Hungry Ghosts
Author: Ron Ripley
Date: 2017-08-23 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Ghosts; Fiction
Description: *A cold dark night. A cemetery full of secrets. And murderous ghosts on the loose.* After more than a decade, Connor Mann is forced out of the psychiatric ward he once called home. He finds himself back in the town where he grew up, with a distant father, and a tragedy all too painful to bear. His attempt to resume a normal life soon comes under attack when he encounters restless spirits lurking in the basement. And someone - or something - terribly vicious awaits him with open arms in nearby Pine Grove Cemetery. Meanwhile, a series of unexplained murders begin to wreak havoc on the town, and
Publisher: Scare Street

Mistress of Death

Death Hunter Series Book 4

Written by Ron Ripley

Edited by Kathryn St. John-Shin and Lance Piao

Copyright © 2020 by ScareStreet.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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See you in the shadows,

Ron Ripley

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: On the Slab

Chapter 2: On Again

Chapter 3: Whispered Ideas

Chapter 4: More Information

Chapter 5: Burner

Chapter 6: House Meeting

Chapter 7: Gathering Intel

Chapter 8: Scavenging

Chapter 9: Crime Scene

Chapter 10: Hiding at Home

Chapter 11: Permission

Chapter 12: Disappointment

Chapter 13: A Friend Calls

Chapter 14: On the Way to Work

Chapter 15: At the Clubhouse

Chapter 16: Research

Chapter 17: Traveling Plans

Chapter 18: No Rest

Chapter 19: Unwanted Advice

Chapter 20: A Pleasant Conversation

Chapter 21: Negotiations

Chapter 22: Warren Thorne

Chapter 23: Nick’s House

Chapter 24: Another Lead

Chapter 25: Advanced Robbery

Chapter 26: Shannon

Chapter 27: The Fallon House

Chapter 28: The Next Job

Chapter 29: Already Up

Chapter 30: Marty on Berkley Street

Chapter 31: Fury and Fear

Chapter 32: Discipline

Chapter 33: Different

Chapter 34: Waylaid Plans

Chapter 35: Unwanted Decisions

Chapter 36: Frustration and Insomnia

Chapter 37: Marty’s Decision

Chapter 38: Too Much Information

Chapter 39: Life’s Failing Charm

Chapter 40: Manchester

Chapter 41: An Unwelcome Intrusion

Chapter 42: Marty’s Place

Chapter 43: Dinner

Chapter 44: Decisions Made

Chapter 45: Closing In

Chapter 46: On the Ocean

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Chapter 1: On the Slab

Saturday, 8:30 PM

The body on the slab was cold.

Ed White rubbed his eyes, yawned, and wondered why he had to be on the weekend shift.

Because I’m the low man on the totem pole, that’s why, he answered himself. He glanced at the victim, a young Latino man of around twenty years of age. There was no identification sent along with the body; at least, none that Ed knew of.

Why would the cops want to make my life easier? Of course, they wouldn’t.

He shook his head. “What’s your name, my friend?”

The corpse, not surprisingly, didn’t answer.

Ed walked over to the body and glanced down at it. There were three bullet holes in the chest, all in the area of the heart. “Looks like you died quick. Good for you. Not many people are that lucky. Tell me, were you robbed? Is that why your ID isn’t here? Hm?”

Ed shook his head, turned, and went back to the items that had been sent along by the police.

Some spare change, a comb, a prophylactic, a love note in Spanish, and a small lunch bag.

“What, were you on your way to work?” Ed asked over his shoulder. “What’d you pack tonight, huh?”

Unzipping the bag, Ed smelled fried rice and saw a package of chocolate Hostess cupcakes, a bottle of water, and a pair of sunglasses.

Ed frowned. The sunglasses were a pale green, and they looked vintage, the kind that his girlfriend liked to wear when she dragged him out of the house on his one day off. “Buddy, I’m not judging or anything, but these are women’s sunglasses. Did you know that?”

Ed shrugged, reached in, picked the glasses up, and was surprised at how cold they were. He set them down on the counter then took out the other items, none of which were as cold as the glasses.

His attention kept returning to the sunglasses, and after a few minutes of trying to catalog the various items, Ed gave up the effort.

Instead, he focused his attention solely upon the glasses. He reached out and touched them. A shiver raced through him, and he smiled. There was an almost sensuous nature to the sunglasses. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the cold radiating from them.

“You should take them home.”

Ed’s eyes snapped open, and he looked around.

It had been a woman’s voice he had heard, but despite that obvious fact, he still looked down at the corpse on the slab, his heart pounding with abject fear.

Ed licked his lips nervously and glanced around. The sunglasses almost throbbed in his hands. He went to set them back down, but as his hand drew near to the surface of the counter, he stopped.

Why? he asked himself, staring at the sunglasses. I don’t need to put them down. What’s going to happen to them, huh? They’ll be put in storage with the rest of his effects until a relative or friend comes to pick them up. And what then? Off they go with no one to care for them.

Ed blinked and looked down at the sunglasses in his hands.

“With no one to care for them,” he murmured aloud. “What if no one claims them?” He already knew the answer. “Then they get auctioned off. Or destroyed. But that takes years. Too long. I can’t wait.”

“No,” the female voice whispered. “No, you can’t wait.”

He shook his head and carried the sunglasses away from the corpse. Ed went into the small office that he shared with everyone else who worked at the coroner’s office and dug his lunchbox out of a cubbyhole. Despite no one being with him, Ed still gave a furtive glance around the morgue, just to be absolutely positive.

He hadn’t stolen anything before because getting caught meant automatic termination. No questions asked.

And there wasn’t anything to steal before, he thought, placing the sunglasses gently into the lunchbox. No, not a damned thing to steal at all.

Ed smiled, zipped the lunchbox closed, and returned to the body on the slab.

Chapter 2: On Again

Sunday, 4:00 PM

Shane stood in the driveway, cigarette in his mouth, as he waved goodbye to Jacinta. The detective blew him a kiss, shifted her rental into drive, and drove off down Berkley Street. Shane finished his cigarette as he walked back into the house and chuckled as the door closed of its own accord behind him. A glance over his shoulder showed Carl grinning at him.

“Why,” Shane asked in German, “are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” Carl stated, falling into step beside him as Shane walked to the kitchen, “you have only had a fifth of whiskey over this entire week. The detective is quite proud of you.”

Shane shook his head. “You two were talking about me?”

“What else is there to talk about?” Carl asked with a wink. “The others, they are still nervous of her. Even Eloise is shy. I suspect the child will make her appearance known soon enough, however.”

“I haven’t seen Eloise in a while,” Shane frowned. “Where’s she been hiding?”

“In the servants’ passages,” Carl replied. The dead man lingered by the kitchen table as Shane made himself a pot of coffee. “She has been playing with the three Davis sisters at night when there is less for them to see.”

Shane sat down at the table while he waited, took out a fresh cigarette, and lit it. He exhaled through his nose and gestured with the cigarette between his fingers. “Just tell her not to get too caught up. Last thing I want is for her to lead them on an adventure outside the house. If she starts making noise about doing something like that again, send her my way so I can have a chat with her, okay?”

Carl gave a short bow. “Of course.”

The rumble of a heavy truck on a parallel street cut Shane off for a moment, and when it had passed, he continued. “Anyway, I’m going to get some research done before I speak with James Moran, and, more than likely, I’ll have to have a chat with the Captain after that.”

“From your State Police?” Carl inquired.

“Yeah. That’s the one,” Shane answered.

Shane sat in silence for a short time. “I wish she could stay longer.”

“You and the detective do seem to enjoy one another’s company,” Carl agreed. He smiled. “It does my heart good, my young friend, to see you happy when she is here.”

“You know,” Shane reminded the dead man, “I am technically older than you. I mean, come on, I’m forty-seven now.”

Carl raised an eyebrow.

“Dead years don’t count. They’re like backward dog years or something.” Shane grinned, getting to his feet. He went and poured himself some coffee and brought it back to the table.

Bringing the subject back around, Carl asked, “What reason do you have for speaking with Mr. Moran and the Captain, my friend?”

“Hm? I’m going to dig a little more into the robberies,” Shane mused. “There have been a couple more since I came back from Connecticut. Which reminds me, I have to go back down there to have a chat with Warren Thorne.”

“The ghost kept imprisoned by Victor and Tom?” Carl inquired.

“The one and only,” Shane nodded.

“And if he does not talk?”

Shane smiled, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, and stated, “He will.”

“Sometimes, my friend,” Carl’s voice was soft, “I worry for you.”

“Thanks.” Shane’s smile faded from his face. “So do I.”

Chapter 3: Whispered Ideas

Sunday, 8:00 PM

Ed White sat on his couch.

The sunglasses from the corpse were on the coffee table. Nothing else littered the table’s white top. Ed had swept everything off earlier. The sunglasses occupied pride of place, and he felt himself smile as he looked at them.

As he stared, the ghost of Miriam Shaw appeared on the other side of the table, and Ed was too stunned to react.

She offered him a coy smile, her deep black hair perfectly coiffed, her lips bright red. Her blue shirt was tied at the waist, revealing the smooth skin of her stomach and the bloody entrance wound on the right side of her abdomen. She wore a pair of loose-fitting white pants stained and splattered with her own blood.

Ed knew that she wore a pair of leather sandals on her feet. Aside from her wound, which he knew had to have been a mortal one, she looked like a pinup model from the forties.

And Ed adored her.

Ed would do anything for her. His head swam when she was in the room, and he shivered, not only from the cold which seemed to engulf him, but also from the idea that she was always near him. He didn’t want anyone else. Didn’t want to be near anyone else.

I have to break it off with Cat, he thought. Get my key back from her. I just want to travel with Miriam. That’s all. Nothing else. I don’t want to be with anyone else. Miriam and I can travel the world together.

“How are you, Ed?” Her voice was sultry, and it sent a shiver through him.

He licked his lips and managed to murmur, “Good.”

Her smile broadened. She had made herself known the previous night, and he had stayed up until the early hours of the morning to speak with her. She wanted to travel. To see the world.

He wanted to help her do that.

No, he corrected himself, I need to do that. She needs it, too. That’s why I have to. Yeah. I have to.

“What have you been up to?” she asked.

“Looking,” he told her.

“At what?”

“Places to go,” he answered.

“I always wanted to travel when I was alive,” she sighed.

Ed nodded. “Your husband wouldn’t take you.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” she agreed. “Was that nice of him?”

Ed shook his head.

“Should he have taken me where I wanted to go?”

“Of course,” Ed stated.

“Of course.” Miriam smiled, but it was soon replaced with a mournful expression. “I wish I could travel now, but I’m stuck to those sunglasses.”

“I was thinking about that,” Ed whispered.

“You were?” Her light blue eyes widened, and her voice was full of surprise.

“Yeah,” Ed’s voice became louder. “I could empty my bank account and take you on a trip. I’ve got some vacation time saved up. Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, just about anywhere would be wonderful, as long as I’m with you, Ed,” Miriam sighed. “You wouldn’t let anyone get in between us, right?”

“No,” he assured her. “Never, never. You think you might want to go to Canada first?”

Before she could respond, there was the rattle of a key in the door lock, and Miriam vanished. Anger surged through Ed as he got to his feet.

The door to the apartment opened, and Cat Sylvia, his girlfriend, came in. Her greeting died on her lips as she saw his expression.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” she demanded, closing the door with her foot and setting a bag of groceries down on the counter.

“Nothing,” he sulked, dropping down to the couch.

Frowning, she stepped closer and saw the mess he had made on the floor. The remote controls, the magazines, all were in a haphazard pile. Then, her eyes moved to the coffee table and settled on the sunglasses.

“Those are awesome!” she exclaimed, seeming to forget about his odd behavior and the mess on the floor. Cat took a step forward.

“Don’t touch them!” Ed snapped.

Cat jerked her hand back.

“What?” she demanded.

“You heard me,” he scowled, “don’t touch the damned sunglasses.”

“You didn’t get those for me?” she asked.

“No.”

“So, you’re going to wear women’s sunglasses? Retro women’s sunglasses?”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “Going to keep them safe. Take them on the road with me.”

She looked at him, confused. “Honestly, Ed, I have no idea about what you’re saying.”

“What I’m saying is that you can’t touch them,” he snarled, getting to his feet.

Cat flinched and glanced around as if looking for something or someone, a confused look crossing her face. Then she stopped suddenly and tilted her head to the side, her eyes widening as she listened. Ed heard a soft whisper. He didn’t know what was said, and he didn’t care.

“I want you to go,” he told her.

Cat laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “No. Not without the sunglasses. You don’t get to play with women’s sunglasses.”

The lights in the apartment flickered, but neither Ed nor Cat made any comment. Nor did either seem to notice when the temperature in the room dropped.

“I’m leaving,” Cat whispered, taking a small step toward the coffee table, “and I’m taking Miriam’s sunglasses with me.”

“How do you know her name?!”

“She told me!” Cat shouted, and she reached for the sunglasses.

Ed jumped forward and drove his fist into Cat’s face with all the strength he could muster. The force of the blow sent her spinning in a half-circle as he lowered his hand, ignoring the throbbing pain of fingers and bones he was certain were broken.

She struck the floor hard, blood pouring out of her nose. Her left eye was already swelling as she tried to get to her hands and knees. Ed straddled her and punched her again, the second blow catching her at the base of her skull, where it joined her neck. The impact drove her back to the floor, her arms and legs splayed out. With a howl of rage, he dropped onto her back and wrapped his hands around her throat, squeezing as hard as he could.

***

Officer Gary Ledoux kept a neutral expression on his face while Officer Yola Zapata dealt with the resident who had called to complain that his wife kept letting the cat eat his basil.

“I understand you’re upset—” Yola began, but a sharp howl interrupted her.

The resident scowled. “Damned guy upstairs. Told him no dogs were allowed.”

“What number?!” Yola asked.

“What?” the resident asked.

“Apartment!”

“Um, B2,” the man stuttered.

Gary and Yola broke into a run as she called it in. They both were familiar with what a dog sounded like, and the howl they had heard didn’t belong to an animal.

At least not the four-legged kind, Gary thought. They reached the door to the stairwell, and he slammed it open. The pair raced up the steps, and Gary tore the door to the hallway open, Yola sprinting past him. A shriek rang out, and several other residents peeked out of their apartments.

“Back inside!” Gary shouted, and, surprisingly, most of the residents retreated to the safety of their homes.

Yola reached B2 first. Without any hesitation, she kicked the door beside the deadbolt and handle, and there was the unmistakable sound of wood breaking. As she brought her leg down, Gary charged forward, lowering his shoulder and slamming into the door with enough force to tear the deadbolt the remainder of the way out of the wood.

He tried to twist out of the way, but the man in front of him was faster than Gary was. A long carving knife flicked out and caught Gary across the forehead. Blood spilled down the front of his face and blinded him.

Yola’s sidearm roared twice, and there was a thud as the knife-wielding man crashed to the floor.

Furious, Gary wiped the blood out of his eyes and saw the attacker flat on his back, mouth agape, and blood frothing from a pair of entrance wounds in his chest.

Chapter 4: More Information

Sunday, 8:15 PM

The roar of sirens took Shane by surprise, and he paused to watch as a pair of ambulances went racing past him on Concord Street. He continued to observe them as they hurtled past Greeley Park, then turned left into one of the new developments. More sirens joined those of the ambulances, and Shane counted a trio of police SUVs that followed a moment later.

Never a good sign, Shane thought. He shook out a fresh Lucky Strike, popped the cigarette into his mouth, and lit it. Should probably quit these, he told himself, exhaling through his nostrils as he put the lighter and the pack away. But I’m not going to. Bad enough I’m cutting back on the whiskey.

No, that’s not true. I’ve gone almost cold turkey on the damned whiskey.

He tried not to think about it too much. Shane missed the constant, slight buzz he had kept himself in. But it had been done to numb him against old memories and perceived failures.

Were they failures? Yeah, more than a few were. But that’s the way it goes. I need to deal with it. Simple as that.

As he smoked and walked, he made the decision to cross Concord Street to go and see what had happened. By the time he reached the scene, one of the ambulances had already pulled away. The other remained parked in front of a recently constructed apartment building. A few of the residents were gathered outside, speaking with one another, and police were moving in and out of the front doors.

Shane glanced around at those watching the drama, and he spotted a ghost. She had been an attractive woman in life, but her good looks were marred by a foul expression. It was as though someone had personally slighted her, and he wondered what had happened.

The dead woman stood off a short way from the rest, her arms folded over her chest, fingers tapping rapidly on one bicep. Her death-wound was close to her navel, a small-caliber gunshot wound if Shane had ever seen one before, and it appeared that she had bled out. She was far enough away from the living that Shane felt comfortable approaching her.

He drew within several feet and waited for her to notice him. A few times, she glanced at him, and Shane repressed a smile. Finally, after almost five minutes, he asked, “So, what happened?”

She looked around to see if he was speaking to her, and when he grinned, she took a startled step back.

“Sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She snickered. “That’s a good one. You scaring a ghost. How come you can see me?”

“I just can,” Shane replied. “You’ve never met anyone who could?”

She shook her head. “No. Not a one.”

“Huh.” Shane finished his cigarette, lit a fresh one, and asked, “Any idea what happened here?”

“Yes,” she grumbled. “Idiot killed his gal because she wanted my sunglasses.”

Shane looked at her, and she continued.

“I didn’t want him to kill her. Hell, that’s not the way it’s supposed to work. When it’s time, I get someone else to kill the guy, you know?” She shook her head, her expression that of someone having been extremely inconvenienced. “Now, I got to wait and try to make the move again. I just got with this guy, too, you know? What a jerk.”

“Sounds rough,” Shane stated, keeping his tone mild. “Want I should go in and try to get the glasses for you?”

She looked at him, smiled, and then, her smile faded. “There’s something wrong with you.”

He waited, watching her.

The dead woman shook her head. “No. You stay away from my stuff. I don’t trust you. You’re not weak, I can tell. I like guys like you, but you can’t be controlled. I don’t need that right now.”

Unable to stop her, Shane watched the dead woman hurry into the apartment building.

He stood there, silent, finishing his cigarette as the police continued with their investigation.

I’ll need to call Jack, Shane thought. Or Tom, but Victor gets upset if Tom prowls around through too many police networks.

Still, Tom might be best. I don’t think I should put off talking to Thorne any longer, either. I guess it’s a good thing I waited to call them.

With a last glance at the building, Shane turned around and headed for home.

Chapter 5: Burner

Sunday, 11:30 PM

Marty Feldman sat by the Veterans Administration in Manchester, New Hampshire. His back was against a tree, and he could see all avenues of approach. He needed to.

Marty was almost positive Alex Kallistos was having him watched. Waiting for Marty to slip up and reveal where his wife and daughters were hidden.

I’m not going to tell you that. I won’t make a mistake that will jeopardize their safety, Marty thought. From his pocket, he took out a flip-phone, one he had purchased earlier in the week. It was activated, with enough time on it for a quick call to his wife’s phone. He needed to know they were okay. Needed to make sure that Shannon was doing what she was supposed to.

Marty dialed the number and listened as the phone rang.

After four rings, it was answered, but not by his wife.

It was a pre-recorded message, and it told him that the owner of the phone hadn’t set up the phone’s mailbox system.

Marty shook his head, ended the call, and tried again.

He got the same result.

What the hell is going on? He tried a third time.

When the message started to play, he snapped the phone in half. Furious, he tore the back off, ripped out the battery, took out the SIM card, and broke that as well. After a moment, he dug a small hole, swept the remnants of the phone into it. He kept the SIM card’s pieces and stood up.

Marty took several deep breaths, cleared his mind, and decided upon a plan of action.

I need to go up north, see if I can find out what’s going on. He started the long walk back to the Clubhouse. Passing by a storm drain, he dropped the two pieces of the SIM card into it.

I know Kallistos doesn’t have Shannon or the girls, Marty assured himself. He would have bragged about it by now.

Despite the truth of the statement, it offered Marty cold comfort.

***

Monday, 6:00 AM

Alex Kallistos stood in the doorway to Professor Abel Worthe’s cell. The old man lay on his bed, mouth partially open, revealing chipped and broken teeth. Worthe snored, passed gas, and rolled onto his side.

“He’s a delight,” Timmy commented wryly.

Alex looked at his dead companion and smiled. “He is.”

Timmy shook his head. “I have some other words for him. Want me to share them with you?”

“No,” Alex responded. “I have to stay focused. Today, I want to learn about the best way to purchase a building.”

Timmy frowned. “Kid, there are plenty of people here, who aren’t homicidal, that can help you with that.”

“They’re boring,” Alex said. He stepped into the room. “And besides, they wouldn’t know why I was doing it. Worthe, he knows why. He understands.”

“Whatever you say, kid,” Timmy shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

“I am,” Alex grinned, and he cleared his throat. When the old man didn’t respond. Alex coughed.

Professor Worthe snored louder, and anger flashed across Alex’s face.

“Wake him up,” Alex ordered.

Timmy walked to the bed, leaned over until his mouth was just above the old man’s ear, and screamed.

Professor Worthe’s eyes snapped open as he shrieked. He sat up and through Timmy, and the old man screamed again. Alex laughed as Professor Worthe fell out of bed. The old man landed hard on the floor and yowled in pain.

Timmy, grinning, backed away, and said to the Professor, “Good morning, sunshine. How are you?”

The old man’s eyes were wide with fear, darting around the room as he tried to understand what had happened.

“Professor Worthe,” Alex crooned, “are you awake now?”

The old man blinked and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good!” Alex sat down on the floor in the doorway. “Before breakfast, I want to talk to you about acquiring property.”

Professor Worthe got gingerly to his feet, then eased himself onto the bed. He picked up his glasses from the small bedstand, put them on, and then took a drink of water from a plastic cup that had been on the stand as well.

“May I inquire as to the reason behind your purchase?” Despite his ragged appearance and the brutal way he had been awakened, Professor Worthe managed an air of competence and assurance.

“I want to have a house ready,” Alex explained. “I want to test someone who moves into it. Someone who buys it and thinks that everything’s going to be okay. I want to make my own haunted house.”

“Will you be transporting it here?” Professor Worthe inquired.

Alex shook his head. “Nope. It’ll stay right where it is.”

“And do you know what type of people you would like to test?”

“No,” Alex answered.

“Well, I think that is the first order of business,” Professor Worthe informed him. “Once you decide the financial background of your intended test subject, you’ll be able to locate neighborhoods that would appeal to them. With this in mind, you’ll be prepared to purchase and begin establishing your baseline for the experiment.”

“That sounds awesome.” Alex grinned. For a moment, he was silent, thinking about whom he wanted to test. An answer came to him a moment later. “I want to test a professor.”

The old man smiled broadly. “Ah, interesting. That is a large pay scale to play with. Are you looking for a professor at a community college or one at an Ivy League school? A tenured professor or an adjunct?”

Alex laughed and clapped his hands excitedly. The buzzing became louder in the back of his head. “I don’t know!”

Professor Worthe chuckled. “Come then, let us speak of it and narrow it down further, shall we?”

Alex nodded, and with Timmy watching over him, Alex and the old man began to narrow down Alex’s choices.

Chapter 6: House Meeting

Monday, Noon

Penny lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and adjusted her position in the hunter’s hide she had built the night before. She had plenty of food and water for the remainder of the day and the evening, but she was uncomfortable. Nervous.

Gee, can’t imagine why, she thought, finishing the cigarette and crushing it out in the dirt. Could it be because they have me doing this damned thing in the middle of the day?

Not that anyone would make the connection, but it would sure as hell raise some eyebrows if someone found me.

The nature of being a proctor for Alex Kallistos and his experiments required her to be close to the target subjects. Each ghost she employed had roughly a mile radius in which to operate. The cameras installed to observe and record their interactions had a far smaller range, and so she found herself being disturbingly close.

Doesn’t matter, she thought, taking a sip of tepid water. It needs to be done. Simple as that.

Penny opened the box that contained a small charge of C4 and a death card for one Suzette Avignon, age 19. Suzette had passed away of natural causes in 1967.

She had been a spiteful young woman and was disgusted with her own death. The dead teen hadn’t gone away, and, over the years, she had beaten and killed seven young men. According to the file on Suzette, she blamed her death on having been dumped by a boyfriend. She believed she had died from a broken heart.

Alex Kallistos had been thrilled with her and asked if the dead teen wanted to go and kill some college boys.

She had readily agreed.

Okay, let’s see if she shows up, Penny thought, and for the first time, she hoped the ghost wouldn’t.

But Suzette did.

She appeared in front of Penny, a thin girl, no more than five feet tall. Her skin was sallow, and she was clad in a flowery nightgown.

“Hi, Penny!” Suzette grinned, waving.

Penny forced a smile. “Hey, Suzette, are you ready?”

The dead teen nodded cheerfully. “Uh-huh. These the boys Alex said I could punish?”

Repressing a shudder, Penny gave a nod of confirmation. “House number three. It’s blue, has all the blinds drawn.”

Suzette frowned. “Why?”

“It’s a fraternity house,” Penny explained. “They just started waking up a little while ago.”

“They’re frat boys?” Suzette’s expression darkened. “They’re not nice. I remember my friend, Amy, she went to a party when she was sixteen. Her parents sent her away for a year after, and she came back sad. She wouldn’t talk about it.”

I bet, Penny thought.

“Are these the same type of boys?” Suzette demanded.

“More than likely,” Penny stated. Before she could say anything else, the dead teen vanished. Penny opened up the laptop and waited to see what Suzette would do.

***

Monday, 12:15 PM

None of the pledges were around, which was how Troy Hodge had planned it. Troy knew he had been an obnoxious pledge at one point, and he hated to reflect on it, but there were some things that only full brothers could talk about and decide upon.

Namely, whether or not to have another kegger following the last complaint from the Dean of Students.

Troy opened a V8, added it to half a glass of vodka, and waited for the other brothers to get their own drinks of choice. None of which were non-alcoholic.

When all nine of the brothers were in the common room, sitting in the dim light, Troy forced himself to sit up straight.

“Hey, so, we’re kind of in the hot seat right now.” Troy’s statement was met with snickers, and he grinned. “I know, big shock. I don’t really care either. Dean Stratham has made some noise about us not doing any more keggers for a bit, but we do have those photos of him with Professor Chilton. Chilton doesn’t want her husband to see them, obviously, and it’s the same with Stratham and his wife. I don’t think we could push for anything regarding academics, but we can definitely push about the kegger. But I want to put this to a vote before the house. What’s that saying, ‘political capital is finite’ or some crap?”

The brothers laughed, and Troy grinned. He was about to speak again when the room’s single light flickered. The temperature sank, and he found himself shivering. He opened his mouth to complain about the air conditioning coming on whenever the hell it wanted when he realized he couldn’t hear the rumble of the central air’s system.

As his brain processed the information, the light went out, leaving the brothers in a gritty light.

“The hell is going on?” someone asked.

“I’m ‘going on’,” a woman said.

Troy looked around, trying to see who had spoken. One of the brothers near a window pulled open the blind, and light flooded the room. The breath from every one of the brothers gathered was plainly visible in the cold air.

The speaker was not.

Troy turned around, wondering if he had left the door to the kitchen open, but it was closed. Something cold wrapped around his throat, and a voice whispered in his ear.

