Deranged Souls

by Ron Ripley

  Victor marked another spot on the map, and Ellen said, “Hey, I think the compound’s there. But there’s a road.”

  “The compound, his main house,” Victor said, nodding, “is here. When the map was made, the professor had not yet constructed the house or the road leading to it. From what I can gather, he has been purchasing houses for almost as long as he has been buying land. He used the same organizations and such, which made tracking the houses down easier.”

  “So, he moved all of them into the Village,” Joyce muttered.

  “No, not at all of them,” Victor said. “Not even close.”

  “What?” Joyce and Ellen said simultaneously.

  Victor nodded, and Tom spoke for the first time that morning.

  “See, we have these people we work with,” Tom said, grinning. “Moran and Moran. They deal only with ghost stuff. Anyway, they know all about the professor and all the stuff he’s bought over the years. They track it all. Evidently, this professor, he’s bought twenty-nine houses, four buildings, sixteen shacks, three train stations, one taxi station, and one gas station.”

  “Get out,” Ellen said softly.

  “Our friends, the Morans,” Victor said, smiling, “keep tabs on everything. They even sent me this.” Victor reached down, picked up a satchel bag, and removed a large sheaf of papers.

  The stack was an inch thick, perhaps more. Joyce shook her head and asked, “What is that?”

  “This,” Victor said, laying it on the table beside the map, “is Professor Abel Worthe’s doctoral thesis concerning fear and how it affects decisions made in stressful situations. He has almost eighty pages dedicated to case histories of people institutionalized following the murder of loved ones by, as the professor says, ghosts.”

  “How the hell did you get that?” Ellen said. “I mean, seriously.”

  “Not us,” Tom said, “the Morans. Like I said, they know everything. It’s kind of freaky when you think about it. I like to call ‘em up sometimes and ask stupid questions, just to see if they can find something that matches.”

  “Are you still doing that?” Victor said, exasperation in his voice. “I told you to stop. James doesn’t appreciate it.”

  “Sure he does,” Tom said with a wink.

  “Incorrigible,” Victor said with a sigh. “Anyway, back to this. We have his thesis if either of you would like to read it. He’s not a particularly good writer, but he is an excellent researcher and analyst.”

  “It looks like it would put me to sleep,” Ellen muttered, and Joyce nodded her agreement.

  “I’m more concerned about getting into the kingdom of Abel Worthe,” Joyce said, tapping the map. “Do we know how many guards or anything like that?”

  “No,” Victor said. “Those details are more difficult to track down.”

  “I can be of help on that end,” Ellen said. “My former commander, he’s part of Alfor, the company hired by Worthe to replace the first string of guards. I can reach out to him, find out what’s going on. My commander, man, he likes to gossip.”

  “Excellent,” Victor said.

  “All this,” Joyce said, “is pretty rough country. My ex and I, we hiked through it for a few days before we bumped into Worthe’s crew. Plus, when I hiked out of it, it was rough there, too. We won’t be able to walk in. Not if we’re planning on doing anything when we get there. Plus, you know, my knee is kind of a problem.”

  “Understood,” Victor said. “Our main concern is going to be trying to get in. I don’t know if we’ll be able to rent skimobiles, but therein lies another problem. I have no idea how to drive one of those things.”

  “Maybe we could rent a plane?” Tom asked, glancing around. “You know, do a flyover, try and figure out the best way to get at everything?”

  Ellen nodded. “Could work.”

  “It’s an option,” Victor said.

  Joyce leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “This is bad.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “I just want to charge in there,” Joyce said, bitterness creeping out of her. “I want to go in, guns blazing, and I want to save my damned friends.”

  The others around the table nodded in silent agreement.

  “Wish we could, too,” Tom said. There was a strange, furious look in his normally calm eyes. “I hate people like Worthe. They don’t do anything but cause misery and pain wherever they go.”

  Victor reached out and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. The teen tensed, swallowed, and nodded, his entire body relaxing.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. The teen stood up and left the room.

