by Ron Ripley
Latham? Frederick wondered. Then he nodded to himself, for beside the sign was another paw print.
Carefully, Frederick followed the barely visible trail. It led away from the brook, and deep into the woods. He moved along it relentlessly, pausing occasionally to make certain of the way. Once, when the sun had surpassed its zenith to begin its descent, Frederick lost the signs. Panic filled him, his heart beat erratically, and he felt certain he would never find Louisa’s body. She would be lost to darkness.
He had forced himself to move forward, forced his eyes to see again, and he had picked up the trail. At one point, it swung back to the brook, perhaps a quarter mile from Lake Charles, and Frederick brought himself up short.
A scrap of fabric, no larger than a penny, clung to the rough bark of a pine tree.
The small bit of faded pink material had once been red. A vivid, powerful red. Frederick remembered it well, having gone all the way to Concord with Louisa to pick out a new dress for her birthday.
His hands shook as he plucked the small bit of cloth from the tree. When he took off his hat he slipped the pink piece into the brim, then Frederick replaced the hat. He stepped down to the brook, bent down, and used his hand to catch the cold water and slake his thirst.
“Grandfather,” Louisa whispered.
Frederick stutter-stepped back, tripped, and sat down ungracefully. He winced at the pain which shot up through his tailbone and he looked around for the girl.
She came out from behind a tree and at the sight of her a despondent sob issued from his mouth.
Louisa was dead. He could see a thin birch through the girl, her light blonde hair still in the tight braid Frederick had put it in. The collar of her dress was torn, an ugly red welt encircled her neck. Her feet were bare, and Frederick could see knife marks upon the insteps.
She smiled sweetly at him. “How are you, Grandfather?” she asked.
“Sad,” Frederick whispered, the effort to speak nearly breaking him.
Louisa frowned. “Why?”
“I miss you,” he answered. “Where are you?”
His granddaughter laughed, a beautiful, happy sound. “I’m right here.”
“But your body?” Frederick said.
Her smile faded away. A serious expression replaced it, and she said, “I’m not sure. But it’s hot, Grandfather. I remember it was hot. And there were shoes. Lots of them. So many. I think my body is there.”
“How do I get there, Louisa?” Frederick asked.
She shook her head. “It’s up a hill, and into it. Down and around and down and around, inside the hill.”
“Up a hill?” he asked, confused.
Louisa nodded. “Watch out for his dogs, Grandfather. Watch out for him.”
“Mr. Latham?” Frederick asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “He told me not to worry, that it wouldn’t hurt.”
Louisa looked hard at Frederick and in a soft, cold voice she whispered, “He lied.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Help from Napoleon
It had taken a long time for Frederick to gather the strength to move on after having seen his dead granddaughter. He still needed to find her body.
The trail of Abel Latham and the dogs had wound back and forth lazily as if they had been hunting.
How many dogs does he have? Frederick thought, trying to remember. Three. Maybe more now.
Don’t distract yourself, he told himself bitterly, and in the seclusion of the forest, he nodded in agreement. Frederick walked at a quick pace, keeping an eye on both the trail and the daylight. He would lose the day soon enough. The sun was close to setting, the autumn days short.
A chill had crept into the air, a promise of another frost.
Nearby, something breathed heavily, and Frederick came to a stop. He drew the revolver, cocked the hammer back and listened. A small twig snapped off to the right, then a second on the left.
Frederick looked around, spied a large boulder protruding roughly from the earth and hurried to it. More sounds could be heard and in the growing darkness, little could be seen. Calmly, he sat down, putting his back against the cold stone. He took his hat off, set it on the ground beside him, and waited.
From the gloom, a dark gray dog appeared. The hair was long, as was the snout. It moved stealthily, eyes locked on Frederick as it moved towards him. Two more appeared one on either side of the first. A shape in the shadows told Frederick there was at least one other as well.