“I don’t like you. I don’t like any of you. You remind me of Brian,” the unseen woman informed him, her fingers tightening around his throat, digging into his flesh. “Brian broke my heart.”

Troy’s drink fell from his hands, and he struggled to free himself from the grip of the woman. He swung at where he expected her hands to be, his mind racing, refusing to accept the fact that he couldn’t see someone who was in the process of choking him to death.

He heard the others talking, trying to figure out what he was doing, why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until Troy was lifted out of the chair, his bare feet dangling above the floor that panic entered their voices.

A teenage girl appeared in front of Troy, a smirk on her face.

“I’m dead,” she told him. She looked at the brothers, all of whom stared at Troy and the girl with dumbfounded expressions. “And soon, you’ll all be dead, too.”

Troy stiffened as she squeezed harder, and the last sensation he felt was the breaking of his own neck.

***

Monday, 3:00 PM

Penny sat in the cheap motel room that she had rented for the trip. Suzette was back in her box. The laptop was secured in its case. Her private phone was in her hand, and she was halfway through her second pack of cigarettes. She logged into the private chatroom labeled, “Proctor Problems”.

She was one of seven proctors sent out by Alex Kallistos. Her primary area of operations was the Northeast, which made it easy for her to get back to New York and the Village. The proctors had created their own chatroom for one simple reason.

Alex Kallistos had forbidden them from speaking to anyone other than another proctor about their duties.

None of the proctors were sociopaths.

Well, not completely, she sighed, checking for any private messages. There weren’t any, so she went directly to the main message board. No one had checked in since the day before, and she had read that update from Rich. He was working Texas, which was hell on his fair skin according to the update.

Penny sighed and put in her own update.

In New England. Just watched a frat house get brutalized. Word to the wise, only females should get Suzette. She’s not fond of boys.

Penny considered adding a little more, then, with a shake of her head, she made sure the volume was up on her phone, that the notifications were on for the chatroom, and dropped the phone onto the bed. She finished her cigarette, stubbed it out, and got to her feet.

I need a shower. A shower and a steak. No, a shower, a steak, and some stupid twenty-five-year-old who thinks he’s all that, she thought, stripping her clothes off on her way to the bathroom. I need to forget all about today.

It’s as simple as that.

Chapter 7: Gathering Intel

Monday, 4:00 PM

“Shane,” James Moran greeted when he answered the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Death,” Shane answered, lighting a Lucky. “What else?”

James chuckled. “True. It does seem to be the only item of late. You have something you would like me to look up?”

“That’s the thing.” Shane exhaled, smoke streaming out of his nostrils. “I’m not sure. There’s not much information for me to go on.”

“Why don’t you give me what you do have?” James invited. “The object, the ghost, whatever it is you might have.”

Shane did so, and as he spoke, he could hear the scratch of a pencil on paper.

“Not surprisingly, my friend,” James sighed, “it isn’t ringing any of the proverbial bells. However, I will go into work after dinner and prowl through the files. Perhaps we will be lucky enough to find a match.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Shane agreed. “Thanks a lot, James.”

“You’re welcome.”

The call ended, and Shane placed the phone face-up on the desk. He stared at it, frowned, and then took hold of it again. Scrolling through the address book, he found the number for Captain Jack Thompson of the New Hampshire State Police.

Let’s see if this guy is worth anything.

Shane dialed Jack Thompson, and as the phone rang, he prepared himself to ask a State Police Captain for photos of a crime scene.

He grinned and waited for the man to answer.

***

Monday, 5:00 PM

Jack sat at his desk and looked at the photo of his wife and son. The weather was getting warmer, and, as it did every year, it reminded him of what he had lost. He stared at the image a moment longer and then turned his attention back to his computer.

Jack opened his email and considered how best to phrase his request for the crime scene file from Nashua. I’ll tell them I’m interested because there might be a new drug on the street that’s making people go haywire. Just a rumor, nothing positive, but I want to take a look. That should work.

And how have I come to this? I know I wanted Shane Ryan’s help, but is this helpful?

Jack considered the question for a moment. Finally, he nodded.

It is.

He typed out the email with short, quick stabs at the various keys, a hunt-and-peck style that had, for the most part, vanished from police departments. When the message and request were finished, he glanced over it for any glaring typos, decided it was good, and sent it on its way. Standing up, Jack stretched and walked out of his office and into the main room of the State Police Barracks. Some of his troopers were gathered around the dispatch radio, and there were looks of concern on their faces.

Without interrupting, Jack walked to the radio and stood behind Viola, the dispatcher. He closed his eyes as he listened, translating the chatter as it came through.

At least nine dead, he thought, stepping back, shaking his head. We’ll have to dispatch the mobile forensic unit. Hell, might have to ask Manchester and Nashua to assist as well. Damn it.

He left, poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe in the breakroom, and sipped it, thinking. After several minutes of silence, he returned to the dispatcher. With the radio squawking in the background, Jack let the dispatcher know he was going to be stepping out for a bit.

When he had finished his coffee, he grabbed his keys from his desk and left the building. No one asked him where he was going.

Everyone knew. There was a multiple homicide at a college campus, and it would be all hands on deck until the case was solved.

Or put down as unsolvable, he thought, climbing into his car. And we all know it doesn’t take much for that.

Chapter 8: Scavenging

Monday, 10:45 PM

Walt Knight rubbed his left arm through his sweatshirt, realized what he was doing, and forced himself to stop.

I need a damned fix. He watched the back of the apartment building and waited, hoping for a sign that everything was going to go as planned, that he would be able to shoot-up before the night was done.

A car pulled into the parking lot, and Walt waited. Almost as soon as the vehicle was stopped, the driver’s side door opened, and an older man stepped out. The driver wavered on his feet for a moment, then he closed the door and walked away.

Walt could hear the keys jingling in the man’s grip, and Walt prepared himself to sprint to the door in order to catch it before it closed and locked.

As he watched, Walt observed the man reach out for the door, keys in the driver’s opposite hand. But the man didn’t bring the keys up to the lock. Instead, he took hold of the handle and gave it a tug. There was a moment of hesitation before the door swung open.

It’s unlocked! Walt bit down on his knuckle to stop himself from laughing with excitement.

The driver walked into the building, and Walt counted to one hundred before he went toward the back door. He glanced around the lot as he went, his eyes flicking up occasionally to see if there was anyone watching him.

There wasn’t.

He was alone in the parking lot, which was how he wanted it.

Walt reached the door and used his sleeve to help open it, sighing with relief when a cool draft escaped from the hallway. He didn’t waste any time as he hurried up the back stairs, going directly to the second floor. Suddenly, nervousness swept over him, freezing him behind the door that would lead him to the hallway beyond.

I can do this. I have to. Got no other choice. None.

As if to emphasize his situation, a terrible itching erupted along the needle-tracks of his left arm.

Walt opened the door and walked into the hallway. He saw the crime scene tape over the door of apartment B2, and a wave of relief washed over him. Not only was he on the right floor, but he could see the door to the apartment was slightly ajar. He wasn’t going to have to try and force it.

Walt went to the apartment, walking carefully, conscious of every sound he made. His heart beat hard against his chest as he worried about the noises issuing from the apartments he passed. Trembling, Walt came to a stop in front of the door to the crime scene, and with his foot, he nudged it open the rest of the way. His stomach churned at the sight of dried blood, and for a moment, he had an idea of what the scene must have looked like when it was all fresh.

Stop. I just need to get what I can, he thought. He dragged a large, plastic trash bag out of his coat pocket as he walked into the main room. Walt spotted a game system attached to the television, but he stopped as something else caught his eye.

A pair of old sunglasses stood on a coffee table, and he felt as though he couldn’t look away from them.

“Who are you?” a woman asked.

Walt jumped and nearly screamed with fear. He turned, excuses preparing to pour from his lips, but he didn’t see anyone. Walt swallowed convulsively, shivering.

“Who are you?” the woman asked again, and as he looked, he saw part of her become visible. She detached herself from the darkness, but he saw she wasn’t fully formed. There were gaps in some of her. They filled, slowly, and Walt found himself unable to respond or to function coherently.

She smiled as though enjoying his disbelieving stare. “My name’s Miriam, what’s yours?”

“Walt,” he whispered, suddenly conscious again of his position in a dead man’s apartment.

“Walt,” she grinned. “I like your name.”

Walt blushed. “Thanks.”

“What brings you up here, Walt?” The dead woman came to stand a few feet away from him, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“I’m just looking for stuff. You know,” he whispered. “Um, the guy, he owed me some money, so I came here to get some stuff I can hock.”

Her brow furrowed. “Hock? Is that when you sell something?”

“Yeah. That way I can get the money I’m owed.” He swallowed nervously, his speech was slurred in some places, the vowels slipping around due to the teeth he had lost to his addiction. “You’re dead, huh? I’m not just seeing something that isn’t there?”

“I’m a ghost,” she confirmed, the furrows vanishing from her brow. A small smile appeared. “Tell me again, why are you stealing the belongings of a dead man?”

His strength to keep to his lie wavered and began to crumble. He cleared his throat, but he still kept his voice low as shame crept into him. “I need the money.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“Dope.” Walt winced as he said the word. “I’ve got a habit.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “I understand. You’ve had it rough?”

Walt saw the out she was offering, and he took it. “Yeah. You know how it goes. Kind of too much pressure at times. Picked up the needle, put a little junk in my veins, and I’d feel better. Not anymore, though. I mean, the pressure. I don’t have that job.”

“What was it?”

“I was an ad exec,” he confided. “Now, you know, I’m just trying to score my next hit. Might get locked up this coming fall. Being on the streets in the winter, it isn’t easy.”

“No, I don’t imagine it is.” She was quiet for a moment, and Walt looked around, cataloging everything he needed to take if he was going to get a solid amount together for a good ride.

“Tell me, Walt,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “Have you considered traveling?”

He smiled and nodded. “When I was younger,” he told her. “I used to think about going over to Europe, you know, checking it all out.”

“Europe,” she smiled. “How delightful. You should pick up those sunglasses. They’re worth quite a bit.”

Walt turned and saw a pair of vintage sunglasses on a coffee table. “Hey. Yeah, I think you’re right. Those are probably worth a good amount. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled.

Walt’s legs were stiff as he walked to the table and picked up the glasses. He turned them over in his hand for a moment. They were cool to the touch, but pleasantly so. With a broadening smile, he slipped them into his pocket. Walt shook out his trash bag again and looked around the room.

I was talkin’ with somebody, right? he asked himself. Maybe not. I think I just need a fix. Better grab that game system. Should be able to get a bit for it. I hope.

Feeling strangely happy, Walt walked to the game system and pulled the cords out of the back.

Chapter 9: Crime Scene

Tuesday, 12:15 AM

The computer pinged, and Shane looked up from the translation he was working on. There was a new email from Captain Thompson.

Shane placed a bookmark in the text, closed it, and then opened the email. The subject line read, Nashua.

There was a file attached to the email, and Shane clicked on it. The computer opened the file, and Shane was greeted with several pages of reports, and then photos of the crime scene. He ignored the images that focused solely on the bodies of the killer and his victim. Instead, Shane enlarged the photos, seeking the one item he knew to be in the room.

He saw it after several minutes of searching.

There they are, he thought, lighting a cigarette and sitting back in his chair. Just like she said they were. They don’t seem to be important to the crime scene, so, in theory, the damned things should still be there.

I probably shouldn’t rush right over there, though, he mused. Cops tend to frown on people stomping around crime scenes, even if they have been processed. Plus, I’ll need to give James a quick call in the morning, see if he’s had any luck with finding any history for the glasses. I doubt it. That would be too much to hope for.

Shane picked up a cold cup of tea and sipped at the dregs. His body longed for the powerful taste of whiskey, but he refused to yield to the desire.

Laughter interrupted his solitude, and when he looked up, he saw the dead girl Eloise rush past the open door to the library. One of the Davis sisters was chasing after her.

Shane shook his head. Who in the hell locked those women up? And why? What’d they do, refuse to marry someone? Tell their father or an uncle no?

Disgusted, he stood up and stretched. Several vertebrae in his back popped, and he winced. He rubbed at the back of his head, knowing he shouldn’t sit for lengthy periods of time.

I wish Jacinta was here, he thought. I miss her.

He walked out of the study and into the hallway. Glancing around, he saw Carl standing by the front window, looking down into the lamp-lit street.

“How’s it going?” Shane asked the dead man as he walked to the window.

Carl glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “It goes well, thank you. Eloise and the Davis sisters are outside now.”

Shane came to a stop beside the dead man and peered down into the yard. The three sisters and Eloise were chasing each other back and forth.

“It makes me wonder,” Carl said after a moment of silence. “Who placed those women in an asylum?”

Shane chuckled, and Carl looked at him with surprise.

Shaking his head, Shane explained, “No, I just had the same thought in the library. That’s why I laughed.”

The dead man smiled and gave a small nod. He returned his attention to the ghosts in the yard. Absently, Carl asked, “How are you feeling, Shane?”

“I don’t know,” Shane answered after a moment. “Part of me feels good. Great, really. But that’s when I think of Jacinta. She makes me happy.”

“And what of the other part?” A deep sadness filled his voice, and Shane remembered Carl’s own tragic story, the love he had been denied, and the punishment that had claimed the German’s life.

“That part’s worried,” Shane answered. “I wonder what’s going to go wrong. I don’t mean with the relationship. She’s great. Even if it ends, I’ll be happy to have her as my friend. I know I’m rough. Difficult. No, I worry that something from our world, Carl, our twisted little bit of nightmare is going to reach out and take her away from me. It’s one thing to know she’s out and about in Detroit, living her life. It’s another to think that some dead SOB is going to kill her.”

Carl nodded. Then, after a brief silence, he asked, “Do you want to send one of us home with her when next she visits?”

Shane smiled. “No. She has her relative. He’s a hard man. I think if any dead tried to harm her, he would step in. And there’s no reason to think he hasn’t already.”

“Very good, my friend.” Carl sighed. The mantel clock in the lower study chimed out the hour of one, and the dead man looked at Shane. “You should best get some sleep. You are, I trust, going to attempt to retrieve the sunglasses in the morning?”

“Whatever gave you that idea, Carl?” Shane asked, feigning surprise. “You act like I do absurd things that put my life in danger.”

Carl raised an eyebrow, and Shane chuckled.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “You’re right, I need some sleep. You’ll keep an eye on the sisters and our Eloise?”

“I always do, my friend,” Carl smiled.

With that, Shane turned and made his way toward his bedroom, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

Chapter 10: Hiding at Home

Tuesday, 2:00 AM

The room was small, barely large enough for the old metal-framed military cot that stood alongside one wall. Across from it was a single, battered bureau. Beside the room’s solitary door was a wall locker that served as a closet, and the room had a single window that looked down onto Canal Street and the veterans’ park.

Rooms at the Laton Hotel were cheap, nasty, and each floor had one communal bathroom.

Walt Knight hated living there, but it was all he could afford with his habit.

The thought of heroin set him to scratching, and his attention was drawn to the top of the bureau. He had cleared it of everything, even his needle and the rest of his kit for shooting up. All that occupied its scarred top was the pair of sunglasses he had taken from the crime scene.

Walt couldn’t take his eyes from them.

What was more, he didn’t want to.

The room’s temperature sank, and he pulled the old, rough woolen blanket that had come with the room around his shoulders.

Miriam appeared a moment later beside the bureau. She smiled and walked to the window. For a moment, she looked out at Canal Street and the junkies loitering around the monuments of the veterans’ park.

“This world is so strange,” she murmured. “So different from the one I remember.”

“Um,” Walt began, trying to think of a way to frame his question, his mind slipping in and out of focus. “When were you born?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. “Hm, how about we stick to when I died? A lady, even a dead one, doesn’t like to reveal her age.”

Walt grinned sheepishly, his cheeks red with embarrassment.

“Anyway,” she continued, turning around, “I died in 1957. Shot in the belly, as you can see.”

Walt nodded. He didn’t like to look at her wound or the blood on her skin and pants. It hurt him to think of her in pain.

Miriam sat beside him on the bed, the cold emanating from her penetrating the wool.

“Do you want to hear how I died?” she asked in a low, husky whisper. “Do you want to know who did it to me?”

Walt didn’t want to, but he felt as though he needed to. “Yes,” he answered.

“Good.”

***

Miriam’s Past, 1957

Gregor Shaw walked out of the grocers and toward his Packard.

Ray Harte followed, gripping the .38 caliber pistol he had stolen from his father. It was a five-shot, and all five chambers of the revolver were loaded. Ray moved as quietly as he could, the crepe soles of his tennis shoes silent on the concrete when compared to the thick-heeled engineer’s boots Mr. Shaw wore.

There was no one else on the street, and Mr. Shaw was paying attention to the brown paper bag of groceries, switching them from one arm to the other as he dug his car keys out of his back pocket.

Do it, Ray told himself. It’s the only way. Only way. She loves me. He won’t let her go. It’s the only way.

Ray heard Mr. Shaw, the man who had been his neighbor for six years, mutter to himself as he tried to unlock the car.

Steeling himself, Ray took two steps forward, put the gun within an inch of the back of Mr. Shaw’s head, and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot took Ray by surprise, and he almost dropped the weapon. He expected Mr. Shaw to drop immediately, but instead, the man remained upright for a moment, wavering, his blood splattered over the dark green roof of the Packard.

Then, the bag of groceries fell to the pavement as Mr. Shaw’s arms dropped to his side and he pitched forward. What was left of the front of his eye sockets broke on the edge of the car’s roof, and there was a vile, wet sound as the fresh corpse slid along it toward the ground.

For another moment, Ray stood there, weapon in hand, staring at his neighbor.

And then, he ran.

He ran as fast as he could, not so much afraid of getting caught as he was of delaying the delivery of the good news to Miriam.

Her husband was dead, and Ray and Miriam could be together. They could take the insurance money and go to Europe, just as she talked about. All those days when they would lie in her bed and talk about how they could be together.

If only something would happen to Gregor, she would sigh, and rest her head against Ray’s chest. I just can’t think of anything, though. If I had a gun, why, I think I’d shoot him myself.

Miriam didn’t have a gun, though.

But Ray’s father did.

When Ray reached Miriam’s house, he burst through the back door, out of breath, a beaming smile on his face.

Miriam was in the middle of pouring a cup of coffee, a map of Europe on the kitchen table. Her eyes widened when she saw the gun in his hand, and she hastily put the coffee pot back on the stove’s burner.

“What did you do, Ray honey?” she asked.

“I did it!” he answered, the words rushing out of his mouth. “I did it! I followed him downtown, and he went into the grocers. When he came out, there wasn’t anyone around. So, I did it! I did it!”

“Did what, Ray?”

He grinned. “I killed Gregor.”

A slow, happy smile spread across her face. “Are you serious, honey? Did you kill Gregor for me?”

“I did,” he nodded. “I shot him in the head and, well, his brains came out the front. He’s dead.”

“I don’t know of any other man who could have done that,” she told him, nodding. “You’re seventeen, Ray, and more of a man than most.”

He beamed with pride.

“Are you ready?” he asked her, nodding toward the map.

She frowned. “Ready for what, honey?”

“For us to go, to travel, just like you want,” he replied.

Her smile widened. “Ray, I can’t take you with me. I’ll come back and visit. We can roll around a bit and have fun, but that’s about it.”

Ray blinked. “What?”

She nodded. “You’ll have to stay here. It’ll be suspicious if we both leave.”

“But it won’t be if you leave?” he demanded, tightening his grip on the pistol.

“Exactly.” She smiled, and for the first time, Ray saw her smile was false.

“You don’t love me,” he accused, his voice quivering with newfound rage.

She started to look downcast, but there was a twitch of a smirk on her lips, a glint of malicious humor in her eyes. Slowly, a sneer spread across her face. “I love being in bed with you. Don’t think I didn’t enjoy it, Ray. But in love with you? No, honey. Not by a long shot. You were a little brighter than I thought. I felt for sure I was going to have to work you for at least a year before you’d decide to try and do something about Gregor. I’ve got to admit, I’m impressed.”

A cold hatred settled over Ray, and a sense of calm entered him.

In his memory, he heard his father speaking with his uncle. They were talking about the war and about how terrible it was to see a man get gut shot.

“You don’t love me.” It wasn’t a question. Not even a statement. Ray might as well have remarked that the sky was blue.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing did.

“Not at all, honey,” Miriam laughed. “Now, if you want one last tussle before I go off to run some errands, well, I won’t say no.”

Ray looked at her, at her stunning physical beauty, but again his eyes were drawn to hers, and to the cold malice behind them. He raised the pistol to waist height and pulled the trigger.

Her eyes bulged as she took a shocked step back, and she looked down at her waist. There was a small hole in the skin he had once caressed, and blood pumped out of it. She sat down on the floor and stared up at him.

Miriam started to speak, but Ray didn’t hear her. He focused on lifting the .38 up and pressing the hot barrel into the soft underside of his chin. His eyes never left hers as he pulled the trigger.

Chapter 11: Permission

Tuesday, 11:00 AM

Jack Thompson turned onto Berkley Street and pushed concerns about the murders at the fraternity out of his mind.

Samson and Delk are good detectives, he told himself as he pulled his car up to the curb of 125 Berkley Street. They’ll let me know when they’ve developed a lead or gotten any sort of evidence.

Shifting into park, Jack looked at the large home. It wasn’t what he expected Shane Ryan to live in.

What did I expect? A ranch or something? Jack shook his head as he pocketed his keys and got out of the car. You’d think decades of police work would have taught me not to be so damned ignorant. Evidently, that is not the case.

Jack walked up the driveway toward the house, and he glanced to either side as he did so. He had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, and it wasn’t coming from within the house.

By the time he reached the front door, it was opened by Shane. The man stood there in what Jack assumed was Shane’s go-to attire. Gray Marines sweatshirt, blue jeans, and combat boots. All of them well-worn.

“Nice to see you, Captain,” Shane greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“The idea of… of ghosts being behind so many murders has all been a bit much for me to grasp,” Jack admitted. “I thought I’d come by and talk with you more. Get to know you, try to understand it all better.”

Shane studied him, and when he didn’t say anything after a few moments, Jack asked awkwardly, “Going to invite me in?”

An amused look crossed Shane’s face. “Do you really want to come in?”

“Why, do you have ghosts in the house?” Jack asked with a chuckle.

“More than you know,” Shane replied, and the cool statement sent a chill racing down Jack’s spine.

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, “I do want to come in. If that’s all right.”

Shane shrugged. “Come on in. Want a cup of coffee or anything?”

“Do you have hot chocolate?” Jack asked.

Shane glanced at him, surprised. “I think so.”

Shane led the way down the wide hall, and Jack was about to ask if he should close the door when it seemed to shut on its own accord.

“That was Carl,” Shane informed him as they made their way to the kitchen. “He pretty much runs the house, even though I tell him I do.”

“Carl?”

Shane nodded. “Take a seat, Captain.”

Jack did so. He watched as Shane moved easily around the large kitchen. From behind him, Jack heard a soft scratching sound. He twisted in his seat and saw the door to the pantry. The same noise issued forth again, and Jack was about to say something when Shane passed in front of him and pulled the door open. The man glared down at the floor and snapped, “Knock it off!”

Grumbling, Shane slammed the door closed, shook his head, and went back to the stove.

“What was that about?” Jack asked. Is he mentally unhinged?

“You don’t even want to know,” Shane muttered. “No, you know what, I’ll tell you. They’re a bunch of pains. Every single one of them. I’ll have to send Carl down to deal with them because if I do it, they won’t be around anymore.”

“Carl?”

Shane pulled down a mug from a cabinet, set it on the counter, and turned to face Jack. “I thought you believe in ghosts.”

“I believe ghosts exist,” Jack stated. “I’m just having a little bit of trouble understanding how there can be so many in one place.”

“And how I can have a chat with them,” Shane concluded.

“That, too.”

“Do you think Carl is in here with us?”

Jack hesitated, and Shane smiled.

“I didn’t say that,” Jack began.

“You don’t have to,” Shane interrupted. Then, Shane spoke in a foreign language.

A man appeared beside him. He was scholarly and dressed in clothes that were at least a hundred years out of fashion. The man made a comment to Shane in the same language, and Shane nodded.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Herr Kapitän,” the man said, bowing politely at the waist. “I am very pleased that my young friend here has begun to collect living friends in addition to his dead ones.”

“Carl,” Shane sighed, and the ghost disappeared.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Shane told him. “I’ve known Carl for decades. No lie, his bones are upstairs still. Well, downstairs, really. Anyway, yeah, that’s Carl. Dead German, all-around good guy. Puts up with a lot of my crap.”

“How many ghosts are here?” Jack asked, unable to stop himself from looking around.

“Hm? Oh, I don’t know. The numbers change. I picked up three when I was down in Connecticut. A set of triplets, in fact. Sad story. They’re out there running around right now.”

“Out where?” Jack asked.

“The yard,” Shane said, waving his hand toward the front of the house. “First week or so, they just sat in the front room. But, since they met Eloise, they’ve been having a grand old time of it.”

“I felt, I don’t know,” Jack said hesitantly, “that someone was watching me. It wasn’t exactly a nice feeling.”

“Probably Eloise, then,” Shane stated. “She’s not a fan of people. Kind of have to keep her in check. Some days, she’s okay. She has her act together. Other days, well, not so much.”

“Eloise?” Jack felt uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “The little girl? The dead child you told me about?”

Shane nodded. The kettle he had set on the stove whistled, and Shane took it off the burner, pouring water into a mug. Jack watched as he placed a spoon into the mug and carried it over to the table, setting it down in front of Jack.

“Careful,” Shane warned. “It’s hot.”

Jack nodded, somewhat distracted. He took hold of the spoon, stirred the hot chocolate, and asked, “What does she look like?”

“Eloise?”

“Yes.”

“Dead,” Shane answered.

There was no humor in the retired Marine’s face.

“Like Carl?”

Shane shook his head. “Nope. Not even close. Carl would win a beauty pageant when compared with Eloise.” Shane tilted his head, glanced over his shoulder, and muttered something in German. “Sorry, Carl’s complaining.”

Jack didn’t respond.

“Anyway,” Shane continued. “No, Carl’s in rough shape, but nothing like Eloise. Most ghosts appear to us the way they did when they died. Sometimes, that’s a good thing. You’ll see an old man standing there, wearing a chambray shirt and a pair of jeans. Looks normal. Others, well, if they died bad, you see it. Shattered skulls, severed limbs, all that good stuff. A few, not many, are able to adapt to how they look. Thing is, that’s where they get stuck. Eloise is a perfect example of that.”

Jack took a sip of the hot chocolate, winced at the heat of it, and set the mug back on the table. “How does Eloise look?”

“Mind if I smoke?” Shane asked.

“Your house, Shane.”

Shane grinned. “It is at that.”

Jack waited as the man took out a pack of Lucky Strikes, retrieved a cigarette, and then lit it with a Zippo. Shane exhaled the smoke through his nose, pulled an ashtray close to him, and spoke again.

“Right. So, Eloise, she died in the house,” Shane explained.

“Okay. A fall, something else?”

Shane shook his head. “No, Jack. There are servants’ passages and hidden doors. All the stuff you’d expect in a big old house like this one. She went into the walls one day, and she never came out. The house killed her.”

