by Ron Ripley
“Why are you here?” Shane asked.
“I’ve come for the little whore,” Scott said, laughing. “Dorothy wants you. Wants you all to herself. And, from what I hear, she’s going to make an example out of you. I’m really looking forward to watching that.”
There was no more joy in Scott’s voice, only hatred.
“Oh yes,” the young man said softly, “I will enjoy watching you suffer. Watching you die. There’s been some talk of keeping you on, but I hope she won’t. I hope she sends your rotten soul straight to Hell.”
“She might,” Shane said. “You really can’t rule anything out.”
“No, you can’t,” Scott said, nodding in agreement. “Anyway, I’ve come to get Courtney.”
When Scott turned his head to look at her with eyes no longer there, Shane attacked. He threw himself across the short distance which separated him from Scott. He brought the knuckledusters smashing down on Scott.
The young man screamed a sound of pure rage which instantly gave Shane a headache. Scott disappeared, and Shane lost his balance, tripped, and slammed into the thick wall of the Lighthouse. He knocked over some of the equipment but caught himself before he fell.
“Courtney,” Shane said, standing up and looking at her. “He’s gone now.”
She opened her eyes, anger and fear combined within them. She got to her feet and went to Shane. Her body shook, her face was pale, but she exuded strength.
“Where did he go?” she asked.
“To wherever they hid his body, I’m assuming,” Shane said, flexing his hands and letting out a deep, shuddering breath.
“I need something to protect myself with,” Courtney said. “I need it now.”
Shane nodded his agreement. He turned his attention to the lighthouse door. The latch was iron. The hinges were iron.
He went to a tool bag set on the floor by the bookcase.
“Are we going to go into the house to look?” Courtney asked.
“No,” Shane said, pulling the bag open and rummaging through it. “Look at the door.”
“What about it?”
“The hinges, the handle. Hell, even the straps on the boards, they’re all made of iron,” Shane said, shaking his head at his own ignorance. He took a pry-bar and a two-pound sledge out of the bag. He carried both over to the door and looked at the hinges.
“Pinions,” he said, pointing at them.
Courtney’s smile was cold and knowing. “They’ll pop right out.”
“Yup,” he said. He fit the edge of the pry bar beneath the lip of the pin on the first hinge and banged it out. He did the same with the other two hinges, handing all three of the pins to Courtney. Then with the door held in place only by the latch and luck, he put the tools down and took the door out of the frame. He set it against the inner wall and examined it.
The wood was old but still strong.
This’ll take some work, he sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Courtney asked.
“Nothing,” Shane said, smiling at her. “Hold onto those pins, alright?”
“Sure,” she said. “Are we putting the door back up?”
“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. “I’m going to get one of these hinges off, try to make you a club of some sort.”
Courtney nodded. She examined the pins and then asked, “So, think these would work too?”
“In a pinch,” he replied. “I’d rather you have something with a little more reach. I don’t think they’re going to come at us individually. They’ll probably swarm. Dorothy’s not stupid, she’ll have seen we have at least a little iron. That’ll keep her about as honest as possible. Which isn’t much.”
“No,” Courtney said bitterly, “it’s not.”
“Alright,” Shane said, picking up the sledge. “It’s going to get loud.”
Courtney smirked. “That’s how I like it.”
Shane laughed, caught off guard. “Okay, then. Sounds good to me.”
He lifted the sledge and brought it down hard on the door.
Chapter 34: The Forecast
With her morning run finished, Marie was in her den. She was stretching and cooling down as the news played out on the small television. The forecast was calling for high winds, possible rain, and thunderstorms, with a high-wave warning for the coastal communities.
She frowned as she straightened up. It’s been too long without any word from him. Or from Amy about him, Marie thought.
Calm down, she told herself. Amy said she’d let you know as soon as she heard from him.
You could always call her. There is rough weather coming in.
Marie nodded to herself, went to her coffee table, and picked up her phone. She dialed Amy’s number, but after three rings, it went to voicemail. Marie left a message asking her cousin to call back.
Still holding her phone, Marie went and sat down on the edge of her couch. She turned up the volume on the television.
A yacht had been found drifting off the coast of Maine. The anchor line had snapped, and the Coast Guard was out looking for the crew. No one had been reported missing, but the yacht had left its berth three days earlier. According to the news report, the boat had been spotted anchored close to Squirrel Island, but that had been the last reported sighting.
Marie frowned.
An abandoned yacht, last seen near Squirrel Island. Where Shane Ryan is investigating the ghostly connection to a suicide.
Jesus Christ, she thought, Amy better get back to me soon, or I’ll be going up there myself.
The idea of being on the ocean again churned her stomach.
I can’t leave him out there. And what if the crew is there, too?
Marie turned off the television, got up, and went towards the bedroom. She needed to shower and get to work. In her head, she calculated how long it might take to charter a boat out to the Squirrel Island Lighthouse.
Chapter 35: An Unexpected Guest
The weapon was ugly. A length of board cut down to roughly two feet. One end was wrapped tightly with strips of one of Shane’s t-shirts. The head of the bludgeon was a pair of hinges, beaten and battered into shape.
