by Ron Ripley
“You know,” Brown said beside him, “the Japanese used to do this type of garbage.”
“What’s that?” Walter asked, not looking at the dead man hovering beside him.
“Tied themselves up in trees,” Brown answered. “Found that out on Guadalcanal. Pain, that was. You move along a path, think you’re alright, and your buddy’s brains get blown out all over your back.”
“Huh,” Walter said, resting his cheek against the cool wood of the stock.
“Who are you waiting for?” Brown asked.
“Whoever shows up,” Walter answered, bristling at the question.
“I don’t believe you,” Brown said, snickering. His voice grew lower and he said, “You’re waiting for someone running. Or someone young, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” Walter said.
Brown chuckled. “I know you are. You talk all you want about people who hurt animals, but I know that’s just a load of bull. Let’s see. You killed a runner, and four girls.”
“And the old man,” Walter snapped.
“Sure,” Brown laughed. “The exception that proves the rule. Yeah, what is it about the physically fit, Walt? What is it about young girls?”
“My name’s Walter,” he snarled.
“What’s wrong with Walt?” Brown asked innocently. “Come to think of it, Disney’s name was Walt, and he was a hell of a cartoonist. Steamboat Willie’s one of my favorites. Oh hell, Walt, are you blushing?”
Walter felt his face burning, the memories of childhood rushing back.
“Oh, they called you Walt Disney,” Brown said, and Walter could hear the grin in the dead man’s tone. “Did they call you Mickey Mouse too?”
“No,” Walter hissed.
“Minnie then,” Brown said, and Walter’s face felt as though it were on fire.
Brown laughed and the rifle shook in Walter’s hand.
“Bet you were a scrawny kid too,” Brown continued. “Did your Mommy let you grow your hair long? Or did she want it long and you had to leave it?”
A group of twenty cyclists appeared on the road across the valley, and Walter fired off all five rounds as quickly as he could. Each bullet found a target, and he could clearly hear the screams of the wounded.
“Looks like you only killed two, maybe three of them,” Brown said critically. “You shouldn’t let your emotions get control of you, Minnie.”
“Shut up!” Walter screamed, glaring at the dead man. “Shut up!”
Brown smiled and whispered, “There’s only one way to do that, Walt. Can you?”
Walter stiffened with fear as he realized what the dead man wanted. Shuddering, Walter clambered out of the tree, not bothering to collect the spent casings. Instead, he hurried back towards the path that would lead him home.
Home, where he would be trapped with Brown.
Chapter 25: A Question of Some Importance
Standing in the kitchen of his childhood home, Stefan understood that his new ritual of a nightly drink could have potentially disastrous consequences should it get out of hand.
He squashed those fears, poured himself a shot of vodka, and went to stand before his father’s door. Because it served his own purposes, and also for his own safety in light of his father’s ability to travel at will, Stefan had brought Anne Le Morte and her glass coffin back to the family home. There had been a pleasant surprise when Stefan had looked through the glass.
The Wedgwood teapot was in there as well. One less item Ivan Denisovich would demand he find and bring back into the fold. And its return would afford Stefan a little more time to come up with a solution to his father’s interruptions.
In the morning, he would return to his new headquarters, but until then he had a single, nearly all-encompassing question. One that he believed might be answered now that Anne and the teapot had been secured.
“Father,” Stefan called out.
The floor rumbled, and the door to the room shook in its frame. Voices muttered and complained until his father’s voice dominated all and silenced them.
“Stefanushka,” Ivan Denisovich said, “I am surprised you actually came. Usually, you fail.”
Stefan stifled the anger he felt and forced himself to moderate his tone. A fight with his father would be both futile and potentially dangerous.
“I have a question,” Stefan began.
“Only one?” his father interrupted.
Stefan ground his teeth together, took a deep breath and asked, “Can I finish asking the damned question?”
Ivan laughed and said, “Go on, Stefanushka, go on.”
“Who is hunting me?” Stefan demanded
For a moment, his father was silent.
“I was wondering, Stefan,” Ivan said in a low voice, “when you might ask that question. The person hunting you and the person responsible for my death are one and the same.”
Stefan disliked the dead man’s tone, and he took a cautious step back, away from the door.
“How?” Stefan asked warily.
“Sit down, Stefan,” his father said, “this story it will take some time in the telling.”
Stefan sat down on the floor, sipped his vodka, and listened to his father.
***
November 1, 1998
Ivan Denisovich Korzh paused after he climbed out of the rented van and took a deep breath of the cold, crisp New Hampshire air. The ride up from Boston had been smooth and uneventful. Nicole was at home with the boy, who seemed hell-bent on driving them both mad with worry, and was upset that she had been unable to go on the trip with Ivan.
He would keep an eye out, of course, for anything that might be of interest to her but it would be a gamble, as always. Ivan was drawn to the killers and rarely noticed the weaker ones.
I will try, he thought, nodding to himself. It is the least I can do for her.
With that idea foremost in his mind, Ivan walked across the dirt parking lot to the front door of the large red barn which served as an antique store. It had been a year and a half since he had traveled the length of the New Hampshire antique trail, and he had come away with several excellent pieces for resale.