Jack waited to see if Shane would smile, crack a joke, or something.

The man didn’t.

“So,” Jack asked, “what does she look like?”

“Do you want me to tell you, or do you want me to show you?”

There was an unasked question implied. Can you handle it?

I’ve been a cop for decades, Jack thought. I can handle it.

“Show me,” Jack declared.

Shane nodded. Aloud, he said, “Carl, hole bitte Eloise.”

A chill passed by Jack, and he shivered as he picked up his hot chocolate. He ignored the still too-warm liquid and took a long drink, suspecting he would need the warmth.

A pleasant smile spread across Shane’s face, an expression of affection.

“Hello, Eloise,” Shane said, and it sounded to Jack as though the man was greeting an old friend.

Who’s to say he isn’t? Jack wondered. He grew up here.

Shane turned in his chair to face the sink, and Jack did the same. He saw spiderwebs of frost creeping over the window.

“Eloise, this is Captain Jack Thompson,” Shane explained. “He’d like to see you if you’re willing.”

There was a moment of silence, and Shane nodded.

“She’d like to know why.”

Jack answered the question truthfully. “I need to know everything. It’s the only way I can understand things.”

A little girl’s form slowly took shape in front of the sink, and it took all of Jack’s training to retain his composure. In his life as a police officer, he had seen corpses both fresh and old, but he had never seen one appear or seem so wretched and broken.

By her size, Jack guessed her age to be either eight or nine, although it was difficult to tell exactly. Her flesh was desiccated, stretched tight over her thin bones. The girl’s yellow teeth reminded him of broken rocks on the coast of Maine. Her stringy brown hair was held back with a red bow, and she wore a gray dress that was moth-eaten and stained. Eloise’s feet were bare, bones protruding from them.

“Eloise,” Shane said, his voice filled with a tone of firm control, “I want you to be nice. Captain Thompson is a welcomed guest.”

When she spoke, her voice was sweet and polite.

“I am Eloise,” she introduced herself, curtseying. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

Jack found his voice. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Eloise.”

The dead girl smiled, and bits of her cheeks flecked off. “What are you drinking?”

“Hot chocolate,” he told her.

She looked to Shane. “Better than you and your liquor, Shane Ryan.”

Shane tapped the head off of his cigarette into the ashtray as he answered, “You know I’ve cut back.”

“Only because of Ms. Perez,” the dead girl countered. “You better not chase her away with your bad habits.”

“You know,” Shane said, “I really didn’t want a lecture, you old hag.”

“You’re rude,” Eloise laughed. “I’m going to play. It was nice to meet you, Captain Thompson.”

Jack went to respond, but the dead girl was already gone. He stared at the kitchen floor, expecting there to be bits and pieces of the child.

There was nothing.

“Why does she look like that?” Jack asked.

“Because that’s what she remembers,” Shane explained. “What she latched onto. Most ghosts aren’t like that, though. She’s an exception to the rule. If she had followed most other ghosts, she would have revealed herself as a starved corpse. Emaciated, but that would have been it. But no, as a ghost, she went past her body, again and again, finally only seeing it as a corpse that had begun to mummify. Imagine seeing her in your bedroom when you’re a freshly minted nine-year-old.”

“Damn.”

“‘Damn’ is a fine way to describe it,” Shane chuckled. “I need more coffee, Jack. Maybe, if we’re lucky, James Moran will give me a call before I’m done with it.”

Jack nodded, sipped his hot chocolate, and found his attention drawn back to the sink, and reflecting on the dead child who had stood there only moments before.

Chapter 12: Disappointment

Tuesday, Noon

“Are you getting up?”

Miriam’s voice dragged Walt out of a fitful sleep. He opened his eyes, and as they moved, it felt as though someone had lined their sockets with sandpaper. Walt hissed at the pain, rolled a little, and fell out of bed, landing hard on the floor. The tenant in the room below him yelled, and then another person on the lower floor snapped back an insult.

As the two unseen men argued, Walt rolled onto his back and gazed up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. He focused on the room’s light, illuminated by the daylight streaming through the open window. Walt saw the corpses of insects in the ceiling lamp’s glass fixture. He blinked, closed his eyes, and then let out a cry of pain as something cold and hard struck him in the head.

Walt scrambled into a sitting position, afraid that someone had broken into his room while he had slept.

The only person was Miriam, and she was dead.

The ghost stood by the door, a look of angry disappointment on her face.

“I asked if you were getting up,” she said, her voice low. “I want an answer.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. He picked up his kit off the floor and remembered with dismay that he had never scored a hit. Walt became aware of the queasy sensation in his stomach, the dryness of his throat, and the relentless itching of his arm.

“I need a fix before I can do anything,” he told her, getting back onto the bed. He dropped the kit onto the blanket beside him.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Heroin,” he answered, not bothering to hide the pain the effort of speaking cost him. “I need a hit of heroin, or I’m going to be useless for the rest of the day.”

Miriam raised an eyebrow. “You can’t waste money on that. You need to save it.”

“Why?” he asked, rubbing at his temples and trying to wake himself up.

“For traveling,” she answered.

Walt nodded. “Yeah, we’ll save some of the money, but I need a hit. I don’t get one, I can’t do anything.”

“I don’t want to wait,” she informed him.

He shrugged. “You’re dead. What does it matter how long you wait?”

She smiled at him. “True. What does it matter? You know, Gregor used to say the same.”

The name Gregor was familiar, but Walt couldn’t remember why. He sank back against the wall, trying to gather the energy to get up off the bed and go out. Walt turned to speak with Miriam, but the dead woman was gone.

Part of him was sad, but the rest was pleased.

I can rest for a few more minutes before I find a hit, he thought. A few more minutes.

***

Ivan Gagnon was in the middle of doing dips on the edge of his chair, exactly as he had when he was locked up in Concord, when the woman appeared in front of him.

He knew a dead person when he saw one, and he had spent plenty of time with his grandmother to know that ghosts were real. She and his grandfather had both escaped from the Soviet Union in the sixties, and she told him all about the legions of dead soldiers who haunted the fields between villages.

The dead woman, who had been undeniably good-looking when still alive, eyed him warily.

Ivan got to his feet and pulled on his t-shirt. There was a thump above him, and he wondered if the junkie had fallen on the floor again. Ivan shivered as the sudden chill in the room dried the sweat he had built up. When he looked back at the door, the dead woman was still there.

“What do you want?” he asked, taking a beer out of the top drawer of the dresser. He popped the tab and took a drink of the lukewarm beverage.

“I want your help,” she answered.

He looked skeptically at her. “With what? Unfinished business or whatever BS is supposed to hold spirits here?”

The dead woman laughed. It was a high, sweet sound that sent ripples of excitement racing through him.

She’s dead, he reminded himself, and he tried to hide his reaction from her.

By the glint in her eye, she had caught it already.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not anything like that. There’s a drug addict upstairs.”

“So?” Ivan asked, dropping onto his bunk. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Lots,” she answered. “He’s got something of mine. If you can get it from him, I can get you some cash.”

Ivan chuckled. “How are you going to do that?”

“Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t know where my money is stashed away.”

Ivan finished his beer, crushed the can, belched, and dropped the empty can into a black trash bag by his bunk. “Where is it?”

“Nope,” she shook her head. “Not until my sunglasses are where they should be.”

Ivan cracked the knuckles on his left hand and then on his right. “How much are we talking about?”

“Two thousand.”

Ivan grinned. “For a pair of sunglasses?”

“They’re mine.”

Ivan considered the offer. He’d seen men killed for an extra serving of dessert in prison. By the look on her face, I’d say she means business, Ivan mused. “What do I have to do?”

“Get my sunglasses, bring them to where I tell you, and then, I’ll show you where the cash is.”

“That’s it?”

She laughed and shook her head. “It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is,” Ivan replied, getting to his feet. “Watch me.”

***

Someone pounded on the door, shaking it in its frame.

The noise caused Walt to sit bolt-upright on his bunk, his heart hammering against his chest. For a split-second, he believed he had imagined the noise.

But then the person in the hall struck the door again.

It was the only way Walt could think to describe it. “Who’s there?” he demanded, hating the fear in his voice.

“Open the damned door, punk,” the man on the opposite side ordered.

“Get out of here,” Walt returned. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t go.”

“You ain’t got a phone,” the man laughed. “You sold the damn thing for a dime bag last week. I saw you in the park.”

Walt shivered. “I’ll scream!”

The door flew inward, broken off its hinges. The man who stood in the doorway was the tenant from below. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his veins pulsed as he stepped forward.

“Go ahead and scream,” the man said, shrugging. “I’m only here for one thing.”

Walt watched as the man passed him, walking to the bureau. As the stranger reached for Miriam’s sunglasses, Walt howled and sprang off the bed.

The man turned and looked at Walt with surprise, and as he smiled, Walt crashed into him.

***

Ivan almost laughed as the junkie slammed into him.

But the laugh was swallowed up by the realization that his feet weren’t planted. Ivan was off-balance, and even the slight weight of the addict was enough to send Ivan stumbling back. Grabbing the man by the back of his shirt, Ivan started to pick him up. As he did so, Ivan tripped over his own feet and struck the window.

The old glass shattered on impact, and for the briefest moment in time, Ivan and the junkie were suspended in space.

And then, they were plummeting toward the parking lot.

Chapter 13: A Friend Calls

Tuesday, 12:35 PM

Shane opened his phone and saw he had a new message from James. He clicked on the image that was attached to the message and enlarged it. He passed his phone to Jack, who took it, squinted a little.

“Okay,” Jack said after a moment. “I see a pair of old sunglasses. What about them?”

“I’m not sure,” Shane answered. “I don’t have all the information.”

As he spoke, Shane’s phone rang, and he saw it was James. “Cool. Hold on, okay?”

***

He’s a strange guy, Jack thought, but he’s bright as hell. And he’s focused. Determined.

Jack listened to Shane speak with James Moran on the phone. Bet Shane was hell on wheels in the Marines. There’s more than just focus and determination, though. He wants justice. The crimes he investigates concerning the dead, well, there’s nothing we can do about them.

But he can.

Jack found himself comforted by the thought and waited for Shane to finish the call.

***

“Got it,” Shane nodded, writing the information down. “Awesome. Thanks, James. You’re the best.”

“No, I am a Moran,” James chuckled. “Let me know if you find her again.”

“Will do.” Shane ended the call and looked to Captain Thompson. The older man was pale, an understandable result of the information Shane had been feeding him since the captain had arrived. “That was James Moran with info about those sunglasses. How are you holding up?”

Jack smiled and shook his head. “I’m not sure, to be brutally honest. This is a lot more than I thought I was going to find out today.”

“You’re all right, though?” Shane asked.

“What did Mr. Moran have to say?” Jack prompted.

“Some interesting stuff,” Shane replied.

“The glasses belonged to a Miriam Shaw,” Shane explained. “She died in a murder-suicide back in 1957.”

“Seems pretty standard,” Jack replied.

Shane nodded. “Definitely is.” He accessed his emails and found the one sent by Jack from a little past midnight. As the captain sat, patiently waiting, Shane retrieved the image he wanted and handed the phone back to Jack.

Shane watched as the man looked at the photo. Jack frowned, looked up, and stated, “Those are the same glasses.”

“Damned right, they are,” Shane agreed.

Thompson shook his head. Once more, he passed the phone back and asked, “How bad is this woman?”

“Bad enough, I suppose,” Shane answered. “She seemed upset when I spoke with her.”

The look of mildly annoyed surprise on the captain’s face made Shane laugh.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he explained. “I was out for a walk, saw the flashing lights of some sort of emergency, and decided to investigate. Had a little chat with her. Pinpointed her as trouble and tried to get her to tell me where the sunglasses were and to let me go in after them.”

“Didn’t work?”

Shane shook his head. “Nope. Not at all.”

“You want to go up to the crime scene and retrieve the sunglasses from it?” Jack asked.

“I do.”

Jack was silent for a moment. “You need me because I’m a cop.”

“I need you,” Shane said, “because you are a cop, and because I don’t think you’re going to break if she pulls some madness and goes all crazy in there.”

“Think she will?” Jack asked.

Shane shrugged. “Let’s say I hope she won’t, but she won’t take kindly to me being there.”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t like strong men,” Shane answered.

Jack smiled. “How do you know that?”

“She told me,” Shane shrugged. “Might as well go and see if there’s anything else she wants to tell me.”

He picked up his pack of Lucky Strikes and realized it was empty. Standing up, he threw the pack away, went to the pantry, and took a carton out.

“How much do you smoke?” the captain asked as Shane sat back down with them.

“Not enough,” Shane answered. “No. In all seriousness, too much. Bad habit. I know I need to at least cut back.” Shane lit a cigarette and sighed happily. “It’s not a lack of ability, it’s a lack of caring.”

“And why’s that?” Jack asked.

Shane considered the question for a moment. “Captain, I lost my parents when I was at boot camp on Parris Island. Literally lost them. They were taken by the house. I spent two decades in the Corps, and I loved it. I’m not going to sugarcoat this: I killed a lot of people. Not always people who needed killing, either. Those are the only deaths that bother me. I came home to a house empty of life and filled with death. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m not afraid of much.”

“Cancer?”

Shane shook his head and knocked the head off of the cigarette. “If it’s bad enough, I’ll blow my brains out with my Colt.”

“I’m a cop, Shane,” Jack said gently. “You shouldn’t say things like that around me.”

Shane grinned at him. “Fair enough. So, feel like going and looking for those sunglasses?”

***

Tuesday, 1:30 PM

Shane stood at the crime scene, hands in the front pouch of his sweatshirt. He looked around the room as Jack stood silently beside him, then fixed his eyes on the coffee table. The coffee table where the sunglasses should have been.

But there was nothing. The sunglasses had been removed, but according to the report, they had not been logged in as evidence. Shane glanced over at Jack, and he saw the man’s frustration.

“Where the hell could they have gone?” Jack muttered angrily.

“Just about anywhere she wants, if she picks the right guy,” Shane stated.

“I don’t think she did,” Jack informed him.

Shane eyed the room, and after a moment, he nodded his agreement. “Someone came and robbed the place.”

“Knowing Nashua right now,” Jack continued, “it was probably someone looking to flip something for some quick cash. Score a hit.”

“Yeah,” Shane muttered. “Now, we have to find her.”

“Where do you think we should start?” Jack asked.

“We have to wait,” Shane answered, walking out of the apartment. The captain followed him.

“For what?” The tone of the question told Shane that Captain Jack Thompson already knew the answer.

“Another death, Captain,” Shane answered, pausing to light a cigarette. “Pretty sure there’ll be one soon enough. There always is.”

Chapter 14: On the Way to Work

Wednesday, 7:45 AM

Zeke Driscoll stepped out of the Dunkin’ Donuts on Canal Street in Nashua, pulled back the tab on his medium-hot regular coffee, adjusted the grip on the bag that contained two glazed donut sticks, and looked at the Laton Hotel. The four-story building squatted across the street, and its denizens, many of whom had recently been freed from a New Hampshire correctional facility, were already outside. They sat in the park, and Zeke knew from experience that if he lingered too long in the parking lot of the donut shop, then one of them would venture across the street to try and panhandle.

Zeke disliked confrontation, which was why he was a research lawyer and not a trial lawyer. He was best suited to life in the legal library, looking up case law and history.

He wanted to walk to his car and drive up to Manchester to his firm’s offices, but he couldn’t.

A soft, feminine voice whispered, “Look.”

Unwillingly, he looked closer at the Laton Hotel and saw a board had been tacked up over one of the windows. His stomach turned over as he stared at the blood on the pavement. It seemed as though someone had gone out of the window. Gone out of it and died on the broken pavement beneath it.

“You should go and look,” the voice whispered.

Zeke nodded. Surprisingly, he did want to go. He wanted to see what had happened. Why the window was boarded up.

Glancing to either side, he crossed the street and walked up the few steps into the park. One of the derelicts peeled off from the others, smiling ingratiatingly. Zeke didn’t hear what the man said. Didn’t care what was said. All he did was hand his coffee and food to him, who took them with a shocked expression.

Zeke continued past the man and crossed the small parking lot. He reached the entrance to the Laton Hotel and went in. The stench of old urine and dried vomit pushed at him, but Zeke ignored it. He passed by the bored attendant sitting behind thick plexiglass, and he refused to acknowledge the man’s protestations as Zeke went to the stairwell. He pushed open the door and waited a moment.

“Third floor,” the woman whispered.

Zeke nodded and climbed toward the third floor, his anticipation and excitement building with every step. A steady ache pulsed through his legs by the time he reached the landing for the correct floor.

Walking out, Zeke hesitated. The stench of a backed-up toilet assailed him, and he tried to understand what he was doing.

Why am I in here? he asked himself.

His answer came a moment later.

“Don’t stop now,” the unseen woman whispered, her voice sultry. “You’re so close to seeing me.”

His feet moved as though of their own accord. Zeke needed to see her, whoever she was.

He walked slowly down the hall, and when the woman said, “Here,” he stopped.

The door was propped up in the frame, and Zeke surprised himself when, without encouragement from the strange voice, he took hold of it and moved the door out of the way. He found himself looking into a small, dark room. A chill drifted out and into the hall, and Zeke shivered as he stepped in. His eyes adjusted to what little light was there, but he didn’t see anyone.

“They’re on the dresser. Do you see them?” she asked, her voice gentle, soothing.

His attention focused on the dresser’s scarred top. He saw a pair of sunglasses. “Yes.”

“Take them,” she murmured. “Put them in your pocket. Go to work.”

Zeke nodded. He went to the dresser and did as he had been told. Leaving the room, he paused long enough to put the door back in place and then walked toward the stairs, the weight of the sunglasses in his suitcoat’s pocket comforting.

Chapter 15: At the Clubhouse

Wednesday, 9:00 AM

Marty lay on the couch in the main room, half-asleep. He wanted nothing more than to sink into a deep and refreshing slumber, but Shannon had denied him that.

Shannon had denied him anything resembling peace and joy.

She had vanished.

She probably just switched her phone and didn’t bother to save the number I left on her voicemail. It’s not like I’m going to the house and checking the machine, he tried to reason.

But he didn’t believe that line of rational thought was true. There is no way she would have lost track of the number. Something’s going on.

The door to the main room opened. Marty glanced over, and he froze.

Alex Kallistos stood in the doorway, grinning. The dead man, Timmy, was already in the room. As Alex came in, he glanced around, his nose wrinkling.

“Marty,” Alex said, clucking his tongue, “it stinks in here. Hygiene doesn’t seem to be your strong point right now. How come? Something wrong?”

Marty pushed himself into a sitting position, suddenly conscious of his own body odor.

“No,” Marty lied. “There’s nothing wrong.”

Alex smirked, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Marty remembered the last time the boy had been in the room.

It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

“Did you come alone?” Marty asked.

“Me? Alone?” Alex let out a high-pitched laugh that set Marty’s teeth on edge. “Come on. You’re not stupid. I’m never alone. Ever. I’m always with someone, either living or dead. Well, always with someone dead, that’s for sure.” Alex leaned toward him. “But you’re not asking about the dead. You’re asking about the living.”

Marty nodded.

“Yeah,” Alex told him. “I’ve got a couple of people in the hallway. Another out front.”

“And one more with the vehicle,” Timmy chimed in.

“And one more with the vehicle,” Alex laughed. “Pretty great, huh?”

“Fantastic,” Marty grumbled. He started to rise, and the look of pleasantness vanished from the boy’s face.

“Get off that seat without permission, and I will have you killed.” Alex’s face was absent of emotion, his tone flat.

Marty lowered himself back down. His mouth twitched as he bit back an angry reply.

Alex peered at him. “Is there something you want to say?”

“Nothing that’s worth my life,” Marty replied through clenched teeth.

“Good.”

The boy winced, closed his eyes, and lowered his head for a moment. Marty watched, curious as Alex shook. The dead man waited, his hands in his pockets.

The boy shuddered, then lifted his head. His face was pale, his eyes seemed darker. “Can you hear it?”

Marty frowned. “Hear what?”

“The buzzing,” Alex answered with a conspiratorial smile. “I hear it all the time. Ever since the accident. It doesn’t go away. Not really. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes, I think everyone can hear it. But I guess not.”

Alex leaned back in the chair and slapped both hands against his thighs as he grinned at Marty. “Now. Where were we? Oh, yeah. I want to know what you’ve got planned. You owe me quite a few items, Marty. So, let’s hear how you’re going to get them.”

Marty took a deep breath. “I’m having some trouble right now. The last two guys I took with me, two guys who knew what they were doing, were killed.”

Alex blew a raspberry at him. “I don’t care. That’s a problem for you to solve, because, if you don’t, you’re going to have another problem: me.”

Marty lost his temper and jumped to his feet. “I don’t care!”

Timmy launched himself at Marty, wrapping his cold hands around Marty’s throat and pulling him off the floor.

Gasping for breath and trying to claw at the incorporeal hands, Marty realized he had made a mistake.

The boy hadn’t been kidding.

The dead man continued to squeeze, his hands bitterly cold against Marty’s flesh. Darkness swept across Marty’s vision while stars burst along the edges. His blood thundered in his ears as he tried to stay conscious.

Then Marty was thrown through the air, striking the floor and coughing as he dragged in great gulps of air. He tried to get up, but something hard and solid landed on his back. His head bounced off the floor, scrambling his thoughts. Small fingers took hold of his hair, pulled his head back, and then slammed it against the floor.

Pain radiated through his skull, and Marty found he couldn’t push himself up.

He lost track of time, and only slowly became aware that he was lying on the floor. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth, and every heartbeat rushed a message of pain through his consciousness.

With a whimper, Marty rolled onto his back. He let out a cry of pain as a pair of women hooked their arms under his and hauled him to the couch, dropping him unceremoniously onto it.

Alex still sat in the same chair, but there were splatters of blood on his fair skin.

My blood, Marty realized.

“I’m surprised you’re alive,” Alex informed him. “I was really trying to smash your skull open. Oh, well.”

Marty couldn’t think of a response.

Alex leaned forward, frowning. “I think this is an injury that might take a while to recover from.” The boy glanced at the dead man.

Timmy nodded. “Without a doubt, kid. The frostbite on his neck is going to draw attention. As is that massive egg you left on his forehead.”

Alex snickered.

“You may need to revisit this discussion at a later time,” Timmy concluded.

Alex pouted. “That’s lame. I want it taken care of now.”

“You can try, but it’ll be like swimming upriver,” Timmy shrugged. “I’ll be surprised if he remembers half of this. That’s a hell of a concussion he’s suffering from.”

Marty wanted to say something, to interject a point, but he couldn’t quite identify what that point was.

“Fine,” Alex muttered. “When?”

“Give him a week,” Timmy suggested. “Keep an eye on him. Not inside, though. Guy’s slick. Pretty sure he’d be able to kill whoever you left in the building.”

Marty closed his eyes and listened as the boy and dead colleague continued speaking.

“He should probably go to the hospital,” Timmy said.

“No. No hospital. It’s not a big deal if he dies in here,” Alex countered.

“Who will get the items then, kid?” Timmy asked, and by the tone of his voice, Marty thought it might be a regular conversation the two had.

“I don’t know,” Alex grumbled. “Someone would. There’s always someone else.”

“Sure there is,” Timmy agreed. “The problem is finding that someone. All the others are dead. Because of the ghosts. Finders are in short supply.”

“I could pull one or two of the proctors,” Alex stated happily.

“Are you kidding?” Timmy asked. “Kid, half of them are becoming alcoholics because of what they’re seeing, and the other half are seriously considering suicide as a viable choice. No, kid, you need guys like Marty. Right now, the only one you have is Marty, so, in my own humble opinion, send this guy to the hospital. If you don’t, we’re just going to be spinning our wheels with this little plan of yours.”

“Fine,” Alex sighed. “Fine. He can’t call them from here, though.”

“Nope,” Timmy said. “But we can have him taken out to one of the parks or something. Somewhere a mugging won’t seem out of place.”

“Even in the morning?” Alex asked.

Timmy laughed. “Kid, a mugging is never out of place.”

As Marty faded into unconsciousness, he had to agree with the dead man.

Chapter 16: Research

Thursday, 9:00 AM

Tom Daniels sat at the table, his laptop set up, and a cup of coffee beside him. He stirred the cream and sugar into the mug before he took a cautious sip. Finding the coffee to be to his liking, Tom smiled and logged in. As the various windows popped up on the screen, the door to their home opened, and his adopted father, Victor Daniels, walked in. The man had several newspapers tucked beneath one arm, his prematurely gray hair wild and unkempt. His black, horn-rimmed glasses were perched on the tip of his nose as if Victor couldn’t quite get used to needing bifocals.

“Good morning,” Victor greeted, smiling at Tom and dropping the newspapers onto the table. He glanced around the room and asked, “All quiet?”

Tom looked up at the various glass-fronted cases, each one sealed with salt and leaded glass. Each a pleasant little prison for some ghost and their item.

“I sure as hell hope so,” Tom replied cheerfully.

Victor shook his head as he walked to the kitchen area. “Language, please, Tom.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Tom responded with a grin.

“Bad enough,” Victor sighed.

Tom chuckled and turned his attention back to the computer. He had dozens of links to odd and obscure websites, blogs, and YouTube channels. All dealt with the dead, the appearances of ghosts in the world. More than a few were run by absolute lunatics, Tom knew, but even among them was the occasional nugget of information, a curious little truth.

Every day, between his studies and his work with Victor as they assisted Moran and Moran, Tom mined the sites. What was more, he had access to the impressive catalog of items sold by Moran and Moran. Each morning, Tom checked the results of a program that searched for any haunted objects listed by Moran and Moran.

Occasionally, the haunted objects did show up. For the most part, they remained with their owners or vanished from sight. Tom had documented nearly a dozen explosions, all of which had been blamed on faulty gas lines or installed breaker boxes but were easily explained when cross-referenced against a list of known buyers of haunted objects.

Victor returned to the table with his own cup of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin.

“You’re going to get fat, old man,” Tom warned.

Victor shook his head. “Unlike you, I don’t care. And I won’t. You know this is my one sweet.”

“It’s almost five hundred calories,” Tom informed him without looking away from the computer screen.

“You put cream and sugar in your coffee,” Victor countered.

“And I work out for two hours a day,” Tom replied.

“Touché,” Victor chuckled. “Anything new?”

“Yeah,” Tom nodded, frowning. “There was a killing at a frat house. Nine guys were killed.”

“Oh.”

“Yup,” Tom sighed. He clicked on another tab. “And here’s another, from Texas. Three people in a 24-hour laundromat were killed. One lived long enough to give a description of the killer.”

Victor raised an eyebrow and waited.

“And, I quote,” Tom began, “‘The guy was an Arab, like that old Lawrence of Arabia movie.’”

Victor shook his head. “Why is that familiar?”

Tom was about to say he didn’t know, but then, he stopped and stated, “Detroit.”

“Detroit?”

Tom nodded, brought up the list of objects from Moran and Moran, typed “Detroit” into the search bar, and had dozens of objects identified. Grumbling, he typed in “Arab” and found only three.

“‘Possessed knife.’” Tom read. “‘Ghost is a Bedouin. Last known location was Detroit, Michigan. Shane Ryan.’”

