by Ron Ripley
Betty grinned. “I know. This is my friend Ellen Kay. She worked at St. Joe’s for a while, and she did their CDC course.”
Priscilla raised an eyebrow. “Who was your teacher in the ER overall?”
“Marjorie Lozeau,” Ellen answered.
Priscilla laughed. “You must have been good if you survived Marjorie. I started nursing at St. Joe’s too, and Marjorie was my instructor. We’ve got a couple of extra suits in exam room six. Betty, help her get ready and then make sure we’ve got this part of the ER taped off.”
Priscilla extended her hand, and Ellen shook it. “Welcome, Ellen. We all appreciate your help.”
Ellen nodded and followed Betty once more.
In a few moments, Ellen found herself suited up and sweating, waiting with the other nurses and the doctor. Introductions had gone around, and Ellen had promptly put the names in the back of her mind. Ellen glanced behind her. Layers of heavy plastic sheeting had been taped up. Someone announced that the CDC was prepping a team for flight.
Then the ambulance arrived.
The doors on the back of the ambulance opened as soon as it stopped, and the two EMTs, looking remarkably calm, wheeled out the gurney. A middle-aged man lay naked on it. He was covered in second and third-degree burns and breathing through a respirator. The EMTs had already started IVs, and the patient was unconscious.
“Was the car burning?” the doctor asked as the EMTs wheeled the man into a room.
“Nope,” one of the EMTs answered. “Car wasn’t even that wrecked. Only reason it was called in was because a guy saw the vic’s car glide into a stone wall. The witness said he could hear the vic screaming in pain. The burns weren’t this bad when we got him into the bus.”
The other EMT nodded his agreement before saying, “Donnie had to cut the vic’s clothes off en route.”
Both of the EMTs stepped back and one of the nurses, Ellen thought her name was Doreen, said, “Go into four, we’ve got a place for you to sit and relax until we figure this out.”
“Sounds good,” Donnie said, and the two EMTs got out of the way.
Ellen fell into a rhythm with the team, and soon they had the patient connected to and ready for whatever treatment was necessary. The team was beginning to relax when the patient sat up, screaming.
Which shouldn’t have been possible.
The man had so much morphine in him he should have been out for hours.
“I’m blind!” the man screamed. “I’m blind!”
Ellen could see that the man’s corneas looked burnt.
Chapter 18: Charles and the List
Charles had finished his writing for the morning and was sitting at his dining table. In front of him he had a legal pad, a pen in hand, and Mr. Sherman’s notebook which contained the list of cursed and haunted items. The descriptions were concise and helpful, and Charles made sure he had his own list of items which were no longer within the library.
For a few, foolish moments, he had contemplated doing the necessary research in the library, but a single glance at the great dane’s spiked collar had cured him of that idea.
Charles felt certain the dead within the library would be exceptionally pleased with themselves if they were able to kill him.
The thought was less than comforting.
With a sigh, Charles pushed the memory of the great dane, the pilgrim, and Sid far from his mind and focused on the items before him. He looked at the list and then drew an underline beneath the ‘bayonet’. The bayonet was still out in the world, as evidenced by the murder its owner had committed. But the bayonet was in the hands of the police. Retrieving it might be difficult, although not impossible. Charles had known some bad men when he was younger, and he knew there were ways around everything.
Thus the underlining.
But there were so many things missing. Some of them were small, like the Nazi Party tie-pin. Others were large—a full Japanese “meatball” flag. There was a sailor’s folding knife and a First World War gas mask. A bridle for a Civil War cavalry man’s horse. The belt buckle of a British Grenadier from the Revolution. And at least a dozen more.
Charles could only hope Ellen would find out who Mike and Jared would have brought the items to—and all the items could be recovered.
What if some of the things were bought and then put away? What if they weren’t handled enough to trigger the ghost? What if the damned things sat dormant for years, waiting for the right moment?
Charles sat back in the chair and looked at his cell phone.
He had given Ellen his number and asked her to text or call as soon as she had found out anything. He knew she would. Or rather he trusted she would. He didn’t know her.
Charles closed his eyes, put his pen down and rubbed at his temples, trying to ignore the ache in his neck. He needed to stay focused and concentrate on the task at hand. And that first task was finding out how to get the bayonet back.
Opening his eyes, Charles picked up his cell phone and dialed Lee Parker’s from memory.
The phone rang for nearly a minute, and Charles was thinking maybe Lee was back in prison when the man answered.
“Hello?” Lee asked, sounding like he was smoking more than three packs of Camels a day now.
“Lee,” Charles said, “it’s Charlie.”
“Charlie?”
Charles sighed. “Charles Gottesman.”
“Gottesman?” Lee paused. “God’s Man? Is this the damned Reverend?!”
Charles smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah, Lee, it’s the Reverend.”
“Hey, you old bastard!” Lee laughed and Charles could hear him light up a cigarette. “I’d heard you went straight.”
“That was about ten years ago, Lee,” Charles said.
“Well, hell, Rev,” Lee said, “I got out a couple of months ago.”
“Damn,” Charles said, sitting up straight. “You did the whole thing?”
