by Morgan Brice
Oh, God. The warehouse from Simon’s vision. This is what he meant. They know about the Ambrose letter. I’m doing to die.
Fourteen
Ben
Ben throttled his guilt at standing Erik up for dinner by diving through the reports as they came in, reading until his vision blurred. He felt relieved when Erik’s name didn’t show up on any of the Most Wanted lists—U.S. or foreign. That was a step in the right direction, but it only proved that Erik hadn’t been put on a public list. Some investigations were handled in secret. Still, the results crossed off one set of items on his list.
Robert’s check came back clean. He’d been in the Army’s CHARON division, a group Ben didn’t recognize. After he left the service, Robert’s background included a long stint as “private security” for the Brigg’s Society, another unfamiliar name. He left security work to buy out the previous owner of Trinkets, taking over the reins of a store that had been in Cape May since the town’s early days. Puzzling, but clean.
That left the reports on Erik, Dorchester, and Cooper yet to come in. Ben rubbed his eyes and guzzled his soda. Even after going through reams of data, he knew the sticking point really had to do as much with the idea of witches and magic as it did with Mob connections and old vendettas. For that kind of thing, there was only one person Ben knew he could trust. He decided to call and hoped it wasn’t past his contact’s bedtime.
Ben hadn’t called the number in a long time. For all he knew, the man could have moved on or passed away. He crossed his fingers as the phone rang.
“This is Father Pavel, with St. Thomas the Doubter Church. Please leave a message.”
Ben closed his eyes as the beep sounded. “Father Pavel? It’s me, Benny Nolan from St. Aiden Catholic School in Newark. I need your help.”
He was about to end the call when he heard a familiar voice. “Ben? Ben Nolan?”
“Father Pavel! I wasn’t sure you’d still be at that church.”
“I don’t plan on going anywhere else, my son. My work is here now. Tell me why you’ve called. I’m pleased to hear from you, but I doubt you’re calling to catch up on old times.”
Father Pavel had been in his thirties, one of the younger priests, when Ben was in eighth grade at the Catholic school he had attended. Ben had never told his mother, but it was Father Pavel who had encouraged him to follow his heart. And as Ben looked back on their conversations, he was certain that the priest had meant to be truthful about his orientation as well as his lack of a calling for the priesthood.
They’d stayed in touch—just an email now and again—and Ben remembered when Father Pavel had left the school for a small parish in a poor neighborhood in Pittsburgh. The priest would be in his fifties by now, but Father Pavel wasn’t the type to retire. Not if he thought he could make a difference.
“No, Father. I remember when you taught the class on defending ourselves from the Darkness. I had the sense that you really believed what you were saying. Some of them didn’t, you know.”
A wry chuckle on the other end of the line confirmed agreement.
“I see ghosts. I’ve always seen them. Is that a sin?”
“No, my son. But thank you for trusting me enough to finally tell me.”
Ben stared at the phone, unsure of what he’d just heard. “You knew?”
“I knew that you could see the spirits that clung to that old school building and the abbey. I hoped that you would come to accept that about yourself.”
“What about magic? And witches? Are they real? Are they evil?”
He heard Father Pavel let out a deep sigh. “Before I answer, Ben, I have to caution you. Once you know a thing, you can’t un-know it. There is no reclaiming innocence once it’s gone.”
“Please, Father. Someone I…love…is in danger. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
“Very well. We don’t speak much of the supernatural anymore, because most people don’t wish to know. They’re safer, perhaps, not knowing. But it’s real. Magic, witches, demons, creatures. And there are people who stay in the shadows, fighting monsters, to keep the rest of us safe.”
He paused. “As for magic and witches—they’re not by design bad or good. It depends on where the power comes from and how it’s used. The Church doesn’t like to talk about it, but they’ve allied with witches and other beings many times over the centuries to overcome a common threat.”
Ben recounted Erik’s wild tale about what happened in Antwerp, realizing only belatedly he had surely outed himself in the telling. Then he gave Cooper’s alternative story. “I don’t know what to believe,” Ben admitted.
