by Ron Ripley
“And you figured it out,” Tom said softly.
Victor nodded, hesitated until he was sure of his voice, and then said, “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I got my education. Got a couple of jobs doing online writing, then research. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was steady, and we were together.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said after a moment.
Victor wiped his eyes and asked, “Why?”
“You know, for bringing all that up,” the teen said, looking down at the floor.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Victor said. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Erin and I had a great time. You didn’t end that. Stefan Korzh did.”
Tom’s face reddened at the mention of the man, and he nodded fiercely. “He did. He ruined everything. How many other people’s lives did he ruin? Can we ever know that?”
“Probably not,” Victor said. “And if we did, it wouldn’t do any good. We need to keep our attention focused on finding him, not on the paths of destruction he’s created.”
“You’re right,” Tom said. He was silent for several minutes, and when Victor went to pick up his research again, Tom spoke. “I miss my mom.”
Victor waited for the young man to continue, and he did so after a short pause.
“I don’t miss my dad too much,” Tom said, staring at the fire. “He was kind of a jerk at the end. He was going to leave my mom for good. I don’t know why. But he was. My mom, she was always the same. She never changed. And she’s dead because of Korzh. He may not have killed her, but he’s responsible. And so am I.”
Victor almost missed the last statement, but when he realized what the boy said, he snapped, “Hey, you did not kill your mother!”
Tom’s head dropped, his chin resting on his chest as he sobbed.
Victor hesitated then stood up, crossing the room and kneeling down in front of Tom.
“Listen to me,” Victor said, keeping his voice low but firm, “only one person is responsible for your mother’s death, and that is Stefan Korzh. He alone did this.”
Tom sniffled and nodded, but he didn’t lift his head up.
Awkwardly, and unsure of himself, Victor straightened up and wrapped Tom in a bear hug.
The boy collapsed against him and wept, his slight body shaking with the grief it contained.
Victor held onto him, and let his own tears for Erin slip down his cheeks.
Chapter 8: Rest and Rehabilitation
“How does that feel?” Beth asked.
“Terrible,” Ariana answered, sweating from the effort and the pain.
“Take a break,” Beth said, moving away and leaning back against the counter.
They had the physical therapy room to themselves, which is what Ariana preferred. While the damage from the .22 caliber rounds had been minimal, it was still significant enough to keep her from doing any of the tasks she knew her father needed her to perform.
“So,” Beth said, turning around and taking a clean white, terrycloth towel down from a cabinet, “are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Sure,” Ariana replied, and she nodded her thanks as she accepted the towel. She wiped the sweat from her brow and then her neck. “It was a hunting accident.”
“A hunting accident?” Beth asked with obvious disbelief.
“Yup,” Ariana said, sitting back.
Beth flipped open the medical chart, skimmed it and read aloud, “Three gunshot wounds. Each to a separate joint. Additional bruising and lacerations. Hunting accident? Must have been one hell of a clumsy hunter.”
“Not as clumsy as you’d think,” Ariana said, smiling. “But, yeah, it was a hunting accident.”
Beth shook her head. “So, tell me, what are your goals for rehabilitation?”
“I want to be able to do everything I could do before,” Ariana answered honestly. “I don’t want there to be any limitations because of what happened.”
“And what would it be that you did before?” Beth asked.
“I lead an extremely active lifestyle,” Ariana said, “and I want to go back to it.”
Beth looked as though she wanted to ask another question, but she shook her head. Closing the file, she placed it on the counter and said, “You really want to get back to where you were?”
Ariana nodded.
“It’s going to hurt,” Beth said. “It’s going to hurt a lot.”
“Most things do,” Ariana answered.
“Alright then,” Beth sighed. “Let’s get to it.”
***
Ariana ached, not just the parts worked through physical therapy, but it seemed as though every muscle and every joint was screaming out in agony.
And the day wasn’t done.
She sighed, took out her small compact, the one her father had given her when she was only a child, and opened it. Ariana held onto it for a minute then she whispered his name, and called out to him.
Ivan Denisovich Korzh arrived a split second later, smiling down at her.
“My daughter,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “All is well? You are healing the way you should?”
Whenever her father spoke, Ariana became a child again. She grinned and nodded foolishly, and Ivan Denisovich chuckled.
“Then what is it, child?” he asked. “Hm?”
She forced herself to remember why she wanted to speak with him.
“When I thought my brother was going to kill me,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “I gave Bontoc the message to release Anne Le Morte.”
“So you did,” her father said. “And so did he.”
“Do you know where she is?” Ariana asked, hopeful that he indeed would have an answer.
“I do not know the specifics,” her father confessed. “I know only where she is supposed to be, and that she agreed to hunt down my son. She will place pressure on him, as surely as young Victor Daniels will. With the two of them threatening your brother’s peace of mind, if nothing else, he should not see Bontoc until it is too late, yes?”
“I hope so,” Ariana said. “What if one of them reaches Stefan before Bontoc?”