“All ten,” Lee replied. “Anyway, what’s up? What do you need?”
“I need to find out if something can be gotten out of evidence?”
Lee laughed. “Shit, Rev, you haven’t changed at all.”
“That’s not true,” Charles answered.
“Oh no?”
“Nope,” Charles said, grinning, “I don’t have cops parked outside my apartment anymore.”
Lee let out a laugh that caused Charles to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. When he brought it back, Lee was saying, “So you need to get something out of evidence?”
“Yeah.”
“What station?”
“Nashua.”
Lee exhaled loudly. “You might be in luck.”
“How’s that?”
“Depending on what it is, and what you’re willing to pay, the clerk in the evidence room, this guy named John, he’s got a serious gambling habit.”
“Shit.”
“Yup,” Lee said. “Guy can’t even show his face in Boston anymore. Portuguese have run him out, and the Irish won’t let him step into Southie. Italians have already said they’ll take his kneecaps if he so much as switches cabs in the North End.”
“What’d he do?”
“Ran out on the vig with the numbers,” Lee answered. “Paid it back later, you know, but his Boston visitor’s pass has been permanently revoked.”
“So,” Charles said, “guy’s always looking for cash?”
“Exactly.”
“You want to reach out to him for me?”
“Sure,” Lee answered. “Not a problem at all. You want me to broker or just make the connection?”
“Just the connection,” Charles said. “Where are you drinking now?”
“Polish American Club on School Street,” Lee said.
“Okay,” Charles said. “I’ll call and put something on the books for you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Charles replied. “Listen, you’ve got my number on your cell now. Give me a holler when we can make the connectio
n. And don’t be a stranger. We can sit down in the Club and have a couple of drinks soon.”
“I like that idea,” Lee said. “Give me a day or two, Rev, and you’ll have a new friend.”
“Thanks, Lee,” Charles said, and ended the call.
He put the cell on the table and wondered when Ellen was going to call.
Chapter 19: Elmer Hoyt and the Bayonet
Fiona and the boys were still at the swim meet. In fact, they’d be at the swim meet until Sunday night, since the meet was in Burlington, Vermont.
Which was fine with Elmer. He loved his family dearly, but he hated having to lock the room to his museum all of the time. Or, as Fiona called it, his museum of Hate.
Elmer grinned at the thought.
Per usual, Fiona was on the mark.
Holding the bayonet in his hand, Elmer walked down the long hallway to the basement stairs, and then he traveled down them and into the finished basement. At the far end of the basement was the door which served as the barrier and entrance to his museum. There was a palm scanner to the right of the door, and he put his palm on it. The lock clicked softly, and the entire door moved back an inch before sliding to the right, into the wall.
A large room was revealed, all of the lights coming softly to light, glowing brighter until they reached the appropriate level. All of Elmer’s many prizes were protected in museum cases, each one sealed and in a controlled atmosphere. Each item bore a specific label as well, detailing exactly what it was used for, when it was used, how it was used, upon whom it was used, and—perhaps most importantly—who had used it.
In a decade, Elmer had managed to gather nearly a thousand murder weapons and he had plenty of room to grow as well.
These weren’t reproductions. Oh no. That wouldn’t work at all. These were the real deal, carefully cultivated. He had half a dozen disposable cell phones with people who were willing to find and sell anything.
Elmer made his way to the back and turned left into another aisle. At the center of a shelving system, there was an unoccupied space. He opened the glass door, put the bayonet in its evidence bag down upon the black velvet and closed the door. Elmer pressed the small button sealing the door and turned away.
A chill ran along his spine as he wandered through his museum, a pleasant thrill of fear at the gathered items. A brown extension cord used to garrote a young man, an empty bottle of bleach that had been used to make a chemical weapon to kill a homeless woman squatting in a shed.
Elmer smiled.
Yes, he enjoyed the museum and the way it made him feel.
He would have plaques made up for the bayonet, once he had all of the correct information on the murder. He would be back later, though, to get a better look at the bayonet and to get it out of its evidence bag.
Whistling happily, Elmer walked out of the museum and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 20: Ellen and the CDC Report
Ellen and the rest of the team sat outside the sealed off area in a room of their own. The rest of the ER continued on with its normal, busy weekend schedule of repairing the damage of fights and car accidents. Ellen and the team had worked for hours stabilizing the man and trying to keep him comfortable. He couldn’t be moved to the burn unit until he was cleared, and the CDC was in the room with him, running tests and trying to find out what was wrong.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in,” the doctor said.
The door opened, and one of the CDC doctors came into the room, smiling at everyone. Ellen instantly relaxed.
“Good news for you guys,” the CDC doctor said. “This is not an infectious disease.”
“Thank God,” one of the nurses murmured.
“Indeed,” the CDC doctor said.
“What is it then?” Ellen asked.
The doctor looked at her, and the smile faded away. “Those are chemical burns. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he was in a chemical attack.”
“How’s that possible?” Doreen asked.
“That I don’t know,” the CDC doctor said, “but if he makes it through, I plan on asking him. Right now he has a very, very slim chance of surviving. If he does, he will need extensive burn treatments and he’ll be permanently blind.”
