Walter's Rifle (Haunted Collection Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  Rafferty let out a long exhalation and muttered, “Looks like a damned bolt action rifle. In fact, it looks a lot like the M1 Garand from the shootings.”

  “Yeah,” Micky said. “And Ty worked in evidence.”

  Neither of the men said anything for a few seconds, then Micky shook his head and said to the firefighter, “Alright, bring us down, please.”

  The man nodded, and the ladder began to retract.

  “What do we do now?” Rafferty asked in a low voice.

  “Now we call Jeremy Rhinehart,” Micky answered, “and tell him someone knows the real rifle isn’t here.”

  Rafferty nodded, and they descended the remainder of the way in silence, Micky wondering who the new player in the game was.

  Chapter 48: Unpleasant News

  Victor decided he hated phones.

  In particular, he hated Jeremy’s phone.

  No one ever seemed to call the man with pleasant news. Over the past day, during their fruitless search for the missing boy named Tom, Jeremy had received eight phone calls. All of them about ghosts, and the old man had refused each of them. Finding Korzh was more important, but Victor had a fear that one of the calls might be with about a more serious situation.

  When the phone rang in the late afternoon as Jeremy had finished making a pot of coffee, Victor jumped in his chair.

  Jeremy answered it, said a few words Victor couldn’t quite make out, and then ended the call.

  “What’s wrong?” Victor asked.

  Jeremy poured himself a cup of coffee, limped to the table and sat down. For several seconds he stared into the depths of the liquid, then, almost as Victor was about to repeat his question, Jeremy said, “Someone tried to get the rifle.”

  “What, from your friend?” Victor asked.

  Jeremy shook his head. “No, thank God. I am afraid that they went to the State Police barracks in Vermont.”

  Victor relaxed a little. “Well, they couldn’t have gotten far with that.”

  “But they did,” Jeremy said, frowning, “and therein lies the problem. Whoever it was knew where the weapon would be, and they also managed to bribe the evidence clerk to steal the false Garand out of the evidence locker.”

  Victor’s stomach sank. “What happened?”

  “Whoever it was knew the weapon was a fake,” Jeremy continued. “Evidently, the person was displeased. The evidence clerk was beaten to death, they believe with the false rifle, and then the building was set on fire. Multiple deaths and injuries.”

  “Do you think it’s the Korzhs’ son?” Victor asked.

  “It has to be,” Jeremy said, taking a sip of his coffee and then wincing. “Too hot. Yes, it has to be their son. He is, from what we can see, an intelligent man. And a daring one. It was a brash act, bribing a police officer, and it nearly paid off. He would have had the rifle and Anne back.”

  “How do we know it wasn’t some sick collector of serial killer items?” Victor asked, his voice hopeful. “Couldn’t it have been?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “I am afraid not. You see, the weapon was left there. It wasn’t taken from the scene.”

  Victor slumped in his chair and let out a depressed sigh. “Do you think he knows we have it?”

  “No,” Jeremy answered. “But I doubt it will take him long to figure it out. He may eventually come for it, although he hasn’t made an appearance yet.”

  “Okay,” Victor said, rubbing his temples, “tell me, Jeremy, how are we going to find this guy, their son?”

  “That, I am afraid, is a question best left for tomorrow,” the older man said, smiling apologetically. “I am rather concerned about this turn of events, and, quite honestly, I would like to focus our attention on finding Tom. Once the boy is safe then we can certainly decide on the necessary steps for finding Korzh.”

  Victor wanted to argue the point, but he knew he couldn’t. Jeremy was right, as much as Victor hated to admit it.

  The boy’s safety and well-being had to come first over revenge.

  Chapter 49: A Hard Walk

  Tom had spent most of the day hidden, fearful of the return of the workers he had heard the day before.

  By the time the sun had begun to set, he realized they weren’t going to find him tucked away amongst the equipment. With this understanding, Tom’s body relaxed, and his stomach reminded him of how little he had eaten in the past two days.