And one phenomenal item for his own collection.
Ivan smiled at the memory, reached the double glass doors of the entrance and held one of them open for a pair of young men exiting the store. After they had passed, Ivan stepped into the building and off to one side, unbuttoning his coat and unwrapping his scarf while scanning the various displays.
He let his eyes roam, not placing any pressure on himself. At a young age, he had learned not to do so. The pressure made him powerless, and it was not a feeling he enjoyed.
A flicker of light, a soft, dull red caught his attention and Ivan grinned.
Red was his color. The color of death and anger, rage, and violence.
He turned his head towards the flickering light, the one he knew others could not see, and approached it. Amongst a collection of seemingly innocuous and boring kitchen utensils from various decades, Ivan saw it. To anyone else, it might look like nothing more than some sort of vegetable chopper.
Ivan knew better.
The tool was an ulu, used by whalers for cutting-in; the harsh, brutal job of stripping the blubber off dead whales. And, by the pulsing red glow around the steel blade and wood handle, Ivan could tell that it had been used for something far more sinister than stripping a whale’s carcass.
Humming a cheerful tune, he slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves and picked the piece up. The interval between the pulses shortened, the ulu acting more like an angry jellyfish than an inanimate object. Ivan chuckled to himself and carried it up to the cashier.
A young woman, with dyed blonde hair, smiled at him and asked, “Would you like me to set that aside for you?”
“Yes,” Ivan said, “I would appreciate that very much, thank you. Please, be careful though, it is quite sharp.”
“Sure,” she said, nodding. She took it gingerly by the handle and placed it behind t
he counter for him.
Ivan turned away, scanned the long, airy room once more, and when nothing caught his attention, he walked to the nearest display and carefully scanned it. No colors revealed themselves, and there was nothing worth buying and reselling.
Holding his hands behind his back, Ivan moved along at a leisurely pace, pausing to inspect various items. He made several trips back to the young blonde woman, depositing items both for resale and for Nicole. Most of those that were for his wife, glowed a dull white, nothing too powerful, but haunted nonetheless. One of them, a long hairpin, had a deep blue to it, which meant there was some sort of anger associated with the item.
It was after he had set the hairpin aside that Ivan noticed the man with the cane.
He was a thin, almost gaunt man. The stranger was well-dressed, and leaned heavily on his cane.
And he was watching Ivan.
Not in any way that most would have noticed.
Ivan had been Spetsnaz when he had served in the Soviet Union’s army. He had fought in Afghanistan and laid villages low. Ivan Denisovich Korzh knew when he was being watched, and the man with the cane was doing exactly that.
Turning away from the stranger, Ivan walked down to a deep, American chestnut highboy dresser. While he gave the piece a cursory examination, he tried to recall whether or not he had seen the man with the cane before. After several minutes of contemplation, Ivan came to the decision that he had not.
That fact – more than the man’s surveillance of him – bothered Ivan the most.
Sliding his hands into his pockets and grasping the small lead bars he kept in there to add weight and force to his blows, Ivan turned around to confront the man.
But the stranger was gone.
Quick glances up and down the long center aisle confirmed that the man had left the building, although Ivan had not heard the doors open or close.
His hackles rose at the thought of the man realizing he had been seen, and then being able to slip away unheard.
A remarkable feat, especially when Ivan considered the man’s handicap.
Unless the cane was mere subterfuge.
Feeling uncomfortable, Ivan returned to the counter, paid for his purchases and carried them out to the van. He loaded it up while he kept an eye out. The man was nowhere to be seen.
Ivan began to doubt himself as he climbed into the van and started it. He checked the mirrors, pulled out of the parking space and headed back to the hotel room. The entire situation had taken on an unpleasant feeling, and he would have to sit and consider his options. As he drove, Ivan continuously checked behind him, making certain the stranger wasn’t following.
Ivan relaxed slightly when he saw that no one pulled out of the antique store’s parking lot after him. Nor did anyone exit any of the side streets.
Finally, after almost half an hour of driving, Ivan arrived at his hotel. He went around to the back of the van, removed the ulu, and withdrew to his room. The other pieces would be safe in the van overnight.
Once in his room, Ivan settled in, placing the ulu on the bureau and shedding his coat and scarf. He poured himself vodka from a small bottle he had purchased earlier and then removed his shoes. With a pleased sigh, Ivan dropped down onto the bed and looked at the ulu. At some point, he would need to see if he could coax the ghost to make an appearance. First, he would call Nicole and see how she was faring with their son.
As he reached for the phone, there was a light knock on the door to the room.
Frowning, Ivan moved his hand back to his lap and waited.
A second knock followed, this one louder than the first.
“Mr. Korzh,” a deep voice said, “would you be so kind as to open the door? I have a business proposition for you.”
Ivan hesitated then asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m the man with the cane, Mr. Korzh,” the stranger said, “and I’d like to talk.”
Ivan got to his feet, crossed the room to his coat, and removed the lead weights. Clutching one in each hand, he said, “We can certainly talk through the door.”
The stranger chuckled. “Mr. Korzh, I hope to offer you a considerable sum of money, a number which I am loathed to quote out in the hallway of the hotel.”
