Christopher's Blade

by Ron Ripley

  The ghost selected a single word.

  Now.

  “Yes,” Meredith agreed, sighing with relief. “Now.”

  Silently, she stood up, dressed herself in the warm gear Abel had given her and slipped out of the bedroom.

  There were cameras in the halls and leading to the front, but Meredith knew them. She knew each one and where they pointed. Several times, Abel had brought her into his command room and bragged about the sophistication of his system.

  She had seen every room and corridor the cameras gazed upon.

  His security was not nearly as wonderful as he thought it was.

  She moved quietly, avoiding the occasional worker. She doubted they would have paid much attention to her. Most of them seemed browbeat and bedraggled, worn out from the high pressure of life in the compound. Many of them had expected smooth and easy sailing, but none of that had occurred. Abel Worthe spent a considerable amount of time discussing the various inadequacies of Marcus Holt as a human being, but Meredith had heard the jealousy in the man’s tone.

  Marcus had something Abel wanted, although she didn’t know what it was.

  Her thoughts were cut off as the dead woman slipped by her and down a flight of stairs. A moment later, she reappeared and gestured for Meredith to follow.

  Happily, Meredith did so, and together, they reached one of the few exits to the building. Meredith waited a short time before she pushed the door open and stepped out into a large, multi-bay garage.

  Motioning again, the dead woman urged Meredith to keep up, and after a brief pause to make certain no one knew what she was doing, Meredith did just that.

  Unsure of where the dead woman wanted her to go, or how she might get there, Meredith proceeded with caution. She saw a Humvee with its doors open. Cautiously, she approached the vehicle, wondering if she could drive it and if the keys were even in it.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said harshly, forcing Meredith to repress a yelp of surprise.

  She turned around, smiling broadly at the guard who stood a short distance away. The man, clad in the familiar black uniform, held his helmet under one arm and looked at her. His face seemed to be carved from granite, his head shaved and his eyes bright.

  “You’re the medium, right?” he said, his voice losing its edge.

  “Yes,” Meredith said, and then she lied, adding, “I’m supposed to be going up to the Village.”

  “I’m headed there if you want to tag along,” the man said, nodding towards the Humvee. “I’ve already got my gear stowed, so we can leave now.”

  “That would be fantastic,” Meredith said, sighing with genuine relief. She walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle, climbed in, and waited patiently for the man.

  He whistled as he walked around the vehicle, kicking the tires.

  “All good,” he said, getting into the Humvee. The engine roared as he started it, then he shifted into gear. Whistling once more, the guard kept the vehicle moving at a slow speed over the rough road leading from the compound to the Village.

  Meredith felt a nervousness building within her. An anxiousness she had little control over. At the base of her neck, she felt perspiration gather while her heart rate increased, forcing her to look out the window so as not to alert the driver.

  The man didn’t make an effort to create small talk, nor did he ask her any questions about why she was going to the Village. He was focused on the road, his head turning slightly to the left, then to the right, eyes flickering back and forth steadily.

  Timmy looked the same way at times, Meredith thought. The mental image of her gentleman killer sprang forward, bringing a smile to her face.

  “There it is,” the man said.

  His words brought her attention to the front windshield, where she could see the wrought iron fence of the Village coming closer. Beyond the barrier the houses stood silent, forbidding. Meredith knew what lurked within some of the structures, of what type of creatures Worthe had transported to the far reaches of New York State.

  “I’ll bring you up to the front gate,” the driver said. “Then, I’ll park my rig. I’ve got some work to do, so it’s no trouble for me to drop you off up there.”

  “Thanks,” Meredith said, smiling. “I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem,” the man responded with a pleasant grin. They rode the remainder of the way in silence.

  When they reached the gate, the driver chatted with one of the guards while Meredith slipped out. She followed the fence toward the right, refusing to glance back or to act suspiciously. She peered intently beyond the fence, seeking out any of the ghosts.

  “Meredith?”