  He drank his fill of water from an exterior spigot, returned to the safety of the building and went back into the office. Tom picked up the last bit of food he had, the stale chips, and ate them. When he finished, he put all of the wrappers from the food into the bucket of rock salt to hide it from anyone who might search the area for him. With that done, Tom dragged the container back to where he had found it. He managed to get his stolen sneakers back on, in spite of the pain and turned on the computer. Tom searched for nearly an hour, and found, to his surprise, someone in Norwich who helped with ghosts.

  Licking his lips, Tom saw it was almost midnight. From what he saw on the computer, Norwich was eleven miles away. The idea of walking that far on his injured feet caused him to shiver with anxiety, but he didn’t know what else to do. Once he got into Norwich, he could find the address of the man who worked with ghosts. Evidently, a place on Broad Street. He turned on the printer beside the monitor and printed up directions to the man’s home.

  When it had finished, he held up the single page and studied the small map attached to the typed directions.

  Tom would find it.

  He had to.

  With Dillon buried in the rock salt, Tom left the iron spike behind, and left the building by the office door. The air was cool against his cheeks and bolts of pain raced through his feet and up into his shins as he walked along the cemetery’s narrow road.

  He reached the main gate, stopped, double-checked the directions and turned left.

  Eleven miles, he thought. I can do that. Caesar did it. The Roman Legions, too. I can do it. I have to.

  Tom folded the directions, put them in the pocket of his sweatpants and limped along as quickly as his feet would allow.

  ***

  His head ached, a result of too much whiskey.

  Personally, he didn’t believe there was such a thing as too much whiskey, but his body told him otherwise. He grunted, scratched at the scar on the side of his head and let out a sigh.

  Lost, he thought, pulling a cigarette out and lighting it. Lost. This is what happens when I drive drunk. I get lost.

  He adjusted the rearview mirror and saw the hard-case with the M1 Garand he had picked up from Jeremy’s in the backseat.

  Thank God for small favors, he thought, exhaling and rolling down the driver’s side window. Grumbling to himself, he turned on his phone and saw there were two missed calls from Jeremy.

  He glanced at the clock, saw it was half past midnight and realized it was too late to call the old man. A quick search of his phone’s GPS told him he was in Ledyard, Connecticut, about twenty minutes from Jeremy’s place.

  Dropping the phone to the passenger’s seat, he started up his car, winced at the sound of the engine, and shifted into drive. He pulled off the shoulder, flipping on his high-beams and letting the cool night air course through the interior. Trees pressed close on the sides of the road, and as he kept the car at just a few miles above the speed limit, he saw a sign.

  Lambtown Cemetery.

  No thank you, he thought. He kept his eyes averted as the cemetery came up on his right. It took less than thirty seconds for him to pass it, and he was pleased when he had done so. A few minutes later, the headlights illuminated a shape limping along the side of the road.

  As he drew nearer, the shape became a teenager. A haggard, worn down looking boy.

  He pulled the car to a stop, rolled down the window and said, “Hey, do you need a ride somewhere?”

  The boy’s face was a mixture of pain, uncertainty, and desperation. Finally, the desperation won out.

 
“Yes,” the boy said. “I do. I’m going to Norwich.”

  “Me too, come on in,” he said, unlocking the door and picking up his phone.

  The boy limped over, opened the door and sat down, letting out an audible gasp. After he closed the door, the boy offered his hand and said, “I’m Tom.”

  “Tom,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand, “I’m Shane Ryan. Nice to meet you.”

  Chapter 50: A Knock on the Door

  Victor dreamed of someone hammering. It was an incessant sound and one that threatened to drive him mad within the confines of his dream. Shaking himself awake, he was surprised to find the light on in Jeremy’s small living space.

  Jeremy was upright on the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes and the pounding continued.

  “Want me to get it?” Victor asked, getting to his feet.

  Jeremy nodded, glancing at his clock. “Good lord, it’s almost one in the morning.”

  Victor’s heart picked up its rhythm as he walked toward the front door. He passed down the center aisle, casting anxious glances at the possessed items on either side of him. Victor believed the older man’s cases kept the dead in, but there was always the off chance that something, anything might happen to make the building suddenly and extremely uncomfortable.

