by Ron Ripley
“Come on, man,” Frank said as he went and dropped down into his chair. “She got us.”
Shane opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and turned around sharply, executing a perfect about-face. He stomped on the broken door as he left the study.
Marie closed the book, returned it to the side-table and eyed Frank.
“Hello, Frank,” she said.
“Marie,” Frank said, chuckling. “I have to admit it, I’m impressed. Not too many people can get away with talking to him like that.”
“No, they can’t,” she agreed. “It’s the Marine in him.”
“Partly,” Frank acknowledged.
“Yes,” she said, glancing at the doorway. “The rest of it is sheer stubbornness.”
“Exactly,” Frank said. “So, you’re in it for the long haul?”
"I am," Marie said. "He got me thinking today when we had him in the station."
“About what?” Frank asked.
“Why he was in there,” she answered. “See, there was no real reason to bring him in. Not at first. Doesn’t matter if a guy immolated himself in the yard. There was enough evidence gathered to support the claim that you and Shane made. Not only that, but why did they only bring Shane in?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said, watching her. “Why did they only bring Shane in?”
Marie leaned forward and said, “He’s the primary threat.”
Frank waited for her to continue and she did so.
"I'm not exactly sure what it is you and Shane have done," Marie said. "And at some point, I may, but right now, what I do know is he's gotten rid of a few ghosts. I can only assume that there's some sort of ghost-loving community out there that might not be too happy with him."
Frank nodded. “Bit of an understatement.”
"So you've had some trouble," Marie said, and it was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah,” Frank said. He hesitated and then asked, “Did Shane ever mention someone named Mason to you?”
She shook her head and asked, “Why? Is this someone I should be concerned about?”
“No,” Frank said sadly. “He was a friend of Shane’s. Served with him in the Marines and helped us out a little while back. The people who tried to set the house on fire, they killed Mason and his wife.”
“What! Why?” Marie asked.
“Scare us off,” Frank answered.
“Shane doesn’t work that way,” she murmured.
“Evidently they didn’t know enough about him,” Frank said, nodding his agreement with her.
“Tell me everything,” Marie said, her eyes boring into Frank. “Tell me everything these people have said and done.”
“Alright,” Frank said, and he did.
Chapter 39: With Mrs. Henderson
“Who is she?” Eloise whispered from behind Shane’s chair.
“Her name is Mrs. Henderson,” Shane replied. “She may be living here with us for a while.”
The coiled length of piano wire was on the long coffee table, and Mrs. Henderson was on the other side of the room. Her back was to him as she looked out the window. After several silent minutes, she turned around and faced him.
“I can feel death here,” she said. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Eloise. “Who is this?”
“Eloise,” Shane murmured.
The dead girl crept out from behind the chair and gave a small curtsy. “My name is Eloise, ma’am.”
The right-hand corner of Mrs. Henderson's mouth twitched up as she replied, "A pleasure, Eloise. Where are we, Mr. Ryan?"
"My home," Shane replied. "I am hopeful that you will reside here a while until we figure out what best to do."
Mrs. Henderson nodded. “I will be happy to. Are there others, Eloise?”
"Oh, yes!" Eloise beamed. "Many of us, Mrs. Henderson! You need to meet Carl, though, he seems to know absolutely everything about everything."
Mrs. Henderson raised an eyebrow and Shane watched as she struggled to keep a smile from her face.
“Will you introduce me to Carl?” Mrs. Henderson asked.
Eloise nodded and said, “Follow me!”
The two ghosts exited the room, leaving Shane alone. Suddenly the world seemed to weigh down on him, and he yawned, his eyelids far heavier than they should have been. He let his head rest against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. His thoughts raced, and sleep would not come to him, but he refused to look out at the world.
Instead, he listened to the steady beat of his own heart and the way his blood thrummed in his veins. He found his thoughts drifted towards Mason and once more, he wondered if his friend had even known of what had happened. If the man had any knowledge as to the danger lurking in the shadows.
Shane hoped he hadn’t.
But thoughts of Mason twisted into a memory of the letter from Harlan. The audacity of the man, his brazenness.
Shane wanted to hurt him. He wanted him to suffer for every breath he had taken after Mason had breathed his last.
Maybe I will, Shane thought. If I’m lucky enough.
His thoughts drifted, swung around to Frank and Marie Lafontaine sitting in the study.
Shane didn’t want her in the house, but he didn’t think the woman would leave of her own accord. He was also curious as to what she knew, if anything, about the current situation. Shane wondered if she had managed to dig up some information on the Lieutenant.
He knew he should ask her, but he didn’t want to.
Shane didn’t want to talk to her at all.
And Frank’s acceptance of her irritated him. On a less visceral level, he knew that Frank’s defense of Marie was right. Shane also knew that they would need her in the Keep.
But he didn’t want her to know that.
Shane let his mind wander as he stared out the window, not truly seeing anything beyond it. A short time later, there was a noise, and he turned towards it.
