by Wayne Tripp
Chapter 11
The Frolickin’ Mermaid stunned MacLeod with its silence. In spite of constantly clinking glasses and bottles around the bar, peppered with an occasional patron’s hushed request for more brew; Jamie could have heard a mouse fart. None of the youngish crowd was talking, or the older booze-swilling regulars. As he walked in through the thick oak door decorated with faux studs and rimed with genuine sea salt, he too fell under the spell of the singer’s bittersweet lament. He was surprised to see Kat. Damn, he'd forgotten about her. She was halfway through her new song, Broken-hearted Bride, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. Jamie grabbed the first available stool and lost himself in the haunting sorrow of her siren’s voice. Though his eyes feasted on the lovely singer before him, it was Lacey’s ghost that rose unbidden in his heart. Feeling like an asshole, he wanted to leave, almost rose to do so, but the words snaked through him with seductive fingers, whispering to him to stay, swiftly sucking away his will. Then as Kat finished her ballad, she looked right at him, flashing her warmest smile, and he knew he was trapped.
The siren’s enthrallment broken; the crowd grew typically noisy, there was even an accompanying roaring clap of thunder, echoing like cannon fire across the harbor as the rain repeatedly threw itself against the mullioned windows like a hail of grapeshot. Kat turned to her fellow musicians and conferred a few seconds with the lead guitarist. Then as tall schooners of stout Ale were hoisted, and the raucous chatter began to sound like a full-pitched battle, Celtic Cross launched into their rendition of Orinoco Flow. Falling for the enticing charm of the catchy tune, Jamie found his foot beginning to tap along with the rest, his head swaying slightly as he joined the crowd in naming the exotic isles. He loved sailing, owned his own classic friendship sloop–Rattlesnake– that he’d brought down from Marblehead. Each time he fell under the spell of this tune, he’d found himself mentally checking off the ports he’d visited. Surprisingly, it was a pretty good list.
“Well if it isn’t the Mad Scotsman, Jamie MacLeod. Haven’t seen you for a while. Since…September, when you tied up that rag-bagger of yours and came in with that pretty lady on your arm. What was her name?”
“Lacey. Lacey Rodriguez. How are you, Shamus? I’d like a Guinness stout when you get a minute.”
“Rodriguez. That’s the one. School teacher, if I remember. Pretty little thing…nice lady too. Smart as a whip. Too good for the likes of you. I’d like a minute of your time, MacLeod if you can spare it?”
Feasting on Kat’s sweet voice and lovely face, Jamie didn’t hear the last comment. In fact, he thought the massive bar owner had gone to fetch his beer.
“MacLeod?”
“Ahh…yes? What is it, Shamus?”
“She’s lovely, isn’t she? I only hope at the end of the month when her gig is up, I can entice her to stay on. Anyway, if you’ve got a moment, I’d like to show you something. Detective work, right up your alley from what I hear. Official police business.”
“Actually, I’m off duty.” The look on Shamus’s face said of course he was well aware of that, and would count it a personal favor if Jamie would humor him. Whatever he wanted to show MacLeod, the man was obviously pretty worked up. Shamus O’Neil had been a naval gunner in World War II, stationed briefly on the mainland at Quonset Point. Friendly conversations with the man during several late afternoons while summer squalls raged offshore had revealed that Shamus had survived two violent carrier bombings in the South Pacific; Jamie couldn’t imagine this big muscular veteran being rattled easily. Yet it was pretty obvious that whatever Shamus wanted so desperately to show Macleod had him downright scared.
“Okay Shamus. Let’s go see this detective work of yours. I assume Miss O’Hara will still be singing when I return.”
“She’s got another hour yet. I really appreciate this, mate.”
“Don’t mention it. I have to admit, you’ve got me curious. Can’t imagine what it is.”
The truth be told, he could. He’d spent enough time in the Frolickin’ Mermaid himself to know that Shamus’s prime patron was Ezekiel Browne, an old half-blind sail maker. Jamie knew Ezekiel, probably knew him better than Shamus. He knew what Ezekiel was.