  Another knock on the door shook it in its frame, and Victor quickened his steps. When he was less than a foot away, he came to a stop and asked in a loud, sharp voice, “Who is it?”

  “Open the God damned door, Jeremy,” a man said, his voice sounding like chains dragged across gravel, “before I turn around and bring this damned rifle all the way back to Vermont.”

  Without waiting for Jeremy, Victor opened the door and took a step back in surprise.

  Two people stood on the doorstep. One was a man, and obviously the owner of the voice since he held the encased rifle. But the stranger looked as though he had lost one fight too many.

  The man was bald, completely, without either eyelashes or eyebrows. A vivid scar curved up from his neck to his head, and a portion of his ear was gone. He held a cigarette in the three remaining fingers of his left hand and took a long pull off the cigarette. The man, thin and stinking of whiskey, eyed Victor and said, “You sure as hell aren’t Jeremy.”

  “No,” Victor agreed, “I’m not.”

  His eyes shifted to the teenager beside the damaged man. The teen could easily be described as slight, though Victor was certain others, less kind, would say the boy was scrawny. He wore ill-fitting sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt that had a distinct, institutional look about them. On his feet were stained, battered sneakers and the boy seemed to hang back. His hair was a mousy brown and a mess as well. Brown eyes darting about to either side of Victor, straining to see beyond him.

  The thump of Jeremy’s cane caused Victor to glance over his shoulder, and he was relieved to see a smile on the older man’s face.

  “If you would step aside, Victor,” Jeremy said, “this is my friend, Shane Ryan.”

  Victor did so, as Shane and the unknown boy stepped in. The damaged man put the rifle case down, shook Jeremy’s hand and said, “Sorry about the delay, Jeremy.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for, my friend,” Jeremy said, closing and locking the door. “You have done me a tremendous favor by bringing this here. Another, rather pressing issue has come up, as you know, although I did not share any of the details with you.”

  Shane nodded. “Kind of figured out what it is though.”

  Victor looked at the man, raising an eyebrow.

  Shane grinned, flashing steel-capped teeth and revealing gaps where others should have been.

  “This,” Shane continued, nodding towards the boy, “is Tom. I found him on the road out by a cemetery. Told me he was looking for you, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy leaned against one of the cases, shaking his head in surprise as he said, “Really. Well, Tom, this may interest you. Victor and I have been searching for you.”

  When Tom spoke, it was with a voice thick with exhaustion and rage. “You’ll be able to help me?”

  “With a book that you purchased, correct?” Jeremy asked in a soft voice.

  Tom nodded. Tears filled his eyes, but as they spilled down his dirty cheeks, there was no dispersal of the hate within him. “Yes. There’s a ghost in it. He killed my parents.”

  “Where is he now, Tom?” Jeremy asked, his voice low.

  “A cemetery. Lambtown Cemetery,” Tom answered. “I stabbed him with an iron spike and stuffed the book into a bucket of rock salt.”

  Jeremy nodded, and Victor felt impressed.

  Shane grinned, lit a fresh cigarette off the one he was smoking, and said, “Kid’s good. I like him.”

  The boy smiled appreciatively, looking like an abused dog who had finally found peace.

  “How far is this place, Shane?” Jeremy asked.

  “Twenty minutes, twenty-five, tops,” Shane answered. “I wouldn’t bring Tom back with you, though. If anything happens, the ghost’ll be bound to take it out on him.”

  Jeremy nodded his agreement.

  “I’ll go,” Victor said, trying to avoid the cigarette smoke drifting in front of him.

  “Sorry,” Shane said, holding his cigarette down and away. “Yeah, if you want to go, I’ll take you. I’ve got a special place in my heart for parent killers.”

  “Tom,” Jeremy said, “would you be willing to stay here, or would you rather I contact the authorities?”

  Tom shook his head violently. “Here. I want to stay here. They’ll just put me back in that place.”

