by Ron Ripley
Only for him.
Cam opened his eyes and went into the shelves. He maneuvered along the narrow aisles easily, the soles of his work shoes scuffing along the worn tile. The cold air raised goosebumps on his arms and caused the small hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. He quickened his pace and soon reached the shelf where the box waited for him.
Box 397AKO, with the doll in it.
He knew all about the toy. He knew her name was Anne Le Morte, and he understood that she needed him.
She stopped her song when he stood in front of the box and she spoke in a soft voice. The words were an antiquated French, and it was difficult for him to understand her at first. She repeated herself twice, slower each time, and then he was able to understand her as she asked, “Will you free me now, my sweet man?”
“Yes,” Cam whispered.
He reached out, lifted the lid off, and looked down into the box’s depths.
Anne smiled at him, her eyes locked on his.
Without waiting for her to ask, Cam reached in and withdrew her, holding the cold fabric and porcelain close to him.
“I need your help, Monsieur Marchand,” she said in French, her lips frozen in a half smile.
“Of course,” he replied. It had been decades since he had last spoken in his mother’s native tongue, but it slowly came back to him. “What do you need?”
“I must get away from New Orleans,” she replied. “Far away. I fear there are those who seek to imprison me. To do me harm and keep me from the freedom I so richly deserve. Do you understand, Monsieur?”
“Yes,” Cam answered. “Where do you need to go?”
“Out of the city,” she cooed. “That must be the first portion of our journey. Once we are free of New Orleans’ bonds, then we can prepare our next step, yes?”
“Yes,” he murmured. He opened his mouth to say more, but the rattle of the doorknob cut him off. The scrape of the lock as it turned set him to panic.
“Don’t let them stop us,” she said, a note of fear in her sweet voice. “Please, Monsieur!”
Cam straightened up and looked around.
Three shelves down and two to the right was box 199CLA, which contained a SOG manufactured hatchet used to kill a pimp in the French Quarter.
“Cam!” a voice called.
He recognized it as Pace Ellison’s. A second man, Chuck Donnigan, spoke a moment later.
“He’s been acting weird lately,” Chuck said. “Think he’s spending too much time down here, even for him.”
“Yeah,” Pace agreed.
Their voices came closer, and Cam put Anne back in her own box before he opened 199CLA and removed the bagged hatchet. He tore the seal off it, wrapped his hand around the textured grip and slipped his shoes off. In his stocking feet, he crept forward, listening as Chuck and Pace continued their discussion of his peculiarities.
Cam paused and stayed low as the men passed in the aisle opposite his. Once they were further down, he eased around the corner and saw their backs. The two young officers called out to him again, and Cam decided to answer them.
He sprinted forward, the hatchet raised, and slammed the edge of the weapon in the back of Pace’s head. Cam felt the bone split and separate, the officer going limp and collapsing with all the grace of a discarded accordion. The hatchet required no effort to free, the weapon gliding out of the bone.
Chuck had almost turned around, his weapon half-drawn from his holster when Cam smashed the hatchet into his forehead.
The officer’s eyes rolled up as if trying to watch the progress of the blade, then the bone split with a wet crack. Chuck’s arms and legs shook and twisted like a crushed centipede, and he tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on the back of Officer Pace.
Cam held onto the hatchet, climbed over the bodies of the two men, and hurried back to Anne. He slipped her free of the box, and she asked, “Are we safe?”
“Not yet,” he answered.
Holding the doll tightly to him, Cam fled the room, leaving two dead men and his work shoes behind.
Chapter 16: Answering Questions
“We have a boy on the phone,” Marlene said, setting the phone back into the cradle.
James looked up at his cousin. “A boy?”
He glanced at the phone and said again, “A boy?”
Marlene nodded. “He said he wants to speak to Moran.”
James shook his head and frowned. “This isn’t a joke?”
When his cousin raised an eyebrow, he realized he had asked a stupid question. With a sigh, James said, “Of course it isn’t. Alright. I’ll speak with him.”
Reaching out, James picked up the phone, pressed the blinking light for the line and said, “Hello, this is James Moran.”
“Hello,” a young male voice said, “my name is Tom, Tom Daniels, I’m Victor Daniels’ son. My dad and I were friends of Jeremy Rhinehart.”
James nodded. “Yes, I am familiar with your father’s name, Tom. I didn’t realize he had a son, or that he had brought you with him.”
“I’m only sixteen,” Tom said. “He didn’t want to leave me with relatives. Not after what had happened to mom.”
A raw pain filled the boy’s voice, and James hastened to change the subject.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Tom, if only over the phone,” James said. “Tell me, what can I do for you?”
“My dad and I were wondering if you might have a picture of another collector, someone who’s been causing trouble,” Tom said, anger replacing the pain in his words.
“And who might that be?” James asked.
“Ivan Korzh’s son,” Tom said. “Stefan.”
The name sent an uncomfortable chill racing along James’ spine. “You need a picture of Stefan?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Well, you know, my dad does.”
James cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Does your father plan on confronting Stefan about anything?”
“I’m not sure,” Tom replied, and James could hear the lie.
He chose to ignore it.
“You and your father need to understand that Stefan Korzh is not a stable individual,” James continued. “He is quite dangerous, in fact, and I do believe that your father, or you, might be harmed by him. Possibly killed. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Tom answered. “We know all about how dangerous he is.”
James hesitated then asked, “Tom, is your father around?”
“No,” Tom said. “He had to go up to New Hampshire. They called about Jeremy’s will.”
“Ah, I see.” James sighed, rubbed at his temple with his free hand and said, “If you give me an email address, I can scan-in any photograph I might have of Stefan and send it your way.”
“That sounds good,” Tom said, relief thick in his voice. “It’ll help a lot.”
“That, young sir, may be debatable,” James said. “I have a pen and paper handy if you would like to give me that address now.”
“Yes,” Tom answered, and James jotted down the information as the boy gave it to him. When he was done, he read it back, said goodbye, and hung up the phone.
James looked up and saw Marlene, curiosity on her face.
“Who’s this Korzh?” she asked.
James tapped the end of the pen on his blotter and said finally, “One of the few, true sociopaths I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”
“And you want to send a picture of him to a boy?” Marlene asked.
“Evidently,” James said, shaking his head, “I do.”
***
Tom put the phone down and stared at it for a moment.
“I told you it would be easy,” Nicholas said from a corner.
Tom glanced at the dead man and answered, “I didn’t doubt you. I don’t like lying though.”
“There was not much of a lie to it,” Nicholas said, defending Tom’s actions. “Korzh killed your mother and father. I know that you look upon Victor as a replacement for your father, and perhaps
would have done so regardless, had you met him prior to the death of your parents.”
Tom didn’t argue the point. Instead, he turned on his laptop and opened his email. There weren’t any messages from Moran and Moran.
Tom felt it was only a matter of time before it showed up.
And when it did, he would begin to search for Korzh.
Tom picked up his Spanish textbook, settled back onto his bed, and began to study. When Nicholas realized that Tom was done talking, the ghost vanished.
Tom glanced at where the ghost had been, shrugged, and tried to focus on verb conjugations, and not on killing Korzh.
Chapter 17: Wary
Sofie hadn’t felt right since seeing the stranger who had vanished in Kristine Tring’s old room.
She had also kept her experience to herself. Too many of her co-workers liked to gossip, and the last thing she wanted was to have herself referred to as a lunatic. Which was all too common in the facility. Per Diems were always gunning for someone’s job. Third shift workers wanted second shift, second shift nurses wanted first.
The Arel Assisted Living Home was a cutthroat environment, and any hint of weakness could cost someone their job.
There was also a small part of her that didn’t quite believe what she had seen. As a nurse, Sofie understood the effects of stress on the human body, and on the human psyche at times. She didn’t like the idea of audio and visual hallucinations, but that was a little easier for her to accept than the idea that she had seen a ghost.
Even her mother hadn’t believed in ghosts, and her mother had been a poor peasant who had managed to escape from the People’s Republic of China. Only the uneducated, Sofie knew, believed in ghosts.
And I am far from uneducated, Sofie told herself. Feeling slightly better, she turned her attention back to the daily report she needed to compile for the shift supervisor.
***
Doris Dewolfe was frustrated, which was how she usually felt when she got off the phone with one of her children.
Loren, her eldest, wasn’t coming to pick her up for her birthday. Eleanor, the youngest of her daughters, was refusing to have her come down to New Jersey for the holidays. And Brandon, the light of her life, had just finished informing her that he was divorcing his wife and letting the woman keep their kids.
Brandon, the middle son, told her that he needed to go out to the Greek Islands to ‘find himself.’
Doris muttered under her breath, thankful that her husband Omer hadn’t lived to see the family brought down so low. A soon to be divorced son and the two elder children refusing to take on their responsibilities.
I shouldn’t be living here, she thought bitterly. I should be with one of them. They should be taking care of me the way I took care of them.
Doris wheeled herself angrily into the kitchen, took out a bottle of sherry, and poured herself a tall drink. She finished it, and the following three, quickly, and only then did she feel her anger begin to dissipate.
With her apartment swimming around the edges of her vision, Doris maneuvered her wheelchair clumsily back into the sitting room. She went to her record player, lifted the lid, and then set the needle of the arm into the groove of the first track of her Patsy Cline album. As the singer’s voice drifted out of the speakers, the background noise a soft, familiar crackle, Doris pushed herself away from the record player.
She went to the window, the evening light drifting in through the blinds. A glance out at the street below showed a trio of young men pushing and arguing while walking towards Main Street.
Doris shook her head in disgust, despising the way the youth of the city carried on.
She had seen a fist fight the week before, and there were rumors that someone had been killed only a few streets over.
The song ended, but instead of the next track playing, static filled the air.
Doris grumbled angrily, then stopped.
For a moment, she thought she had heard a voice in the white noise coming out of the speakers.