Victor frowned. “Why is Shane listed?”

Tom knew, as did Victor, that anything concerning Shane was almost guaranteed to be difficult. And Tom loved it. “He was in Detroit recently, right?”

“Yes. Well, we can ask him some questions about it later, if necessary,” Victor finally said. “He is still coming down today, isn’t he?”

Tom nodded. “He’s supposed to.”

“Good. Now,” Victor said, a professorial tone slipping into his voice, “you need to finish your coffee and get to work on your Algebra II. You still have that competency test to take.”

Tom groaned, but he picked up his coffee and drank it. He knew trying to get out of the test would be pointless.

Victor would just make him take it first thing the following day.

Without the benefit of coffee.

Chapter 17: Traveling Plans

Thursday, 10:30 AM

Zeke sat in the darkness of his home office.

Only small slits of light streamed in through the narrow openings of the blinds. His half-eaten breakfast was on the desk. His computer was off, as was his cellphone. There was a bank statement on his keyboard, showing the totality of his liquid assets.

Plenty, he thought with a half-smile. I just need to know where she wants to travel.

At the thought of Miriam Shaw, Zeke opened the middle drawer of his desk and took her sunglasses out. They were abnormally cold to the touch, and he set them atop the bank statement with a wince.

A moment later, the temperature in the room sank, and he shivered, not only from the cold but with delight. She was there.

“Hey, Zeke,” Miriam greeted, her voice low and smooth. Her tone reminded him of the femme fatales in the film noir movies his mother had watched when he was a boy.

“Hello, Miriam.” He smiled. She stood, barely visible, off to one side, and he trembled with excitement.

“What have you been up to?” she asked. Then, with a little bit of a pout to her tone, she murmured, “I missed you last night.”

Zeke smiled. “I missed you, too. Where do you want to go?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her lips forming a small “o” of surprise.

“You told me you were never able to travel,” Zeke said. “I thought, well, I have lots of money. I can take it out and take you wherever you want.”

“What about your job?” Miriam asked. “What about your family?”

He shook his head. “I do legal research for my firm; I can work from anywhere. The only reason I ever went to work in the office was so I could get away from my family. Linda, my wife, she trapped me into marriage. She told me she was on the pill and got pregnant. I had to marry her. I never wanted kids; I don’t like them. Not even my own boy. Sometimes, sometimes, I think that someone else is the father.”

Miriam nodded in understanding. “I’m so sorry, Zeke,” she whispered. “I wish I could help you.”

“You already have,” he smiled. “I have a purpose now. We’re going to travel. Wherever you want to go. Europe? Mexico? Canada? Australia? You name it, we’ll go. I have a passport and a lot of money.”

“Anywhere?” Miriam asked in a whisper.

“Anywhere,” he answered.

***

Linda knew Zeke didn’t love her. She even knew he didn’t believe Jeff was their son, even though the boy was. She had never been with anyone other than Zeke.

Never wanted anyone other than Zeke, she thought. Standing in the hallway, trembling, Linda could hear her husband talking with another woman. She wasn’t on speakerphone, no, he had the temerity, the audacity, to have another woman in their house.

He must have smuggled her in when I brought Jeff to school, she thought, her anger rising. I wasn’t supposed to be home. He knows I do the shopping on Thursdays.

It was the shopping that had brought her home. She had forgotten her grocery list. That, and her paranoia had brought her back.

Linda had checked the bank account, and she had seen that Zeke had logged in and withdrawn all but a few hundred from their joint accounts. The two checking, the savings, the deferred account for Jeff’s college fund, and the one for his own retirement.

Two hundred thousand dollars had vanished.

She had planned on confronting him at first, demand to know what was going on. Then she had heard the woman’s voice. A bubbly, nauseating tone meant to seduce.

It was a tone she had tried in high school, and one she had failed miserably at.

For a moment, she had stood, paralyzed, all of her worst fears recognized in the woman’s words. Then, she had taken the Luger out of its hiding place.

Linda stood outside the closed door of Zeke’s home office, clutching the old Luger her grandfather had brought home from World War II. The pistol was loaded and ready. She had done it exactly the way her grandfather had shown her. He had given it to her privately on her wedding day.

Don’t trust him, honey child, he told her. Don’t ever trust him. I’ve seen a hundred of his kind. He’ll hurt you. Leave you stranded with that child you’re carrying. He’ll take the money and run. Make no mistake about that. If he does, you stop him. You stop him dead.

And here he is, she thought numbly. Planning to run away with this woman. He’s going to leave us. How am I going to support Jeff? I don’t have any work skills. Zeke never let me get a job. Not ever.

She heard the telltale scrape of his chair’s wheels against the wooden floor.

“I just need to get the keys to the car,” Zeke told his companion. “I don’t need anything else. I can buy clothes wherever we go.”

The woman’s response was muffled, and he laughed. “No. There’s nothing I want here. Nothing at all.”

The floor creaked beneath his weight, and Linda took a step back, bringing the pistol up and gripping it with both hands, her finger on the trigger.

Zeke opened the door, and, beyond his surprised expression, Linda saw the dolled-up face of a woman who fancied herself some sort of pin-up model.

“Linda,” Zeke began, and Linda pulled the trigger.

The ammunition in the Luger was old, and the first shot was a misfire.

As full understanding filled his eyes, Linda cleared the unspent round and fired the weapon again.

The bullet smashed into his throat, tearing it open and causing him to waver on his feet. Twice more, she pulled the trigger, and both rounds slammed into his chest.

Zeke’s eyes rolled up into his head, blood frothing at his lips, and he pitched backward.

Linda saw the look of rage on the other woman’s face and calmly shot her.

The bullet smashed the window directly behind the woman, passing through her as though she wasn’t there.

Linda blinked and pulled the trigger again. The round was a misfire, like the first, and as Linda tried to clear it, the other woman stepped into the hall.

It took Linda a moment to understand the stranger hadn’t stepped over Zeke but through him.

“Do you have any idea how many men I’ve gone through in the past week?” the woman demanded, and it was only as she drew closer that Linda realized she could see through the stranger. “Do you?!”

Linda tried to shoot the woman, but the weapon was knocked out of her hand. Cold hands wrapped around her throat. Linda gasped for breath as the woman held her up for a moment before she threw her down the length of the hallway.

“You’re going to die,” the woman told Linda. “Because I am mightily upset about having to find some other sap to take hold of my glasses. You better hope your boy is stronger than your husband. If he isn’t,” the woman smiled, “he’s going to be spending a lot of quality time with me.”

“No,” Linda whispered, crawling backward, away from the woman.

“Oh, that’s a definite fact, sister,” the woman sneered. “I’m going to have a whole lot of fun with your boy, one way or another.”

Linda turned and scrambled for the kitchen door.

A cold hand latched onto her ankle, squeezed hard enough to shatter the bone, and dragged her back into the hallway.

“No,” the woman whispered into Linda’s ear, “you don’t get to go anywhere. At least, not alive.”

“What are you?!” Linda whimpered.

“Dead,” the woman answered. “Just like you’re going to be.”

Linda opened her mouth to scream again, but a sudden surge of pain silenced her.

Chapter 18: No Rest

Thursday, 1:30 PM

“Have you slept at all, my friend?” Carl asked.

Shane looked up from his desk, then at the clock. He shook his head and chuckled. “No, I don’t think I have. Not for any real length of time, anyway.”

Carl frowned. “I do not think Ms. Perez would approve of you not taking care of yourself.”

“I know she wouldn’t,” Shane yawned. He considered a cigarette and pushed the idea aside. He was nearly asleep sitting up. “I’ll hit the rack in a few minutes, get some sleep. Maybe an hour or two.”

“Why not longer?” Carl inquired.

“Too much to do. Too much to sort through.” Shane rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “There’s been no word on where the sunglasses might be, and I don’t like the idea of them kicking around.”

“And what of the robberies? Has there been any new information regarding those?”

“Nope,” Shane said, shaking his head. “But I am going to drive down to see Victor and Tom today. I’ve put it off long enough. I was healing and, well, I let Jacinta distract me. Kind of a pleasant distraction, you know? Can’t do that anymore, I need to focus.”

“You will speak with this Mr. Thorne?”

Shane nodded.

“Will you have more living company here at some point?” Carl asked.

“Probably, although I don’t know when. Why?”

“I am thinking, Shane, that you may want to do a better job cleaning.”

“What?” Shane asked, chuckling. “This place is spotless.”

“For a bachelor who does not receive any callers, it is. However, you seem to be having quite a bit of company of late.” Carl shook his head. “It is my considered opinion that you should elevate your cleaning.”

“Get out,” Shane commanded with faux anger. “Out!”

The German offered an elaborate bow, turned sharply on his heel, and strode out of the room.

Yawning, Shane got to his feet and glanced around the room. For the first time, he noticed the dust on the shelves, and he shook his head.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Carl’s right.”

***

Thursday, 6:00 PM

Shane finished his cigarette as he pulled into the driveway of Victor and Tom’s house. Shutting off the car, he grabbed his knapsack and climbed out of the vehicle. By the time he closed the car door, Tom was stepping out of the home’s entrance, grinning.

“How are you, stumpy?” Shane asked.

Tom flipped him off, and from within the house came Victor’s voice.

“Tom, come on.”

The teen and Shane laughed as they walked into the house.

“Seriously,” Shane said as Tom closed the door. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” Tom replied. “Life is good.”

“Yeah?” Shane asked.

“Yeah.”

Shane nodded. “How are your grades?”

“Fine.”

“They’re not fine,” Victor answered. “Coffee?”

“Please,” Shane replied. He looked at Tom and sat down at the dining table. “What’s going on with your grades?”

Tom slumped into a chair, scratched his shaved head with his good hand, and shrugged. “I’ve got brain-lock when it comes to math.”

“Tom,” Shane said, “you need it, man. Honestly.”

“For what?” Tom asked, undoing the straps that held his prosthetic left arm in place. “I have no intention of going into any sort of field that’s going to require math. Nothing close.”

“That’s not the point,” Victor sighed, shaking his head. He handed Shane a mug, and Shane nodded his thanks.

“Victor’s right,” Shane added. “Listen, math isn’t just about knowing the transitive properties of algebra and all that good stuff. No, it’s about training your mind to think properly. Same reason why you study Latin. It makes you think.”

“Latin’s easy compared to math,” Tom muttered. “Math drives me up a wall. I hate it.”

Shane looked at Tom as he took a drink from his coffee. It wasn’t often that Tom Daniels sounded or appeared to be the teenager that he was. When it came to the work required for homeschooling, though, that’s when the pubescent beast raised its head.

“Okay.” Shane leaned back in his chair. “There are two ways you can look at this, Tom. First, you can look at it as some albatross you’ve got slung around your neck like the Ancient Mariner. It’s there, you can’t get rid of the damned thing. Second, it’s a chore. No worse or better than that. Something that has to be done. If you choose option one, you’re in for a world of misery that you’re creating yourself. Option two, you do your work, put in the time, and it’ll be done before you know it. Right?”

Tom nodded.

“Anything else you’re having trouble with?” Shane asked.

“No,” Tom answered.

Shane glanced at Victor, and the man shook his head.

Grinning, Shane asked, “So, you’re almost old enough to drink.”

Victor threw up his hands and walked away as Tom laughed.

“No, not yet.” The teenager grinned. “Maybe never if Victor has his way.”

“And maybe not in here,” Shane replied, gesturing to the cases of haunted items. “All it takes is a crack in the seal, and one of those bad boys can get out. You know that. You know that better than most.”

Tom nodded.

“Anyway, I’m here to have a chat with the gentleman you two have been boarding for me.”

“Warren Thorne,” Victor said from the kitchen area.

“The one and only,” Shane nodded.

“I set up a place for questioning,” Tom interjected. “We put in a shed, and the inlay of my arm gave me the idea to use lead inlay on the floor. Lots of rock salt, too. I put in a chair, table, all the good stuff.”

“Ashtray?” Shane asked.

“Glass ashtray and a Zippo lighter,” Tom chuckled.

“You ought to give that up,” Victor commented, sitting down with a glass of water.

“I should. No doubt about it. Won’t, though. I like my Luckies, Victor. They’re comforting.”

“And deadly,” Tom added.

“Et tu, Brutus?” Shane inquired with a wink.

Tom and Victor laughed as Shane grinned.

“Anyway,” Shane continued, “putting my bad habits aside, how are things, really?”

Shane knew both Victor and Tom still suffered from the loss of their loved ones, and he knew how the pain of such losses could burrow deeply into one’s psyche. It could take hold and blossom, anger and sadness debilitating a man.

Shane had gone through it himself.

“We really are good,” Tom assured him, and Victor nodded.

“Our work keeps us busy,” Victor stated. “And that is all we can ask for at this time.”

Shane wanted to argue the point, to tell them both they could always ask for more, and that they should. But it was a conversation that didn’t need to be had, and so he remained silent.

“Shane,” Tom said, glancing at Victor, “there’s something we found. Something strange that we think you should know about.”

“Let’s hear it.” Shane folded his arms over his chest and peered at Tom and Victor.

“It’s about a group who call themselves the proctors,” Tom began, “and what they’ve been doing.”

“Bad?” Shane asked.

“They make Korzh look like a child,” Victor answered, his voice breaking.

Shane frowned, nodded, and listened as they began to speak.

Chapter 19: Unwanted Advice

Thursday, 9:45 PM

“Do you understand that you are setting them up for failure?”

Alex glared at Abel Worthe, but the old professor merely flashed a smile of broken teeth.

“Oh, Alex,” Abel sighed. “You don’t frighten me. Yes, I know you could torture me and eventually have me killed, but I am only speaking the truth. Without providing your hunter-gatherers with enough of the proper information concerning ghosts and the abilities of the dead, well… You’re not only setting them up for failure, you are short-changing yourself as it were.”

Alex shifted in his seat. No one alive had spoken to him in an authoritarian manner, not since the passing of Marcus. Timmy often did, but Timmy wasn’t alive, and in the end, Alex could ignore his dead friend.

The living mentor in front of him, Professor Abel Worthe, was another matter altogether.

Abel Worthe, in a quite literal sense, had helped form Alex into a scientist. His opinion, however irritating as it might be, was worth listening to.

Alex sat down on the floor and put his chin in his hands. “What if I don’t want them to know?”

“Is it part of one of your experiments?” Abel asked.

“No,” Alex grumbled.

“Ah. Then, you are wasting time, resources, and the ability to properly analyze a larger portion of the haunted items available to you,” Abel stated. “New England is quite rich with the dead. Hm, I would even go so far as to say the majority of the Northeast is an impressive vein of possessed items, all of which are waiting for the right man to mine them, to bring them back into the light. The question, then, is, ‘Are you the man to get it done?’”

“Of course, I am!” Alex barked.

Abel smiled. “I know. Now, you need to adjust your, shall we say, managerial style? Yes, violence has its place, and yes, Timmy serves as a magnificent deterrent. However, to continue to throw this gentleman, Marty Feldman, back into the wild with minimal protection is akin to dropping a man who speaks basically no Japanese into the heart of Tokyo and telling him to find his way home. It is a nearly impossible task. Yes, yes,” Abel said, holding up a hand and forestalling the argument that wanted to leap out of Alex’s mouth, “I understand all about others who speak English, the U.S. embassy, all of that. The point of the anecdote is this, Alex, you are quite simply setting them up to fail.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?!” Alex yelled, and he instantly regretted it. The ever-present dull thud of his injury grew louder inside his skull, pounding against him. His eyes glazed over for a moment, the world dark and Abel Worthe nothing more than a shadow. The incessant buzzing increased in volume and tempo, and Alex wanted to scream.

Screaming only made it worse, and so he did nothing more than grind his teeth together until his jaw ached, and the noise in his head sank to a tolerable hum.

“Are you quite done?” Abel’s question was absent of malice. There was only the practiced, even tone of the teacher who has an intelligent but recalcitrant student.

“Yes,” Alex sighed.

“You need to control yourself, kid,” Timmy observed. “One of these days, you’re going to get so worked up that your head’s going to pop off.”

Alex snickered, and Abel’s calm demeanor faltered as he looked with hatred at Timmy.

“Yes,” Abel grumbled after a moment, turning away from Timmy. “Let’s return to the business at hand. You need to make a decision, Alex. Will you continue to waste your resources, or will you maximize them and achieve your goal?”

“I want to achieve my goal,” Alex answered.

The old man nodded. “Excellent. That, my young student, is what I wanted to hear. Now, I will write these down later for you, but we should discuss them first. Iron bracelets for anyone going after the ghosts. They are easier to make and fit than rings, easier to remove as well. If need be, gloves can be fashioned with strips of iron in them, so the wearer might have greater confidence in their ability to defend themselves against the dead. You need to ensure that all the bags or boxes brought into a building are strong enough to withstand an angry ghost. Perhaps, if one is available nearby, you could commission a carpenter to make you some. Make certain they are lined with lead, regardless of the road you take concerning their manufacture.”

“Yeah, I know. What do you think I should do? Equip all my hunters with these?” Alex asked, and he hated the whining tone of his voice.

“Yes.”

“I think that’s a terrible idea,” Alex muttered.

“And why is that?” Abel asked, his tone polite.

“Because then I have to get them to all those people,” Alex complained. “I don’t want to see Marty Feldman again. He’s terrible.”

“He is only terrible,” Abel reminded him, “because he did not have the right tools for the job.”

“Do you like him or something?” Alex demanded.

The old man chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t even know him. What I do know is that you need more ghosts for the final experiment. Marty can assist you. If he can no longer perform his duties, then kill him and burn the building to the ground. It really is as simple as that.”

“I may have to kill them all when it’s finished,” Alex informed Abel. “They’ve got too much information. I don’t like it.”

“Whatever you need to do will be fine,” Abel assured him. “The main point, Alex, is that you get as many of the items as you can. Once you are satisfied that you have enough, then it would be best to tie off all your loose ends.”

Alex grinned. “I like that.”

Abel smiled. “Is there anything else?”

Alex frowned, took a small notebook out of his back pocket, and flipped through several pages of notes before putting it away again. “You have answered every question. Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome,” the man said.

“Timmy.” Alex nodded to his friend.

The dead man stepped forward, and Abel peered at him, confused. Timmy squatted and then pressed his fingers into the old man’s legs. Abel screamed as the ghost’s digits sank through cloth and into flesh. After almost a minute, Timmy withdrew them, and Alex saw with satisfaction that the old man had soiled himself, his face pale, eyes darting around in confusion.

“You’re going to take a long time to die,” Alex informed Abel Worthe.

“But I helped you!” the old man wailed.

“Yes. And you put me here, to begin with.” Alex smiled. “I appreciate the information. The knowledge. And thank you for helping me understand it. But don’t think it bought you forgiveness.”

“Please,” Abel whispered.

Timmy reached forward and put his index finger through Abel’s left eye.

The old man shrieked and collapsed, unconscious from the pain.

“You know,” the dead man said in a contemplative tone, “I never did get to pay this SOB back for Meredith.” As he continued to speak, a note of seething hatred crept into his words. “You remember what he did. He killed her, kid. Killed her. All because she loved me.”

Alex looked at Timmy and listened.

“Me.” Timmy’s voice sank to a whisper. “Her gentleman killer.”

The dead man squatted beside the unconscious Worthe.

“You’re right, he’s going to die slow,” Timmy murmured. “Just as slow as I can possibly make it.”

Alex got comfortable, and then he and Timmy waited for Professor Abel Worthe to wake up and get ready to die.

Chapter 20: A Pleasant Conversation

Friday, 6:00 AM

Shane hesitated a moment, then, in a rough voice, he spoke.

“I love you, Jacinta.”

There was only silence from the other end, and he felt certain he had spoken those words to dead air. Then, a fear that he hadn’t gripped him.

Before he could react to that fear, a rush of breath filled the line. Her voice was gentle, and he braced himself for a polite but firm denial.

“Oh, Shane,” she whispered in Spanish, “I love you, too. Hell, how am I supposed to work now?”

He laughed, his voice shaking, his hand trembling as he tried to free a cigarette from a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes. “Don’t know.”

“You’re no help,” she laughed. “Wow. Um, I’m going to need you to say that again as soon as we see each other next time.”

“How about in between?” he asked playfully, managing to light the cigarette. “When we talk?”

“Yeah, if you don’t, I’m going to break your damned jaw,” she told him. “I have a get-out-of-jail-free card, you know.”

“Hm, yeah, the thin blue line,” he said, feigning distress. “Guess I better make sure I say it.”

“Say it again,” she commanded.

“I love you, Jacinta,” he told her.

“I love you, Shane. I gotta go. We caught a murder, and we’re on our way out to play police.”

“All right, be careful.”

She chuckled. “You, too.”

Shane ended the call and wasn’t surprised when his shaking grew worse. He let it race through his body, then, after a few minutes, he was calm.

The door opened, and Shane glanced over his shoulder. Tom exited the house and walked to the car. The teenager leaned against the quarter-panel next to Shane. Tom’s eyes narrowed.

“You okay?” the teenager asked.

“Yup.”

Tom glanced from Shane to the phone, and then back to Shane. “Something happened.”

“Doesn’t mean it was bad.”

“So, it was good?”

Shane nodded. “Yup.”

“Feel like talking about it?” Tom offered.

Shane shook his head. “Not right now. Maybe later, Tom. Thank you.”

“Sure.”

They remained silent for a short time, Shane finishing the first cigarette and lighting a second off of it. As he field-stripped the butt, sliding the remnants into his pocket, he focused on the shed. “Have you tried it out?”

Tom nodded. “Yeah. Just with a couple of mellow ghosts, though. Nothing serious. Victor gets a little gun-shy about the idea of letting out one of the stronger ones.”

“You should, too,” Shane stated, gesturing with his cigarette toward Tom’s prosthetic arm. “It’s not like you both don’t have valid reasons for being cautious.”

“It’s the way it goes,” Tom replied. The finality, the bitterness in the teenager’s tone stung Shane. He knew how much Tom had suffered, and he hated the cynicism that appeared from within him on occasion.

“It is,” Shane agreed. “But it doesn’t mean you stop being cautious. That’s when you can get someone else hurt.”

Tom nodded but didn’t speak.

“Anyway,” Shane stretched, “we’re going to have to pull Mr. Thorne’s book out pretty soon. I’ll have to make a big old pot of coffee, too. I’ve got lots and lots of questions for him.”

“Think it’ll go smoothly?” Tom asked.

Shane shook his head. “Hell no. Almost positive he’s going to spend the first half-hour trying to figure a way out, and then the next hour or so attempting to negotiate.”

“Will you?”

“Depends,” Shane answered. “If he has something that’s worthwhile, sure. If it turns out he doesn’t, then I’ll set his damned book on fire.”

“Sounds like a good time,” Tom observed.

“Might be. Might be a pain, too. Anyway, feel like helping me get the place ready?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Tom replied, and together they straightened up. Shane paused long enough to pick up his cigarettes and phone, and then they walked into the house.

***

Friday, 6:30 AM

Marty Feldman looked at the email and shook his head as he read through it again.

Expect package today from AK. Will contain necessary tools to equip staff and assist in the acquisition of dead.

Marty got up from the laptop and walked into the kitchen. At the sink, he turned on the water, leaned over, cupped his hands, and splashed some onto his face. When he finished, he wiped his hands and face with a towel and then turned to stare at the laptop.

He never told us everything, Marty thought, shaking his head. He kept something back. Why?

Slow anger simmered within him, and he clenched his hands into fists. His nails bit into his palms, and his blood raced through his veins. Marty shook where he stood, and he knew he was close to losing control.

He forced his hands to relax, and he closed his eyes.

Because he wanted us to suffer, Marty thought. We could have gotten it done if he had just shared it all. I wouldn’t have lost my reputation because of this. My wife and children wouldn’t have gone to Canada. She wouldn’t have disappeared off the face of the planet with our girls.

All of this could have been avoided.

For a heartbeat, Marty considered murdering Alex Kallistos.

But it was only for a moment.

Marty was, if nothing else, practical.

Alex Kallistos was protected by both the living and the dead.

Even if I could get by his guards, I’d have to contend with Timmy. Maybe, with whatever the little brat is sending me, I could compete against Timmy. Get in close enough to do the job.

And maybe, I’d be killed before I could get it done, or draw a weapon, or anything.

Marty shook his head and opened his eyes.

No, there is no way I can get any sort of revenge on him. I need to deal with it. Get the ghosts he wants and get out of the contract.

With his anger dissipating, Marty returned to his desk and typed a quick response to Alex’s message.

Okay.

Chapter 21: Negotiations

Friday, 6:45 AM

Nick Fallon walked into the small, well-kept home of Linda and Zeke, and tried to understand what the hell had happened. The police had been able to tell him that his cousin had shot Zeke several times with an old Luger. They had even shown him a photograph of the weapon, and he had recognized it as the one their grandfather had brought home from Europe after the end of the Second World War.

No one knew why she had shot him, though.

Just like they don’t know what happened to her, he mused, coming to a stop in the kitchen.

Linda’s body, according to the police, had been found on the kitchen floor without any outward trauma except for a few signs of minor frostbite. The coroner still had to conduct an autopsy.

Nick pulled a chair out from the table, sat down, and looked around the kitchen.

Nothing was out of place. There were dishes in the drying rack. A pan of brownies covered with plastic wrap. A shopping list, written in Linda’s neat hand, lay on the table.

Standing up, Nick walked toward Zeke’s home office. The wooden floor in the doorway was stained with dried blood, and the window in the office was broken. A cool breeze ruffled the blinds, the old metal rattling and sending a strange sound through the stillness of the house.

I’m glad Jeff didn’t find them, Nick thought, sliding his hands into his pockets. That would have been too much for him.

He shook his head. He and his wife Sandy were going to have to fight for custody of the boy. Zeke’s parents, who had never been fond of the child, were vying for control, mostly because of the significant amount of money attached to him as the sole beneficiary.

They’d like nothing more than to sell this place, too, Nick thought, making sure to step around the bloodstain as he entered the office.

Why here, Linda? he wondered. Why the office? The detective said it looked as though you were waiting outside the door. All the shots were fired at close range, as though the door had been closed and you shot when he came out.

You put the shots center mass, just like grandpa taught us. Nick sat down in Zeke’s office chair and looked out into the hallway. Why the bullet through the window? Was there someone else in here? Is that it?

A glance around the room revealed something peculiar.

A pair of vintage sunglasses set on what looked like a financial statement.

They weren’t Linda’s. Nick knew that without a doubt. She didn’t wear sunglasses. She had always hated them.

Where did these come from? he wondered, picking them up. They were unnaturally cool to the touch, and he set them back down immediately. Another woman? Is that what you found?

Nick turned in the chair and saw that the bullet hole in the glass was at the right height for another center mass shot. He focused on the desk again and turned his attention back to the slip of paper that contained a listing of various financial accounts and the money withdrawn from them.

A cold, hard understanding settled over him.

You thought he was leaving you, is that it? You knew, somehow, that he had looked at the accounts. There’s a pair of women’s sunglasses in here, and they’re not yours. If there was another woman, was she here? Is that why you shot him? And where is she now? The gunshots were reported, the neighbors came out, and they said no one left the house.

Nick stood up, suddenly uncomfortable in the room.

