Pennies for the Ferryman - 01

by Jim Bernheimer

“Listen, I want to talk to you about some monsters that I found in your home. They are gone now. We took care of them. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “But no one else ever sees the monsters!” Ben objected.

  “That’s why they sent for me and Brother Silas. You see Ben; we are special, just like you. When most people get older, they stop seeing these things. Maybe that will happen to you or maybe it won’t; only time will tell.”

  “How did you get rid of the monsters?”

  “Well I have a special sword and scared them away,” I said, not wanting to get into the details.

  Ben’s parents were obviously skeptical that I was feeding Ben’s delusions. His father scoffed, “Sir, I’d rather not have that kind of talk around my son. There’s nothing to be served about filling his head with nonsense about magic swords.”

  Admittedly, I was tired, cranky and had several very real feeling dog bites on my body. I stood up and went into the bathroom and got several tissues from the little dispenser built in to the counter top. Looking right at Ben’s father and holding up the palm of my left hand, I said, “As you can see Ben, there’s no wound on my hand. I’ll hold it here for a second so you don’t think I went in the bathroom and cut myself just to trick you. In my other hand is my invisible sword. Now, I want you to point to a spot on my palm and I’ll make a little cut right where you tell me with my sword.”

  Ben did his part, and using the tip of the sword, I made a small cut on my palm right where he indicated. I then set the ghost sword across my lap and kept the one hand visible so they saw it. The five year old was beaming and his parents were clearly shocked. Maybe I had a future as a stage magician? I could get some Casper to help me and I could guess the card people were holding and make wounds appear on my body? Actually, cutting myself for other people’s enjoyment sounded a bit on the idiotic side, so I squashed that idea.

  “That’s what I used to drive off the monsters. They won’t bother you any more, little man. If they ever come back, tell your parents and they can send word, but I have other little boys and girls to help. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.” The kid seemed to swell with pride. I could add works well with children to my future resumes.

  I used the tissue and wiped the blood off my palm and stood. His father followed us out into the hallway. “How exactly did you do that magic trick? Don’t worry; I won’t spoil it for my son.”

  If I wasn’t so tired, I’d have made a stink right then. Fortunately, Silas stepped in and answered for me, “You asked us to come out and investigate the unexplainable. Please understand that the solution to the problem may be equally unexplainable.”

  Three extra-strength pain relievers and a few hours later, I soaked in my bathtub. Pastor Duncan drove by Megan Rosemont’s house and dropped off the husky for Elsbeth to take care of, explaining that my mom might object to a ghostly dog in her house. Mom never wanted a live one, so I didn’t expect this to be any different.

  Besides, Elsbeth looked like she needed some company. She could use a hobby or a pet. I’d been tempted to put the focus in my yard and incorporate the pooch into my “protections”, but the dog had clearly suffered enough and I doubted that I would pay enough attention to it. The funniest part on the ride home was the dog sticking its head out through the closed car window. Elsbeth actually appeared happy for a change and decided to name the dog Sheba. I thought it was amusing – my pet ghost now had her own pet.

  The day wasn’t a total loss; I discovered a new use for cast iron when my pipe wrench brushed up against one of my phantom wounds. It hurt like hell, but it seemed to draw the pain out of the wound. I almost blacked out from the initial jolt, but it lessened with each successive application. By the time I got home, I looked like I only had a bad case of poison ivy instead of second or third degree burns. I tried it next on the saber wound on my palm – that too was painful, but the wound healed up instantly, leaving just a ghost of a scar.

  By the time the preachers dropped me off, Mom was out feeding her bridge addiction which left me in a tub filled with warm water easing my aches. I’d helped a little boy with a problem. Supposedly, this was “good” soreness. Oddly, it felt just as painful as the normal kind, but it apparently was the price of admission for the wild ride that my life was swiftly becoming.

  I’d thought about giving Candy a call, because she wanted me to let her know how it went and if I found anything, but we didn’t get back until nine and her shift started at midnight. I settled on sending her a quick email asking if she felt better, letting her know that something did happen and that I was “mostly” fine.