Ivan considered the frailty of the man he had seen, weighed his options, and then unlocked the door. He backed up to stand by the television and said, “Come in.”
The stranger opened the door, holding it wide for a moment with his cane. Ivan admired the man’s caution.
He would have done the same.
Once the stranger seemed to satisfy himself that Ivan was alone in the room, he crossed the threshold and let the door close behind him. The man returned the cane’s tip to the floor and leaned upon the handle.
“What is your name?” Ivan asked.
“Jeremy,” the stranger replied.
“And how do you know of mine?” Ivan inquired.
“Our world is small,” Jeremy answered. “It would be difficult to not know the names of Ivan Denisovich and Nicole Korzh. You are prolific collectors.”
“Are you a collector?” Ivan asked warily.
“No,” Jeremy answered, shaking his head. “I am a keeper.”
“A jailer,” Ivan sneered, squeezing the lead. “You keep them imprisoned.”
“I keep others safe,” Jeremy said with a shrug. “We have our differences. I, for instance, believe you and your wife should not possess some of the pieces that you have. That ulu on the dresser is one of them.”
Ivan was unable to keep the surprise off his face and free from his voice.
“How do you know it is haunted?” Even as he asked the question, Ivan realized that the man probably had only guessed about the piece.
But Jeremy’s response surprised him.
“It glows,” Jeremy said in a soft voice, his eyes lingering on the tool. “It has a luminescence that I can see.”
Jeremy looked at Ivan and asked, “And how did you know it was haunted?”
“I see the red,” Ivan answered. “The worse the soul, the angrier the red.”
Jeremy nodded.
“I have come to purchase the piece from you,” Jeremy said, after a moment of silence between them. “It is too much to leave out in the world.”
“It will not be in the world,” Ivan snapped. “I will keep it safe, in my home, with others of its kind.”
“Mr. Korzh,” Jeremy said in a low voice, “the piece is too dangerous.”
“I am too dangerous,” Ivan sneered. “You will fear me, Jeremy, before our time here is done. I will ensure that you do not harass any of the other members of my community. Before I shatter your jaw and break your good leg, I must ask you this, how did you follow me here?”
“Follow you?” Jeremy asked. “I didn’t follow you. I hid in your van.”
Ivan snarled and sprang forward, throwing a hard, straight jab at Jeremy’s nose.
But the man slipped away from the blow and reversed his grip on the cane with lightning speed. Ivan tried to twist away from the rising handle of the cane, but he was forced to shift his right thigh to protect his groin.
The cane’s handle smashed into his thigh with enough force to deaden the muscle and snap the bone, causing Ivan to stumble off. Ivan clenched his teeth against the howl that rose up from his throat and faced the man again. He threw an undercut with his left fist and tried for another jab with his right.
Jeremy’s cane lashed out, the obviously weighted handle smashing into his left hand while twisting out of the path of the right.
Ivan’s left hand was numb, and several bones were more than likely broken. The lead fell from his hand as his fingers loosened their grasp.
He hurled the second piece of lead at Jeremy, spun on his good leg, and snatched up the ulu from the bureau. The tool thrummed in his hand, and a surge of power raced through his flesh.
Laughing, Ivan grinned and ignored the searing pain from his broken leg. He moved forward, stabbing and slashing at
Jeremy.
The other man was unflappable.
Each blow he blocked or avoided, his eyes never leaving Ivan’s face.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Jeremy said, after nearly a full minute of blocking Ivan’s attacks.
Ivan swore at him in response and redoubled his efforts.
A sad, pitying expression filled Jeremy’s face and the man whispered, “Please, Mr. Korzh, don’t make me.”
Ivan let out a growl and lunged forward.
The world became a roar of sound and motion as Jeremy stood his ground and knocked the ulu aside with one hand, and brought the cane around with the other.
Ivan felt the handle smash into his temple, and the world went suddenly quiet.
He watched as someone seemed to turn the room on its end, and then he realized he was falling down and over at the same time. Ivan never felt the floor or heard anything other than the rapid thump of his heart. Yet, even as he focused on that great muscle, the pace was slowing far too rapidly.
Jeremy stepped into Ivan’s line of sight and looked down at him. The man said something but Ivan couldn’t make it out. The words were lost to him, but not the meaning.
Jeremy was apologizing, even as he stripped the ulu out of Ivan’s limp hand.
It was only then that Ivan saw Jeremy wore a pair of white, cotton gloves.
When Jeremy stepped away, Ivan felt – rather than heard – the door close. Ivan fixated on the one object he could see. His wedding ring, the gold band, glowing in the light of the cheap, hotel room lamp.
Ivan stared at it and willed himself into it, knowing that his time was not finished.
Not yet, and certainly not while Jeremy was still alive.
Chapter 26: A Conversation
Tom sat on the couch, the new sweats he wore were comfortable but a little too large. His legs were drawn up and his arms wrapped around his knees. It was one of the few positions in which he felt safe.
His mind, he had noticed, was working at about half its normal speed. This, he decided after several minutes of reflection, was undoubtedly due to a number of medications they were pumping into him.