There was a sense of wrongness about the office. He glanced about, positive someone was watching.

Then, without knowing why, or even questioning it, he plucked the sunglasses off the desk, slipped them into his pocket, and left the murder scene.

A sense of cold settled over his shoulders, and Nick hurried to his car, eager to get home and into a place where death didn’t linger in the air.

Chapter 22: Warren Thorne

Friday, 7:00 AM

Shane looked around the small shed. He saw the lead inlay in the floor and knew there was more protection hidden from sight. On a small table, he had a bottle of water, a glass ashtray, a pack of Lucky Strikes, and his Zippo lighter.

In the center of the inlay was a lead-lined box, in which resided Warren Thorne’s book.

Shane adjusted the iron rings on his fingers, lit a fresh cigarette, and used a long dowel to flip back the lock on the box and push its lid into the upright position.

Warren Thorne appeared immediately.

The old man, clad in his white dress shirt and gray slacks, glared at Shane for a moment.

But it was brief and was immediately replaced by a disingenuous smile.

“Ah, Mr. Ryan,” Warren greeted. “What a pleasure.”

“I think we can dispense with those sorts of BS, right?” Shane asked.

Warren shrugged. “If you wish.”

“I do.”

“Ah, well,” Warren sighed. “Tell me, Mr. Ryan, what is it I can do for you?”

“I’d like information,” Shane stated flatly.

“Regarding why nature dealt you a bad hand with male pattern baldness and fate made you look as if you were run over by a lawnmower?” Warren asked with a smile.

Shane offered the dead man a grim smile. Leaning forward and resting his chin on his interlocked fingers, he said, “I am not above torture, Warren.”

The dead man laughed. “Do you really think you can torture me? I’m dead, after all. I thought you were brighter than that, Mr. Ryan. Oh, I’m well aware of the iron rings on your fingers, and I confess I was surprised at your abilities, but I do not believe that torture is something I should be concerned about.”

“And why is that?” Shane asked, getting to his feet and setting his cigarette down on the lip of the ashtray. He slipped his iron rings off and placed them beside his lighter.

“Well,” Warren answered, “as I said, I’m dead. I suppose that’s the most significant factor here. Second, I like to think of myself as a fair judge of character. You, Mr. Ryan, lack the ability to torture someone. Your code of honor and your sense of morality will prevent you from engaging in something so debasing as torture.”

“What about you?” Shane turned and faced the dead man. “Were you able to?”

Warren smiled coldly. “Most certainly. I had a purpose and drive, Mr. Ryan. Nothing stopped me from obtaining my goals.”

“Did you ever find it difficult?” Shane asked.

“No. Not once.”

Shane stepped into the circle, causing Warren to take a surprised step back, though he could go no further. “I never found it difficult either, Warren.”

Concentrating, Shane reached out with both hands, took hold of Warren’s head, and then tore his right ear off.

The ghost shrieked, his eyes wide with unaccustomed pain.

Shane let go of Warren’s head as the dead man continued to stare at him with horror, slowly raising one hand to touch the injured portion of his head.

Dropping the ear to the floor, both Shane and Warren watched it dissolve into nothingness as Shane stepped out of the inlay and returned to the table. He picked up his cigarette, took a drag off it, and slipped his rings back on. Shane sat down, settled in comfortably, and smiled at Warren.

“I have no qualms about torture,” Shane explained. “It is, at times, a necessary evil. Do I take pleasure in it? No. Does it bother me? Not at all. Not when it’s someone like you, Warren. In fact, I think I might even enjoy it.”

The dead man lowered his hand, composing himself. He smiled, winced, and then stated, “Tell me, Mr. Ryan, what is it you wish to know?”

“There was a man you met with…” Shane hesitated, not wanting to give away where they were, “in Connecticut. You told me you had information. I want to know it. All of it. Everything he told you.”

“You’re not going to threaten to torture me again, are you?” Warren asked.

“Why?” Shane replied. “You already know I will.”

Warren nodded. “True, Mr. Ryan. Quite true.” The dead man was silent for a moment, then, with a soft, cunning smile, he began to speak, and Shane listened.

***

Friday, 7:00 PM

They sat outside in the backyard. The lights from the house poured through the windows and cast elongated rectangles on the neatly trimmed grass.

“You know,” Victor said, breaking the silence that had settled over the three of them, “I used to hate working outside.”

Shane glanced over at the other man. “You wouldn’t be able to tell by the yard, Victor. Roses should come in nice this year. Everything’s trimmed back, ready to go.”

At Victor’s look of surprise, Shane shrugged. “I know I don’t seem the type, and I definitely don’t take care of my own yard, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”

Victor nodded and sipped at his tea. “Erin, my wife, she loved her garden. It’s the only reason why I work out here, why I’ve planted all these. It keeps me close to her.”

Tom stood up suddenly, wiped his eyes with his good hand, and went inside.

Shane watched him go in and then asked in a low tone, “Is he okay?”

Victor’s smile was weak. “There are some nights, for both of us, that remind us terribly of those we’ve lost.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

Victor looked at him with surprise.

“What?” Shane laughed, shaking his head. “You think I don’t have feelings?”

“Honestly, I didn’t believe you acknowledged any such thing as feelings,” Victor confessed.

Shane grinned. “I do. I have lots of feelings, too many at times. I used to try and drown them with whiskey.”

“I didn’t want to say anything,” Victor began, “but Tom and I did notice that you did not bring any alcohol with you. Nor have you even expressed a desire to go to the package store to pick some up.”

“I’m cutting back,” Shane sighed. “I have to. Carl and Jacinta are both worried about me.”

“I know of Carl,” Victor said, turning slightly in his chair to face Shane. “But who is Jacinta? A new ghost?”

“Far from it,” Shane answered. He took out his cigarettes and glanced at Victor, who nodded. Shane shook a Lucky free, lit it, and exhaled through his nose. “No, Jacinta is a detective. Murder police in Detroit.”

“Shane Ryan,” Victor smiled, “do you have a sweetheart?”

“Come on, how the hell old are you, Vic?” Shane chuckled. “Yeah, I have a girlfriend. She’s great. Anyway, enough about my social life.”

“That’s not a social life, Shane. That’s a love life.”

“Whatever.” Shane shook his head. “I told you we’d talk about my little chat with Mr. Warren Thorne after dinner, and here we are, after dinner.”

“We could talk about Jacinta, if you would rather,” Victor stated, his lips twitching into a smile. “You know, we could even bring Tom out. I’m sure he would like to hear about her.”

“Vic, I am not above punching you in the mouth,” Shane warned playfully.

Victor held up his hands in mock surrender. “I yield, Shane. I yield. Tell me, what have you learned from the esteemed and dangerous Warren Thorne?”

“He confirmed that there’s an organization focused on gathering haunted items, although he was adamant he didn’t know why.” Shane glanced up at the sky and then back to Victor. “The man running the robberies, the one I’m looking for, is named Marty Feldman, and he operates out of Manchester, New Hampshire.”

“That’s good news,” Victor observed.

“Almost,” Shane continued. “See, there’s always a catch. When Warren was having a chat with Marty, he learned that the man was working for someone else. Someone far more powerful than Marty. There wasn’t a name given for this new guy, but Warren said it was obvious Marty was scared of him.”

“Was Marty scared of Warren?” Victor inquired.

“Not that Warren said,” Shane sighed, “which could mean nothing or everything.”

“Do I dare ask what the plan is?”

“Sure,” Shane replied. “I go back up to Manchester, and I find this Marty Feldman. When he finishes answering my questions, I gut him like a fish and leave him to bleed out in his bathtub.”

Victor winced. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“Sorry, I’m still frustrated about the Moran deaths.”

Victor nodded his understanding. After a moment, he asked, “Will you be returning home tonight?”

“Yeah,” Shane answered. “I’m sober, so, you know, off I go. Carl will be happy to see me. He hates when I’m gone for too long. He worries.”

“Everyone worries about you, Shane. You live a dangerous life.”

Shane grinned. “Sometimes.”

Victor shook his head. “There are no ‘sometimes’ about it. You do. It’s as simple as that.”

Shane felt his smile falter, and then, he nodded. “Yeah. I know. I never really worried about it before. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Victor admitted. “But I also didn’t join the Marines.”

“Not many people do,” Shane replied. He smoked in silence for a moment. “I’ve lived a dangerous life, Victor. There’s no denying that. I’ve been to bad places, and I’ve done some bad things. I can sleep at night because I have the ability to compartmentalize.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” Shane answered. “I made my choice. Every time I renewed my oath and I continued on, I knew what I was doing. I could have gotten out at any point if I wanted to. The fact is, I didn’t want to. Hell, I enjoyed it, Victor. There’s nothing like it in the world. You’re with your brothers. You may hate them at times, but when it comes down to it, you’re there for each other. No one else. Yeah, I love my country. I’m proud as hell to be a Marine. But all of that, all of it fell away when we were taking fire. You don’t think about the flag, or apple pie, or any of that when some muj has you pinned down with automatic weapons fire, and his buddies are trying to flank you. You’re there for the guys in your platoon. You’re there to make sure the Corpsman can take care of the wounded. That’s it. That’s what it boils down to.”

Shane was silent for a moment. “And I miss that. More than I ever thought I would.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I’m old for a grunt, Victor,” Shane said. He lit a fresh cigarette. “Besides, there are only so many times you can stuff an eighteen-year-old’s guts back into his belly and listen to him cry for his mom. That’ll break you quicker than anything.”

Silence fell over the two men, and they sat in their chairs. Shane smoked his cigarette, and in the recesses of his memories, he heard the chatter of automatic weapons, and the cries of the wounded and the dying.

Chapter 23: Nick’s House

Saturday, 9:30 AM

Something was wrong.

Nick set down his morning paper, took off his reading glasses, and placed them beside the paper on the coffee table. He tilted his head to one side and listened.

There was a soft scratching sound, a noise that was vaguely familiar.

Concerned, he stood up and left the television room for the other side of the basement. He flipped on the lights and glanced around. None of the mousetraps were tripped, and nothing appeared to be out of place at his workbench. Frowning, Nick scratched the back of his head and turned off the light. As he walked back toward the television room, he heard the noise again.

It came from above him.

Nothing should have been making noise from the first floor.

Nick was alone. Sandy was out shopping with Jeff, trying to pick up bedding and clothing in the hopes that the boy would stay with them permanently.

Nick looked up the basement stairs at the closed door. He contemplated how best to approach the situation, and he knew he had only two options. Either slip out the back and go over to Plourde’s house or go upstairs and confront the trespasser.

Nick started up the stairs. His heartbeat quickened, but it didn’t race uncontrollably. He knew he would take whoever it was by surprise, and he was counting on that to give him the edge in whatever confrontation occurred.

I’ll be real polite, he thought. Tell whoever it is to get out. Just take off. That’s all. No need to press charges.

Nick went into the hallway. As he stepped out onto the worn linoleum, he heard the noise again and recognized it as rustling. The sound came from Sandy’s sewing room, and for a brief moment, he wondered what anyone could think they were going to steal out of it.

Nick straightened up, pushed the thought out of his mind, and strode toward the open door. He stopped in the doorway, opened his mouth to speak, and froze.

There wasn’t anyone in the room.

The windows were closed. And he couldn’t see anything that appeared out of place.

The room, he realized, was colder than it should have been. As if in response to his thought, the heat kicked on in the basement, the furnace rumbling to life. The Zone Register Terminal in the sewing room had triggered it, but nowhere else in the house.

Why? Nick thought, walking further into the room. Closed windows. All locked. He held up his hands to the molding, but there wasn’t any sort of draft coming in.

Shaking his head, Nick turned and left the room. He walked to the kitchen, made himself a cup of coffee, hesitated, and decided to indulge himself. Pulling a chair over to the refrigerator, he stepped up, opened the cabinet over it, and reached into the darkness of the cabinet, past the old vases and mismatched china that they stored there.

For a moment, his fingers groped around, and then they locked onto the smooth glass of the Jägermeister bottle. He eased it out, stepped down, opened the bottle, and added a healthy dose of the liquor into the coffee. The powerful smell of licorice filled the room, and Nick hastened to put the bottle back.

In a short time, he was back in the television room, coffee in hand, and a tin of black licorice candies opened beside him. He doubted Sandy would be home before he finished the coffee, but it never hurt to be prepared. With his ill-health, he wasn’t supposed to drink.

He popped a licorice bite into his mouth, chewed, and tried to find something to watch. Nick was certain he would spend most of the time scanning through the various channels before giving up and deciding to work in the yard.

The television flickered and went black.

A heartbeat later, the electric Schlitz Beer sign over the television went out. Then the lights on their end tables and the Blu-ray player followed as an uncomfortable chill entered the room.

Faint light drifted down through the basement windows, and in it, Nick was able to see his own breath. A memory of childhood, when he had been staying with his grandparents in Maine, reached out from the past and shook him.

Ghosts are real, his grandfather had told him, lighting a cigarette. Don’t ever think they’re not. We saw plenty in France and Germany. People who didn’t know they were dead. Some of them, they wander right past you. Others, well, they died fighting, and they were hellbent to keep on fighting.

Nick’s home had never been haunted before, and his mind raced as he tried to remember if anything new had been purchased and brought into the house. Anything that might have had a ghost attached to it. His grandfather had taught him a good deal about ghosts and what might bring one into a house, if there wasn’t one there already.

His eyes widened as he remembered the sunglasses from Linda’s house.

The sunglasses he had brought home and that were still in his jacket pocket.

Linda was shooting at a ghost, but she didn’t know it, Nick realized. He cleared his voice, forced himself to be calm, and said aloud, “Who’s here?”

“What’s your name?” a woman asked.

Her voice was soft, almost sultry. It reminded him of the old actresses, the ones who seemed to dominate any room they entered. There was power and control in her tone. It gave Nick the feeling that whoever he was speaking to was dangerous.

“My name’s Nick,” he replied. “What’s yours?”

“Miriam.”

“Why are you here, Miriam?” Nick suspected the answer, but he wanted to be certain.

She laughed, and the sound caused an involuntary ripple of excitement to race through him.

Oh, he thought. She’s definitely dangerous.

“You brought me here, Nick,” she answered. “I was about to ask you why that was.”

“What do you mean?” She hadn’t revealed herself, and he didn’t know if she could see him or not.

“The sunglasses,” she told him, her voice coming from behind him for a moment. “You picked them up from Zeke’s desk and brought them here. Why is that?”

He cleared his throat, fear and nervousness creeping over him. He struggled for an answer, unsure why he had done it. I don’t know why, he thought. What am I going to say?

When he didn’t answer, she tried again, enunciating her words carefully and speaking in an exaggeratedly slow manner. “Why are my sunglasses upstairs in your jacket pocket? Why did you bring me here, Nick? There must be some sort of reason.”

Damn, I wish there was, he thought. “I don’t know why I would. I was only there to see what happened.”

“Was Zeke your brother?” Miriam asked, her voice now in front of him.

“No,” Nick replied. “Linda was my cousin.”

“Oh,” Miriam sighed. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you then that she shot him to death.”

“But why?” Nick asked.

“I think she was jealous,” Miriam answered, and Nick heard real emotion in her voice.

Anger.

“She must have heard me talking to Zeke,” the dead woman continued. “He was going to take me to Europe. To wherever I wanted. Finally. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to travel, Nick? How many years I’ve been messing around with a bunch of stupid fellas who can’t figure out which way is up, and which way is down?”

“No.”

“A long time,” she snapped and formed in front of him.

She was good-looking, in a trashy, pin-up sort of way, and despite the injury to her stomach and the blood that accompanied it, he could see how someone might find her attractive.

Especially Zeke, Nick thought angrily.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. In a soft voice, she asked, “Do you like what you see?”

“No,” he answered, and he tried to remember what his grandfather had said about ghosts. How to get rid of them.

Nick couldn’t remember.

“No?” There was genuine surprise in her voice. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’re not my type, Miriam,” he told her. “Not to mention you’re dead.”

She sneered. “What difference does it make? Are you telling me you don’t like the way I look?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Nick nodded. “Come on, that’s the way it goes.”

“Everyone thinks I’m good-looking.”

“No,” Nick argued. “Not everyone.”

He saw her hands clench into fists, and he got to his feet.

“What are you going to do?” she hissed. “I’m dead, remember?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Nick responded, trying to keep the fear out of voice and failing a bit. “But I’m going upstairs for a snack.”

He turned stiffly around, his back to her, and reined in his fear as he started for the stairs.

“The hell you are!” she howled, and a pair of hands grabbed him by the back of his shirt and threw him down.

Nick tried to catch his balance but couldn’t. He landed hard, twisted around onto his belly, and sprang up, his blood pumping. His eyes darted about the room, but he couldn’t see her anymore.

Pain exploded across his eyes as an unseen fist smashed into his nose, sending him back a step. She kicked him in the groin, causing him to vomit his coffee and the scrambled eggs he had eaten for breakfast.

He dropped to his knees, gagging, and tried to think of a way out.

Another blow to the side of his head knocked him to the floor.

“Am I pretty now?!” she screamed.

“Uglier,” Nick gasped as he tried to crawl to the stairs. He screamed in agony as she stomped on his knees. The cold that penetrated his joints sent waves of pain crashing into him. He rolled onto his back and howled. Reaching down to see if his knees were all right, he vomited again as an unseen foot smashed into his stomach.

“You should have said I was pretty!” she yelled. “You should have done as I said!”

Again and again, she struck him, his limbs in agony as she worked them over.

“All I wanted to do was travel,” Miriam hissed. “That’s it. Nobody ever gave it to me. Not a one of you fellas did it. You all want something, but you don’t want to work for it. But you, you’re the worst. Because all you had to do, all I wanted you to do was tell me I was pretty.”

Nick spat out a wad of vomitous phlegm and whispered hoarsely, “Liar.”

She flickered in and out of his vision for a moment, and when she returned, she brought one foot up over his head.

“Maybe,” she snapped, “this will help you see better.”

Nick closed his eyes as she brought her foot crashing down onto his face.

Chapter 24: Another Lead

Saturday, 1:00 PM

Shane hung up the phone and rubbed his face.

“Who was that?” Carl asked.

“Captain Thompson. He’s almost here.”

“How is Jack?” Carl inquired.

Shane shook his head, chuckling. “Jack? My, aren’t we familiar.”

“Unlike you, my young friend, I have no great qualms about being polite.”

“It’s not a matter of being polite,” Shane replied. “It’s a matter of you being dead. Dead people don’t get to be on a first-name basis with living people.”

“Rude, Shane.”

“Occasionally,” Shane chuckled.

“Tell me, what did he have to say?” Carl asked, taking a seat across from Shane.

“It seems,” Shane began, “that the sunglasses may have made their way to the Laton Hotel here in Nashua.”

Carl frowned with revulsion. “Is the establishment any better now than it was in my time?”

“Nope.”

The dead man shook his head.

“Anyway, turns out that the attendant for the morgue who had the sunglasses before and had been burgled had registered his game system, and that game system was one of the items stolen out of his apartment after his death,” Shane explained. “A system was found at the Laton Hotel in the room of a junkie who happened to tumble out of his third-story window while fighting with another resident. Solid detective skills say the junkie was the one to take the system and the glasses.”

“Were the glasses there?”

Shane shook his head. “Nope. No such luck. However, a gentleman in a suit was reported wandering into the Laton, and then exiting a short time later.”

“And was anyone able to identify him?” Carl asked, hopefully.

“Of course not,” Shane laughed.

“You seem to be in a surprisingly good mood,” Carl stated, narrowing his eyes. “Were you drinking?”

“No,” Shane answered. “So, it gets better. Thursday, a man was shot to death by his wife, who then died of unknown reasons in her kitchen.”

“How is that better?” Carl asked.

“Jack found out that this newest dead man, Zeke something-or-other, was a regular of the Dunkin Donuts on Canal Street across from the Laton Hotel. Not only that, but he got the shop to let him peek at the video footage, and there’s Zeke going into the Laton Hotel. So, this evening, Jack’s going to come down, and he and I are going to Zeke’s house to see if we can’t find the damned sunglasses.”

“And what about your trip to Connecticut?” Carl asked. “Master Victor and Tom, they are well?”

“As well as can be expected,” Shane replied. “I did get some information from Warren Thorne, so I’ll be acting on that in the next day or two.”

Carl raised an eyebrow and waited for Shane to continue.

“I have a name,” Shane told the dead man. “Someone in Manchester, no less. I’ll be having a chat with him.”

Carl frowned. “A chat? Why? I thought you were going to execute him when you found him.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll happen,” Shane confirmed. “According to Warren, this guy, Marty Feldman, he’s working for someone else. I want to know who it is. Who’s trying to get their hands on all these items, and I want to know why.”

Eloise stepped into the room.

“Hey, doll,” Shane grinned. “Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Your friend, the Captain is here. The sisters and I saw him.”

“Great, thanks.” Shane got to his feet, and with the two ghosts trailing, he went to meet Jack Thompson at the door.

***

Saturday, 3:00 PM

Shane watched Jack pull away from the curb, leaving Zeke and Linda Driscoll’s house. Leaning against the side of his car, he smoked a cigarette and tempered his frustration with the knowledge that something would come up.

The house had been empty of information regarding the dead woman.

Both Shane and Jack, with the knowledge that a ghost was involved in the deaths, had been able to look at the homicide scene through a different lens than those investigating the crime officially. Neither Shane nor Jack was concerned with the why of the crime, only the number of participants.

Shane had no doubt that Miriam Shaw was involved.

Linda was no slouch, Shane reasoned. She attempted to fire five rounds. Three were solid shots. One had to be ejected from the chamber. No signs of panic. Only one round went through a window at about chest height. And I don’t think that round was wild. I think she was trying to shoot Miriam.

Which might explain why Linda was killed in the kitchen.

She was trying to get away.

Shane had a sudden, overwhelming desire for a drink. It gripped him and stiffened his spine. His mouth went dry, and he stuffed his left hand into his pocket to stop the trembling that erupted.

The need lasted for only a few seconds, but it left a brutal swath through the center of his thoughts.

What the hell was that about? Shane thought, letting his breath out in a slow, controlled fashion.

He went to take a drag from his cigarette, and he saw it had gone out. Shaking his head, he reached for his pack, took it out, and discovered it was empty. He field-stripped the butt, leaned into the open window of his car, and opened the glovebox.

There weren’t any more cigarettes.

Are you kidding me? Shane let out a bitter laugh, closed the glovebox, and straightened up. He popped the trunk, found an old sweatshirt, and in its front pouch, he located a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. When he opened the pack, he saw there were several mangled, but useable, cigarettes.

Shane closed the trunk and nearly jumped.

A young Chinese boy, perhaps ten or twelve, stood a short distance away. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he wore a gray, hooded sweatshirt that was several sizes too large. The boy’s slacks were black and pressed, his shoes highly shined.

“Good afternoon,” Shane greeted, taking a cigarette and lighting it.

“Good afternoon,” the boy responded. “Are you investigating the murder?”

Shane smiled. “I am at that.”

The boy nodded. He glanced back at the house to the left of the Driscoll home. Shane waited. After a moment more of silence, the boy continued. “I am visiting my friend from summer camp,” the boy informed him. “He is sick right now, and so I must be outside for a bit. The fresh air will keep me well, his mother assures me. My mother will be here in forty minutes, should traffic move along quickly.”

Shane smiled. “I’m Shane Ryan,” he said, introducing himself. “What’s your name, kid?”

“I am Jimmy Hsu,” the boy responded. Jimmy hesitated before he asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Yes,” Shane answered. “I most definitely believe in ghosts.”

“Do you believe they can hurt people?” There was caution in the boy’s voice, and Shane could understand why. Too many people suffered the delusion that ghosts were benign beings caught between worlds, or nothing more than memories imprinted upon a space or an item.

It was, Shane knew, utter and complete idiocy.

The dead could be dangerous. Murderous.

“I know they can,” Shane answered. He held up his hand to show his missing fingers, smiled to show his missing teeth, and then he tilted his head slightly to reveal the scars upon it.

The boy nodded and appeared to be satisfied with the answer.

“Yesterday,” Jimmy began, “when my friend first became sick, I walked around the backyards of his home and his neighbor’s, looking at various insects and spiders. Despite the window being closed, I heard Jeff Driscoll’s father speaking with a woman. It took only a minute for me to understand he was not engaged in conversation with his wife. This was confirmed when his wife shot him. A single bullet passed through the back window, and I was able to see a dead woman.”

Jimmy described Miriam Shaw and the woman’s anger.

“Did the police talk with you about this?” Shane asked.

Jimmy shook his head. “My friend’s mother explained to them that I was somewhat difficult since I have Asperger’s. She stated it would be detrimental to my mental well-being for me to be interviewed by the police, and that there was no way I could have seen or heard anything. They spoke for some time, and then, the police left. I was not questioned.”

Shane shook his head, disgusted. He looked at Jimmy. “Did anyone else go into the house?”

Jimmy nodded. “Yes, Jeff’s cousin. I could not sleep and woke up early, but I did not want to disturb my friend, so I went outside. He did not seem himself when he left, and so I did not wish to express my condolences at the time.”

“Did he have anything with him?” Shane asked.

“No,” Jimmy answered. “He did not have anything.”

“This cousin, was he a cousin on his mom’s side or his dad’s?”

“His mother’s side,” Jimmy stated.

Shane shook his head and grinned. “How in the hell do you know all this?”

“My friend’s mother talks quite a lot on the telephone,” Jimmy informed him. “She is, as my Aunt Jane would say, an incorrigible gossip. Whenever I visit, she is inevitably speaking with someone and discussing the goings-on of the neighborhood. I am quite surprised at the number of people who are believed to be having affairs with other neighbors. There is even some discussion about who the true father might be of the twins across the street. My friend’s mother surmises that the father is actually the UPS delivery driver who she herself has attempted to engage in indiscreet conversation when her husband is not home.”

Shane laughed and shook his head. “Well, on that note, I want to say thank you, Jimmy. You’ve been a lot of help.”

The boy nodded. “You are welcome. Will you harm the ghost when you find her?”

“Yes,” Shane answered, his tone flat and neutral.

Jimmy offered him a slight bow and said, “Good.”

Chapter 25: Advanced Robbery

Sunday, 12:30 AM

“What are these supposed to do again?”

Marty, his mind clouded with worry for his daughters, looked up, his irritation at the interruption plain on his face. A trio of men stepped away from the man who had asked the question.

The man, who went by the name Killa, repeated the question.

“The iron,” Marty informed him, keeping control over his face, “will inhibit the ghosts of the items we are about to steal.”

“Huh,” Killa mused, turning the iron slag around. “You sure there are ghosts where we’re goin’?”

“I’m sure I need some quiet to finish this,” Marty replied, and a hint of his anger slipped out.

“Hey, don’t take that tone with me,” Killa snarled.

“Do you want to get paid?” Marty asked.

Killa’s face, puffy with either lack of sleep or the beginning of liver disease from alcoholism, relaxed. “Yeah. I wanna get paid.”

“Then you’re going to deal with it if I happen to be a little angry,” Marty informed him. Straightening up, Marty glanced at all four men. He had been forced to stop at one of the halfway houses to find them. No one with any sense wanted to be near him anymore.

I can’t blame them, Marty thought. Everyone dies. Or disappears, which is essentially the same thing. No, the good ones won’t come near me.