  Funny how I always hated baths growing up; once I was old enough to use the shower, I never looked back. It was only during rehab that I was exposed to baths again. I discovered that lying around in a bathtub was a good place to get my thoughts into order and just relax. The world made sense in a tub.

  Floating in the bath, I started free-associating, thinking of another tub; a hot tub in Texas to be specific. Heather was very fond of hot-tubs, and I’d been rather fond of Heather. I started comparing Candy with Heather. Beyond the fact that they were both blondes, there wasn’t much to compare. Candy had something upstairs and Heather was, as Don Hodges concluded was “all boobs and no brains.”

  Candy was right. I did think too much.

  I was saved from a further self-examination by a ringing doorbell. Given that it was already ten o’clock at night, it was likely to be important. Sighing, I climb out of the tub and opened the drain. Drying off, I grabbed a terrycloth bathrobe while the doorbell rang again and again.

  By the time I got to the living room, whoever it was shifted to rapid knocking. Checking to see the chain was latched, I pulled it slightly open. Jenny Goodman stood out there, looking like a tiny ball of fury. I was reminded of high school when Jimmy Wilkes used to do those little cartoons of the “Taco Bell” dog foaming at the mouth with rabies.

  “Yes?”

  “You lied to me! You said that you wouldn’t date Candy!”

  I’d gotten out of the tub for this? I wondered whether she drove by this morning and saw Candy’s car still here. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be seen with me? Did you get your aunt and uncle’s approval for this visit?”

  Candy’s comment about the women in her family seemed to be right on target. Reluctantly, I unlatched the door.

  “She’s not right for you! She’s just going to use you and toss you away!” Jenny protested.

  “Use me for what? My fame? My fortune? Get over yourself, Jenny. You drove all the way over here just to tell me off? Candy drove five hours up here to take a chance on me and didn’t even know if I was dating anyone.”

  “That’s because she’s a slut!” Jenny exclaimed.

  “If she was a slut, she could have picked up some guy locally and saved herself the trip. Is this about her, or is it about you and me?”

  “Bastard!”

  I didn’t argue the point – while the law considered me perfectly legitimate, over the years I’d ripened into someone I wasn’t always proud to be; if she’d gone with “son of a bitch”, I’d have taken issue, though.

  “Grow up, Jenny. Was I supposed to wait around and see if you were going to grow a spine and stand up to your family? You’re not in high school anymore. It’s obvious that you don’t run your life. Come back when you do.”

  Jenny maturely gave me the finger and stormed off. I responded by slamming the door. Surprised at the anger in my rant, I stomped back to the couch, blaming my outburst on my injuries and not my confused feelings for Jenny.

  Maybe Jenny Goodman wasn’t the only one fighting self-delusion.

  Episode 5: The Big Score

  The most successful people describe themselves as “hungry.” They use phrases like “I wanted it bad enough” or “I never stopped pushing myself.”

  Well, I wanted it bad enough too. That thousand dollar reward I’d scored in Roanoke gave me just a taste of a better
life – one that didn’t involve shopping at second hand stores and where bills could be paid on time instead of playing end of the month roulette.

  I was looking for my big score. I hadn’t found it yet, but not for lack of trying. At the suggestion of the editor at the supermarket rag that had published Jenny’s story, I took a few bus rides to Fort Marcy Park and Rock Creek Park looking to crack some of the unexplained deaths that Washington was famous for. So I went searching for un-living celebrities, namely Vincent Foster and Chandra Levy, who the paper’s editor hoped might be hanging around with a scandalous story or two to tell. Needless to say, they weren’t – hanging around that was. Odds were that if they actually were ghosts, they’d be where their remains were interred.

  Since I wasn’t financially equipped for a trip to Arkansas, much less California, those were two cases that would continue to remain unsolved, but that didn’t stop me. I became a reader of the Metro section of the Washington Post. One might say that I was a bit ghoulish, looking for a way to profit off of people’s deaths, trying to collect on outstanding rewards for solving their deaths or disappearances, but I took a more pragmatic approach – either way they were still going to be dead and I needed the money.