“Swing it,” Shane said, stepping back after he had handed it to Courtney.
The muscles in her forearms stood out as she lifted it up into the batter’s position. She set her feet, her mouth set grimly. She took a deep breath and gave a swing that made Shane’s eyes widen with appreciation.
“Damn,” Shane said, chuckling. “You would have hit it out of the park.”
She winked at him, lowering the weapon. “Played softball in high school, and at Rivier University in New Hampshire.”
“It shows,” Shane said. “How does it feel, though?”
“Rough,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to try and hit a ball with it, but I think I can crush anything that steps up to me.”
“Good. You’ve got the pins still, too?”
She nodded. “Back pocket.”
“Okay, keep them there. If you lose the cudgel, use those. One in each hand,” he said.
“Got it.”
He picked up the last item he had made. It was the third hinge, bent into a crescent shape. He had threaded strips of cloth through the nail holes and made a rough pair of knuckledusters for his left hand.
“So,” Courtney started to say, and then she stopped. She pointed out the open doorway and Shane turned to look.
A boat was at the pier.
Is it the same boat from yesterday? Shane wondered dazedly. Did he come back for his friends?
“Should we go down there?” Courtney said cautiously. “It’s the same boat as yesterday.”
“Is it?” Shane asked.
Courtney nodded. “Terminal Fleet. I saw the name.”
He caught sight of a woman wearing sunglasses and a large hat, her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. She was also wearing what looked like an oversized man’s sweatshirt. For a moment, she ducked down, and when she came back up, she was dragging a man.
A man whose hands and legs were bound behind his back. She pushed him over the side of the boat, and Shane heard his body thump on the wood of the pier.
“Oh Goddamn,” Courtney hissed. “They’ll kill him.”
Shane nodded and led the way out of the lighthouse. With Courtney at his side, he jogged down, keeping an eye out for the dead. Inwardly he groaned as the boat’s engine shifted gears and it peeled away from the pier.
“Shane,” Courtney said.
He turned partially and saw Mike Puller. The man closed in on them, and when he was close enough, Courtney swung.
Mike shrieked as the head of the cudgel connected, the man vanished.
Courtney grinned. “It works.”
They picked up their pace, and soon their feet were pounding on the pier. When they reached the bound man, Shane dropped to a knee, took out his work knife, and flicked it open with one hand. The stranger’s arms and legs were zip-tied, and Shane cut them away quickly.
The man whimpered, rolled onto his side, and looked up at Shane.
“We’re going to die,” the stranger whispered.
“That’s a given,” Shane replied. “But let’s make sure it’s not today.”
He helped the man to his feet, the stranger grimacing. Shane let the man lean on him, and he said, “Ready, Cort?”
She nodded and led the way back to the lighthouse.
Thankfully, they were left alone.
Chapter 36: At the Marina
Dell Fort was tired and in a decidedly bad mood.
Frankie McCrory had called in sick for the first shift, which meant Dell had to cover for him.
I’m so tired, Dell thought, dumping three packets of sugar into his fresh coffee. He added cream, put the container back into the mini-fridge in the gatehouse, and glared out the front window. He had the gates unlocked and open. A few of the natives had been in to check on their boats and there were too many of the summer folk for his liking.
They pay the bills, Dell, he reminded himself. With a sigh, he took a drink, winced at how hot it was, and put his mug down. Movement caught his attention, and he looked down at the end of the marina. George Fallon’s new Boston Whaler, Terminal Fleet, was coasting into its berth.
Dell smirked. George had been out all night with his lady friend. Dell waited, hoping to catch sight of her.
“Dell!”
The sharp, waspish voice of Mr. Webb forced Dell to turn away from Fallon’s boat and look out the front window. Mr. Webb, gangly and unkempt, per usual, held up his monthly bill.
“What is it, Mr. Webb?” Dell asked. Long ago, he had given up trying to be polite to the man. Webb was a colossal pain, no matter how nice Dell was.
“You raised the berthing fees again,” Mr. Webb snapped.
“Mr. Webb,” Dell said patiently, “I didn’t do anything of the sort. The Marina Association did, though. They raised the berthing fees for everyone. Not just you.”
“I didn’t think it was just me,” Mr. Webb said. “And I know it’s you.”
Oh, Jesus, Dell thought, why the hell did Frankie have to call in sick today?
“Mr. Webb,” Dell said, “if you’d like to lodge a complaint you’d be better off writing a letter or sending an email.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, Dell Fort!” Mr. Webb yelled, his voice rising to nearly a shriek. He shook the bill at Dell, turned around, and stomped off to the beat-up Ford station wagon he drove. Dell watched as black smoke billowed out of the car’s exhaust and Mr. Webb puttered out of the parking lot.
The man has more money than God, and he complains because the Association raised his berthing fee by ten dollars a month, Dell thought.