She rolled herself a little closer, and heard someone whisper, “Hello, Doris.”
Leaning forward, Doris asked, “Did someone say my name?”
“Of course someone said your name,” a man said, chuckling pleasantly. His voice reminded her of the soft rustle of silk. A soothing, sensitive sound.
“If I didn’t,” the man continued, “it would mean you’re going insane, and we both know you’re not.”
Doris nodded her head in agreement and asked, “Who are you?”
“My name’s Hank,” the stranger in the speaker answered. “How are you today?”
“A little angry,” she admitted. “Can’t abide the way my kids talk to me and treat me.”
“Ungrateful, I know,” the stranger said. “Would you care for some company, Doris?”
“I would,” she replied, not sure if it was the sherry talking or if it was herself. All she knew was that she wanted to see the man behind the voice, a secret, young part of herself longing for it.
“Well, here I am,” Hank said from behind her.
Doris jerked up, surprised, and turned around to face the man. He stood in a corner, leaning against the wall and his face half hidden by a shadow thrown by the lamp on the nearby table.
What she could see of his face impressed her.
Hank was better looking than Omer could ever have hoped to be. In fact, the man had the appearance of someone who could have been in movies.
She straightened up in the wheelchair, conscious of her disability for the first time in years.
“Would you care for some coffee?” she asked, her voice wavering. “Maybe a little sherry?”
“Now a little is never quite enough, is it?” he asked her, a playful note in his voice.
Doris shook her head, blushing.
“No, I know it isn’t,” Hank said, smiling. “Tell me, do you get out very often, Doris?”
She snorted derisively. “No. My children can’t be bothered to come up and take me out. Last time Loren did, it was to try and get me to change my will. He wanted more of a stake in it. Seems like his little coffee shop is having some trouble. I don’t know why he started one to begin with. Too many Dunkin Donuts’ around here. How’s he supposed to compete with that? He’s a dummy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hank said, stepping out of the shadow.
Doris gasped. The man was taller than she had thought and far more handsome. She felt a chill as she looked at him, and then realized it wasn’t because of the man.
Doris could see her breath in front of her face, and her knuckles began to ache, the arthritis that twisted them pulsed painfully.
There was something strange about the man as well, and she lifted her glasses up off her chest, slipping the cold metal over her ears and onto the bridge of her nose. Before her own breath caused the lenses to fog, Doris realized that parts of the man were insubstantial.
She could see through him.
“My God,” she whispered in horror, “what are you?”
“Bored,” Hank replied with a grin and moved towards her. “You can help me with that, Doris. I’m sure of it.”
She managed to get out the start of a scream before he was on her. A cold, thin cord wrapped around her neck and silenced her.
Doris struggled, fear building within her, her lungs demanding air. She tried to push him away, but her arms passed through the man. Frantic, she rocked back and forth, her entire wheelchair shaking with the effort.
Nothing she did freed her from the man’s hold, and as she weakened, he squeezed her throat tighter.
Chuckling, he loosened, the cord, then dragged her by the neck out of her seat. The wheelchair went spinning backward, crashing into the wall and spilling the secret stash of butterscotch candies she kept in a pocket.
Gasping, Doris tried to get up on her hands, but Hank tightened the cord around her neck, jerked her back, and then drove her into the carpet.
Doris felt her nose break, and her gl
asses smashed against her forehead. Dully, she wondered if she would be able to afford new frames.
The cord went slack again, and she dragged in a great, ragged breath.
Suddenly, cold hands grasped her arms and spun her around, slamming her back onto the floor. The breath she had so desperately gained rushed out of her, and Hank shifted his grip on the cord around her neck.
He smiled a great big Hollywood smile. One that Errol Flynn or Basil Rathbone would have been proud of.
With a wink, he cinched the cord tight again.
And Hank continued to smile at Doris as he casually strangled her.
***
One of the alarms flashed on the control board at the nurse’s station, and Sofie looked up. Her coworker, a per diem named Mike who had recently moved up from Connecticut, glanced at it and then over at her.
Sofie resisted the urge to slap the man and said, “I’ll check on it. That’s Doris, she falls out of her wheelchair when she’s had a little too much cooking sherry.”
He shrugged and went back to his crossword.
They’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, Sofie thought in disgust. Standing up, she took the master key with her down to Doris’ room, keeping to the right of the hall and not looking at what had been Kristine Tring’s door.
When Sofie reached Doris’ room, she knocked on the door. There was the sound of something being hit and Sofie frowned, knocking again.
“Doris? It’s Sofie,” she called. “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” a voice answered, and Sofie stiffened.
“Mike!” she yelled. “Call the police!”
Without waiting to see if the man had heard her, Sofie opened the door and stood there, horrified at the scene before her.
The stranger who had been in Kristine’s room stood over Doris, who was sprawled out on the floor. The old woman’s eyes were wide, a terrified expression on her face as she struggled for breath.
Around her neck was a thin, black line identical to that of Kristine, and the man held it loosely in his hands.