“Are you sure it’s from a chemical attack?” the ER doctor asked.
The CDC doctor nodded. “I did a lot of work with Doctors Without Borders when I was younger. Some African warlords had managed to get their hands on mustard gas and the patient in there has the same exact wounds as someone who was exposed to a heavy dose of it. The weapons were from right around World War One. But even though they were old, they weren’t any less effective.”
“But how did this man get exposed to it?” someone asked. “I mean, he was driving, right?”
“Yes,” the CDC doctor said. “We’ve got the car quarantined, and the police are getting a search warrant for the victim’s house. We need to see if anything is in there and if anyone else might have been exposed to it as well.”
“Was he a chemist or something?” Doreen asked. “Could he have accidentally set something off?”
“No,” the CDC doctor responded. “He was a pawnbroker. Evidently the police know of him. He’s been reported as knowingly buying stolen goods, but the police haven’t been able to make anything stick. We’re concerned he may have gotten more than he bargained for with something and that it might affect others.”
Ellen’s heart had skipped a beat when the doctor had said ‘pawnbroker,’ and she asked, “Was he here in Nashua?”
“His shop?” the CDC doctor asked, and Ellen nodded. “No. He lived in and operated a shop out of Milford.”
Milford.
Mike used to talk about a man he knew out in Milford, a pawnbroker he used to bring electronics to when he would steal merchandise back in high school.
The patient must have been contacted by Jared, and Jared must have sold the guy everything. Everything except the bayonet. The bayonet had finished Jared off. But the rest of it, the rest of it might be at the patient’s house.
At least one thing was. Whatever had been used to hold the mustard gas, she knew. And whatever it was might well end up killing the man.
“So,” the CDC doctor was saying, “basically, you’re all clear to go. Make sure you stop by and see my team members. They’re going to do a basic wipe. I want to be absolutely positive there was no residue on the victim while you were handling him.”
Ellen stood up with the others and followed them out of the room to where a member of the CDC team stood with reactive wipes. Ellen stood in line patiently, had her hands and her neck swiped, was pleased to see there was no reaction, and then made her way out into the rest of the ER.
Priscilla was at the center command corral with Betty, and the two women smiled at her.
“How are you holding up?” Betty asked.
“Tired,” Ellen answered. “Really, really tired.”
“I’m not surprised,” Priscilla said. “Any big event wears you down. You’re welcome to crash in a room for a while if you want. I’m hoping it won’t be too busy.”
“Thanks,” Ellen smiled wearily. “If I can grab a quick shower that would be perfect.”
“Come on,” Betty said, “I’ll bring you to a room. Let me grab your stuff for you.”
Betty left, and Priscilla was called away, leaving Ellen alone for a minute at the corral. The ER went on about its business, and she listened to the comforting, if hectic, sounds around her. Part of her missed the fast pace of the ER environment, and she wondered if it might be good to get hired as an ER nurse somewhere to take her mind off of Mike for a while.
Betty came back with a plastic drawstring bag that contained everything Ellen had worn into the ER. Ellen took the bag from her friend and then followed her out into a back room, one with only a gurney and a small bathroom with a shower. There were linens on the gurney, as well as a pillow.
“Go ahead and crash here for a
while, Ellen,” Betty said, flipping the light on for her. “I’ve got about three more hours left in my shift. Do you want me to wake you up when I’m done?”
“Please,” Ellen said.
“Okay.”
Betty gave Ellen a small wave, and Ellen returned it as Betty closed the door behind her.
Sighing Ellen dropped her bag on the gurney and opened it. She took out her cell, fought the urge to see if there were any texts from Mike, and sent a quick text to Charles.
I think I know who the pawnbroker is. Ran a shop out of Milford.
Within a minute, she had a response.
Great. Will check on it now. You okay?
She wrote back and added, Tired. Will talk later.
Ellen put her phone on ‘silent’ and got ready for her shower.
Chapter 21: Charles on the Milford Oval
Charles sat in a hard, uncomfortable chair inside a small coffee shop on the Milford Oval. He was able to look out the front window at the pawnshop as he drank a cup of strong black coffee.
Several police officers stood outside the pawnshop while a few plain-clothes officers walked back and forth from the shop to a mobile crime scene truck. Around the oval, people had stopped and were watching the events with the same morbid curiosity as witnesses to accidents.
The longer the police stayed, the busier the coffee shop became.
And the louder the customers talked.
“Any idea what’s going on?” someone asked.
“Nope,” answered a second.
“I do,” said a third. “Mulvey said that the old pawnbroker crashed his car out in Hollis. Depot Road maybe?”
“So what are they looking for?” a fourth voice asked. “A still? They think that old bastard was making his own shine or something?”
Laughter answered the question.
“No,” said another voice. “He’s got burns on him. Heard the EMTs talking when they were gassing up over at the Mobil station. They’re trying to figure out what burned him.”
“Wasn’t his car?” the second voice asked.
“Naw,” answered the gas station voice. “They think he was exposed to something.”