Father Pavel had listened without comment.
Ben waited for his response.
“The story Erik told you is possible. Such things can happen. I can’t speak to the Antwerp incident myself, but I know someone who might be able to set your mind at ease. I’ll give you his number.”
“Wait!” Ben said. “I appreciate that. And I’ll call your friend. But first—I remember that you told us in class that you had been called in from time to time to send away the Darkness. Back then, I thought you were putting us on. But if we’ve really got ghosts of dead mobsters floating around, how do we protect ourselves?”
“Silver, iron, and salt work well,” Father Pavel replied as if the conversation hadn’t taken a Twilight Zone twist. “Do you remember the Latin from your catechism?”
“I, uh, haven’t been real regular in church,” Ben replied. “But yeah, well enough.”
“I’ll email you a short incantation—more of a prayer. It won’t send the ghosts on to their final rest or drive out a demon, but it can help you hold a clear space around you or disrupt an attack.”
“It doesn’t require celibacy to work, does it? I haven’t exactly renounced the pleasures of the flesh.”
Father Pavel laughed. “You were never meant for the priesthood, Benny. There is no sin in accepting the gifts of the bodies God gave us.”
Ben wrote down the phone number. “Thank you, Father. It means a lot.”
“You’re very welcome, Ben. You don’t have to be in mortal danger to call or email. It’s nice to hear from you. And I will keep you in my prayers tonight. Don’t doubt what you know to be true.”
Ben took a moment to gather his wits after he ended the call. Then he dialed the number, knowing how crazy he was going to sound to the man who answered the phone.
“Travis Dominick. St. Dismas Mission.”
“Father Dominick—”
“Just Travis.”
“Travis. Father Pavel gave me your number. I need to know what happened in Antwerp last year. There was a cursed Fabergé musical egg, and something went wrong—”
“Who are you?”
Ben took a deep breath. “I’m Ben.”
“Why do you want to know, Ben?”
“Because Erik Mitchell is in danger, and I need to know if he told me the truth about what he saw in Antwerp.”
Travis was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t in Antwerp when it happened. But I know people who were. The Fabergé egg wasn’t just haunted—it was cursed. Two of the enforcers with the Russian Mob weren’t human. Neither was the man who fought off the Mob goons, rescued Erik, and made sure the egg is somewhere it will never hurt anyone again.”
“What do you mean, ‘not human’?” Ben echoed.
“I can’t tell you anything else. I’ve said more than I should. But I knew of Erik Mitchell, and people I respect spoke well of him. Just because something is hard to believe doesn’t make it untrue.”
“Thank you,” Ben said quietly. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“I hope you can protect Erik. He’s one of the good guys,” Travis replied.
“Yeah. He is.” Ben stared into space for a few moments, trying to digest what he’d heard. He’d seen TV shows where someone found out that monsters are real and then did something stupid, like screaming and running off into the woods only to get eaten. Ben felt as if the world had sli
pped its axis, tilting just enough to make everything look different. The world hadn’t changed, but he had. It would take a while to unpack how he felt about finding out everything he’d believed was founded on secrets and lies.
That could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he needed to clear Erik’s name.
While Ben was on the phone, the last of the reports came in. So did the email from Father Pavel, which Ben printed and tucked into a pocket. His phone buzzed three times, calls from a local number he didn’t recognize, and since it wasn’t Erik, he didn’t answer as he plunged into reading the new intel.
Dorchester was clean, he thought with relief. Commendations, spotless record. Erik’s background check came back with odd redactions where names, dates, and places had been blacked out. But what remained showed no charges against Erik, no record of any allegations or investigations at home or abroad. His clearance level alone was a powerful endorsement.
Which left Cooper.