Chapter 12
On stage, Kat had seen Shamus leave with Jamie MacLeod in tow. She didn’t know why the huge pub owner had found it necessary to pluck Jamie out of her audience–she didn’t even know why Jamie had suddenly found himself able to show, though she was definitely thrilled that he had. What a nice Valentine’s Day present. He’d blown off the Rodriguez bitch to be with her. She was so excited; if she played her cards right, she might get the joy of unwrapping this present. Determined not to let her prize slip away, she turned to Sean Ramsey, Celtic Cross’s nominal leader, and signaled she wanted a break. When he nodded okay, she crossed the stage, gave him a peck on the cheek and asked him for another favor. Scrunching up his elfin face, Sean reluctantly agreed. Certain of his answer and full of purpose, she hadn’t waited; hoisting all her sails, she was swiftly tacking her way through the crowd’s rough seas. As Sean shook his head and reached inside his worn leather jacket for a joint to smoke out back, he caught her bluff stern disappearing in a hurry around the crowded bar.
Chapter 13
Feeling miserable, Lacey decided to make the best of her lonely night and pamper herself. She’d sent Jamie three text messages with no response; maybe it was time for her to grow up and admit she’d lost him. It seemed like he was determined to be a jerk. She’d been a fool to hope this night meant as much to him as to her. Valentine’s Day—for those in love. Obviously, that wasn’t him. I'm such an idiot! Well, she was a big girl; she could take care of herself, couldn’t sh?. Sure she could. Having indulged herself in a long soothing bath, she taken a cocktail of painkillers, and then made herself a calming cup of steaming chai. Carrying this and her latest paperback by Patricia Cornwell into the living room, she noticed that in spite of the rumble of distant thunder, it was no longer pouring outside. Instead a thick fog had begun to ooze in, creeping along the ground as it slithered landward from the barrier salt marsh. She’d looked around the rambling farmhouse for Allegro, knowing she’d feel better with her warm calico curled up on her lap, head-butting her with love, but the wayward kitty had vanished. She was probably rooting around in some dark corner of her old stone cellar looking for the ever present field mice. She’d just sat and begun listening to a little romantic Vivaldi on her iPod when the house phone rang. Jamie! It turned out to be Julie Parker on the phone asking about her injuries, both physical and emotional. Twenty minutes later, Lacey returned to the living room, knowing her chai must be ice cold. Her mood had chilled too, especially towards a certain detective.
She’d just picked up her tea cup, and was turning to go to the microwave, when she realized there was a gaunt man standing rigid as a corpse just outside her window, his features squashed up against the glass as he glared at her. Dropping the tea cup, Lacey screamed. The cup shattered, shooting chai across her light rug. She didn’t care. She’d seen the way the cadaverous man leered at her. His glare scared the shit out of her! Turning to flee the room, hoping to lock her windows and doors before he could get in, she looked back over her shoulder. He was gone. His features had been weird: beady close-set eyes beneath a heavy scowling brow, long aquiline nose, and thin lips sneering over large ragged teeth–no chin, just a prominent Adam’s apple that wrinkled its way into some sort of dingy clerical collar. His color had been too pale and blotchy, the body beneath his cheap black suit almost skeletal. He looked sick, or at least deranged.
He was gone. Had he really been there at all? Honestly, Lace? Hugging her nightie to her chest; she planned to lock all the doors and call the police anyway, just to be safe. She’d try text messaging Jamie again. He might respond quicker if he knew she was in trouble. She’d just been wallowing in self-pity. He deserved better than that. She turned to retrieve her ce
ll, and the freak from outside was right there in front of her, grinning, less than two feet away. She’d swear he was drooling on the floor.
“Who are you? What do you want? Get out of my house!”
