian would finish his shift. The custodian would then drive to a local gym, workout for an hour, and then go home to his apartment.

  Stefan knew the man was divorced, lived alone, and had enjoyed online gambling.

  A police officer with a vice was always useful. Especially one who was hooked on gambling.

  It meant the man would always need money, and Stefan was more than willing to pay. Paying, in this case, would be better than killing. There weren’t many dirty cops he could get his hands on, contrary to popular belief. Attempting to bribe most officers would earn him a mouthful of broken teeth and a trip to a holding cell.

  Stefan didn’t find either of those options appealing.

  His thoughts stopped as the door opened and the custodian stepped out of the back door of the barracks. The man looked as he had been described. Dirty blonde hair, mid-40s, and a man who had once been in shape. He held his arm at an odd angle, which Stefan’s source had told him was due to an injury suffered as a police officer in New Hampshire.

  Gambling debts had forced the man to relocate to Vermont and to find another job.

  Hence, the work in the evidence locker.

  The custodian climbed into a dark green Volkswagen Jetta and pulled out of the parking lot. Stefan didn’t follow. He knew where the man was supposed to be going.

  Instead, Stefan turned in the opposite direction, taking a circuitous route to the same gym. He got there a short time later and saw the man walk into the building.

  Stefan parked the stolen truck, exited the vehicle and went to a nearby coffee shop. He ordered a coffee and a bagel, found a copy of the local paper and read a follow-up article to a piece about the shootings. The writing was bad, the details almost non-existent, and far too much subjectivity to make it palatable.

  Stefan pushed the paper away from him when his food and drink arrived, smiled at the young woman who served it, and then ate and drank leisurely. Occasionally, he glanced at the gym through the shop’s large, plate glass window. He could still see the custodian’s car, and after almost an hour, Stefan paid his bill, left a tip, and returned to the pickup.

  He had only just closed the door when the custodian stepped out dressed in workout gear. Stefan started the truck and left the parking lot, driving the shortest route to the custodian’s apartment. He parked the pickup on a back street and walked at a steady pace to the man’s building.

  Stefan entered by way of a back door, climbed the stairwell and arrived in the hallway when the door at the far end opened.

  The custodian walked in, a duffel bag in one hand and mail in the other. Stefan watched him shake his head, dig out a key and unlock the apartment door.

  Sprinting forward, Stefan slammed into the man as he started to step into his home. There was a satisfying thud as the custodian’s head slammed against the metal door and slumped to the floor. Stefan stepped over him, grabbed the man under his arms and dragged him the rest of the way in. He pulled the key o
ut of the deadbolt, closed the door and locked it behind him.

  Grinning, Stefan smiled down at the man, who groaned and rolled over onto his back.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man asked, slurring his words like a drunk.

  “I’m your dentist,” Stefan said, pulling out a chair from a nearby table and sitting down beside the man.

  “My dentist?” the custodian asked, confused. “What?”

  “Your dentist,” Stefan confirmed, nodding. He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a pair of vice-grip pliers. “I’m going to take your teeth out. One by one if I don’t like what you have to say.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  Stefan chuckled. “Now, let’s see one of those incisors, just so you know I’m not messing around.”

  The man tried to scream, but Stefan didn’t let him.

  He had too much work to do.

  Chapter 46: Displeased

  The evidence custodian’s name was Ty Messing, and Stefan had put the fear of God into him. Or rather the fear of additional pain. After Stefan had stopped the bleeding from the empty socket of the recently extracted tooth, he had taken out an envelope with a thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills.

  Fear and bribery, Stefan had found, worked well together. It also saved him the trouble of spending countless hours trying to cajole someone into completing a task.

  Stefan had told Ty he would wait for him in the apartment, which was a lie. There was always the chance that Ty might get caught trying to remove the rifle from evidence and decide it was in his best interest to inform the police about the pressure from Stefan.

  The recent loss of a tooth would certainly bolster the man’s story, and Stefan grinned as he thought about it.

  Instead of waiting in the apartment, Stefan sat beneath a large tree, hidden by shadows as he watched the building’s parking lot. He would be able to see when Ty returned, and if anyone accompanied the man.

  As the sun edged towards the horizon, Ty pulled into the parking lot. When he exited the vehicle, he had a large backpack. Not big enough to hold an assembled weapon, but definitely large enough to contain one that had been disassembled.

  The custodian made his way to the building, and Stefan scanned the street for anything out of the ordinary. He searched for vehicles that had stayed in one place for too long. Others that drove by too slowly. He searched for pedestrians who shouldn’t have been out walking, and homeowners doing tasks that should have been finished much sooner.

  Nothing caught his eye.

  Waiting until Ty passed out of view, Stefan left his hiding place and moved quickly to the apartment building. Once again, he reached Ty’s floor before the man himself did. Stefan slipped back into the man’s apartment, closed the door and took up the seat he had occupied when Ty had gone to fetch the weapon. Tapping his fingers on the battered table-top, Stefan glanced around the apartment. It was small, distasteful, and stank.

  When the door opened, Stefan offered Ty a mild smile, one that told the custodian their future business interactions depended on the moment before them.

  Ty grimaced, shut the door hard behind him and put the backpack down on the table before he sat across from Stefan. For a few moments, there was an awkward, heavy silence between them. One pregnant with Ty’s understanding that he was at the complete mercy of Stefan. From the expression on the man’s haggard face, that knowledge didn’t seem to sit particularly well.

  “Difficult?” Stefan asked.

  Ty shook his head, wincing.

  Reaching into his pocket, Stefan took the cash out and placed it on the table. Then he removed an additional two hundred dollars from another pocket and added them to the initial amount.