Mrs. Henderson had come back. Once more, she walked to the window, but she didn't look out of it. Instead, she fixed her gaze on Shane.
“You have a great many dead here, Mr. Ryan,” she stated.
Shane nodded.
“Most were murdered,” Mrs. Henderson continued.
“Yes,” Shane said.
“There are dead children here,” she added.
“That’s true as well,” he said.
“You didn’t kill them,” Mrs. Henderson stated, and then she added, “they have no one to care for them.”
Shane wondered if he looked as surprised as he felt.
“It would be good,” Shane said, choosing his words carefully, “if they had a woman to take them under her wing.”
“So it would,” Mrs. Henderson said, a small smile playing on her lips.
Shane peered at the murderess for a moment, then he made a decision. “Would you be willing to remain here, for however long you wish, to help me with them?”
The dead woman gave a short bow. “I would be delighted. Where will you keep my wire?”
“Where would you like me to?” he asked.
“Here, if you could,” she said, her voice taking on a softer tone. She turned half way and looked out the window. “I like the view. It reminds me of my home.”
“Then I’ll keep it here,” Shane said. “We’ll put it on a shelf.”
She nodded and then left the room.
After a moment, Shane stood, stretched, and decided it was time for him to leave the room as well. With heavy steps, he made his way towards the library and Courtney.
Chapter 40: The Meeting House
For one hundred and fifty years, the house on Olive Street in Dunstable, Massachusetts had served as the meeting house for the Watchers. The building was small, a single-story structure that was innocuous and unassuming.
A caretaker, employed by the Watchers, lived in the home and kept it ready for their use.
A block away was a warehouse, one that changed in shape and size as need dictated. Every few years a new bus
iness moved into the warehouse, but each was a false-front.
Like the house on Olive Street, the warehouse too was owned by the Watchers.
Harlan thought upon the history of the organization as his driver guided their Land Rover into the warehouse. The massive door glided shut behind them and lights flickered into life. Bright, powerful beams illuminated the interior and revealed the other cars parked in neat, orderly rows.
Harlan was the last one to arrive, as was fitting.
He waited until his driver turned off the car engine before he climbed out. The man, whose name Harlan couldn't recall, remained with the vehicle. Using a cane for support, Harlan limped towards the door marked "Caution! Electrical Hazard!" When he reached it, he flipped up a small control pad and placed his thumb upon the reader.
The lock clicked, and the door popped open half an inch.
Harlan took hold of the latch, pulled it, and stepped into a small, wood-paneled elevator. He closed the door behind him, and selected the down arrow. The winch hummed and the elevator descended. When the door opened a minute later, Harlan stepped into a bright hallway.
There was a moving sidewalk set into the long corridor, and Harlan stepped onto it cautiously. Falling on his way to the meeting would in no way impress the others.
It might, Harlan knew, cause them to question his abilities.
And I am sure they are questioning that already, he thought with a grimace.
The corridor, and thus the moving sidewalk, led directly to a second elevator a block away. When Harlan reached it, he rode it to the main floor of the house on Olive Street.
The others were gathered around a long table. Men and women of varying ages. Each had a silver goblet in front of them. An identical goblet waited at Harlan’s seat at the head of the table.
He was the first among equals.
No one spoke as he made his way to the dark, carved chair that was his symbol of authority. He was conscious of the way his cane thumped on the floor, and of the weakness in his legs as he walked. When he reached his chair, Harlan managed to pull it away from the table without any semblance of weakness.
He sat down, hung his cane up on the arm of the chair and picked up the goblet. Harlan held it in front of him for a moment before he intoned, “Our watching is nearly done.”
The others lifted their goblets and together they each took a sip of the dark red wine.
"Hello, everyone," Harlan said, looking around at the fifteen people. "I trust your travels were uneventful. I apologize for the suddenness of this meeting, but we seem to have a situation which has the potential to get out of control."
“What exactly,” Zane Ketch said, “is the situation? We have not had many details, other than the loss of some of our more important facilities.”
“I have heard of a gentleman by the name of Shane,” Clair Willette said. “Evidently he is causing us a bit of trouble?”
“A bit,” Harlan agreed. “He is the reason for this meeting.”
“Really?” Zane asked. “A single man?”
Ingrid Brown leaned forward. "He is extremely accomplished, Zane. He is not an amateur. I was with Harlan when we watched Shane, and his compatriot, Frank, enter the Slater Mill. They were prepared, utterly, for the encounter. I've seen few as capable as them."
“So,” Clair said, “what have you done to contain him?”
The tone in Clair’s voice told Harlan that she already knew. What was more, it told him that she and Zane were working together in regards to the Shane issue.
They were maneuvering to place one of them in Harlan’s seat.
Harlan smiled. “We have attempted to contain him several times, but each has failed, I am sorry to say.”
Zane seemed taken aback by Harlan’s honesty.
Which was what Harlan wanted.
Clair, one of the smartest Harlan had worked with, was not distracted by the naked truth. She fixed a cold glare on him, her thick lips paling.