Ben had a sinking feeling even before he scanned the contents of the email. “Investigated for possible ties to criminal activity,” “suspected of perjury in the disappearance of Hank Chason,” “has in the past been tied to known associates with links to organized crime.” And the final nail: “Insufficient evidence to prosecute still resulted in Cooper being given early retirement from the Cape May police force.”
Ben felt pole-axed. Cooper lied to me. Played me. Fucked with my head to make me doubt Erik. Whatever’s going on, Cooper’s part of it. I’ve got to warn Erik. I’ll beg forgiveness later—right now, I just need to make sure he’s safe.
Part of the report on Cooper showed his interest in several local businesses. Odd, since Cooper had given Ben the impression he was retired. He was a part-owner in a car wash, and a liquor store, as well as a lawn service. Classic businesses for money laundering. The lawn service owned a warehouse on the edge of town, which was the only real estate other than his house that Cooper wholly owned.
The last email was from Tony Basalmo, his friend with the department in Newark. “Should have told you this sooner knowing your gift for pissing people off, but be careful up there. The Cape May PD cleaned house back in the early 2000s, got rid of a lot of cops suspected of being on the Mob payroll. That doesn’t mean they got them all, or that those guys aren’t still around. So tread lightly until you know the players.”
Ben ran up to his apartment, grabbed two necklaces with silver saint medallions, and put them on. He had his gun in a back paddle holster, but as he swung through the kitchen, he snagged a canister of salt. Ben glanced wildly around the apartment for the last thing he needed, and spotted the fireplace tools on the hearth. He grabbed an iron poker and headed downstairs, intending to lock up the shop and go over to Erik’s place.
Instead, he found Erik’s neighbor pounding on the front door. “Mrs. Hendricks?”
“Three men pushed Erik into a van and drove away. I’ve already called the police. But if you want to be part of the cavalry, you’d better hurry.”
“What?”
“Erik’s in trouble. I tried to call you and finally came over here. You love that boy. And he loves you. So you’d better go help save him.”
“The police…Cooper worked for the Mob…how do we know who to trust?”
“Start by trusting the chief of police. He’s my son.”
Captain Hendricks. Of course. “How did you know how Erik feels? How I feel?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m Erik’s neighbor. I’m his friend. And I’m an empath. Now can we please get this rescue on the road?”
“I know who took Erik Mitchell, and I think I know where he is.” Ben burst into the Cape May police department with Susan Hendricks on his heels.
“Who are you?” The man in the captain’s uniform was taller and more broad-shouldered, but he definitely resembled Susan. His gaze flicked between Susan and Ben, not hiding his annoyance.
“Ben Nolan,” Ben said it at the same second as Officer Dorchester, who had moved up behind his captain.
“What are you doing here?” Captain Hendricks demanded.
Susan pushed her way to the front. “Scott, you need to listen to him.”
Ben saw a muscle twitch in the captain’s jaw. He sort of pitied the guy, having his mom bust into his headquarters. But since Erik’s life was on the line, Ben’s pity didn’t last long.
“I’m Ben Nolan. Former Newark PD, New Jersey investigator—and Erik Mitchell’s boyfriend.”
“We’ve sent two squads to the Mitchell place,” Dorchester interrupted. “Your mom called in a possible kidnapping, chief.”
“Nolan, like Nolan Resort Real Estate? The guy who found the bones?” Chief Hendricks asked.
“Yeah. Hank Chason’s skeleton.”
Hendrick’s head snapped up at that, and mistrust showed in his expression. “We didn’t release that.”
“And I’m not old enough to have capped him. Bullet to the back of the skull. I know who took Erik. James Cooper. He’s one of yours—retired—and he’s dirty as fuck. We have to find Cooper and save Erik. Now!”
Hendricks raised a hand. Everyone in the bullpen stilled. “Whoa. Back up. Want to explain what the hell you’re talking about?”
Ben wanted to rage and remind him that Erik’s life was in danger, but at least he knew officers were already at Erik’s. He’d been a cop. If Ben wanted to help save Erik’s life, he needed to get Hendricks to trust him, not throw him in a cell.