  Joyce glanced at Victor, and the man smiled sadly.

  “In case you haven’t figured it out,” Victor said in a low voice, “I am Tom’s adopted father. His parents were butchered by a ghost.”

  “Butchered?” Ellen asked.

  “Butchered,” Victor said, “and I mean that in the absolute, literal sense.”

  “Damn,” Ellen said.

  Joyce sighed and looked at the map. Her eyes focused on the spot marked as the compound.

  “So,” Joyce said, “where’s the Village in relation to the compound?”

  “Here,” Victor said, drawing a circle. “This is where the Village is located according to Ellen.”

  Ellen nodded, smiled, and took the pen from Victor.

  “Okay, kids,” Ellen said, “let’s talk crazy.”

  Joyce and the others leaned in and listened as Ellen listed the houses and who was in them.

  Chapter 18: Observations

  Benny reclined in the seat of the Crown Victoria he had purchased the day before. He had stolen plates on it, but he had the car parked legally, and there was nothing conspicuous about an off-white, 1995 Crown Victoria. The sedan was as nondescript a vehicle as could be found. Benny had considered pickups, but they weren’t comfortable.

  With the mirrors adjusted to watch the house rented by the runaway subject, Benny was comfortable. He was dressed warmly in loose clothing. His headphones played one of Schubert’s symphonies, and he ate and drank sparingly. He had three more hours before his relief would arrive.

  Movement in the rearview mirror caught his attention and instantly Benny was fully alert, watching without moving. A young male exited the house with a small bag of trash, walked to the trash barrel and dropped it in. Benny watched the male reenter the house and close the door behind him. There were two cars in the driveway. One with New York plates, the other with Florida plates.

  Why do they send rental cars from Florida up to New York? Benny wondered as he took out his phone. He sent a quick message to Armand. Four targets, including principal. Two vehicles. No unnecessary movement. Advise.

  The response came a few minutes later.

  Additional members will be provided. You and four. Suppressed weapons. Principal survives. Additionals will bring breaching materials and tools.

  Benny nodded his satisfaction and put the phone down. Fixing his eyes on the mirror, he waited for his relief.

  ***

  Armand stretched, frowned at the odd pop in his lower vertebrae and thought, I am too young for my body to sound like this.

  He stood up and took out one of his cigarettes, lighting it and exhaling slowly, enjoying the relaxing sensation of the smoke entering and exiting his lungs. Quietly, Armand walked up and down the length of his room. In a short time, he would need to go out and choose four more men to join Benny. What weapons will they take? Should they use carbines? Perhaps only handguns?

  Logistical and tactical concerns rose up easily, attempting to plague him. Armand was an old hand at planning missions, and while he did not know the specific layout of the house his men would assault, he doubted it would be terribly difficult for them to achieve their mission.

  There is no place for the subject to hide, Armand reflected. He knew the woman’s backstory, of course. Her ability to escape and inflict damage. It was impressive, but his men would have the advantage of being on the attack and co
vering all avenues of escape.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, Armand shivered suddenly and wondered if there was an issue with the heating system.

  He walked toward the door to look at the small thermostat and came to a stop, his hand dropping to the pistol at his side. The hairs on his neck stood up, and his entire body tensed.

  Someone’s here, Armand thought, turning slowly, keeping his back to the door. The room was dimly lit, and there were far too many shadows in the corners. His bathroom door was closed, and the light on his desk flickered and sputtered as though it was a candle guttering out in the wind.

  He drew the pistol as the bathroom door’s handle silently turned down. Armand sank into a crouch, his hands steady as he aimed at what would be center-mass for whoever stepped out of the door. He knew the weapon was only loaded with iron rounds, but they would still cause significant damage to the intruder.

  The door opened wide, and Armand nearly pulled the trigger. There was no one in the doorway, however.

  The bathroom was empty.

  This fact registered, and then the lamp’s bulb popped, throwing the room into instant darkness.

  “Armand,” a voice said from the bathroom. Armand had already begun to squeeze the trigger when he recognized the speaker. He let go immediately, but he kept the weapon trained on the doorway.