  It wasn’t exactly your typical win-win situation as evidenced by my failure to win anything. Classes at Montgomery College were out for the Thanksgiving holiday. Rather than join my mom on her annual quest to get the greatest “Black Friday” shopping deal ever, I was standing in a cemetery, trying to talk sense into a dead guy. Sure, it wasn’t my idea of a good time, but neither was being poor.

  “I don’t quite understand why you don’t want to talk about it. I’m just trying to help,” I said.

  I know that sounded lame, but whoever heard of a ghost that didn’t want help?

  The stocky man in his mid-forties glared at me. “For the last time, let it be. I didn’t see who killed me. I’m not sure I’ll ever know! Now, just go and leave me alone,” the ghost exclaimed.

  “Kevin, listen, I feel for you, but I’ll be brutally honest. There’s a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to an arrest in your murder. That might have been chump change for a successful orthodontist like you, but I’m just a broken-down vet trying to get by. I want to solve your case. That kind of money would make a big difference in my life. Your family wouldn’t have offered the reward if they didn’t want your case solved. What do you say? Let’s work together and give them some closure, eh?”

  “No! I don’t know anything! Get the hell out of here!”

  All puns aside, it was like pulling teeth!

  When Kevin McNeil was alive, he was an orthodontist with a thriving practice in Bowie. He disappeared three months ago and recently, his body washed up on the shores of Maryland near Deale. There was no real explanation why an overpaid tooth straightener and father of three from Bowie would end up dumped in the Chesapeake Bay with signs that his wrists had been bound with what the police suspected was bailing wire with a dash of blunt-force trauma to the head.

  He was lying. I knew it. He knew I knew it, but still we’d been playing this game for hours. McNeil hadn’t moved on, which is what most decent people do when they die, so he was waiting to do something. Was it apologizing to someone, or needing something done on his behalf? So far he wouldn’t own up to anything except being miserable.

  At the moment, that made two of us. It was very tempting to pull that pipe wrench off of my belt and see if I could beat some sense into him. He couldn’t get any more dead unless I ran him through with Colonel Vincent’s saber, which was sounding more and more tempting.

  “I’ll come back next Saturday and see if you’re in the mood to talk then.”

  “Don’t bother,” he answered, flicking my hand away.

  Walking out of the graveyard towards the bus stop with the MARTA bus schedule in hand, I was plotting both my return trip home and my next move. Torturing a ghost for answers just sounded wrong and I’ll freely admit that I wasn’t much in the “subtle” department. I needed someone who wasn’t threatening, someone who he’d open up to.

  In short, I needed my dear friend, Elsbeth.

  “No, Mike. I’m not doing it!” She said petulantly.

  Obviously, the only person in this life or the next Elsbeth could stand up to was yours truly.

  “Look, I’m not asking you to sleep with him or anything. No, don’t even bother telling me. I don’t want to know. I just want you to chat him up a bit. Just kind of wander over into his graveyard and talk to him for awhile. Tell him your story and try to get him talking about how he died,” I pleaded.

  “Have Silas talk with him,” Elsbeth said resolutely.

  I’d brought the old man by to speak with both Elsbeth and “Grandma Meg.” The three of them had a grand old time. I was forced to play translator and didn’t have nearly as much fun as they did, given the shocking pain I endured to talk to the dead, but the roast beef and the apple pie the elderly woman made for dinner helped to alleviate my complaints.

  It wasn’t a bad idea, but my way sounded more effective than standing in the graveyard while my blind, paranormally enhanced comrade wore down Mr. McNeil’s resistance with his witty observations on the human condition. The down side was that I’d have to be there, playing medium for the duration. Under my perfectly fine plan, Elsbeth would wander in, charm him, listen to his sob story and summarize the details for me. Yes, I admit that I was being sneaky, but the Army taught me that I should always be on the lookout for ways to effectively utilize my time.