The men in the room with him were the dregs of the criminal world. Junkies who stole enough for their next high. Fools who didn’t understand why they were locked up for beating their girlfriend or wife.

I have taken the bottom out of the barrel, and I am scraping the mud beneath it, Marty thought. Absurd.

“You all have your iron, correct?” Marty asked, looking around the room.

All four men nodded.

And look at this, a five-man team, not six. I couldn’t gather up a sixth man to accompany us. Nothing about this is good. Not a damned thing.

“So, we doin’ this now?” Killa asked.

Marty shook his head. “No, not yet. I’m waiting for the delivery of a van. Once it’s parked where we need it, then we’ll go.”

“When’s that gonna be?” a man named Owen asked.

“Maybe today.” Marty shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know.”

“What are we supposed to do ’til then, huh?” Killa demanded.

“Drink,” Marty answered. He motioned toward the kitchen. “There’s beer, hard liquor. Plenty of stuff to eat. You just can’t leave. You need to stay.”

“What about the halfway house?” Lowe, the other man, asked. “We’re way past curfew now.”

“That’s been taken care of,” Marty informed them.

“How’d that happen?” Killa asked, taking a beer out of the refrigerator.

“Money changed hands. Quite a bit of it,” Marty said with a small, hard smile. “The gentleman running the halfway house is a colleague and rather adept at making paperwork and people vanish for however long I need them.”

The men laughed and began to pour themselves drinks.

“Now,” Marty stretched, “I have to go for a bit. Remain here. There are bedrooms above, bathrooms as well. All I ask is that you behave and that you’re here when I return.”

“What if we’re not?” Killa asked. “You gonna send us back to the house?”

Marty shook his head. “No. I’ll just end up killing you. Don’t upset me, Killa. Just do your part so we can get paid.”

The other three men chimed in with their agreement, and Marty left the house.

It was time to find Shannon.

***

Sunday, 5:30 AM

She answered the phone on the second ring.

“Shane,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “You all right, mi amor?”

He smiled at the term of affection and stubbed out his cigarette. “No, love, I’m having a hell of a time right now.”

He heard a click and imagined her sitting up in bed and turning the light on.

“What’s wrong?”

Shane cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with his problem. “It’s the whiskey.”

“What about it?”

“I want it.” The statement was low and rough, and in it, he heard his own abject misery and despised himself for his weakness.

“I know you do,” she told him, her tone soft and comforting. “It’s hard. You’ve been drinking a long time.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“It’s not only that you want it, mío, it’s that your mind thinks that you need it,” she continued. “You don’t. You’re stronger than the whiskey. Stronger than that need. I know you are.”

“Most days,” he whispered, “I’m okay. I put it out of my mind, and I do my thing. But lately, it’s been harder. I don’t have any in the house. I got rid of it all. But hell, I wish I was with you.”

“I wish you were here, too,” she laughed. “It’s a big bed. Kind of needs someone else in it.”

“That would be fantastic,” Shane sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

“You’d have to bring Carl, though,” she added.

“What?” Shane asked, laughing at the statement.

“I mean, I don’t want you to think you can just wake up and not have his smiling face over you.”

“I really do love you,” Shane confided.

“I know,” she replied. “If you had said it and didn’t mean it, I’d put a round through your head.”

“Oh, well, thanks,” Shane chuckled.

“No problem. You good now, mío?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m good. Thank you. You work late last night?”

“Uh-huh,” she yawned. “Had a suspect who finally confessed after about three hours in the box. Anyway, I’m about to pass out on you. Call me again if you need to.”

“I always need to,” he said. “But get some sleep, beautiful. I’ll talk to you soon.”

They said their goodbyes, and he ended the call. Shane set the phone down on the bed table, picked up his cigarettes and lighter, and left his room. In a few minutes, he was sitting on his back porch, wearing sweats with his boots untied. He had his hood up, and he was smoking, facing east and waiting for the sun to rise. The horizon was already a dull orange, and soon the day would begin in earnest.

Shane smoked his cigarette and wondered what the day would bring. He heard a laugh, and looking down toward the pond in the backyard, he saw Eloise and the three Davis sisters chasing each other. He shook his head and chuckled. It was strange to see the women running pell-mell with the child, and once more, he was made to wonder what they had done to end up in an asylum.

Shane heard the curious sound of boots scraping against wood, and he turned, surprised to see Thaddeus standing beside him.

“Hey,” Shane straightened up. “What are you doing out here?”

The dead boy shrugged, shifted his stance, and said, “I don’t like being dead.”

“Understood.” Shane gestured to a chair beside him. “Take a seat, Thaddeus. Talk to me.”

The child, who had died of dry drowning, looked at him morosely. “I don’t want to be here anymore, Shane. I don’t like it.”

Shane frowned, glanced at Eloise and the Davis sisters, and then nodded. “You’re upset.”

Thaddeus folded his arms over his thin chest. “Yeah.”

“Because Eloise has new friends.”

“Yes,” Thaddeus whispered.

“Did you ask to play with them?” Shane asked, wondering how he had reached a point in his life where he was parenting a dead child.

Thaddeus shook his head.

Shane tapped the ashes off the head of the cigarette. “I’m pretty sure Eloise will let you play, especially if you ask.”

“But they’re girls,” Thaddeus complained. “Big girls. Why would they want to play with a little boy?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Shane countered.

The dead boy looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve spoken to the Davis sisters, Thaddeus,” Shane observed. “Do they seem like regular adults, or do they seem, I don’t know, younger?”

Thaddeus hesitated before he answered. “Younger.”

Shane nodded. “That’s why they like playing with Eloise. That’s why they’d like to play with you. I think they’re a little special. Not quite grown-up, not quite children.”

“Oh,” Thaddeus whispered. The dead boy stood up and called out, “Eloise!”

The dead girl and the sisters stopped as one, peering up at him. “What, Thaddeus?”

“May I play with you?”

“Of course!” Eloise laughed, and the Davis sisters smiled broadly.

Thaddeus raced from the porch, and Shane stood up. The sun was finally breaching the horizon, and it was time to track down Linda Driscoll’s cousin.

Chapter 26: Shannon

Sunday, 10:00 AM

Marty parked the rental car outside the small, saltbox Victorian he had purchased as a safehouse a decade earlier. For all that time, he had paid the taxes, kept up a false Canadian citizenship, and ensured that there was plenty of cash and liquid assets in the building and various local banks.

He turned off the car, got out, and stared at the house, unwilling to accept what his eyes were showing him.

There was a “For Sale by Owner” sign in the front yard. The car he had bought for Shannon was gone. The grass was neatly trimmed, the paint on the house touched up. All the glass in the windows shined with the morning light, and there was no sign of his family.

Nothing.

Marty slid the keys for the rental into his pocket and crossed the street.

“Hello?”

Blinking, Marty turned to the left and saw a man sitting in a rocking chair. He was older, perhaps in his sixties, and holding a newspaper.

“You look a little dazed, sir. May I help you?” the man asked, his voice thick with the peculiar accent of Northeast Canada.

“I’m looking for a friend,” Marty lied. “She and her daughters were supposed to be living here.”

“They weren’t here but a few days, if that,” the man informed him in an apologetic voice. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Marty said, forcing the lie further. “It’s my own fault. I sort of lost track of her. I should have been better about keeping up. Now, I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but do you know if she moved locally?”

“You’re not putting me on the spot,” the man chuckled, folding his newspaper and setting it down. “She didn’t move locally. She told my wife that she and her daughters were on their way to Europe. Possibly the Mediterranean. She wasn’t sure.”

“Oh,” Marty replied, keeping his surprise tight in his chest. “Was she meeting her husband there? I know he was supposed to be working in Europe.”

The man shook his head. “No. My wife asked but once about her husband, and the woman told her that her husband had been killed in an accident. She was a widow. She and her husband had evidently planned on retiring here, but she couldn’t live in the house. Not with the knowledge that he wasn’t going to be coming back.”

Didn’t know you could lie so damned well, Shannon, Marty thought bitterly. “I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. He was a good man.”

“So she said,” the older man nodded. “Do you need anything? You seem a trifle green.”

Marty shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m just processing the information. I know his cousin. We’re not close, but I’ll reach out to him, see if he can tell me what happened and what’s going on.”

“I wish you all the best, then. Safe travels.”

Marty waved, and the man went back to his newspaper.

With heavy steps, Marty returned to the rental car, climbed in, and sat still for a moment. He considered trying to find out where the money for the sale of the house was supposed to go, but he doubted he would be able to track it down. His influence became severely curtailed once he crossed the border between the US and Canada.

He started the car, pulled away from the curb, and began the drive back to the airport.

Why, Shannon? he wondered, his thoughts slow and dull. Why did you take the girls? Did you finally accept what it is that I do for work? Is that it? And did you really go to Europe, or did you disappear into some other place in the world?

Where are you?

A fog of anger and bitterness settled over him, and Marty continued his drive in silence.

Chapter 27: The Fallon House

Sunday, 1:00 PM

Shane opened a bottle of water, sipped from it, and shook his head. Half a block ahead of him on Baxter Street, multiple police vehicles were parked. The New Hampshire State Police’s mobile crime lab had been brought in, and as Shane watched, several techs exited the vehicle and made their way back to the house of Nick Fallon. It hadn’t taken much to find the man’s residence. A little digging on the city’s website and a search of tax records had given Shane the man’s address.

Well, it seems like I found her, he thought, and he watched as a body was brought out through the front door. I’ll need to come back later.

Shane reached for the ignition, but his hand paused as he saw Jack Thompson walk up to the doorway of the Fallon house and stop to talk to a technician.

No, Shane groaned. Come on, Jack, why go in there all by yourself?

Shane watched as Jack turned and entered the house.

***

Jack walked around the crime scene, well-familiar with them as a whole. When he had spoken to the tech, he had learned they were wrapping up. The detectives had given the go-ahead for the removal of the bodies, and there was little else to do. The scene had been photographed, mapped, and recorded in every possible way.

Now all the detectives have to do, Jack thought, is find out how they died.

The victims had all been unmarked by any of the tell-tale signs of a ghost attack, though, of the three, only the boy seemed to have died quickly. The husband and wife, Sandy and Nick Fallon appeared to have died badly, although there were no marks anyone could see. The coroner would search for further details when he cut into the bodies, an act which was due to take place next.

That I don’t need to see, Jack told himself.

Despite having been given the all-clear by the gas company, Jack still hesitated near the basement door, sniffing for the potent scent of the chemical placed in natural gas.

As the company had said, there was no gas in the air. No leakage at all.

They weren’t murdered by any living person, he mused, which means Nick Fallon probably took Miriam’s sunglasses out of his cousin’s house and brought them here. Thank goodness for Sergeant Davis. Made finding this guy a whole lot easier. If he hadn’t gone to school with Fallon and Linda, I never would have known that they were cousins.

So, Miriam killed him. Right away. What did he do to upset her? Why would she kill him when she hadn’t killed any of the others?

Jack shook his head and tried to wrap his mind around the current problem.

He walked out of the kitchen, thinking of where the now-dead Mr. Fallon might have placed a pair of sunglasses.

Was he going to give them to his wife? Maybe hold onto them for a bit?

Jack entered the dining room and saw the forensic vehicle drive off, followed by the last of the cruisers. The captain would lock up and make sure the home was sealed when he was done.

Right. If I was a pair of haunted sunglasses, where would I hide?

He left the room and paused in the kitchen again. Something was wrong.

The shades had been open a minute ago, he realized, looking at the window over the sink. It’s darker in here now. Colder, too.

His breath puffed out, visible for a brief moment as his skin prickled, the small hairs standing on end.

Jack knew he wasn’t alone in the room.

He turned around and glanced into the dining room. The front door, which he had left open, swung shut on its own accord.

A woman stepped out from a shadow far too thin to have hidden her, had she still been alive.

Jack Thompson found himself looking at Miriam Shaw.

“Why, hello there,” she murmured and moved gracefully to the couch. Despite the hole in her belly and the bloodstains, she gave off an aura of raw attraction. As she sat down, fluid and beautiful, Jack found himself unable to look away. “You look like a big, strong man.”

With a languid stretch, she smiled. “Tell me, what are you doing in here?”

Jack was about to tell her when he understood what was happening. He was falling into her. The lilt of her words, the movement of her body despite her being dead. She exuded power and attraction, and he found himself wanting to do nothing less than anything she desired.

How? he thought, shaking his head and taking a cautious step back. He cleared his throat. “I need your sunglasses. I have to take them to someplace safe.”

His words were weak, lamely spoken, their falseness loud in the cold air of the house.

“No one takes my sunglasses,” she told him with a small smile, “unless I tell them to.”

Jack ground his teeth together, forced control over his mutinous mind, and said, “Please, tell me where they are.”

“No,” she whispered, and she winked. “Now, what’s your name?”

***

Shane finished a quick text to Jacinta, lit a cigarette, and looked up at the Fallon house.

He frowned.

The front door’s closed.

Swearing, he stubbed out the cigarette and got out of the car. Slamming the door closed, he made a straight line for the front door and put his iron rings on as he crossed the street.

***

Jack tried to leave the room and exit the house altogether.

Miriam Shaw didn’t let him.

He took a single, faltering step, and then she was there. She slipped the fingers of her right hand into his thigh. Jack bit back a howl of agony as the muscle seized and sent him tumbling to the floor. Gasping, he tried to get up, but she pressed her hand into the small of his back, her dead fingers grazing his spine. Excruciating pain caused blackness to sweep over his eyes for a split-second.

She let out a delighted laugh.

“You’re even stronger than I thought you were,” she told him. “But you’ll tell me what your name is soon enough.”

As she reached for him again, the front door exploded inward.

***

Shane took in the situation in a split-second. The look of pure pain on Jack’s face, the pleased expression on Miriam’s as she stood beside the fallen man.

She raised an expertly groomed eyebrow and gave Shane a half-smile. “Hey, I remember you.”

“I remember you, too,” Shane nodded, stepping fully into the house. “So, what are you up to?”

“This is my new friend,” she said, gesturing toward Jack. “He won’t tell me his name. But he will soon enough. He’s not as strong as you.” Miriam grinned at Shane. “I can’t control you, but you’re welcome to stay. I kind of like the way you look, even though you don’t have any hair. You got a lot of scars. How come?”

“I’ve got a big mouth,” Shane replied.

She laughed. “What do you want here?”

“Probably the same thing he wants.” Shane motioned to Jack. “We want your sunglasses. Got to put them somewhere safe. You’ve been killing a lot of people.”

She frowned and shook her head. “Nope. Sure, I killed a couple of ’em, but they’ve been killing each other without me. This whole thing’s a mess. I’ve been doing this a while, and I’ve never had so many idiots to deal with. I swear every one of these guys would have had to get naked to count to twenty-one.”

Shane chuckled. “Well, you are in New Hampshire, Miriam.”

She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, and stared at him. “How in the hell do you know my name?”

Jack tried to get to his hands and knees, and she shoved him back to the floor.

“Tell me,” she snapped, “or I’ll kill him right now. All I have to do is step down and put my foot right through his heart. Guy like him, he won’t last more than a second or two.”

“I know your name because I made it my business to know,” Shane answered. He cracked his knuckles and smiled. “Your name is Miriam Shaw. They couldn’t confirm it, but the detectives who investigated your death think you convinced your neighbor, a teenage boy, to kill your husband. Boy came back, and you told him to get lost. Kid shot you in the guts to make sure you suffer, and then he blew his brains out.”

Her face became a mask of fury. “He ruined it all!” she snarled. “All he had to do was shoot Gregor and stop mooning over me!”

“Sounds tough,” Shane said.

“You got no idea, pal. You aren’t getting my sunglasses either. They’re mine. Nobody else’s.”

“Oh, I’ll get them,” Shane told her, taking a step closer.

She smirked. “What are you going to do, huh, pal?”

“First, I’ll tell you my name, which is Shane. Then, I’m going to give you a choice.” Shane’s voice was low. “You can either tell me where your sunglasses are so I can bring them home, or I can slap you back into them.”

Her eyes widened, and she let out a surprised laugh. “Oh, you’re a funny guy, huh, Shane? What are you, one of the Stooges?”

Shane grinned. “Telling the truth to you, Miriam. That’s all.”

“You don’t get my sunglasses,” she remarked, taking a step toward him. “Now, go ahead and try to slap me, you big dummy.”

Miriam leaned forward, presenting her jaw as though she was in a Looney Tunes cartoon.

Shane smiled. “Okay.”

He brought his right hand up and cocked it back as though he was about to throw a baseball.

“Come on, big boy,” she laughed. “Give it a shot.”

“Sure.”

Shane swung as hard as he could. His hand slammed, open palm, into the side of her face. For a heartbeat, her eyes widened, and then she was gone.

Without any hesitation, Shane turned, grabbed Jack Thompson by the arm, and dragged him toward the open door. The captain managed to get to his feet just as Miriam Shaw reappeared, a look of pure hatred on her face.

“What in the hell was that?!” she demanded, stalking toward them.

“Get to your car and meet me at my house,” Shane ordered, and Jack obeyed as Shane stood his ground.

“That was me slapping you,” Shane informed her. “Just like I said I would. Do you want me to try again, or is that enough for today?”

“I’m going to kill you.” Her words were filled with malice.

“You might,” Shane admitted. “You never know. I’m not too worried about it. We’ve all got to die. I’m hopeful that I won’t come back. That’s all.”

“I don’t like you.” She pointed a finger at him as she spoke. “I’m going to hurt you. Hurt you really bad. Got it?”

Shane smiled. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

She moved a fraction of an inch closer, and Shane clenched his hands into fists. All humor dropped from his voice. The playful banter was gone.

“If you come within arm’s reach,” he warned, “I’m not going to slap you. I’m going to punch you, and then, I’ll tear this damned house apart until I find the glasses.”

“If you stay here,” she said, “I will kill every person I can get my hands on while you try and find my sunglasses.”

Shane narrowed his eyes, sizing her up. Something about her told him she’d follow through on her threat. Go home, he thought. Come back with a plan.

“I’ll be back later,” he told her. “But if I hear so much as a whisper that more people are dying, I’ll make sure you suffer before I even start to look for those glasses. As for right now, I’ve got to take care of my friend. See you soon.”

Without another word, Shane walked away, turning his back on the dead woman. He walked, unmolested, to his car, turned around, and saw she was still in the doorway. Then, as he got into the vehicle, the door was slammed back into place.

Don’t worry, Miriam, I’ll dig those damned sunglasses out, whether you want me to or not.

Shane started his car, shifted into gear, and lit a fresh cigarette before heading home.

Chapter 28: The Next Job

Monday, 1:00 AM

Marty’s mood was foul, and even Killa seemed to acknowledge that it was best to keep a civil tongue.

The four men were gathered around Marty, all of them pointedly aware of the .44 caliber revolver on the table in front of him. Marty had no intention of shooting any of them, especially not in the Clubhouse, but he didn’t want them to know it.

“The van has been delivered,” he told them, looking each in the eye. “The job is simple. I will drive us down there in one vehicle, and I will let you off a short distance from the house. While the four of you go in and grab exactly what you’ve been told to, I will be dumping our ride and picking up the van.”

“Where are you going to dump the ride?” Owen asked.

“There’s a lot off of Arlington Street, here,” Marty answered, tapping the map. “I can leave the vehicle there after I wipe it down. Then, I’ll take Canal Street back up toward Cross, cut through Cross, and make my way to Laton and then to the target. Keep an eye on the windows. Once I’m back, it’s time to go.”

“Hey.”

Marty looked at the speaker and remembered his name was Lowe. “Yes?”

“Why are we all packing heat?” the man patted the pistol in his sweatshirt’s pocket.

“Because there’s supposed to be a large collection of haunted items in this place,” Marty informed them, “and we are not leaving without a significant portion of it.”

“What about the people livin’ there, chief?” Killa asked.

“As far as we can tell, there’s only one, and he isn’t around a lot. The last check showed he wasn’t home, and a few of his neighbors said he travels a lot for work.” Marty paused and rubbed at his temple for a moment. “That being said, if he is home, everyone puts a round in his head. Find a way to make it quiet first. We don’t want the neighbors hearing and calling the cops before you’ve had a chance to finish the job.”

“Everyone?” Killa asked, surprised.

“Everyone,” Marty nodded. “We’re all on the hook for it. So, if you shoot him, I’ll go inside and put a bullet in whatever’s left of him, okay?”

The men muttered their agreement.

“Now,” Marty continued, “we should be in and out of there in ten, fifteen minutes tops. I want the bags filled and brought out. All the bags. We should be able to be back here by 2:30 at the latest. Make sure your weapons are loaded. Leave your phones and IDs here.”

As he gave the last order, Marty took his own phone and wallet out of his pockets and put them on the table. The others reluctantly followed suit.

“What if there’s a problem?” Killa asked, setting down a battered iPhone. “What do we do then?”

“You are going to make a significant amount of money for a fifteen-minute job.” Marty kept his voice low, disgust plain in his tone. “Fifteen minutes and, if you do it right, you’ll clear fifteen thousand. That’s how much this contract is worth. The more you grab out of this house, the more you’ll clear. Do you think you can do that?”

Killa nodded. “Guess so.”

“Figure it out between now and the house,” Marty ordered. “We don’t have time to play around.”

“Hey, you didn’t tell us where we’re going,” Lowe stated.

Marty blinked and realized he hadn’t. He hadn’t told them much at all. Marty shook his head and told them the address.

“It’s 125 Berkley Street in Nashua.”

Chapter 29: Already Up

Monday, 1:40 AM

Shane yawned and stretched. He had spent a significant amount of time helping Jack get back on his feet and deal with the fact that the captain had been attacked by a dead woman.

If he’s going to hang around, Shane thought, he’s going to need to get used to it.

Changing his focus, Shane picked up his phone and smiled at the photo Jacinta had sent him. It was her, sitting at her desk and beaming at him. Hell, I need to print this one out and keep a copy on the bedstand and one on my desk.

Chuckling, he set the phone back down and rubbed at his eyes. His fingers twitched to hold a cigarette, but he denied them the opportunity. He needed to sleep, whether his mind admitted it or not. With a sigh, he turned out his light and stretched out on his bed. The glow of the streetlamps came in through his windows, the shades pulled back, and the moon high in the right-hand pane.

How many years did I lay here? he asked himself. Slowly, he turned his head toward the wall where the servants’ door was hidden. How often did Eloise and Thaddeus come through that door and scare the hell out of me?

He chuckled and shook his head. Too many times. That’s for damned sure.

Shane pulled the sheet up around his waist, interlocked his fingers—those that were left—behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. Sleep, he knew, would eventually claim him. But there were some nights where sleep took far too long.

Especially since I’m not passing out drunk every night, he thought. I didn’t think I’d miss drinking this much. Always told myself it wasn’t a problem to quit.

It sure as hell is, though.

There was a light knock on the door, and Shane frowned. Without turning on the light, he called out, “Come in.”

Carl literally passed through the door, a look of consternation on the dead man’s face.

Shane sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“There is a group of men, four of them coming up the driveway. I went out to deal with them myself,” Carl shook his head, “but they are equipped with iron. I don’t know how much they have or where they have it, but I could sense it on them.”

Anger surged through Shane as he climbed out of bed. He glanced down at the driveway and saw the four men, each carrying a large duffel bag. His first thought was to grab his .45.

No, he told himself. I’m not fixing the walls again if they start shooting back.

“The front door’s unlocked?” Shane asked.

“As always.”

Shane nodded. “Good. Tell the others to get ready and wake up those in the root cellar if they’re not already prowling around.”

“You’re going to kill the interlopers?” Carl asked.

“Yes,” Shane answered. He opened the drawer to his bedstand and took out his Ka-Bar, a large combat knife that he had carried for years in the Marines. He slid it out of its sheath, adjusted his grip, and walked toward his door. “I’m going to kill them all.”

***

Killa’s given name was Eugene Murphy Bartlett IV, but no one in the area knew it. He had spread the story that he had come up from Boston after being beaten out of the neighborhood and moved to Manchester, where he figured he had a good chance of being a big fish in a little pond.

First, though, he had to take out the other big fish, which happened to be Marty Feldman.

Killa affected a deadly persona, a street-tough attitude, and a poor education. In reality, he had never killed anyone, nor had he been raised on the streets of Boston. He had grown up on Cape Cod, and he had attended some of the finest schools. Killa had even attended Connecticut College for a short time.

Playing the gangster was far more enjoyable than doing any real work. He made a pittance working various angles in Manchester, but he didn’t mind since it was only for spending cash. When he wasn’t pretending to live full-time in the halfway house, his life was primarily funded by the trust fund left to him by his parents.

He considered his previous life with a sneer as he and the others came to a stop at the front door to 125 Berkley Street. There was a beat-up old car in the driveway, but there were no lights on, and it didn’t seem as though anyone had been around for a while. None of the shrubs were trimmed, and the grass was longer than any self-respecting homeowner would allow.

Killa was positive the house was empty, and that he was going to enjoy the cash that Marty Feldman was promising.

Lowe looked to Killa, and Killa felt a surge of pride.

Already taking the lead, he thought as he stepped up. With a gloved hand, he took hold of the doorknob and gave it a careful turn. Surprise caused him to frown as the door swung open onto a large, surprisingly well-cared-for hallway.

This isn’t right, Killa thought. Who leaves the door unlocked?

The other three men filed in behind him and closed the door. There was a soft clicking sound, and Lowe muttered, “Damned lights don’t work.”

Someone started to speak, but then they let out an exclamation of surprise.

“What the hell?” Killa demanded, losing his affected accent for a moment.

Lowe clicked on his flashlight and darted it around the men.

Owen was missing, and there were half a dozen doors that stood open on either side of the hallway.

Confused, Killa looked around and spotted several dark droplets on the floor. Squatting, he reached out and touched one with his gloved finger. Lowe shined the light upon him. Killa held the hand up and showed the blood to Lowe and the other man, whose name Killa suddenly couldn’t remember.

Lowe followed the blood trail into the first room, and the nameless man shook his head as he drew his pistol.

“I’ll take care of this,” the man grumbled and stalked into the room. He stepped in, Lowe’s light upon his back, and came to a stop. He didn’t move or speak for a moment, and then, he shuddered, sank to his knees, and slid to the floor, his head coming to rest against the doorframe.

Both Killa and Lowe took their own guns out, and for the first time, Killa was afraid.

Lowe crept forward and touched the man’s shoulder, saying, “Ben, you okay?”

Ben, Killa thought dully. His name is Ben.

The man tumbled backward, blood spreading out from the center of his chest.

“No,” a voice said. “Ben’s about as far from okay as you can get.”

The flashlight’s beam jumped in Lowe’s hand and illuminated, for the briefest of moments, a man. He was lean and scarred, clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants. In his hand, Killa had seen a knife, the steel slick with blood.

Killa raised his pistol but had to shift his position as the man slammed into Lowe, lifting him off the ground as Lowe screamed in pain. The flashlight spun out of the younger man’s hand, smashed onto the floor, and went out, plunging Killa into darkness.

For a moment, fear froze him. Then, the sound of Lowe’s body striking the floor spurred him into motion.