“I expected better from you, Harlan,” she said in a harsh tone. “What is the damage so far?”
“Are you interested in the damage sustained while I have tried to neutralize Shane, or in the damage caused by Abigail’s mismanagement?” Harlan asked. “Or perhaps both?”
Clair's eyes widened, and she pushed herself away from the table.
Out of everyone at the table, it had been Clair who had been most vocal in her support of Abigail as the one to lead the organization into the future.
Abigail’s abject failure was a direct reflection of Clair’s vision.
“Has anyone heard from Abigail?” Zane interjected, seeming to remember where his loyalties lie. “Her vanishing with a significant amount of funds isn’t a reflection on anyone.”
Clair visibly relaxed, nodding along with several others.
“I doubt,” Blaine Worthington said, “we’ll ever find her. She was far more adept at hiding her funds than we thought.”
“I know where she is,” Harlan stated, and he told the gathered leaders about her place at Borgin Keep. Several of the members paled, and Imogene Herdman hurried from the room. Harlan could hear her vomit in the bathroom.
“Harlan,” Clair said when he had finished. “Tell me, what damage has the organization suffered after Abigail’s removal?”
Harlan nodded. His answer had to be chosen with care.
“It began simply enough,” Harlan stated. “I attempted to intimidate Shane and Frank by using the Hitchcock team to send a message. Next, I secured the house across from Shane's with our top observation agents. If you have read the brief I sent along, you'll remember that 125 Berkley played a significant role in the organization prior to the cultivation of Slater Mill as an asset."
Several members nodded, and when no one spoke, Harlan continued.
“They were more than adequate team,” Harlan said. “The man and woman had undertaken numerous observation and termination missions.”
“Then what happened to them?” Zane asked.
“Shane and Frank happened to them,” Harlan said, his tone one of disgust. “They made their way into the structure, took our operatives by surprise, and executed them both.”
“Protocol dictates arson,” Blaine reminded them all. “Did you follow that, Harlan?”
“Considering I wrote the protocol for such an incident,” Harlan snapped, “I should think I did.”
“Was the arsonist successful?” Zane asked.
“No,” Harlan responded.
Angry murmurs raced around the table.
“What happened?” Zane asked.
“Somehow,” Harlan answered, “the arsonist lit himself on fire.”
“Now, Harlan,” Clair said in a voice heavy with anger, “would be an exceptionally fine time to tell us how you have succeeded in having Shane Ryan assassinated.”
Harlan ground his teeth and shook his head.
“I haven’t,” he grumbled. “Not yet.”
“Have we lost anyone else?” Clair demanded.
Harlan nodded.
“Who?” she snapped.
“Another officer in the Nashua Police Department,” Harlan replied.
“We only had one more!” Zane yelled, jumping up and knocking his chair back. “My God, you’ve left the entire southern portion of New Hampshire bereft of assets!”
“What else?” Clair hissed in the sudden silence which dominated the room. “There’s something else, I can tell.”
For the first time in quite a long while, Harlan felt unsure of his position within the organization.
Such was his fear that Harlan considered, if ever so briefly, a lie.
In the end, he told the truth.
“I had to use Mrs. Henderson,” he said.
Murmurs filled the air, and more than a few of his compatriots wiped their brows. First one, then another chuckled.
“Harlan,” Blaine said with relief, “you could have led off with that, old man. We all would have felt considerably better about the situation.”
"She was unsuccessful," Harlan said. "At least in regards to Shane Ryan. While I have no way to confirm it, I believe he managed to speak with her, and she was the one who killed Lieutenant Owen."
“Then Shane is still alive?” Clair asked.
Harlan nodded.
“Shane is alive,” Clair said again, “and you have effectively neutered the organization in Southern New Hampshire.”
Anger spiked in Harlan, and he straightened up.
“You listen to me, Clair,” he began.
Clair held up her goblet, and Harlan went silent.
Every person around the table, except Harlan, lifted theirs as well.
"No," Harlan growled. "No. You will not oust me. I have obtained this position by right, and I will keep it by the same."
Clair took a sip, and the others followed her example.
Before Harlan could protest, a length of rope was looped around his neck. The fibers were sharp and painful as the cord dug into his loose flesh. He tried to fight but his old body couldn’t. His killer pulled him out of his chair, sending the heavy bit of furniture crashing to the floor. Harlan was dragged backward, away from the table.
As he gasped and desperately tried to breathe, he saw Clair stand up. She walked to the head of the table, picked up the chair, and straighten it before she took her place in it. Someone took Harlan's goblet away, and another handed Clair hers. She lifted it up and said, "Our watching is nearly done."
They were the last words Harlan heard, as his life was choked out of him.
Chapter 41: Listening to Death
David could hear her crawling somewhere in the darkness.
He sat on the floor, backed into a corner. The dead had stripped him of his clothes, but they had yet to touch his limbs.
He took it as a blessing.
David ignored the way the cold of the stone seeped into his flesh or the way his joints throbbed with pain. Instead, he focused on the chair he had found.