  Ty’s eyes widened with unabashed greed.

  Stefan slid the money across the table, and Ty slid the backpack to him. They both took their new belongings, and as Ty counted the money several times, Stefan opened the bag.

  As he had suspected, the rifle was disassembled in the backpack. For a moment he considered how much of an effect it might have on the dead Marine, but then he realized he didn’t care one way or the other. If the ghost was exorcised from the weapon because of it, so be it. And if not, then the dead Marine would still be there when the rifle was reassembled.

  Stefan reached into the back and pulled out the stock of the weapon. He held the wood in his hands for several seconds, turning it over and looking at it. A cold, brutal anger filled him as he set it down in front of him. He removed the barrel, the bolt, and other parts, laying them all out in a neat row. When he was finished, Stefan took the bag off the table and set it on the floor.

  Clenching his teeth, Stefan reassembled the rifle. His hands moved quickly, the weapon coming together easily. Each part was well oiled and cared for. When it was fully assembled, Stefan checked the action of the bolt, adjusted the iron sites above the ejection port and enjoyed the feel of the wood beneath his hands. He had once enjoyed shooting for pleasure, hours on the range dropping targets.

  The M1 Garand in his hands was a beautiful testament to the craftsmanship of the creator of the weapon, and the passion of the previous owner for it.

  Whoever that was.

  The rifle in front of him was not the M1 Garand he had sold. Stefan doubted if it had ever seen combat because the weapon was immaculate. There were no scars on the wood or pitting on the barrel of the rifle. The front sight hadn’t been adjusted and shaved down as the Marine’s had been.

  It was in almost perfect condition and had it been coated in Cosmoline, it would have looked as though it had been shipped directly from the manufacturer.

  “So, are you a collector or something?” Ty asked, interrupting Stefan’s growing rage.

  “Hm?” Stefan replied, forcing himself to remain calm.

  “A collector, you know, how some people buy those paintings John Wayne Gacy made,” the custodian said.

  “Ah, no,” Stefan said, shaking his head. “No, I’m not a collector. Not in that sense. Tell me, is this the only M1 Garand in the evidence room?”

  Ty looked confused and affronted. “Listen, there’s only one Garand in evidence, and there it is. That’s the one they brought in after the shooting. That’s the one that had the tag on it. The rounds from it matched those found in the bodies of the victims.”

  “No,” Stefan said, picking up the weapon, “it isn’t.”

  Ty started to disagree again, and Stefan lashed out with the butt of the rifle, smashing it into the custodian’s face. Teeth shattered, and the man’s jaw cracked as he pitched backward. Snarling with fury, Stefan got up, stalked over to the man and brought the rifle butt down again, the heavy wood crashing into Ty’s skull.

  With slow, methodical blows, Stefan beat the man to death, the drumming of Ty’s heels on the floor keeping a curious rhythm with each strike of the weapon.

  When Ty’s heels stopped, Stefan didn’t.

  He was too angry to stop.

  When he had worked himself into a sweat, Stefan dropped the weapon to the floor, gathered up the loose and blood splattered bills and put them away. He went into the kitchen, washed his hands and face, got himself a drink of water and carried it back to the table.

  Accelerant, he thought, letting the cool water refresh him. I need to find an accelerant.

  Chapter 47: Another Scene

  The air around the smoldering building stank of chemicals and charred flesh. Micky’s skin crawled and itched on his back, down low near the hip where he had been burned as a child. A shudder rippled through him, and he took a deep breath.

  “You okay?” Rafferty asked. It was a sincere and heartfelt question. Rafferty knew what had happened to Micky, the house fire that had claimed his father’s life and nearly cost him his own.

  “Yeah,” Micky answered, “I’m good. Just have to get it out of my system before I go upstairs. What’s the count right now?”

  “Three on the fourth floor, two on the third,” Rafferty answered. “We’ve got seven othe
rs on their way to the burn unit at the hospital in Dartmouth, and four more being treated for smoke inhalation. Plus, we’ve got at least five firefighters down right now from exhaustion.”

  Micky nodded, took out a cigarette and lit it with trembling hands. He let out a shaky exhale and said, “Who’s the officer that was killed?”

  “Ty from evidence,” Rafferty stated.

  Micky frowned. He hadn’t liked Ty, but he hadn’t wanted him dead either. According to the fire department, it looked as though the fire started in Ty’s apartment, with the help of an accelerant. Ty’s head was also smashed in, definitely not a side effect of the fire.

  Whoever had lit the blaze, which had raced through the old and cheap building, had also murdered Ty.

  “Micky,” Rafferty said.

  “Hm?” Micky replied, glancing over at him.

  “Just got the thumbs up,” Rafferty stated. “We can go in, but we need to be brought up with the bucket to look. They don’t want us on the floor just yet.”

  Micky frowned but nodded his agreement. The firefighters were extending a dangerous courtesy to them, and Micky had to follow their rules.

  “Alright,” he said, “you going up?”

  “Yes,” Rafferty said, and the two of them walked to the ladder truck. In a few minutes, they were in the bucket, rising towards Ty’s apartment. None of them spoke, the firefighter beside them wearing an exhausted expression. When they reached the floor, the firefighter shined a powerful flashlight into the room and onto Ty’s body.

  The man’s corpse was spread-eagle on the floor, furniture charred around him. As the light panned across the room, it passed over the remains of a table.

  “Stop,” Micky said in a low voice.

  The firefighter stopped.

  “Pan back about a foot, please,” Micky said, leaning forward. Rafferty put his hand on his shoulder to keep him steady.

  “Oh no,” Micky murmured.

  “What is it?” Rafferty asked.

  “Take a look at the table. What does that look like to you?” Micky asked.