Killa raced for the door, slipped in a bit of blood, and went stumbling forward. He struck the wall, bounced off of it, and cracked one knee against the floor hard enough to elicit a cry.

And then the man was there.

He jerked the pistol away, snapping Killa’s finger in the process. Killa was unable to scream as the man grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back.

Although he couldn’t see him, he knew the man was looking down at him.

“Why are you here?” the man demanded, his breath stinking of cigarettes. “Why in the hell did you wear iron?”

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Killa gasped. “He said you’d be gone.”

“Who?”

Killa considered not speaking, of maintaining some sort of dignity, but then, the wet blade of the man’s knife was pressed against his throat.

“Slow or fast,” the man told him. “Those are your only two options.”

“What?” Killa asked, confused.

“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll kill you fast. Don’t, and you’ll wish you had.”

“Guy’s name is Marty,” Killa blubbered. “Marty Feldman. Lives up in Manchester. He’s got this Clubhouse of sorts. He’ll be back soon. He’s got a van so he can pick us up.”

Killa was about to ask if there was anything else the man needed to know, but he let out a groan as the man punched him in the ribs. Killa tried to speak but found he couldn’t. Something turned in his lung, twisted, and then was pulled out.

Killa, whose true name was Eugene Murphy Bartlett IV, understood he was dying, and slumped to the floor, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

Chapter 30: Marty on Berkley Street

Monday, 1:50 AM

Marty’s thoughts were clouded, dominated by images of Shannon packing up the girls and vanishing into the world. He had always believed the world to be small.

Why shouldn’t I? he thought, finishing with wiping down the car and switching to the van. I could hop a plane to anywhere. Anywhere at all!

But I never even thought about what was outside those airports. Not really. There are towns, cities, countries she could disappear into.

He climbed into the van, started it, and sat for a moment.

I should go after them, he thought, the anger flaring up. I have enough squirreled away to do that.

He nodded to himself, shifted into gear, and smiled grimly. Yeah. I think I’m going to take a little trip to Europe, have myself a grand old time while I hunt Shannon down. Maybe I’ll kill her, too. Just as soon as I get the girls away from their mom.

A sense of relief swelled within Marty. The fact that he now had the beginnings of a plan in place to deal with his traitorous wife soothed his wounded pride.

He found himself humming as he drove the short distance from the parking lot to Berkley Street. When he arrived there, he saw the front door was open. Glancing around, Marty turned off the van’s lights and backed into the driveway. He eased the van into Park, left the engine idling, and got out. Sliding his hands into his pockets, Marty strolled up to the open door as though it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

He paused at the doorway and peered into the dim hallway beyond. The sound of movement reached his ears, and he looked up the large, main stairway to the second floor.

A man stood there, half-hidden in the shadows, and Marty shook his head. Which of the four brain-dead guys is it?

Marty stepped across the threshold and moved in a few steps. The man at the top of the stairs descended them, and Marty realized it wasn’t one of his men.

The stranger moving toward him was slim and short, his suit of a much older style, but well-cut. It was only when Marty didn’t hear the man’s footsteps that he realized the stranger was dead.

Marty’s hand trembled as he touched the iron that he had with him, and he prepared himself for the confrontation.

The ghost stopped a short distance away, smiled politely, and said in a voice tinged with a German accent, “Welcome to the Ryan House, Herr Feldman.”

Marty didn’t know how to respond.

The door closed behind him. As he jerked around to see who had done it, he caught a glimpse of a wiry man a split-second before a fist slammed into Marty’s face.

With a mixed cry of anger and pain, Marty fumbled for his gun. Stars exploded across his eyes and disrupted his vision. He managed to get the weapon half out before a living man grabbed his wrist, bent his hand back, and tore the weapon away. Marty heard it clatter off to one side, and he tried to claw at the man’s arm.

But he was already moving, painfully twisting and bending Marty’s wrist. A second later, his arm was being jerked up into an unnatural position, the pressure on his shoulder joint unrelenting and driving him to the floor.

There was a sharp, sudden snap, and Marty shrieked as his shoulder popped out of its socket.

The man leaned over him close to his ear and whispered, “My name is Shane Ryan, Marty, and you and I are going to have a nice, long chat.”

No! Marty thought as he slammed his head back and clipped Shane, causing the man to momentarily pull back.

It was all Marty needed.

Terror filled him, adrenaline surging as the need for flight overwhelmed everything else in his world. The pain from his dislocated shoulder was eclipsed by the knowledge that Shane Ryan would kill him. Marty sprang to his feet, unaware that Shane was still holding onto him until he slammed into the wall by the door, knocking Shane loose.

A cold hand grabbed his injured shoulder, and Marty shrieked even as he tore open the door and raced for the van.

Ahead of him, a young and extremely dead girl appeared, and she thrust her hands into the van’s idling engine. There was a sputter, a cough, and the vehicle died.

Marty plunged through her, racing for the street and the world beyond.

***

Monday, 1:55 AM

“Should I go after him?” Carl inquired. There was anger and steel in the dead man’s voice, a subtle reminder of the man he had been when he was still alive.

“No,” Shane replied after a moment. “I know where he’s going. I’m just upset that this opportunity to question him was lost.”

Shane closed the door, turned away, and walked to the kitchen. His heartbeat was returning to normal, and his jaw was beginning to ache. The impact of Marty’s skull on Shane’s jaw had been jarring and momentarily stunning despite being only a glancing blow.

“Are you feeling well, my friend?” Carl asked once they reached the kitchen, and Shane turned on the light.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I’m good.” Getting an icepack out of the freezer, he carried it to the table, sat down, and pressed the pack against his jaw. “Frustrated is all. I was a little too eager. Wasn’t paying attention.”

“You backed a rat into a corner,” Carl sighed, sitting down as well. “It is never a good thing. The greatest cowards will put up the fiercest fights when confronted and unable to run.”

Eloise skipped through the back door, humming a nameless tune. She paused and smiled at Shane. “Are you well, Shane?”

“Yes,” he chuckled, wincing at the dull pain in his jaw. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“I broke the man’s vehicle.” Eloise’s voice was filled with pride.

“You did a good job,” Shane admitted.

“You know,” Eloise lowered her voice, “you could ask Ms. Jacinta to kiss your boo-boo and make it better.”

Shane laughed. “Get out of here!”

Eloise giggled and skipped out of the room.

“What now, my friend?” Carl asked.

“Good question,” Shane muttered. He put the icepack on the table, picked up a pack of cigarettes from their place by the ashtray, and shook out one of the Lucky Strikes. Shane lit it, exhaled, and said, “First thing, I’m going to get some sleep. Then, breakfast, maybe talk with Jacinta, and, finally, get a hold of Captain Thompson.”

“Is that regarding the woman and the sunglasses?”

Shane nodded.

“Do you think it’s safe to leave her where she is?”

“I have to hope it is,” Shane replied. “I’m too tired, physically, to try and confront her right now. I have to rest. Once I get a little shut-eye and ask Jack to keep the local PD off my back, I should be all right.”

“‘Should’?” Carl asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Should.” Shane nodded, and he put the icepack once more on his jaw.

Chapter 31: Fury and Fear

Monday, 4:00 AM

“Ready?” Doc Westray asked.

Marty nodded and stifled a cry of pain as the tired-looking doctor put Marty’s shoulder back into its socket.

Sagging in his chair, Marty realized he was sweating. Doc Westray stepped back, poured a glass of water, and handed it to Marty, who accepted it with a nod. He took a drink, straightened up, and told the doctor, “Money’s on the table, Doc.”

The other man nodded, glanced at the pile of cash, and then back to Marty. “You want some advice from your friendly drunk of a physician?”

“No.” Marty took another drink.

“Too bad,” Doc Westray replied. “Do yourself a favor, Marty: get lost. Grab whatever cash you’ve got and disappear.”

Marty frowned. “Why do you say that?”

Doc folded his arms over his chest and peered intently at Marty long enough to make it uncomfortable.

Marty cleared his throat and drank half the glass.

“I say it because I can still read a patient,” Doc Westray answered. There was a note of confidence and surety in his tone. “Someone hurt you tonight, Marty.”

Marty tried to respond, but the man held up a hand.

“Stop. Listen to me. Yeah, I know your shoulder was popped out. I know that hurts. But I want you to know that I can see what else happened. He scared the hell out of you. He made you understand that he could kill you and that’s a hard thing for any man like you to have to accept. Oh, sure, you know there are smarter men out there. And, yes, there are definitely men who might want to kill you, but this man, whoever he is, has proven to you that you’re not invincible. I’ve always found it odd how you believed yourself to be unkillable, Marty. It’s got to be a damned difficult thing for you to accept right now.”

Marty’s scalp tightened with fear.

Doc Westray nodded. “You were lucky tonight. I don’t know if you’ll be that lucky next time you meet that guy. Because there will be a next time, won’t there?”

“Yeah,” Marty muttered, “there will.”

“Uh-huh.” Doc Westray lowered his arms and picked up the cash. “Listen, think about what I said. If you decide to take off, stop by my place. I’ll give you some cash if you need it. As it is, I’m late for a date with a bottle of scotch rye.”

Marty nodded goodbye as the doctor left the room, the doors clicking shut and locking automatically behind him.

Marty knew he should take at least some Advil if nothing else, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand.

Not yet, he thought. I need to consider what to do about Shane Ryan.

The mere whisper of the name in his thoughts caused Marty to shiver. It had been a long time since anyone living had given Marty a beat down. Even longer since someone had considered it to be a good idea.

He didn’t just beat me down, Marty reminded himself. He took care of the four guys who went in before me. Where are they? Did he kill them? Is that how he got my name? What the hell? I wasn’t even gone for that long.

What was truly difficult to comprehend was why he had been given that address by Alex Kallistos. Haunted items or not, Marty grimaced, Shane Ryan isn’t anyone to mistake for weak. They told me how dangerous he was. Hell, even that nut job Kallistos warned me away. So why change his mind and send me there anyway?

Struggling to control his anger, Marty looked at his phone, and then he picked it up and dialed the contact number for Alex Kallistos.

It rang twice before it was answered by a man. Marty gave his name and asked to speak with Alex and was transferred over. The boy picked up, sounding as though he was wired on sugar.

“I only have one question,” Marty said.

“What?” Alex was able to sound bored and angry all in one breath.

“Why Shane Ryan?”

There was a pause before Alex responded. “What do you mean?”

Marty told him what had occurred.

“Stay away from him,” Alex snapped. “Stay away from Berkley Street altogether!”

Confused, Marty hesitated a moment, and before he could respond to the strange order, Alex ended the call, leaving only dead air behind him. Marty looked at the phone, then he shrugged and set it down.

Stay away from Berkley Street? Why? Marty shook his head. Whatever. Yeah, I can do that. No problem at all.

Chapter 32: Discipline

Monday, 6:20 AM

Grayson Breen was still drunk.

He lay on his side, his back to the wall and his head as close to the bucket as possible without having it in the bunk with him. His roommate was on patrol for the next week, and Grayson was making the most of it. He had lost his town privilege after getting into two fights in the same night, and he had been forced to pay double for the beer smuggled in for him.

This is asinine, he thought with a groan, pressing his hands against his stomach. Guy should be able to get drunk on his time off.

There was a loud, hard knock on the door, and the sound reverberated through his head. He groaned and managed to grunt, “Go ’way!”

The person on the other side hit the door harder. “Come on, Grayson, open the damned door.”

Grayson ignored it.

“Let us in,” Sergeant Anderson demanded from the hall.

“I said go ’way!” Grayson yelled.

The doorknob rattled, and Grayson weakly flipped off the unseen person.

There was a muttering from the hallway, and a sharp voice said, “Open it.”

A key jingled, and the door opened.

Shocked, Grayson pushed himself up, the world swimming before his eyes.

Sergeant Anderson walked into the room, flanked by a pair of her security personnel. The older woman, who was firm and even-handed, looked upon him with a mixture of pity and disgust.

“Get up, Breen,” she commanded.

“Can’t,” he answered. “Too drunk.”

She nodded to the security personnel, and they dragged him out of bed. Grayson vomited from the sudden, jarring movement, and both of the security people stepped around it.

Sergeant Anderson led the way out of the room and down the hallway.

Grayson yelled in pain as the tops of his bare feet were dragged across the grated flooring. Dully, he felt the skin tear and blood begin to spill.

The security team didn’t slow down.

They marched steadily until they came to the boss’ office. Sergeant Anderson knocked on the door with the same authoritative power and waited until Timmy, the boss’ dead companion, called for them to enter the room.

They did so, and a heartbeat later, Grayson was dumped unceremoniously onto a large swath of plastic sheeting. He tried to get to his feet, but Sergeant Anderson shoved him back to his knees.

Blinking, Grayson attempted to focus through the haze of alcohol in his brain.

He saw Alex Kallistos sitting behind a large desk, and it looked as though the boy was sitting on books in order to appear taller than Grayson knew him to be. Timmy, the dead man, stood off to the right. There was no one, either living or dead, between Grayson and the boss.

“Grayson Breen,” Alex’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke.

“Yeah.”

Someone slapped Grayson in the back of the head, almost sending him to the floor.

Grayson cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir,” Grayson said, trying to understand how a boy, no matter how frightening, could control so many adults.

“You work in communications,” Alex continued.

Grayson nodded, and again he was slapped. Wincing, he muttered, “Yes, sir.”

“You are responsible for all outgoing emails to the people gathering the ghosts.”

Nervousness spread through his body as Grayson answered, “Yes, sir.”

“So, if there’s an email sent to a woman in Los Angeles, or a man in Austin, or another man in Manchester, you’re the one who’s responsible?” Alex Kallistos smiled as he asked the question, and for a reason Grayson couldn’t quite understand, he smiled back.

Kid’s nothing. Just a kid. What the hell is everyone all freaked out about? “Yes, sir.”

“I can assume you sent out the email to our gatherer in Manchester, New Hampshire?”

“Um…” Grayson began.

“His name is Marty Feldman,” Timmy said helpfully.

“Hey, thanks,” Grayson smiled. Turning his attention back to Alex, he nodded and said, “Yup. Sent him the email about someplace else in New Hampshire. I don’t know. Nashua? Am I making that up?”

“No,” Alex laughed, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t. Do you remember what you wrote?”

“Sure, I copied it down from the morning brief,” Grayson yawned. “I told Feldman to go check the place out. Told him it should be safe since the person was, like, never home. That’s all. Typical stuff.”

“Notes from the morning brief?” Alex asked.

Grayson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“What happened to the white sheet you were handed?” Alex inquired. “Sergeant Betchell, your superior, he told me that everyone gets a copy of the white sheet first thing in the morning.”

“Yup,” Grayson agreed, “I did. Thing is, it’s just easier to write notes for the whole day on it. That way, I don’t forget anything.”

“Do you remember two days ago?” Alex asked.

Grayson frowned, and then he shook his head, laughed, and replied, “Nope.”

“Breen!” Anderson snapped.

“Sergeant.” It was the dead man who spoke, his voice cold and harsh.

Not another word was spoken by Sergeant Anderson.

Alex Kallistos got out of the chair.

Knew he wasn’t that tall, Grayson thought with satisfaction.

The boy paused, shook his head as though he had water in one ear, and then nodded.

“You good, kid?” Timmy asked.

“Huh?” Alex blinked and grinned at the dead man. “Oh, yeah. Peachy keen.”

The boss came to a stop in front of Grayson, and it was only then that Grayson saw the boy was carrying a wooden box about the length of a shoebox.

“Do you know who Shane Ryan is?” Alex asked.

Grayson shook his head.

“Do you know where Nashua, New Hampshire is?”

“Nope.”

Alex smiled softly. “Did you know you were talked to about it two days ago?”

Grayson laughed. “Boss,” he said, “I can’t remember last night.”

Alex snickered. “Huh. Yeah, you drank a lot. I know. They told me this morning.”

The boy sat down on the floor, putting the box on his lap as he motioned for Grayson to sit as well.

Happily, Grayson did so.

“Once upon a time,” Alex whispered, causing Grayson to lean in to hear him. “There was a man named Shane Ryan.”

“Was he a good guy or a bad guy?” Grayson asked in a stage whisper.

“Both,” Alex answered, and then he held his finger up to his lips for quiet.

Grayson gave an exaggerated nod.

Alex smiled. “So, Shane, he took care of bad guys. Most of the time, it was because he was bad, too. Really, really bad. Shane got rid of ghosts who weren’t nice. People, too. And, Shane had a house filled with ghosts.”

Grayson blinked. Something picked at his memory, and Alex Kallistos paused.

“What is it?” Alex asked, his tone gentle, persuasive.

“I think I remember something,” Grayson admitted. “Something about the guy’s house.”

Alex smiled. “Yeah, I bet. He has a big house, Grayson. Really big. Filled with ghosts and ghostly things. The type of things I like.”

“That’s why I remember.” Pride surged through Grayson. “Yup. That’s why we send the people to houses like that.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex agreed, opening the box.

Grayson couldn’t see what was in it, but he shivered as uneasiness twisted his stomach into a hard knot. “Did I send a team to the house?”

“You did,” the boy confirmed.

Grayson smiled with relief. “Oh, good.”

“No, kind of bad,” Alex corrected.

“Bad? Why?”

“Because I don’t want Shane Ryan to know what I’m doing,” Alex answered, and a note of anger crept into his voice. But there was something more, too. A hint of madness. “If he knows what I’m doing, he’s going to try and stop me.”

“Um, well, he can’t, right?” Grayson asked, his gaze darting from the boy to the dead man.

“Oh, he can,” Timmy answered. “He’s a hard man. He’ll come up to the Village if he thinks he needs to.”

“Well, nothing happened, right?” Grayson asked. “I mean, the team must have stopped him.”

“You don’t understand him,” Alex whispered, his eyes down on whatever was in the box. “You can’t understand him. I can’t, and I’m a hundred times smarter than you.”

Alex looked at Grayson, and the depths of hatred in the child’s eyes caused Grayson to swallow dryly. Stories of the boy’s anger flashed through his mind, the images hidden behind a haze of alcohol.

The boy reached into the box and pulled out a knife. It was the most frightening weapon Grayson had ever seen. The blade was short, only six or seven inches, but there was an edge on it. What was truly terrifying was the weapon’s hilt, which was made in the shape of brass knuckles, each knuckle capped with a spike.

“The team didn’t stop him.” Alex’s voice was flat, emotionless. “Shane Ryan killed four of them. I have to assume he learned the name of the team leader, which means I have to have him killed before Shane can get his hands on him. That’s if the leader hasn’t figured this out and doesn’t disappear. You’ve been bad, Grayson. You’ve upset everything because you’re too stupid to do what you’re told.”

“I can do better, I promise!” Grayson howled, trying to get to his feet.

Sergeant Anderson pushed him down, pinning him in place with her hands on his shoulders. His arms were grabbed by the security team members and stretched out to either side.

Squealing and screaming, Grayson tried to kick at the boy as Alex stood.

Alex sidestepped each futile, weak kick until he was standing directly over Grayson.

“Please, I’m sorry,” Grayson sobbed.

“I know.”

The boy slammed the brass knuckles into Grayson’s face, and Grayson Breen was held in place as Alex Kallistos beat and stabbed the life from him.

Chapter 33: Different

Monday, 6:50 AM

Jody Crispin knew she was a walking stereotype, and she loved it.

She stood a few feet off from the other students at the bus stop, the only senior on Bus 427 who didn’t have her own car, or who rode in with friends.

None of her friends drove.

She adjusted her headphones, took out her compact instead of her phone, and checked her makeup. Her black lipstick, which was accentuated by the pale foundation she used, was perfect. She blinked several times, making sure the lashes were still elongated and heavy with mascara. Her eyebrows were plucked into arches and then thickened. Jody’s hair, dyed a deep purple, hung in large curls to her jawline.

Everything was perfect.

She snapped the compact closed and put it away in the battered, metal Addams Family lunchbox she used as a purse.

Turning away from the other students, Jody looked up the street. Five houses away on the right was the murder scene, and Jody was tempted to skip school entirely to see if she could explore the yard.

Maybe I could even get into the house, she thought. She mulled the idea over for a moment. There were no tests. No incomplete assignments. She knew she could skip. Her mother wouldn’t complain, not since she knew Jody was straight edge and didn’t touch alcohol or narcotics.

And Mom’s not home. Jody smiled. She’s working out of Concord today. Plenty of time for me to get a closer look. When am I going to get another chance to see a murder scene? I wonder if the blood’s still there.

Jody’s smile broadened as she walked away from the bus stop. She didn’t need to look behind her to know the others were watching her, commenting to one another, or sending texts to friends about the weird girl walking away.

It made her stand up straighter, proud of who she was.

The bus passed her as she moved along the sidewalk, the driver, Celio, laughing and shaking his head at her. She waved to the old man, and he waved back.

When she reached the murder house, Jody paused and glanced around to make sure there was no one on the street. She knew she was trespassing, and more than likely, someone would call the police, but she would have more time if there wasn’t anyone vigilantly keeping an eye on the house.

Jody didn’t see anyone in their cars or windows, no one was out in their yards. The street was quiet, and Jody hurried up the driveway. She hesitated for a moment as she came to a gate in the fence around the property. Then, with a small smile, she let herself into the backyard, leaving the gate open a few inches for a quick exit if she needed one.

Jody scanned the yard, saw a small deck, and went to it. Her heartbeat quickened as she climbed the stairs and then opened the screen door, wincing at the squeal of the hinges. She reached out, took hold of the doorknob, and twisted.

It was locked.

She pushed a little, hoping the door might open.

It did not.

Her shoulders sagged, and she let go of the doorknob. I’ll peek in the windows, try and see if there’s anything I can take a picture of. Love to post it to my Snapchat.

Jody eased the screen door closed, descended the stairs, and froze as a groan reached her ears.

The sound had come from behind her, and when she looked, she saw the back door had opened almost a foot.

Jody shook her head, unsure as to whether or not it had actually occurred.

No, that’s open, she thought. Then, with a shudder, she asked herself, Did a ghost open it? Is one of the victims in there? Do they want to communicate?

The idea sent a thrill of excitement through her, and she hurried back up the steps. She pulled the screen door open, not worrying about the complaints of the hinges or the fact that she was breaking and entering.

The door to the house was open.

Jody stepped over the threshold and shivered with delight as she closed the door behind her. No reason to leave it open.

She was in a large room dominated by a flatscreen television mounted over a brick-faced fireplace and long, wooden mantle. The room was chilly, and Jody glanced up to see if the chintzy overhead fan that hung from the ceiling was on. When she saw the blades of it were still, Jody cast her eye across the overstuffed furniture arranged in a U-shape in front of the television. There was a rectangular coffee table covered with various magazines, all of which seemed to focus on how best to decorate in a country style. A glance at the room’s walls showed that whoever had read the magazines took their recommendations as gospel.

She shook her head. It’s not as bad as Mom’s Precious Moments collection. Ugh, makes me gag.

Jody saw a short hall that led to the kitchen and followed it.

So, this is where they must have all been killed, she thought.

Not a single chair was left standing. The table was on its side, one leg broken off and missing. Jody wondered if it had been used to beat the homeowners to death.

Broken dishes were scattered across the floor and the counter, and there were dark stains near the sink. Jody had looked at enough crime scenes online to know she was seeing dried blood. Without effort, she was able to imagine the broken table leg in the hands of the murderer, the end of it smeared with blood while bits of flesh and hair clung to it.

She took her phone out, opened the camera app, and then frowned as the battery died. Her shoulders sagged, and she shook her head.

Ghosts drain batteries, she thought. I know this. Maybe if I charge it, I can get a couple of pics.

She walked to the counter, pushed aside some of the broken dishes, and opened up her lunchbox. Jody removed her charger, plugged it in, and connected her phone.

“What are you doing?”

Jody screamed with fear and jerked around, her chest heaving as her eyes fixed on a dead woman standing near the broken table.

“Um,” Jody stuttered, “I just wanted to see the crime scene. Were you killed here?”

The woman’s lip curled in a sneer. “Does it look like I’d live in a dump like this? No, I didn’t live here. Besides, I was killed by being shot.” The ghost gestured to the bullet wound in her belly, the sight of which made Jody physically ill.

“These idiots,” the woman sighed, “they were killed. That’s all. The boy died last, though. He seemed kind of sweet, so I killed him quickly. His parents, well, they suffered. But only for a short time.”

“What about the other two?” Jody asked, finding her voice as confidence returned. “Did you see what was used on them?”

The dead woman laughed. “Sure did. It was my hand. Or hands, rather. You know.”

“Oh.” Jody nodded. Then, she stopped, blinked, and asked, “What did you say?”

“My hands,” the ghost replied. “I slid them inside, here and there, just long enough to hurt parts of them. Parts they needed to keep living. You should see the way a person twitches when you touch their heart.”

“I didn’t think ghosts could kill people,” Jody whispered. The thrill of being in the house had vanished, swept aside by a growing fear. She tried to move, but her legs didn’t listen.

“Oh, some of us can,” the dead woman informed her. “Some of us like it. I find it’s a necessity. Sometimes, it’s enjoyable. Other times, not so much.”

“Okay.” Jody smiled weakly, cleared her throat, and unplugged her phone. She put the phone and charger in her lunchbox and closed it. Taking hold of the plastic handle, she said, “Well, it was really nice to talk to you, but I’m going to leave. I have to get to school.”

“No,” the ghost replied, shaking her head. “You’re not going to school today.”

“I have to.” Jody fought the terror creeping up.

“You may have to, but you’re not,” the dead woman stated. “I don’t want you to. I want you here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like you,” the ghost answered. “Look at you. What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you trying to look dead or something?”

“It’s just makeup,” Jody whispered, taking a step toward the back door.

“Makeup makes you look like a better woman. More attractive. Approachable. You,” the dead woman shook her head, “you’re looking a damned corpse.”

The ghost took a step toward Jody. “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll leave, and you won’t have to see me.” The words rushed out, trembling and tumbling one after the other. “Please, just let me get out of here.”

The dead woman appeared as though she was going to say something else, but she paused, closed her eyes, and when she opened them a moment later, there was no more anger on her face or in her words.

“Get out of here,” the ghost muttered, waving Jody toward the other room. “Just go.”

Jody didn’t hesitate. Clutching her lunchbox, she ran for the door, almost tripping over herself. Her head was pounding as she reached for the doorknob, and then she screamed as the dead woman stepped through the door.

“Just kidding,” the ghost laughed, striking Jody in the chest and sending her tumbling backward. Jody’s chest was numb from the bitter cold of the dead woman’s touch, and her mind was reeling as she struck the couch and fell over it onto the floor, slamming her head on the coffee table. Nausea filled her as she tried to get to her feet, but the dead woman was already there.

“No one gets to leave. Not when I’m dead, and you aren’t,” the dead woman hissed.

Jody tried to get away, to scramble around the couch, and get to the back door, but the dead woman grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back.

“Come on,” the ghost whispered, pulling Jody toward the fireplace. “Let’s see how well the brick holds up against being smashed with your face.”

Jody screamed and tried to tear her hair out of the dead woman’s grasp, but it was of no use.

In a matter of seconds, she was at the surround of the fireplace. She tried to beg, but as she did so, the dead woman drove Jody’s face into the brick.

The brick held up better than Jody did.