  She turned around sharply, catching sight of Alex behind one of the houses. He grinned at her, waved, and then asked, “What are you doing here? Did you get the message already? I haven’t seen Elaine.”

  “I did get the message,” Meredith replied happily. “I’m sure she’ll be around soon. Where’s Timmy, Alex?”

  “Right here.” Timmy stepped out from between the houses and grinned at her, a great big, thrilled expression. Her heart seemed to climb into her throat while she clasped her hands together.

  ***

  Timmy’s heart ached to see her. He cleared his throat nervously, feeling again like the nervous schoolboy. Grinning, he asked, “How are you?”

  “Horrible,” she said, an agonized expression rippling across her face. She stepped close to the fence, gripping the bars.

  Timmy approached carefully through the deep snow, controlling the urge to sprint to her. In a moment, he was in front of her, holding her through the bars.

  “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “This is pretty much the worst thing I’ve experienced in a long while.”

  She nodded mutely. After several seconds of silence, Meredith said, “Just hold me, Timmy. Just hold me.”

  Chapter 15: New Work

  Jose Vasquez lay in a prone position, ignorant of the cold temperatures as well as the snow beneath him. A smile twitched across his face as he adjusted his earpiece, checked the sight on the old M14 and looked at the way the target seemed to shine in the morning light.

  The cool, crisp air felt good against his face, bringing up memories of action in the Kandahar mountains.

  Those Mujahideen could shoot, he thought with begrudging admiration. No fear at all in those men. None whatsoever. Well, time to get to work, I suppose.

  Touching his throat piece, Jose said, “Going to give this a test run.”

  “Copy that,” David said on the other end. “Let me know how it goes.”

  “Roger that,” Jose said.

  Whistling, Jose chambered a round into the rifle, took a long, deep breath, and squeezed.

  ***

  Snow, Timmy thought, closing his eyes and frowning. Why the hell did he hit me with a snowball?

  His first reaction was to yell at Alex, but he stopped himself.

  Alex wasn’t the type of boy to play pranks on someone. The child was far too serious. Blinking, Timmy glanced over at the boy, prepared to reprimand him.

  There was no need.

  Alex’s face was a mask of shock, his mouth working silently. As Timmy watched the boy struggle to speak, he became aware of a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Something hot was rapidly cooling on his cheeks while Meredith sagged in his arms.

  Looking to see what was wrong, Timmy opened his mouth to speak, only to close it.

  Meredith’s head lolled back on her neck. Her mouth was agape, her left eye missing. A terrible hole replaced it, fragments of bone and flesh protruding from the wound. Her remaining eye gazed sightlessly up to the sky, her beautiful face slack with a hideous lifelessness.

  Numbly, Timmy lowered her to the ground, seeing the mist of blood staining the white snow. He took off his right glove, reached out, found her slim neck and sought a pulse, knowing already there would be none. Gently, Timmy maneuvered her head to look at the entrance wound. It was behind her right ear.

  He gazed
out to the right, at the tree line where the rising sun would hide anyone among the trees. Somewhere behind him, Timmy knew the bullet was buried in a building.

  Meredith’s death was a message. Nothing more.

  The shooter could have taken Timmy out at any time. Could even have done so with a single shot, since the round had passed easily through Meredith’s head.

  Without a word, Timmy put his glove back on, climbed to his feet and walked to the still silent Alex. The boy continued to stare at Meredith, his eyes filled with tears, a hard look creeping in around his mouth.

  “They killed her,” Alex whispered.

  “Yeah,” Timmy answered. His voice was surprisingly calm. “They did. It’s going to be time to kill them back pretty soon.”

  Alex reached out, took Timmy’s hand and whispered, “Good.”

  Together, they turned their back to the corpse, leaving it to cool in the snow.

  Chapter 16: Lamentations

  “Have you gone in yet?” David asked Nurse Schomp.