  “Armand,” Miguel said again.

  “You’re dead,” Armand said.

  “Undeniably,” Miguel said, his voice cold. “You left my body in front of the woman’s house.”

  “We couldn’t get it,” Armand said.

  “Lies,” Miguel hissed.

  “Miguel,” Armand began.

  “How could you leave me behind?” Miguel screamed. The room grew colder, and the walls rattled with the dead man’s fury.

  “Orders,” Armand responded.

  “Orders,” Miguel hissed. “I ignored orders in Croatia.”

  “I know,” Armand said.

  “Guillermo ignored them in Afghanistan,” Miguel continued.

  “I know!” Armand snapped.

  “We both ignored them to save you,” Miguel’s voice was low and enraged.

  “If I could have saved you,” Armand said tightly, “I would have. It is your body, nothing more, that lies there.” Shaking his head, he added, “Miguel, how are you here?”

  The dead man didn’t respond. Around him, Armand felt warmth return to the air. He stood up, holstered the pistol, and went to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, Armand looked around the room. He shook his head, turned on the main fluorescent over his bed, and realized there was nothing to see.

  Sighing, Armand walked to his bed. He sat down, took another cigarette out, and hated the way his hands shook as he lit it.

  ***

  Joyce lay on her side, the small table lamp offering a fair amount of light. She pulled her blanket up closer and looked at Ellen as the woman sank onto her own bed. Ellen yawned, stretched, and said, “You okay?”

  “No,” Joyce answered. “I don’t feel right.”

  “About what?” Ellen asked. She took off her boots and got under her blankets.

  “This house,” Joyce said. “I keep feeling like we’re too exposed.”

  “I get that,” Ellen said. “That’s what happens when you live in what was basically a cell, and then you’re hunted through the forest. Paranoia is completely understandable.”

  “Is it paranoia, though?” Joyce asked.

  “Maybe not crazy paranoia,” Ellen said. “I mean, there’s like a slim to none chance someone’s going to find us out here. Far as anyone connected to Worthe knows, you vanished in the woods. And we saw how much property that guy has. It’s nuts.”

  Joyce nodded.

  “Don’t get too worried,” Ellen said. “Remember, you and I are still armed.”

  “I’m not worried about us,” Joyce said. “I’m worried about Victor and Tom. If anything happens to either one of them, I’d be wrecked.”

  “Yeah,” Ellen agreed. “I get that. But something tells me Tom can probably hold his own in a fight. Even though he’s only got one arm.”

  Joyce snickered, then laughed out loud.

  “What?” Ellen asked grinning.

  “Tom’s the type of person who would rip his prosthetic off and beat someone with it,” Joyce said.

  “Oh, man, yes!” Ellen laughed. “He is definitely that type.”

  The two of them chuckled for a few more moments, then Ellen shook her head and asked, “So, you ready for lights out?”

  Joyce reached under her pillow, felt the loaded pistol she kept there and nodded.

  “See you in the AM,” Ellen said and turned off the lamp.

  “Goodnight,” Joyce murmured.

  With her hand still on the weapon, Joyce closed her eyes and wondered how Marcus and Alex fared in the Village.

  Chapter 19: Sick

  Marcus lay in the snow, feeling ill. It had been hours since he had shot at the tower, where a misplaced round and poor timing had caused injury to one of the guards. Marcus still felt miserable about it. His plan to use the weapon for harassing had backfired, leaving him disgusted and sick at heart with himself.

  Why didn’t I place the rounds higher? Or even lower? Marcus wondered. It was, after several hours, a rhetorical question. A sense of impotence, combined with the knowledge that Gwen Hamilton was trapped in her house and unable to remember him, had spurred him to his foolishness.

  What if the guard is dead? Marcus asked himself. What is it then?

  Can I call it anything less than murder? he shook his head. No, I cannot.