Oh hell, Frederick thought, and fury built up in him. I could die here.
The first dog charged and Frederick fired. He didn’t aim, nor did he think. Frederick pulled the trigger, and the dog died.
His skills hadn’t left him. He still knew how to kill. And how to kill well.
A second dog attacked, the thunder of the pistol’s heavy rounds ripped through the air, and soon Frederick’s pistol was empty.
Two of the hounds lay dead near him and the others scattered into the darkened forest.
“They will return,” a voice said from above him, and Frederick looked up. He saw a man, or what had once been a man, standing on the boulder.
“Follow me,” the strange ghost said, “if you wish to escape them.”
Frederick scrambled to his feet and went around the stone as the unknown man reached the forest floor.
“Napoleon Les Enfants,” the stranger said, and Frederick saw Napoleon was an old Indian. His face was lined from decades of a hard life. Napoleon wore an aged, but well-kept suit. From beneath the bowler hat, he wore long white hair that fell past his shoulders.
“Frederick Hoeffler.”
“Quickly, Frederick,” Napoleon said. “There are more who do his bidding.”
With Napoleon in the lead, they hurried through the forest. Frederick reloaded on the move, eyes scanning around him while listening for any more dogs.
In a short time, they came to a small, dark house. It had been empty for years, leaf litter and other debris on the floor and abandoned furniture.
Napoleon gestured for Frederick to sit down in one of a pair of chairs at an old table, and Frederick did so.
“I’ve never seen the hunter send all of his dogs after someone,” Napoleon said, sitting down across from Frederick.
“Abel Latham?” Frederick asked.
Napoleon nodded. “Why would he?”
“Don’t know,” Frederick answered shortly. “Unless he knows I’m after him. Then he might be a bit nervous. Don’t know how he would have figured it out.”
“Some of the dead do his bidding,” Napoleon replied.
Frederick opened his mouth to dispute the statement, then realized he had no reason to.
Adam and Louisa came to me, Frederick thought. Why not others to him?
“You’ve seen other dead,” Napoleon said.
Frederick nodded.
“Do you see them all of the time?” the old Indian asked.
“No,” Frederick said. “Why can I see you?”
“Because I wish it,” Napoleon replied. “I was curious as to why the killer sent his dogs.”
“Does Latham know about you?” Frederick asked.
“Of course,” Napoleon answered. “He does not worry about me, for I am nothing more than an old Indian. I do not have the strength to stop him.”
“He killed my son,” Frederick whispered, “and my granddaughter.”
With a sigh, Napoleon nodded. “I had heard of their addition. You know it is Latham?”
“She told me.”
Napoleon looked at him for a moment. “I am sorry.”
“Will they always be ghosts?” Frederick asked, the words rushing out of his mouth. “I mean, won’t they ever get to heaven?”
“Their spirits must be set free,” Napoleon replied hesitantly. “Their bodies must be salted and burned.”
“I don’t know where her body is,” Frederick said, fighting back tears. “I was looking for her today.”
For several minutes there was silence be
tween them, broken finally by Napoleon.
“Do not worry, Frederick Hoeffler,” the old Indian said. “We will find her together. I believe I know where she is.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 6: Finding Louisa Hoeffler
The night sky was unusually bright, the light of the stars and the moon piercing the canopy to light the narrow game trail they followed.
Napoleon led the way, Frederick following, his pockets bulging with salt from a lick the old ghost had brought him to. Frederick could only hope that there would be a way to start a fire when he found Louisa’s body, and not for the first time, he found himself wondering if he should trust the strange ghost.
You have to, Frederick told himself. You have no choice.
The trail led deeper into the woods, moving farther from the center of Griswold, and closer to the logging roads.
After nearly an hour of walking, Napoleon came to a stop.
“Latham’s place is a short ways up,” Napoleon whispered.
Frederick stiffened and nodded. “Lead the way.”