“Fall on thy knees, Sinner! I come to cleanse thy immortal soul.” Lacey squealed, flailing at him in fright, and turned to run. He grunted, dodging as her frantic hand swept across his face. His mission of punishment burning in his eyes, he groped with his own probing fingers. They snagged in the high buttoned throat of her nightgown and tore downward. His other hand grabbed her arm, biting deeply into soft flesh as he held her tight. “I am Father Malachi Caul Paine and I’ve come to punish you, sinner. You are a wicked fallen woman. When did you last confess your sins, you unrighteous whore? I fear wench, you may have strayed too far from the church to be saved.”
“W-what are you talking about, you crazy old man? Let me go!”
“Blaspheming will not help thee. Nothing will save thee, thy fornicating harlot.” He moved closer, shoving her up against the wall, and bending his reeking face closer to hers. “You see, I know your secret–the one you keep buried in the darkest corner of your black soul. Disgusting wretched woman. You should be strangled with your own rosary.” He pulled her closer, sniffing her and dissecting her with his eyes. “You are a pretty little thing. Wickedness can be so tempting. Perhaps there is a way–” Tearing at her gown, his fingers bit into her soft flesh, poking and pinching. The man stopped, letting his victim stagger away as he lifted his sweat slick fingers to his stinking mouth. Sucking her scent off his ragged fingertips with his pebbled tongue, he mumbled, “Evil tastes so sweet. No matter. I will have your soul now, daughter of Hell!” He came right at her. Lacey had just scooped up her cell from her table and was futilely looking for somewhere to hide when her attacker materialized less than a yard away. She squeaked in fright, and dashed instinctively through the nearest doorway, slamming the door shut behind her. Flipping her lights on, she thundered down the old stone stairs, frantically looking for a hiding place and anything she could use as a weapon. The cellar–what an idiot she was! She’d trapped herself! Damn! Any second, that guy, that thing would come down here and rape her. At least. Unable to stop her frightened tears, alone and unarmed in her ancient cellar, Lacey Rodriguez prepared to fight for her life.
It grew very quiet upstairs. At first she heard the man lumbering around, smashing things, almost as though he had poor control of his body. She was so terrified. She sent Jamie another frantic text message, praying he wouldn’t see it as just a sick trick to lure him back to her bed. Sex was the last thing on her mind. She’d bet that beast upstairs felt quite differently. The thought chilled her to the bone. It had grown so quiet. Was there a chance he’d left? Did she dare chance climbing the stairs for a look? He was probably right on the other side of the door, just waiting for her to stick her head through the door. Did she dare? Well, she’d better do something. With no service in the cellar, she wasn't about to get any help. Jamie hadn't been answering his text messages beforehand. Some hero. It was freezing down here. Of course, with her torn nightie, what else could she expect? But hadn’t it been warmer when she’d first fled down here? Now, it seemed downright frigid. She ventured up half a dozen steps, stopped and listened. Nothing. Not a peep. Another three steps and she’d be at the door. Then what? Lacey had just started up again, when the door suddenly thumped, and she heard somebody on the other side shooting the barrel bolt lock she’d had James install. She was trapped!
“You be nice and quiet now, Miss Rodriguez. Think on thy sins, foul slut. I have sent two parishioners to pray with thee. I shall return for thy soul later.” Though the words had been all too clear, they’d been spoken with great effort, as though from a throat seldom used. He was going. As he walked away she distinctly heard him start to whistle. Lacey pounded on the door, begging to be released. Nothing. Eventually, she collapsed on the top stair, and wept.
Three minutes later, she flipped open her cell again. No service. Low battery. Suddenly, she thought she heard slow movement deep in her cellar, and with growing horror, realized her circuit breaker box was being opened. Seconds later, the lights went out. Lacey screamed.
At first, there was nothing in the dark but her labored breathing and galloping heart. Then, she became aware of sound. Slow, deliberate footsteps, dragging themselves across the dirty cellar floor. This can't be happening—can it? Lacey stood up, and backed into her cellar door. What should she do–where could she go? Should she race down the stairs in the dark and find a place to hide?
She’d probably fall and break a leg. Whoever, whatever, was down there obviously didn’t need to see. What was directing it? Did it smell her…her blood? Oh God! What should she do? But then, it was suddenly at the foot of the stairs, and flight was useless. There was one dragging set of footsteps–no, two–Oh dear God! They’re coming up the stairs!