  “What can I do to convince you to help me? I already do your grandmother’s grocery shopping and pick up her prescriptions!”

  Yeah, and thanks to the Maryland lottery and 7-11, I get paid for these services, but I wasn’t intending to be a professional “gofer” for the next few years and I wasn’t exactly living large on the chump change Elsbeth found behind the counter.

  “Fine, I’ll help you,” Elsbeth said, “but you’re going to use some of that reward money to send my grandmother to Hawaii.”

  “Come again?”

  “She’s always wanted to see the islands and she’s never been able to afford it. I think it’d be a nice way to put this whole mess with Charlie behind us.”

  I considered telling the lady ghost who was sitting primly on the couch, petting her equally dead husky, Sheba, to quite literally go to hell, but I’d scored already – she’d agreed to help. The reward money was just inches away from being in my pocket. Or not – we’d have to see.

  “Fine, Hawaii it is. Once we get the money, I’ll look around for the best price.”

  She reached out and touched me again. “That reminds me, Detective Wycheck was by to speak with Grandmother. He wants you to come down to the station.”

  I didn’t want to argue why Meg rates a personal visit while I get to hump my ass down to the Police Department. My problem wasn’t with either of these two women. They weren’t the reason I didn’t like Wycheck – he was.

  Monday afternoon found me in a meeting room at the Police Department. The assistant district attorney wanted to meet with me and discuss my upcoming testimony. It sounded as pleasant as a trip to a dentist chair.

  For a change, I wasn’t the shortest guy in the room. The prosecutor was a pudgy and diminutive fellow named George Robbins. He liked me just about as much as Wycheck.

  “So, let me get this straight. You’re a psychic. You talk to dead people. This woman’s dead daughter tells you Snowden’s going to off her! That’s what I’m going to hear when I put you on the stand isn’t it?”

  I nodded while Wycheck scowls.

  “Jesus Christ! The defense is going to eat you alive! I’ll be lucky if the judge doesn’t laugh me out of the courtroom!”

  That wasn’t really my problem. “Police use psychics during investigations all the time.” I stated calmly.

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only short and temperamental person in the room either. “I’ll tell you what the problem is y
ou little smart ass! Cases are built around evidence. I’ve got a decent amount of evidence, but most of it is linked back to you, and you are going to be presented as a nut job!”

  “Would it help if I had a track record?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like helping Roanoke County solve a missing persons case back in October. I even have a letter of appreciation for it.”

  That calmed him down a little. “Okay, we can build off of that, but I’m telling you that Snowden’s attorney is going to come after you like there’s no tomorrow. You’re a war vet right? Still recovering from a head injury right? Your story is told in a supermarket tabloid right? These are all the things the defense is going to toss out there to undermine your credibility and you better be ready for it! That means you don’t lose your cool on the stand!”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  That draws a snort from Wycheck, “Yeah right, punk.”

  I calmly roll my eyes at the dark haired man in his worn brown suit. “See, if an asshat like him can’t wind me up, I’ll be just fine on the stand.”

  After thinking about it over the weekend, I’d come to the conclusion that the best way to piss Detective Wycheck off would be to trivialize him. It was actually rather fun.

  “You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Ross.”

  “I’m taking this very seriously, Dee-tective. You weren’t the one getting choked by Snowden. The only thing I’m not taking seriously here is you.” Oh, that got under his skin, nicely.

  The attorney interrupted our pissing match before it could really get started. “Enough. Look I don’t really care what twisted, sordid passion is going on between the two of you. I get it, Detective, you think Ross is a punkass and you, Ross, you’re ticked off that you reported this to the Detective beforehand and he didn’t do diddly-squat about it. The two of you don’t have to be buddies. The only thing you need to do is deliver testimony in an assault and attempted murder case. Am I making myself clear?”

  Yanking Wycheck’s chain could be set aside for the good of the judicial process, so I nodded. We went through the sequence of events again for clarity and then the attorney excused himself. The two of us were left alone.