The old Indian turned, and started along the trail again. Soon the forest opened onto a glade, and within it was a small wooden structure. A tiny building tucked far from any prying eyes, farther still from Latham’s smithy, where the man would normally be. The miniscule abode was barren of windows, although there was a single door in the center of the rough-hewn wood of the front wall. A chimney, built of large fieldstones, protruded from the thatch roof.
As they approached it, the smell of death assaulted Frederick. It was the unmistakable scent of a human body rotting.
Frederick’s steps faltered, but he continued on.
When they came within a few steps of the building, Napoleon slipped through the wall, then returned a heartbeat later.
“Latham is absent,” Napoleon said, his voice saddened, “but there is the body of a little girl.”
“Is her spirit here?” Frederick asked.
Napoleon shook his head.
“Alright,” Frederick said. He walked forward, took hold of the latch, and tried to open the door. It was then he saw the lock. He shook the door in its frame, but it was solidly built.
Too old to kick it in, Frederick thought. He drew his pistol, took a step back and shot the lock twice. The weapon’s reports sounded like a ship’s horn in the forest’s stillness, but the lock was broken. Frederick holstered the gun, picked the remains of the lock off the latch, and opened the door.
The stench of decay shook him, and when he remembered it was Louisa’s body, he leaned against the doorframe and vomited. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Frederick looked around the room, his eyes slowly adjusting the dim light. Shelves lined the wall, shoes, and boots placed neatly upon them. Across from the door was a large hearth, a hatchet hanging from a hook beside it.
In front of the hearth was Louisa, her body naked and slightly swollen. Flies swarmed around her, and Frederick choked back a sob. He forced his eyes to look elsewhere, and he saw kerosene lantern beside a small box.
Frederick walked into the room and looked into the wooden box and saw bones. Only six of them, all small.
Finger bones, he realized. He looked at the shoes and saw his son’s boots. Louisa’s petite shoes beside them. He collects them, and some of their bones. No one can rest. No one can go to heaven.
Frederick bent down, picked up the box and carried it to Louisa. He tried not to look at her body as he put the box next to her. When he walked to the lantern and lifted it, Napoleon spoke.
“I hear dogs, Frederick Hoeffler,” Napoleon said. “They are coming for you. Someone has heard your gunshots, and Latham has sent his hounds for you.”
“So be it,” Frederick whispered. He brought the lantern to Louisa and sat down beside her. With methodical movements, he unscrewed the cap on the lamp’s reservoir. He carefully sprinkled the kerosene over the box of bones, then, with a sigh, he did the same to Louisa. Frederick sobbed as the liquid struck her face, dampened the hair which would no longer need to be combed or braided.
He heard the dogs then, their paws striking the earth loudly, snarls filling the air.
Frederick drew his pistol, aiming it towards the open doorway. With his free hand, he still held the lantern. A small bit of kerosene sloshed within the reservoir.
The first dog appeared at the edge of the glade, and Frederick fired.
A scream filled the night as the dog rolled to the side. The shot had not been clean and the wolfhound writhed on the ground as a second dog raced past it.
Frederick’s hand was no longer steady as he fired.
All three rounds missed, and the next time he pulled the trigger nothing happened.
You didn’t reload, he told himself. Frederick dropped the gun, grabbed hold of the lantern with both hands and doused himself with the remnants. He saw Napoleon charge the dog, but the old ghost was unable to do more than cause the wolfhound to stumble.
As the dog entered the house, Frederick threw the lantern, the glass shattering and the wolfhound howling with fury. With the dog shaking off the blow, Frederick pulled a box of matches out of his breast pocket. He managed to strike the head on the side before the wolfhound latched onto his leg.
The teeth pierced his corduroy’s and plunged into the knee. Frederick stifled a scream as he felt the kneecap separate from the rest of the joint. He threw the match onto the bones and smiled with a savage pleasure as the entire box burst into strange, bright blue flames.