Ivan Denisovich frowned. “That, my dear daughter, does not seem likely. One is a homicidal ghost who will reduce to madness anyone who stays with her for too long. The other is a man who was not born to this life, and who has no real stake in it other than vengeance for a wife. This was not his child he saw murdered, Ariana. He loved his wife, yes, but they were not blood. Do you understand?”
Ariana felt as though her father was drawing a rather too fine a line around family, but she kept that thought to herself as she nodded.
“Excellent,” Ivan Denisovich said. “Now, tell me, when may I expect grandchildren?”
The question, as always, took her by surprise, and their laughter filled the room.
***
Stefan awoke from a sound sleep and, for the first time, in longer than he cared to remember, he felt good.
He was rested and ready to face the day.
Stefan left his room and traveled the short distance down the inner hall to the observation room. All of the monitors were working, and from the clock on the wall, he saw that he had slept a solid six hours.
Grinning, he dropped down into his chair, typed in his password to the main computer and brought up the video footage of the hours he had slept. He focused on one camera at a time, and only on those that tracked the outer fence. When he finished and was satisfied that nothing more exciting than the random coyote had poked around the perimeter, Stefan got up and made himself some breakfast.
After eating, he went back to the observation room and brought up the local news. He had felt somewhat paranoid since shooting Jeremy Rhinehart in Fox Cat Hollow.
Somewhat isn’t the right word, Stefan thought. He had felt extremely paranoid. In an effort to change his appearance, Stefan had lost fifteen pounds, cut his hair close to his head and dyed it gray, and took to wearing brown contact lenses when he went out. He had three different, non-descript vehicles, al
l with legitimate Pennsylvania license plates, and three different sets of licenses, bank cards, and credit cards.
He had too much to do to get caught and be put away for something as mundane as murder.
His fingerprints weren’t in any system, of that he was certain. Some well-placed money at the end of his military career had seen to their destruction in the national database. And, once everything had calmed down a bit, he would go onto the Dark Net and have someone hack into the Pennsylvania State Police and see what information they had on the case. Witnesses and such.
People he could easily kill off at random.
Anyone’s easy after an assassination in a crowded restaurant, Stefan thought, and the memory brought a smile to his lips.
With a lack of any sort of news on the murder, he searched other major news sites to see if any of the pieces he had sent out were acting up.
A piece in the New Orleans Tribune caught his eye and kept his attention.
The headline read, Orphanage Worker Accused of Murder.
He read the article, enjoying the graphic and lurid descriptions of the death. A little further into the article was a photograph taken only a few days before the murder, and Stefan’s hand froze on the mouse.
He shook his head, clicked on the image and enlarged it, and then shook his head again.
The woman accused of the murder sat in the center of a group of children. Many of them smiling and laughing. Her grin was almost maniacal.
And Stefan could see why.
In her hands, she held an antique doll.
In her hands, she held Anne Le Morte.
He stared at the image for a long time, and he wondered how the woman had gotten her hands on it, and why the possessed doll was there.
Stefan went back to the article and scrolled down to the end, which had a quote from the woman accused of murder.
When asked why she had killed her colleague, the article read, Mrs. Aiden replied, “She was trying to stop me from going to Pennsylvania.”
Chapter 9: A Stranger in the Halls
They were short-staffed again.
Sofie shook her head, keeping her temper under control as she looked at the list of medications that had to go out. She picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the East Wing. After several rings, it was answered by a harried voice.
“Hello?”
“Courtney, it’s Sofie,” she said.
Courtney groaned. “I don’t suppose you’re offering to come over and help me deliver all of these damned meds, are you?”
“No,” Sofie grumbled. “I was about to ask you to cover the desk over here while I did my rounds. Who called out on your end?”
“Elle,” Courtney replied. “I just called over to South Wing. Renee said she’s short-staffed too.”
“What about North?” Sofie asked.
“Don’t know,” Courtney said, sighing. “You want to call or me?”
“Why don’t you give them a call,” Sofie said. “Most of mine can hold out for a little while on their meds, and no one’s called for assistance.”
“Okay,” Courtney said. “I’ll let you know if I find anyone over there and if they can cover.”
“If they can’t, we’ll have to call one of the per diems in. Pauline will love that,” Sofie said.
“Yeah, well, you know what Pauline can do,” Courtney snapped and ended the call.
Yeah, I know, Sofie thought, returning the phone to the cradle. Shaking her head, Sofie picked up her list of prescriptions, glancing over it to see who would need to get theirs first when help came.
Most of the residents didn’t need assistance, but there were those who did and many more who refused to acknowledge that help was required.
She jerked her head up and looked around.
Movement in the corner of her eye had caught her attention, and she knew no one was up and about yet. The early birds had picked up their own pills and headed down to the community café on the first floor near the atrium.
Sofie’s eyes scanned the hallway from left to right, an uncomfortable feeling causing her skin to crawl. She set the list down and let her hand linger near the panic button under the counter.