  “Twice,” she said briskly. “He told me to leave each time. I’m concerned. He removed his watch. I’m unable to monitor his vitals. If you can, convince him to put it back on, please.”

  The concern was plain beneath her strained voice.

  “How are you holding up?” David asked her.

  She looked at him in surprise, then smiled. “All right, considering. I worry about Jane. I know she’s capable of anything, but there is always the possibility of something going wrong.”

  David nodded his head in agreement. He smiled in understanding, patted the woman on the arm and said, “I’ll be out soon, I hope.”

  He left the nurse standing with her arms folded across her chest as he entered the semi-darkened room.

  A solitary light stood by the bed, a weak glow cast by the bulb. The blinds were drawn against the night sky while the body of the medium lay beneath a heavy, dark green woolen blanket.

  Professor Abel Worthe sat in a high-backed Queen Anne chair, wrapped in a thick blanket. He stared numbly at the corpse, his eyes vacant, his mouth slack.

  David closed the door gently behind him, walked a few steps closer and said, “Sir.”

  Professor Worthe blinked several times while he licked his lips. A sort of vague consciousness returned to his face, and he turned to look at David. When he saw him, the professor straightened up, a look of firm determination springing to his eyes.

  “Did you find the shooter?” the professor demanded.

  “No, sir,” David lied.

  “What!” Professor Worthe screamed. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” David said. The woman had been far too much of a distraction. “We’ve scoured the area. Every inch of it. There isn’t even a shell casing.”

  The professor’s face became contorted with rage. “I refuse to accept it!”

  “Sir,” David said patiently, “I am afraid there isn’t any evidence. There aren’t any tracks. I have teams sweeping the area in concentric circles, but I must remind you there is always the possibility of this being a vengeance killing.”

  The professor paled. “Against me?”

  David let himself show shock and surprise before he shook his head. “No, sir. Not at all. Have you watched the footage of the killing?”

  Professor Worthe whispered, “No.”

  “I know it would be difficult if you watch it, sir,” David said cautiously. “However, you would see she was killed when she was held by Timmy.”

  The professor’s mouth worked silently in bitter confusion. Finally, he managed to utter, “How?”

  “Through the bars, sir,” David explained. “They were embracing through the bars. It seems she somehow found out he was not a willing occupant of the Village. Subject D was there, and he was a witness to the entire scene.”

  Professor Worthe’s head sank down until his chin nearly touched his chest. For almost a full minute, the man was silent. When he did speak, his voice trembled with uncertainty. “David, I want a plan drawn up today. An attempt is to be made within the next three days.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” David said, genuinely confused. “An attempt at what?”

  “Getting the boy,” Professor Worthe said, lifting his head up and focusing his attention on David. “We are going to bring the boy in. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, sir,” David said. As he prepared to leave the room, he saw the professor pick up his watch and strap it on. David hid a smile and hurried back into the hallway. Once the door clicked shut, Nurse Schomp seemed to appear out of the shadows.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “Better, I think,” David said. “He put his watch on without me asking.”

  Her shoulders sank slightly with relief. “Then it worked.”

  “It worked,” David agreed. “I’ll make sure Jose gets rid of the weapon, just to be certain.”

  “Good,” Nurse Schomp said. “Stop by later for a drink. I think we both need one.”

  “We most certainly do,” he agreed.

  Feeling relieved, David parted ways with the nurse and went to let the shooter know all was well.

  Chapter 17: Among the Living and the Dead

  They left Timmy to mourn in silence.

  Neither Marcus nor Alex knew the man well enough to offer him any more than the most basic of platitudes. So, instead of sitting in the kitchen with him, they ate their evening meal in the front room.

  “How are you holding up?” Marcus asked the boy.

  Alex looked at him sadly. “She was nice.”

  Marcus could only nod his head.

  “It was strange to see her die,” Alex said after a moment of hesitation.

  “I know,” Marcus said. “Death is never easy.”