With a deep growl in its throat, the dog tried to drag Frederick out of the house. Frederick spat at the dog, kicking it with his free leg. The wolfhound shook the kneecap viciously, and Frederick leaned forward. He grabbed the dog’s head, driving his thumbs deep into the eye-sockets.
The reaction was instantaneous. The wolfhound let out an almost girlish scream, released Frederick’s knee and fell down. In a heartbeat it was back on its feet, still screaming while racing around the small room.
Panting from the pain in his leg, Frederick wiped the jellied remains of the dog’s eyes off of his thumbs and onto his pants. Wordlessly, he took hold of Louisa’s body and lifted her onto his lap. He cradled her with one arm and thrust his hand into the flames. The blue fire enveloped his hand, the pain excruciating. As the kerosene burned on his flesh, Frederick brought his torch-like hand to Louisa, and he touched her face.
The flames leaped from his hand to her skin. Within seconds, she was burning brightly, and so was he.
The fire spread to the floor and the walls, chasing the blind dog about the room.
Napoleon Les Enfants stood in the doorway, watching.
Frederick brought his granddaughter closer, clung to her, and wondered what death would be like as the flames consumed him.
* * *
Sanford Hospital
Berkley Series Book 4
Chapter 1: Waiting for Death
Ray Antonio laid in bed listening to the world around him. He could do little else. In 1945, near the end of the war, a German shell had taken his legs off at the thigh. At ninety years old, Ray didn’t have the strength to use his prosthetics, or even hold himself up in a wheelchair.
Ray was waiting for Death to finish what it had started 70 years earlier.
His room smelled of antiseptic, the mustiness of old age, and despair.
Sully O’Hare had passed away the day before, and they had cleaned out the man’s belongings. Nothing more than a few pictures. A couple of mementos from Sully’s life before ending up in Sanford Veteran’s Hospital.
I’ll have another roommate soon, Ray thought. If I even make it that long. Let’s see how well I handle Stage 4 breast cancer.
Breast cancer.
Ray sighed and stared up at the drop-tile ceiling. He had long ago memorized the pattern of dots in the panels. The television didn’t interest him. Too many scantily clad women. Too much violence. The America he saw from his bed wasn’t the America he had fought for.
That America was dead and buried, al
ong with his wife and three children.
He drifted in and out of sleep for a while, finally opening his eyes when the sky beyond his window was dark. The parking lot was sparsely populated with the cars of the late night shift, the sickly yellow lights of street lamps illuminating the exterior of his small world. The Hospital had grown quiet, the ambient sounds of machinery filling the crisp air.
Ray looked from the window to the closed door of his room and stiffened.
A young woman stood silently by his bureau. She wore a nurse’s uniform from when he had been a boy. The starched white clothes, the cap with its bright red cross, highlighted and helped to define the woman’s sharp features. Her lips were full, her eyes wide set and almond-shaped. Small curls of light brown hair slipped out from under her cap, and Ray knew she had a hard time keeping it in check. She had her hands in front of her, delicately small and clasped politely.
When she saw him looking at her, the young woman smiled.
It was then Ray realized he could see straight through her to the back of the door where his blue bathrobe hung.
Ray pushed himself upright and looked with surprise at the young woman.
She took a silent step further into the room.
“Who are you?” Ray asked, his voice harsh from lack of use.
“A friend,” she replied. “Just a friend, Raymond Antonio.”
The use of his name sent a chill racing through him, and Ray noticed how cold the air in the room was.
“A friend?” Ray said. “Well, what’s your name, miss?”
“Ruth,” she replied, walking closer to the foot of his bed. “Ray, I’ve come to help you.”
“I don’t need any help,” Ray snapped. “I thank you for the offer, though.”
“Oh, but you do,” Ruth said, nodding her head “You do. You just don’t realize it. You’re too close to it. So was your friend, Sullivan. He didn’t want to leave either, but you have to trust that we have your best interests at heart.”