His inner monologue was interrupted by another person, but this one came from the pier. It was a woman, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and a large, tan fisherman’s cap on her head. She wore mirrored sunglasses and a dark blue sweatshirt that was way too big for her. The hem of the shirt hung down to the mid-thigh of her khaki capris. Her hands were tucked into the front pocket of the sweatshirt.
When she passed by the gatehouse, Dell saw “Fallon Construction” in white letters on the back of the pullover.
Dell shook his head as she passed through the parking lot and up Marion Street. He glanced up the marina, but he didn’t see any movement on board the Boston Whaler.
Must have been one hell of a night, Dell thought. He took up his coffee, took a sip, and winced.
Still too damned hot.
Chapter 37: At Squirrel Island
The man’s name was George Fallon, and he was scared to death.
With good reason, too, Shane thought.
Courtney sat beside Shane, and George was across from them. He had deep marks on his wrists from the zip-ties. He had drunk nearly a gallon of water, and he constantly looked out of the open doorway.
“You said there’s wood around here?” George said finally.
Shane nodded. “Round the back of the house, there’s a pile of lumber for the construction work.”
“Yeah,” George said. “Would make sense. Mike wouldn’t have rented a boat to go back and forth each day. Would have cut into his profits.”
“Why are you asking about wood?” Courtney asked.
“I’m in construction,” George answered. “All of Mike’s tools are in here. Lumber’s out back. I can build a door.”
“It won’t do much good,” Courtney said. “Doors and walls don’t stop them.”
George’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed unhappily.
“Who was the woman?” Shane asked. “The one who dumped you here and stole your boat?”
“Don’t know,” George said. “Met her in a bar last night; thought my luck was changing, especially after what happened here. We got drunk, she asked me for a ride on the boat, and I said yes.”
“But why did she bring you here?” Shane asked.
“She said her great-grandmother was upset that I had gotten away,” George said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They’re supposed to kill me.”
Shane stiffened. “Her great-grandmother?”
George nodded.
“What did the woman look like?” Shane asked.
“You saw her,” George said.
Shane shook his head. “Not really. Tell me.”
George described her. “Attractive, blonde, tanned. Good walk, great laugh.”
“How old?” Shane asked, his voice tightening.
“Forties, maybe?” George said. “Can’t really remember too well, right now.”
Shane stood up, anger pulsing through him. He walked over to the tools, picked up the two-pound sledge, and went to the stairs.
“Shane,” Courtney said, “what are you doing?”
“I’m going to go smash the lantern,” he said, starting up the steps.
“Why?” she said. “I thought we were going to wait and see if they were coming for you today.”
“They’re not,” Shane said.
“How do you know?” Courtney asked.
Shane paused and looked at her.
“I know,” he said angrily, “because the woman that dumped George on the island is the same one who hired me in the first place. No help is coming, Courtney. Not from her.”
Gripping the handle of the sledgehammer tightly, Shane made his way up the top of the lighthouse.
Chapter 38: Reassurances
Marie Lafontaine looked at the ID on her phone when it rang and saw it was Amy.
“Hello?”
“Hey, cousin!” Amy said cheerfully. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone when you called. The damned thing never even rang.”
“Everything alright with it?” Marie asked, leaning back in her chair and closing the file she had been working on.
“Yes,” Amy answered. “It’s Squirrel Island. The reception is terrible.”
“What’s going on out there? How’s Shane?”
“He’s looking devilishly handsome,” Amy said, laughing. “
I didn’t think a man could be completely bald and still be attractive, but he is.”
Marie shook her head and rolled her eyes at her cousin’s antics. “You’ve always been too much, Amy.”
“Says you,” Amy said cheerfully. “Anyway, your fine-looking friend, Mr. Ryan, is not only rooting out the problem of the ghost but doing some fine construction work as well.”
“That’s a relief to hear,” Marie said, and she meant it. She felt a weight slip off of her shoulders. “I was afraid I’d sent him into something he couldn’t handle.”
“Nonsense,” Amy said. “He’s a strapping young man.”
Marie laughed. “Amy, he’s as old as we are.”
“You wouldn’t know it by looking at him.”
Marie sighed. “Cousin, you’re too much. Anyway, so he’s doing okay, then?”
“More than okay,” Amy replied. In a serious tone she said, “Marie, I’ll let you know if anything goes wrong. But he’s doing well. He’s a little upset about not having an internet connection, but other than that, everything is going exactly as planned.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Marie said. “When are you picking him up again?”
“Two more days,” Amy said. “He said everything should be wrapped up by then. Do you want to meet me here and we’ll pick him up together?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Marie said.
“Then it’s set,” Amy said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, and we’ll make all the plans.”
“Great.”
They ended the call, and Marie returned to her work. She whistled to herself and felt far better than she had before.
Chapter 39: Calling for Help
Shane was angry.
A deep, chilling anger which he nursed and cared for. He ground his teeth and made his way to the top of the lighthouse. He switched the two-pound sledgehammer from his left hand to his right, the grip awkward with the protection he wore on his hands.
Can’t risk taking it off, he thought, squeezing the wooden shaft of the tool tightly. Too dangerous.