Chapter 14
Gerald P. Sweetling sat in his cozy living room surrounded by those he loved. It had taken him many hours of painstakingly hard work and patience to coax them into the perfect beings he demanded, but it was worth it. Now as he sat in the huge darkened room amidst his treasures, the flickering light from the crackling fireplace assured him every set of eyes was on him alone. He was the center of attention, the exact center of their universe. That was pretty much the way he saw himself when he strutted down the corridors in his school, past all the pretty bitches and their runny-nosed brats. Just as it should be. After all, he wanted it that way.
He lifted his half-drunk Sherry from the frog nestled at his elbow and took a long sip. What to do? What to do indeed. He placed the drink down on the frog’s green back and looked around the shadowy room at his friends. What did they think? He tittered–they don’t think, or rather, they think what I tell them. I made them. The room brooded in silence as stitched lips and dazzled glass eyes seemed eager to agree. Gerry picked up the stuffed frog. It had taken him three days just to find a bullfrog big enough to stuff, another two to plump up his chubby body with ticking, glue, and then painstakingly paint him. He hurled the stiff corpse against the far wall, rocking one of his grandfather’s revered Ming vases. He sensed a quivering in the room. His stuffed elk and cottontail were growing frightened. He tittered out loud. Who would hear? His taxidermic wonders? No sense of fear coming from the bobcat, weasel, or wolverine. Oh bother! What to do? The bitch just wouldn’t give in. Yet.
Chapter 15
Jamie had been right. He knew what was going on, and who was involved. Shamus obviously hadn’t a clue.
“It was that way when I came in this afternoon. Just look at it this damned big hole! Who…what could have caused this? Jamie?”
They were in the harbor side tavern’s storeroom, facing a locked back door. The room around them was filled with stacked boxes and crates of bottled booze. It was damp and freezing in the room; of course, it would be with the great gaping hole in the wall next to the door. Although Shamus seemed not to have figured out what it was, Jamie had. The hole was man-sized. A small man. And there was something else.
“Who was still here around closing, Shamus? Was Zeke still here?”
“Of course, Ezekiel was here.. He’s such a permanent fixture.”
“When Zeke leave?”
“Ezekiel? You can’t think that little old fart…can’t say that I actually saw him leave. You know Zeke. He can’t hold his booze more than ten minutes. He’s got it on board for such a short time, I feel guilty charging him.”
“But you do, Shamus, you do. What time?”
“Bet your Patriots tickets I do. He doesn’t drink the cheap stuff either. He’s always in the john. But he was out of here when I locked up. I’d swear on it. Zeke navigates pretty well, even when he’s hammered. Yeah, he would have sailed out of here under his own steam.”
Jamie thought differently, but would keep his t
houghts along with his knowledge of the claw marks to himself. Ezekiel Brown probably was in the bathroom when Shamus locked up. Like so many seniors loaded to the brim with meds, Zeke had a weak bladder and chronic constipation. Chances were he was working on a tardy dump when Shamus locked and barred the door. Sometime later, Ezekiel would have wandered out of the bathroom, realized he was locked in, and proceeded to claw his way to freedom. That was the only explanation for the frantic claw marks Jamie saw burrowing out through the wall.
“You got any ideas who did this, Jamie? Pretty lousy thieves. I can’t see that they took anything, except one bottle of Scotch.”
That clinched it; Zeke guzzled one kind of booze. Scotch. Jamie would take care of this, quietly. He’d always liked the bent old man. Town drunk or not, he was one hell of a sail maker. Jamie had ordered a new set of sails for Rattlesnake when he first moved to Grim Island; they were the best sails he’d ever hoisted on the old sloop. Yeah, he’d talk with Zeke. He understood his pain.
“Yeah, pretty certain I know who it is, Shamus. It won’t happen again. You might want to get Tom Murphy in here to fix this wall. Cold as a witch’s tit in here. And check that bathroom before you lock up. You don’t want a poor sod like Zeke getting stuck in here.”