  “Marcus,” a voice said. It was a familiar voice. One which he couldn’t quite place. He had heard it before, once, when he and Timmy had both been wounded by Worthe’s new troops.

  Marcus slowly turned his head to the right and saw a figure squatting in the snow. The man was a ghost, dressed in a World War II-era uniform. When the dead man saw Marcus, he smiled.

  “I’d shake your hand,” the ghost said, “but I think we both know how that would work.”

  Marcus nodded. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Dennis Knip. Timmy’s grandfather, Lauren’s dad,” the dead man said, smiling. The smile faded slowly, though, as he peered at Marcus. “You’re not looking too well there.”

  “I’m not feeling too well,” Marcus answered. “In fact, I’m rather miserable at the moment.”

  “Hm, well, not much to do about that,” Dennis replied. “I’m here about my grandson. Timmy’s looking like death warmed over right now.”

  “I know,” Marcus answered. “It is a difficult thing to watch.”

  “You and me both,” Dennis said. “Damn. Wish I could have a cigarette right now. Anyway, my boy Timmy, he doesn’t want to leave you. Not in the current situation. I get that. One of the reasons I’m so proud of him. Regardless, he’s going to die, and sooner rather than later I’m afraid.”

  “What would you like me to do?” Marcus asked.

  “Tell him it’s okay,” Dennis said. “Tell him it’s all right for him to die. Oh, he’ll laugh and make fun of you, but I know it’s what he needs. I doubt he’ll keel right over in front of you and the boy. In fact, if I know my grandson, he’ll hold on as long as he can, just so neither one of you has to see him go. Here’s the thing, though. He will need permission. It’s the way he’s built. I’m certain his pain will ease, and he’ll be a damned sight more pleasant to be around.”

  Marcus laughed shakily. “Yes, he is rather difficult at times.”

  “The boy’s a jackass, plain as the nose on my face,” Dennis said with a snort. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love him, or want to see him comfortable.”

  “I know,” Marcus said softly.

  Dennis stood up and straightened his jacket. “I’m off for a bit. I like to stroll around this little Village and see what the rest of the dead are up to. Those Indians are pure murder, but I like speaking with Brother Michel. He’s a funny man, once we get by
all the religion stuff. And Guy, he reminds me of Timmy. Same wild, almost carefree attitude in combat. Suppose it’s why he’s dead.”

  Dennis smiled and walked away, dissipating gradually as he did so.

  In a moment, Marcus was alone once again. With a sigh, he stood up, leaned against the chapel wall for support, then he started the long, slow process of sneaking back to 114 Broad.

  ***

  Timmy lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He had, over the course of days, memorized the path of each crack in the ceiling’s old plaster. Every day, he sought any sort of change, any new transformation above him.

  He was always disappointed.

  I need to roll over onto my side or something, he thought. No way in hell am I going to kick it staring at a ceiling. That’s absurd.

  Timmy closed his eyes, tensed his body, and hissed as he eased himself onto his right side. He was panting and sweating by the time he finished, but he was on his side, and when he opened his eyes to look triumphantly upon the world, he almost shouted in surprise.

  Alex sat across from him, the boy’s expression mournful.

  “Damn, kid,” Timmy said with a grimace. “You scared the absolute hell out of me. Make some noise or something next time.”

  “Okay,” Alex said. He pulled his legs up under him to sit cross-legged.

  “What’s eatin’ at you, kid?” Timmy asked. He tried not to stare at the boy’s all-white hair or the way his eyes seemed older than they should.

  Hold on, why shouldn’t they? Kid’s been through more than most adults.

  “You’re dying,” Alex said.

  Timmy snorted and then winced. “Yeah. Aren’t we all, though?”

  Alex smiled. “Sure. But you’re dying faster than the rest of us.”

  “Got a point there, kid,” Timmy muttered. “Feels like someone’s got a fist in my guts and they twist it every few minutes just to keep me awake.”

  Alex nodded. After a brief silence, the boy said, “I have a favor to ask.”

  “What’s that?” Timmy asked. “Do you want my baseball card collection?”