  “No, it wasn’t that,” Alex said, putting his fork down on his cleared plate. “I mean, yeah, it was, but there was something else. See, when she died, well, I saw her.”

  “Saw her how?” he asked the boy.

  “Well,” Alex said, scratching at the back of his head. “When she was shot, her body started to fall. For a moment, she was still standing up. She was surprised. Meredith looked around, saw her body on the ground, and then, well, she smiled at me. Afterward, she was gone.”

  “She smiled at you?” Timmy’s voice came from the doorway.

  Marcus and Alex looked over in surprise. Timmy’s face was gaunt with sharp, fresh lines of grief around his mouth and spreading from his eyes. There was an almost feverish glow to his cheeks as he peered intently at Alex.

  “Yes,” Alex said. “Then she disappeared.”

  Timmy nodded. “So, her spirit is gone. You don’t see her anywhere else? She’s not hanging around or anything?”

  “No,” Alex said, his voice apologetic. “I wish she was.”

  Timmy smiled bitterly. “Don’t, kid. It’s good she’s not hanging around. Means Worthe can’t trap her here like he’s done to these others. Means she’s gone on to something better.”

  “Timmy,” Marcus said.

  His son raised an eyebrow.

  “Will you be all right?” Marcus felt hollow as he asked the question.

  “No,” Timmy said simply. “I’ll never see her again.”

  “What about, um, what about after?” Alex asked hesitantly.

  “After I die, you mean?” Timmy asked.

  Alex nodded.

  “No,” Timmy replied. “I won’t see her then, kid.”

  “Why not?” Sadness filled the boy’s young voice.

  “Because,” Timmy stated, “if there is a Heaven, that’s where she’s going to be.”

  Without another word, Timmy left the room.

  A moment later, Alex stood up and exited as well.

  Marcus sat alone in the main room, his healing arm sending out vague echoes of pain. He retrieved his pipe, packed the bowl and lit it. Closing his eyes, Marcus tilted his head back and smoked, remembering years gone by, and the sharp, bitter sting of sadness. A v
ague memory curled up from the darkness of his past. He sat quietly, letting his buried history tease itself out until an old memory resurfaced and showed itself in a new light.

  ***

  Some days, the war returned.

  Marcus hated those days. He despised them with a passion usually found only in the insane or the righteous. He felt certain those two states of mind were disturbingly similar.

  He was alone in his house, his preferred state. Ambrose Bierce, one of Marcus’ favorite authors, referred to being alone as being, in bad company.

  Truth, Marcus thought, pouring himself a fresh glass of whiskey. What a bitter, terrible truth it is.

  He drank half the glass straight off, filled it again and stumbled off to the kitchen for something to eat. Humming to himself, he rummaged through the cabinets until he found a box of cookies and a bag of chips. Neither of the two would feel particularly good should he vomit from excessive drinking, but he was at a point where he didn’t care too much about it.

  Vietnam was too close.

  Marcus could smell the jungle, the bitter stench of someone burning the fifty-gallon drums from the latrines. In the distance, he heard the chatter of a nervous guard firing into the darkness. Or perhaps Victor Charles was coming in through the wire, finally sick and tired of waiting for Marcus and his friends to wander out into the jungle.

  Marcus carried his food back into his small den. He collapsed onto his couch, glanced at his book and decided against reading.

  Too drunk, he thought. Beyond his windows, the insects sang in the humid August night. It reminded him of some of his days with his aunt. A smile spread across his face as he thought of her, of how much he missed her. I loved you so much.

  Marcus opened the bag of chips, plucked several out and stuffed them into his mouth. He washed it down with whiskey, wincing at the sting. Chocolate cookies followed the whiskey, and whiskey followed the cookies.

  His eyelids sagged as he sat in the silence, listening to the street sounds beyond his open windows. The sound of someone practicing their drums at eleven o’clock at night filtered through the screens, causing Marcus to smile. He knew if he fell asleep, the noise wouldn’t bother him.