Down to the left, near the room that had recently been occupied by Kristine Tring, Sofie saw a figure. It took her a moment to realize it was a man, a tall gentleman dressed in a suit. He had his hands in the front pockets of his pants, and there was a curious aura about him, as if he was and wasn’t standing in the hallway.
He seemed to sense her attention and turned to face her. A crooked smile played across his face, and he winked.
Sofie opened her mouth to call to him, to ask if he needed anything.
But nothing she wanted to say came out. She was silenced as the man turned and stepped through the door into Kristine’s old room.
He didn’t open the door.
The stranger passed through it.
Sofie stared for a split second longer, then she snatched the master key up, leapt out of her seat, and raced down the hall to the room. She fumbled with the key as she struggled to fit it into the lock. The air around her was freezing, her breath rushing out in clouds.
The lock tumbled, and she bit back a curse as she grasped the cold knob, twisting it and pushing the door open.
No one was in the room.
Kristine’s unclaimed furniture stood where it always had. The room as tidy as when the old woman had died.
But the old radio that stood against the wall crackled softly as if someone had left it on.
As Sofie watched, the tuning dial moved lazily back and forth in the illuminated plastic faceplate, while a pleased chuckle came through the ancient speaker.
“Happy trails,” a man crooned, “happy trails to you. Tell me, cowgirl, will you be staying in these parts long? You’re a tall drink of water to an old cowhand like me.”
Sofie took a short, nervous step back, and the voice in the radio laughed.
“I hope you do,” the man continued. “I like it here. I do indeed. I’ll be ‘round these parts for a while.”
The radio went silent and the faceplate darkened.
With her heart beating too fast and too loud, Sofie backed out of the apartment. She closed and locked the door. She stood before it in silence, squeezing the key in her hand and wishing she had never gone in.
The jarring ring of the phone at the desk caught her attention, and Sofie hurried towards it, wondering if she would ever forget what she had seen and heard.
***
Her home was a petite, saltbox Victorian tucked away on the border of Hollis, New Hampshire and Pepperell, Massachusetts. From her front window, Sofie could see an old family graveyard secure behind a crooked, but still strong, wrought iron fence.
On her lap, she had a dark blue fleece blanket. It wasn’t anything special, merely a quick purchase at Target when she had stopped by the bookstore. The blanket was more for comfort than for warmth. A mental balm for the subject matter of the book in her hands.
When she had been a young girl, Sofie had believed in ghosts. She had sworn she could see them when she lived with her parents near Edgewood Cemetery in Nashua. Her parents had not believed, and they had gently, but firmly, dissuaded her from her ideas.
They were wrong, Sofie thought without bitterness.
The book in her hands had been written by a local couple, Brian and Jenny Roy. There was no sensationalism in the book, nor were there any dire warnings. It was a simple, direct affair that laid out the facts, and nothing more.
The book made her think of a friend, one whom she had not spoken with in several years. He had been on leave from the Marines, still embattled with his relatives over the ownership of his parents’ home.
Shane Ryan had been a strange and reclusive boy, then a teenager who isolated himself even more so from the world. There had been rumors of abuse, the titillating gossip of the locker room and sleepovers. Sofie had originally approached him on a dare, and invited him to meet her paren
ts for the same reason.
When he had spoken to her father in near perfect Mandarin, she had been stunned, and forced to reevaluate her opinion of him.
While she had never been strong enough to speak out against the rumors and gossip that floated through high school about him, Sofie and Shane had been friends.
And he had told her of his home, and of what he experienced there.
Sofie had not spoken to him in almost a year. It had been nothing more than a quick call to see how life outside of the Marine Corps was treating him. The conversation had been short, but it had ended the same way every talk had.
Call me if you need anything, Shane Ryan had said.
Sofie knew she needed help.
She picked up her cell phone, and dialed Shane’s number.
Chapter 10: A Discussion
“You cannot leave him here,” Nicholas argued. “You cannot leave me here.”
Victor didn’t look at his grandfather. He was too tired to have the conversation the dead man insisted upon.
“Go away,” Victor demanded. “I’m tired.”
“And I’m dead,” Nicholas retorted, “neither of these would be a sound reason to stop this discussion.”
“That is possibly the most convoluted logic I have ever heard,” Victor said, laughing in spite of his exhaustion and his anger.
“I thought it was rather good,” Nicholas replied.
Victor sighed and rolled over onto his back in the bed. The room was dark and much cooler with Nicholas in it.
“You had a rather touching moment with the boy,” Nicholas continued.
Victor stiffened, not sure where the dead man was going to take the conversation.
He waited.
“I do not say it as an insult, Victor,” Nicholas reassured him. “I was incapable of such empathy as a father. You, however, would have made an excellent father. I am impressed and saddened for you.”
The words stung, a painful reminder of another dream denied because of Korzh.
“I don’t want either of you going,” Victor said, repeating his reasoning. “There is always the possibility of you losing your temper, and the only one who would suffer is Tom. I don’t want that. Do you?”