He talked fast. “I found an old clock hidden in one of our houses. Took it over to Trinkets, and Erik discovered it was part of an insurance scam, back in the day. It had some ledger papers inside that implicated Vincente Cafaro for cheating on his taxes, and a photo of Cafaro shooting someone. Old blackmail goods. Then someone tried to break into the real estate office, and when they didn’t find what they came for—the clock—they tried to break in over at Trinkets. Shot at Erik and me. And someone tried to run over Erik.”
Hendricks glanced at Dorchester, who nodded. “I don’t know anything about papers inside the clock, but the rest squares up.”
“Go on,” Hendricks said, returning his attention to Ben.
“Erik and I figured that the link between Chason and Cafaro was the Commodore Wilson. A friend from back in Newark gave me James Cooper’s name, said he’d been on the force here before the old hotel was torn down. So I reached out to Cooper and asked him what it was like working there in the Chason and Ambrose years. I told him about the clock, but that was before my construction guys found the skeleton—and before Justin Kramer’s house burned down and Justin turned up dead.”
“What did you think you were playing at?” Hendricks snapped.
“We thought it was just chasing down clues on an old scandal, too old for anyone to care about. Provenance,” he muttered, remembering the arty word Erik had used. Ben knew he was already wearing out Hendrick’s forbearance. He told the abbreviated story as best he could without mentioning ghosts or Erik’s visions. Giving a recap was already eating up too much precious time.
“A guy from Newark ought to know better than to poke the Mob,” Hendricks said.
“We thought it was just the Cafaro incident, from the fifties,” Ben retorted. “Old news. Listen, if you won’t help me, I’ll just—”
“Or maybe, you were muckraking fodder for that TV show that was in the news this morning, featuring Erik Mitchell, the guy who busted up international art theft rings? Jesus, could you paint a bigger target on your backs?”
Susan paled. “Oh my God, Scott. That’s it. Someone knew about the Ambrose letter and thought Erik would go public about it.”
The police captain turned to her.
“What Ambrose letter?” Hendricks demanded.
“I was helping Erik get the store ready,” Susan said, lifting her head like she dared Scott to fault her. “When he bought that box of odds and ends from the Commodore Wilson, Erik asked me to help him go through it, because he didn’t know the history. Most of it wasn’t valuable
. But down at the bottom he found Kendry Ambrose’s handwritten suicide note, and Ambrose named names of all the people who pushed him over the brink.”
“Where’s that letter now?” Scott looked ready to bust a gusset.
“In Erik’s safe at the shop,” Susan replied. “Along with the clock.”
Captain Hendricks reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if he were staving off a migraine. “Of course it is. Did either of you tell anyone about the letter?”
Susan shook her head, as did Ben.
“All right,” Hendricks said. “When this is over, both of you are going to come to the station and give us a very detailed statement.” He glared at Ben and Susan. “But if you’re right about Cooper snatching Mitchell—and that makes sense, because we knew Cooper was dirty, we just couldn’t make charges stick—then where did he take him?”
“Emerald Lawn and Gardens has a warehouse out on Route 109,” Ben said. “Run by Cooper’s brother, but Cooper’s part owner, too. Out of all of Cooper’s properties, that’s the most likely.”
The look on Hendricks’ face promised that the two men were going to have words when this was said and done. Ben was fine with that, as long as they got to Erik in time. Because if Cooper thought Erik intended to do an exposé, Cooper had no incentive to let Erik live.
Please don’t let us be too late.
Hendricks glanced to Dorchester, who shook his head. “We don’t have anything better. Sounds legit.”
“All right, let’s move out,” Hendricks said. When Ben headed toward the door, Hendricks grabbed his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Ben lifted his chin. “I’m a licensed PI, and I’ve got a license to carry. I’m an ex-cop. You don’t have a big force, and you don’t know what you’re walking into. I can help.”
Hendricks gave him an icy look. “All right, but you stay back, and you take your orders from me. Got it?”