  “Fair enough,” Jeremy said soothingly, “you’ll stay here with me. We can worry about the rest at another time. Have you had anything decent to eat?”

  The boy’s stomach growled, answering for him.

  “Come with me, Tom,” Jeremy said, straightening up and smiling. “I may not be a good cook, but I do have a fine selection of soups, cereals, and other foodstuffs that require little to no preparation.”

  As the two limped away, Victor turned his attention to Shane.

  “Do you have any iron?” Shane asked.

  Victor shook his head. “He said the book was in salt.”

  Shane gave him a grim smile as he took an iron ring out of his pocket and handed it to Victor.

  “Hope for the best, and prepare for the worst,” Shane said, slipping a pair of iron brass knuckles out from behind his back. “It’s a good motto. Especially with the dead. Now listen, I’m sober, and I drive real fast. I swear, I smoke, and I play my music loud.”

  Victor nodded, slipped the ring on and said, “Okay. Let’s go get that damned book. The dead man in it has some information I need.”

  Shane nodded and led the way out, the crickets singing in the darkness around them.

  ***

  A raccoon paused outside of the building, nose in the air, whiskers twitching. After several seconds it loped to the damaged door and squeezed in. The animal moved through the darkness easily, nose guiding it. It passed by the tall trashcan with its tied down lid, and continued towards the nearly hidden scent that had lured it into the structure.

  Standing on its hind legs, the raccoon peered into a five-gallon bucket of rock salt tucked into a corner. The animal tried to reach in, couldn’t quite grab hold with its clutching paw, and so it used its weight to rock backward. After several attempts the raccoon managed to pull the bucket over, spilling the empty food bags, the rock salt, and Caesar’s Gallic Wars onto the battered cement floor.

  When the book was freed, a burst of cold air filled the room, and the raccoon forgot about the bag of chips. With a hiss the animal bolted, leaving behind a seething ghost, the entire building trembling with the dead man’s anger.

  Chapter 51: A Growing Paranoia

  For the first time in his life, Stefan Korzh considered what he would need to protect himself from ghosts.

  More specifically, his father’s ghost.

  Stefan mulled the thought over as he sat on the back p
orch of his house. He stared out over his backyard at the marshland that served as a barrier to his property. His home stood by itself at the end of a long, narrow road, and if anyone had bothered to check on the house, it would seem as though it were abandoned. The small pickup truck he kept for personal use was hidden in the remnants of an old barn. Each window on the house was boarded up, and the front steps looked as if they might collapse at any moment.

  No mail was delivered to the address, and the building was completely off the power grid. Stefan had no running water or sewage system, and the electricity that he had was provided by a series of batteries set up in the old root cellar. If he needed more, he had purchased a generator from a big box store two counties over. And he had paid with cash. The same had been done with the house and through several different people. All of whom were dead.

  One of Stefan’s favorite quotes came from Benjamin Franklin.

  Three can keep a secret if two are dead.

  It was a motto which informed nearly every decision of his adult life. He feared no one, except his father, and Stefan wondered how he would complete the disbursement of his mother’s collection without further interruption from the dead man.

  What bothered him the most was the fact that Ivan Denisovich had not only been able to leave the family home, but also to have made an appearance in Stefan’s.

  The memory of it shook him, and Stefan shuddered.

  How his father had managed to get into the house was uppermost in Stefan’s thoughts. If he couldn’t find out how the dead man had gotten in, then Stefan would be forced to protect not only the house from being entered by ghosts, but each room as well.

  Stefan groaned at the thought. The work such a task would require was enormous, and one he would need to undertake, especially if his father became violent.

  The thought of his father and violence dovetailed neatly into the growing concern regarding the man who had killed his father years earlier.

  Stefan didn’t bear a grudge against the man, far from it. He killed people all of the time, and evidently, this man had decided that his father had needed to die. Stefan even killed people when he didn’t mean to. As with the apartment building in Vermont. Yes, he had set Ty’s body and kitchen on fire, but he didn’t think the entire structure would go up quite so easily.