Chapter 34: Waylaid Plans

Monday, 11:00 AM

Shane sat at the dining table and laid out a fresh hand of solitaire. He found himself humming the Marine Corps Hymn as he did so, and he chuckled. There had been plenty of nights he had played solitaire when he was in the Corps.

He tapped the head off of his cigarette, took a sip of water, and turned the first card. As he decided on where and how best to play it, Carl entered the room. The dead German appeared to be irritated.

Leaning back in his chair, Shane asked, “What’s up, Carl? You look a little upset.”

Carl sat down across from Shane. The dead man forgot to pull out the chair, so he appeared to be rising up from the edge of the table.

It reminded Shane of old fortune-teller arcade machines, but he kept his comments to himself, knowing how it would bother Carl.

“Talk to me,” Shane said, setting aside the cards. “Tell me what’s going on, my friend.”

“I am upset,” Carl began, “over the violation of our home earlier this morning.”

“It’s not the first time,” Shane reminded him.

“And it will not be the last, of that I am certain,” Carl added. “However, I can say that I will never be pleased by it. I will add to that my disgust at having to let one of them get away.”

“Yeah, I’m not too pleased with that either,” Shane agreed. “Thing is, we know where he is. Manchester.”

“It is not a small town,” Carl muttered.

“No, but we’ll find him.”

Carl nodded. “You have had no word from Captain Thompson?”

“None,” Shane confirmed. The phone rang as the word left his mouth, and he glanced down at it. “Huh, speak of the devil.”

Picking up the phone, Shane answered it. “Jack, how are you?”

“Been better,” the man answered.

Frowning, Shane asked, “What’s up?”

“We can’t get into the Fallon house today. Girl was killed in there.”

A cold, bitter sensation filled him. “Do they know how?”

“I haven’t seen anything official,” Jack sighed. “One of the detectives said it looks like someone tried to put her face through the fireplace surround.”

“Are there any details, like why she was there or anything?” Shane asked.

“None. We’re going to have to hold off.”

“Okay,” Shane answered. “Call when you know more, please.”

“Will do.”

Shane ended the call, and in response to Carl’s questioning expression, he repeated what Jack Thompson had told him.

For the first time in years, Carl swore.

Shane almost dropped his cigarette.

Carl regained his composure. “My apologies, my friend. I feel that this is, perhaps, getting a little out of control. I am, I confess, used to you relaying stories of how such murders occur in other cities and towns, not our own Nashua.”

“I’m upset because I was too tired to do anything last night after our little visit,” Shane replied. He stubbed out his cigarette and was thankful there was no whiskey in the house.

“What will you do now?” Carl asked.

“I’m going to have something to eat,” Shane told him. “Then, I’m going up to Manchester and lean on people until I find out where Marty Feldman lives. I can’t do anything about Miriam Shaw right now, but I sure as hell can try to do something about Marty.”

Getting to his feet, Shane stood up and went to the refrigerator, his mind lost in anger.

Chapter 35: Unwanted Decisions

Monday, 11:30 AM

“I have to,” Alex complained.

Timmy was stretched out on the floor, hands behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling. The dead man sighed, closed his eyes, and said, “You need to think about this, kid.”

“I am!” Alex yelled.

Timmy’s eyes snapped open, and a hard, bitter expression came over his face. He turned his head slightly to face Alex, and despite the fact that the man was dead, Alex felt a trickle of fear.

“First and foremost, kid,” Timmy stated, his voice low and even, “you do not yell at me. I don’t care what you can do, or how you can control me or any other damned ghost. Got it?”

“I’m sorry,” Alex muttered, and he dropped into a sitting position next to the ghost. They were still in the office, the plastic sheeting gone. Grayson Breen’s mangled corpse had been wrapped in it and carried away by Sergeant Anderson and her team. Alex’s arms ached from the effort it had taken to kill the idiot comms man.

Timmy sat up. “I know you’re upset. And I know you think that killing him is the only option.”

“It is,” Alex snuffled.

The dead man frowned. “Anyway, if that’s what you think, then go with it. Being in command means making the hard decisions and owning them. Right or wrong, kid, the buck stops with you.”

Alex looked at Timmy, confused by the statement.

Timmy chuckled. “According to Grandpa, President Truman used to say it. People used to ‘pass the buck’, pass the blame. The president said all blame stopped with him. Mea culpa, you know.”

Alex nodded.

“You going to think about it?”

“I already did,” Alex replied, straightening his shoulders and hating the pounding in his head. “I made sure to have a team in Nashua, just in case.”

“Okay,” Timmy said after a moment of silence. “How many?”

“Six.”

“It’s not enough.”

Alex blinked, surprised. “What?”

Timmy looked at him, his gaze unflinching. “I’m telling you, straight up, kid, a six-man team is not enough to kill Shane Ryan. I don’t know if they’ll do much more than upset him. Remember, you’re sending them into his house. His world. He just killed four intruders.”

Alex snickered. “Thieves who didn’t know any better.”

“Armed thieves, whose bodies vanished,” Timmy added. “And Marty Feldman got away by the skin of his teeth.”

“They’ll get him,” Alex spoke confidently. “They will kill him and bring his head back to me, like the samurais of old did, to prove to me he is dead.”

“Sure.” Timmy laid back down and closed his eyes. “Let me know when they’re back, Shogun. I’d like to see Shane Ryan’s head.”

***

Monday, 11:45 AM

Sepp Allemand set his phone down and looked at his team. “We’re go.”

The other five men, all former military and tactical team members nodded. In silence, they suited up, putting on body armor laced with iron. They had M4s equipped with suppressors and 9mm Glocks similarly adapted. Each man carried a knife as well, though the plan was not to have to use it.

Sepp, like all of his team, knew the target. They had been studying Shane Ryan’s history ever since the fiasco in Detroit. Each man understood the target’s curious history with ghosts, his experiences as a Marine, and his ability to fight.

They knew he would be dangerous, but they were confident they could handle him.

It didn’t matter if he was in his own home. His natural advantage, the ghosts, would be nullified by the iron they wore. The fact that they would be going in during the middle of the day when no one would expect an attack, would afford them the element of surprise. He was, as far as they knew, an alcoholic and chronic smoker, either of which would inhibit his fighting ability.

And while Sepp and his men had served as a snatch and grab team in the past, they didn’t have to worry about being gentle with Shane Ryan.

Alex Kallistos wanted the man dead, and so they would kill him.

When they were battle-ready, they gathered around the table. A blueprint of 125 Berkley Street was taped to its surface.

“Three main entrances,” Sepp stated. “Two on the first floor, one for the basement. Too many windows to worry about. Everything we know about him says he’ll stand his ground and fight. We won’t have to be concerned with him scooting out down through the basement. This is his home, he’ll fight for it, which is what we want. Bravo team will go through the back door. Alpha, with me, will go through the front. Questions?”

There weren’t any.

“All right, let’s go earn our paycheck,” Sepp said. They walked out of their room and into a large, open warehouse where there were two mock-ups, one of each floor of 125 Berkley Street. From there, they went to the waiting stolen ambulance. Howe took his place in the driver’s seat while the rest climbed in, Sepp the last one to get into the vehicle. He’d be the first through the door.

The men were silent as the ambulance pulled out of the warehouse, the vehicle traveling a little over the speed limit as they drove out of Hudson and into Nashua. Each man knew the different routes to the target house by heart. They had drilled constantly, and they were prepared.

Soon, the ambulance was guided into the driveway. There weren’t any lights on for the simple reason that Sepp didn’t want to attract any attention from the neighbors. Although an ambulance would be noticed, he knew people in areas like that would look the other way after the initial moment of interest. Having the emergency vehicle’s lights on, however, would draw them in like moths to a flame.

Howe shifted the ambulance into Park, got out, and opened the rear doors per standard operating procedure for the local EMTs and paramedics.

Sepp hopped out and went directly to the front door. His two team members stacked up behind him while Bravo team hurried around to the back of the house. Sepp counted to sixty, following the assault plan, and reached for the door, surprised to see it was open a fraction of an inch.

Still, Sepp didn’t hesitate to push the door open and glance into the house beyond.

He saw a long hallway and a set of master stairs. There were open doors on either side and a chill to the air that represented the presence of the dead.

Of Shane Ryan, there was no sign.

Sepp stepped in, his footsteps silent, his senses alert. He listened for any sound that might lead them to where the target was. Sepp had no doubt Shane Ryan had a weapon in the house. The man was known to have at least a .45 Colt automatic, a weapon that Sepp wanted as a trophy for himself when everything was said and done.

He came to the first room and glanced in.

A dead girl stood with her back to the doorway as she looked at an empty fireplace. As he was about to move on, the ghost turned around and offered him a death’s head grin. She brought an emaciated finger to her mouth and whispered, “Shh.”

The word had no sooner been uttered than the harsh cough of suppressed weapons from elsewhere filled the air.

Without any hesitation, Sepp raced down the hall, his men close behind, M4s at the ready.

Two of Bravo team were down, steak knives driven through their throats. Marco, the leader of Bravo team, was fighting with Shane Ryan.

The hairless, scarred man was faster than anyone Sepp had seen before. In a heartbeat, he had disarmed Marco, spun him around, and used him as a shield.

Neither Sepp nor his team hesitated.

They opened fire.

So, too, did the target.

Marco was struck multiple times while Sepp swore, large slivers of wood from the doorjamb spraying him in the face. Hot blood splashed against his skin as one of his team members went down.

“Changing mags!” Howe shouted.

Sepp forced his eyes open, firing and trying to get Shane off-balance.

Shane was rushing toward them, Marco’s feet dragging on the floor for a split-second before crashing into Sepp. The weight of the dead man sent Sepp crashing into the hallway, and he tried to shove the body off. He saw Shane reverse his grip on Marco’s M4 while Howe tried to bring his own to bear.

Howe’s head snapped back as Shane battered him with the weapon.

Sepp pulled the trigger, realized he was out, and tried to draw his sidearm. Shane caught the movement, stepped over, and stomped down with a boot, shattering Sepp’s fingers and retrieving the weapon for himself.

Howe took a dazed step forward. Shane Ryan put the suppressor against the man’s temple and pulled the trigger.

As Howe’s brains were spread across the hallway’s wall, Sepp pushed Marco’s body away and awkwardly drew his knife with his left hand. Shane kicked him in the jaw, stunning Sepp, and then slapped the knife away. Sepp bit back a scream as the pistol Shane held coughed twice, putting a round into each of Sepp’s kneecaps.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Shane told him and turned away.

Sepp watched him go back into the kitchen, bringing the pistol up to put two bullets into each man’s head.

With a groan, Sepp rolled over and tried to draw Marco’s pistol.

He yelled as Shane Ryan shot him through the back of the hand.

Panting, chest heaving, Sepp twisted onto his back and glared at the man as he walked forward. The man’s sweatshirt was stained with blood and filth, as were his jeans and boots.

Shane sat down, took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and lit one. He exhaled through his nose and looked at Sepp.

“You know,” Shane stated, “I’m a little frustrated right now.”

Sepp didn’t respond.

“Here I was, minding my own business, getting ready to wash some dishes, and you and your little buddies decide it’s time to play soldier,” Shane muttered. “What the hell is up with that?”

Sepp clenched his teeth together.

Shane shrugged. “I know you’re a big, tough guy. Comfortable with violence and all that happy crap. I doubt you’re going to be comfortable with the violence you will experience at my hands, though.”

Sepp felt his eyes widen involuntarily.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane nodded. “See, I’ve got some anger issues. Recently, I’ve been okay. Honest. But then, last night, I get attacked, and I end up losing one of the guys. Did not make me happy. Bad news this morning, so that really set me off. And now, this. A six-man kill team. I can see you’ve got iron. Someone knew what they were doing when they equipped you. Suppressed M4s and Glocks. What they forgot, and what you won’t be able to tell them, is that just because you’re wearing iron doesn’t mean the dead can’t see you. Hell, it was the same thing with the idiots from last night.”

Shane shook his head. “Anyway. Listen, I’m going to heat up some metal to slap on those wounds of yours. I need you to not bleed out for a bit. Okay?”

“I’m not going to talk,” Sepp hissed through clenched teeth.

Shane smiled. “You just did.”

Shane Ryan leaned forward and pressed his thumb into the bullet hole in Sepp’s left knee, and the man shrieked.

“Oh yeah,” Shane sighed. “You’ll talk. Scream all you want, too. Neighbors aren’t close enough to hear you well, and if they do, I always have a cover story ready.””

As the man stood up and went into the kitchen, Sepp realized he was right.

With his good hand, Sepp reached into his pocket and found the trigger.

***

The muffled pop took Shane by surprise, and when he twisted around, he saw the body of the last man jerk once and then lay still. Smoke rose up from his body armor—the man was clearly dead.

Anger boiled over Shane, and he stood still, shaking with rage as he clenched his fists, trying to reassert his self-control.

I think I’ve had about enough, Shane thought.

Furious, he began to clean up the mess.

***

Monday, 3:00 PM

A knock at the door interrupted Alex’s reading.

With a frown, he looked up and said, “Come in.”

Sergeant Anderson stepped into the room. “We’ve had a relay from the observation post in Nashua.”

Alex grinned and closed his book. “Cool. How did it go?”

She shook her head. “The team was killed. Shane Ryan is still alive.”

Alex laughed, reached into a drawer, pulled out a Glock, and shot Anderson twice in the chest.

For a moment, she stood still, her eyes wide with shock. Then, she blinked, looked down, and Alex shot her again.

She collapsed to the floor, and he got out of his seat.

“Why did you do that, kid?” Timmy asked.

“I don’t like bad news,” Alex answered, walking up to the dead woman. He shot her again in the head. “Not ever.”

His guards looked down at the body, their faces carefully neutral.

“Burn her,” Alex ordered. “We don’t need her coming back and being all whiny because I shot her. Make sure her stuff gets destroyed, too. All of it.”

The men nodded and dragged the body away.

“You know, Worthe used to do that crap, too,” Timmy mused.

“Uh-huh.” Alex nodded, closing the door behind him. “It was a good idea.”

Ignoring the increasing volume of the buzzing in his head, Alex went back to his desk and put the pistol away.

Chapter 36: Frustration and Insomnia

Tuesday, 5:00 AM

Shane hadn’t been able to get close to the Fallon house. The Nashua Police Department had posted an officer in front of the home, making sure no one else tried to get inside.

At least she’s not going to get out, Shane thought. Cops tend to have a little more strength of will than the guys Miriam likes.

In addition to his inability to gain access to the house, Shane had spent a significant amount of time disposing of the equipment from the men who had tried to kill him, as well as having to report the sudden appearance of an ambulance in the driveway.

These past few days have just been miserable, he thought.

He sat up in bed, a closed book on the sheet beside him. A deep sense of frustration had settled within him, and it had played havoc with his need for sleep. He glanced at his phone, hoping to see a message from Jacinta, but there wasn’t one.

I would have heard the damned thing, he reminded himself. He rubbed at his eyes and once again regretted the absence of whiskey in the house. No, don’t think like that. It’s better that I’m not drinking. Rather be sleepless for a night than fall back onto that damned crutch.

No, I’ll stick to smoking.

He reached for his cigarettes but stopped when he saw Carl standing in the doorway. “Hey, come on in. You okay?”

Carl smiled and shook his head as he entered. “My young friend, you have had a terrible few days, and yet you are the one to inquire as to my well-being. I am dead, Shane Ryan—I will never be okay.”

Shane chuckled. “Yeah. You got a point there. What’s up?”

“I came to check on you,” Carl explained. “There is some concern over you. Eloise. Thaddeus, even the Davis sisters have expressed their worry in their own, peculiar fashion.”

“Oh?”

Carl nodded. “They wanted to know if you needed someone else killed.”

Shane laughed, picked up his cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it. “That’s sweet.”

“If you say so,” Carl replied.

“Come on,” Shane sighed. “You were a killer, too, Carl, when you were younger.”

“Of course, I was a killer,” Carl retorted, straightening up. “I was a stormtrooper, the finest type of soldier in the Deutsches Heer.”

“So, you know it was damned sweet of them,” Shane winked.

Carl’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he nodded. “Yes. Yes, it certainly was.”

“Any new ghosts in the house now?” Shane asked.

Carl hesitated, and then he shook his head.

“Hold on. You paused. Why?”

“Well, there had been a new ghost. Briefly.”

Shane straightened up. “And what happened?”

“Eloise happened,” Carl began, and then added, “and I happened.”

Shane refused to allow his disappointment to show. “Tell me.”

“Well, one of the men, one of those who arrived in the ambulance,” Carl continued, “he was here as a ghost. We attempted to speak to him, to ask him why they had attacked.”

“Anything?” Shane inquired.

Carl shook his head. “Nothing. Instead, he tried to come upstairs. He knocked down Thaddeus, shoved aside one of the Davis sisters. I swear, Shane, I still cannot tell them apart.”

“Carl.”

“My apologies,” Carl sighed. “He tried to push past Eloise, and you know her, she dislikes bad manners. As do I. He would not listen, and when he slapped at her, Eloise and I lost our tempers.”

“Where was this?” Shane asked.

“The root cellar,” Carl explained. “I had been hoping to trap him there, but things got out of hand. There was nothing more to trap.”

“When was this?”

“It was only a short time ago, my friend,” Carl said.

“Okay. Thanks for telling me, Carl. If any more show up, though, let me know before you and Eloise decide to shred them, okay?”

Carl nodded and stood up. “Have you slept yet, my friend?”

“No,” Shane answered, then he yawned. “Maybe now I will, though.”

“Do not worry, we will watch over you, as always.”

“I know,” Shane nodded. “You always do.”

Chapter 37: Marty’s Decision

Tuesday, 10:30 AM

Marty’s entire body ached.

Shane Ryan had hurt him worse than Marty had realized, and there was a nagging fear that the man would find him and question him.

That will be an unpleasant situation, Marty thought. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out under torture. Marty also suspected that Alex Kallistos knew that as well.

Which means, Marty reflected as he finished packing his bag, I have to watch out for both Shane Ryan and whoever Alex Kallistos sends after me. All I can hope is that he doesn’t send a ghost to try and chase me down. Iron will work, or so he says, but it would be better to be far away from here.

I definitely can’t go to Doc, even though he offered help, Marty sighed. I may need his medical expertise again and I can’t exactly get that if he’s been killed for lending me a hand.

Anyway, I can just as easily operate from my safe house as from here. No reason to try and hide. Not yet. I need cash to get away, and any large withdrawals from the accounts may trigger some sort of reaction from Kallistos.

Marty didn’t know how much information the boy had access to regarding Marty’s finances, but he wasn’t going to play any games when it came to his own safety.

Right, he thought, zipping up his knapsack. Let’s make one last call from here and see what the boy has to say.

Marty walked to the Clubhouse’s landline, picked the handset up out of the cradle, and dialed the number for Alex Kallistos.

It was answered on the second ring.

“Go,” a man stated.

“This is Marty Feldman. I need to speak with Alex Kallistos.”

“Hold.”

Before Marty could say anything else, the line went quiet.

Okay. I wonder what he’s going to say.
Kid has some serious mental issues.

“Marty?” Alex asked, interrupting Marty’s thoughts.

“Yes.”

“Why are you calling, Marty?” Alex inquired, his voice unnaturally high and excited. “Did you do something wrong again?”

Marty grimaced, clenched his hand into a fist as he answered, “No, not at all. I wanted to know if there was a house you wanted me to go after next.”

The silence that followed was long enough for Marty to wonder if the call had been disconnected. As he was about to speak again, Alex responded.

“No. I think you can figure out where to get the next items from, right?”

“Yes,” Marty lied. “That’s definitely something I can do.”

“Good.”

Marty wanted to ask another question, but the line was dead.

He didn’t waste any time. Hanging the phone up, Marty picked up his bag and left the Clubhouse. He locked the doors behind him and made certain the alarms were set. Pulling his baseball hat on, he tugged the brim down to help hide his features. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his injured shoulder, he slipped his hands into his pockets and walked toward the nearest bus stop. He closed his hand around the key to the safe house and hoped Alex Kallistos wouldn’t be able to find him.

Chapter 38: Too Much Information

Tuesday, 11:00 AM

Tom sat back from the computer, rubbed his eyes, and shook his head.

It was too much.

He had followed the trail left by the proctors.

“Tom?” Victor asked.

Blinking, he looked at the man he considered to be his father. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

For a moment, Tom considered lying. But he spoke the truth instead.

“No. This is bad, Victor.” Tom motioned to the computer. “Really bad. I mean, I didn’t think it went this far.”

Victor frowned and sat down at the table. “What are you talking about?”

“The proctors,” Tom answered.

Victor nodded. “We knew that before.”

“No. Not like this. We didn’t know this stuff,” Tom said. “I mean, they’re talking about what they’re going to do. Why they’re doing it.”

“How do you even know this?” Victor’s tone was that of concern.

Tom took a deep breath and answered him as calmly as he could, hating the way his voice quivered for a moment.

“So, I managed to get into their chat room, right?”

Victor nodded.

“Okay, so, this is a locked room, on a private server,” Tom began, “but nothing’s really private. Not unless you’re working on a government site, and even then, if you know people, you can get in. Anyway. I can see what the proctors are writing, what they’re doing. I can link them to deaths all over the country. There was a fire in a nursing home in Seattle, Washington, and the proctor that was there for it, she talked about someone named Danny O’Malley, which rang a bell. Turns out, about a month ago, an old firefighter’s helmet was stolen from a house in Boston. The helmet was, according to Mr. Moran, haunted by a firefighter who was an arsonist. Mr. Moran remembers because he sold the item to a collector. That collector died from a fall down a flight of stairs.”

Tom shook his head. “Victor, there are so many of these around the country. And almost all of them can be traced back to some stolen item. Thing is, though, the few proctors still using the room, they’re talking about wrapping the study up for their boss. Exact words. The study.”

“What do you mean?” Victor asked.

“They’re saying there are only a few more places they need to set the ghosts loose in,” Tom stated, his voice tightening.

“More?” Victor’s face paled. “But why?”

Tom took a deep breath and told him what he had seen, what he had read.

“An orphanage,” Tom whispered. “They’re getting ready to let ghosts loose in an orphanage.”

“Where?” Victor’s voice quivered with emotion.

“They haven’t said,” Tom answered, shaking his head. “I wish they would. I need to tell Shane. He needs to know, Victor. He needs to understand how bad this is.”

Victor nodded.

“There’s something else,” Tom said. “I think they’re operating out of New York. I mean, that’s where a lot of their stuff is being routed through, from what I can see.”

“Can you pinpoint it?”

Tom shook his head and let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not that good. I don’t want to reach out to anyone online, though. That’s why Shane needs to know. He’ll have someone he’s worked with or he’s friends with, someone who can find out exactly where they are.”

“Do you want to call him?” Victor asked.

“No,” Tom answered. “I want to go outside and get some air. I don’t want to think about them dumping these killers into an orphanage.”

“Okay.”

Tom pushed his chair out from the table and stood up. “This is bad, Victor. Worse than I thought it could be.”

“I know.”

Tom sighed and went outside. He stood in the sun for a moment, and then he started to weep.

***

Shane hung up the phone and stood silent for a moment.

An orphanage.

The information sank in slowly, unwillingly, but it sank in, nonetheless.

I’ll swing by the Fallon house, see if they’ve still got a cop out front. If not, I’ll call Jack, and we’ll deal with Miriam. If there is… Shane shook his head and walked to the pantry. He took out a fresh pack of cigarettes and tucked them into the pocket of his sweatshirt. If there is, then it’ll be time to find Marty Feldman and ask him those questions he was so keen to avoid.

Lighting a cigarette, Shane left the kitchen, focused and angry.

Chapter 39: Life’s Failing Charm

Tuesday, 11:45 AM

At ninety-two years of age, Stathi McHugh was beginning to feel old.

“Mr. McHugh?”

The voice caused him to turn around in the driveway and to smile at a young African American woman dressed in nurse’s scrubs walking toward him.

“Yes,” he said, bowing his head.

“My name is Tochi. I am here to take your vitals and give you your new medications.”

“Well,” he smiled, “You may call me Stathi if you prefer.”

She smiled. “I saw that on your paperwork. How did you get such a first name?”

“Well, my parents gave it to me in Greece,” he told her, smiling. “When I arrived here as a boy, alone, a man at the processing center told me my familial name was too long. So, he gave me his.”

“Am I to take it he was Irish?” she asked.

“Oh, quite,” Stathi chuckled. “He had a distinct New York accent with highlights of an Irish brogue. He was a character and a good man. He was trying to help me, and he did, after a fashion. When people first saw my last name, they assumed I was Irish.”

“What happened when they learned your first name?” she asked. “It’s not a common name.”

“I shrugged off the question and told people that I didn’t know. That my father was a bit of a drunk, and my mother was a teetotaler.”

“Were they?”

Stathi smiled and nodded. “They were indeed.”

He shook his head. “Where are my manners. Come, let us go inside, and if you don’t mind, I would love to know your name and where you obtained such a beautiful accent.”

The young woman laughed, shook her head, and followed him inside to his small kitchen. She took a seat on an old, worn red vinyl and chrome chair.

“Coffee?” Stathi inquired.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. But please, don’t let me stop you.”

“I will wait,” Stathi replied, sitting down across from her. “Greek coffee, well, it takes a bit of time to brew properly.”

“We can certainly begin with your vitals, then.”

“Excellent.” Stathi rolled up his left sleeve, forgetting the new nurse had never seen his scars before. Her eyes widened only slightly as she opened her bag. Stathi chuckled. “Old injuries. Nothing new, I promise.”

“I read your file,” Tochi replied, “but I had no idea the scars were so extensive. The description does it no justice.”

“Shrapnel tends to do things to a body,” Stathi sighed, “as my forearm is happy to reveal.”

“Yes, I’ve seen injuries such as these before,” Tochi stated.

The conversation dropped off as she took his vitals, set out his medications, and took his temperature. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes,” Stathi answered.

“No suicidal thoughts or such?” she asked, smiling pleasantly at him.

“No,” he assured her.

She asked him several more questions, using her computer to record his answers. When she finished, she looked at him and flashed a pleasant smile. “You’re in great shape.”

“Thank you,” Stathi nodded, rolling his sleeve back down. He glanced at the medication bottles on the table. “Same as always, Nurse Tochi?”

“Same as always,” she smiled.

She stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Stathi. I will see you next week.”

“Excellent,” Stathi replied, getting to his feet and walking her to the door. He bid her goodbye and closed the door behind her. For a moment, he stood there, hand on the doorknob, reminded of how alone he was.

Ah well, it is nothing new, he chided himself. Do not bemoan your fate or begrudge others for what they have.

He walked to the counter and picked up a half-finished bottle of Ouzo. From the cabinet above it, he removed a small glass, and he carried them both to the table. Sitting down, he took a deep breath, knowing that he would, in all likelihood, empty the bottle, and thus, be too inebriated to do anything more than sleep.

So be it, he thought and poured the first drink.

At the end of the third, the world refused to remain in focus, and his hands were too unsteady to risk pouring another shot. I’m going to have to stand up soon.

He chuckled at the idea. Will I fall and kill myself? Die from a broken skull? A broken heart certainly didn’t do anything.

A flash of memory reminded him of his wife’s death, and he shoved it aside.

I don’t want to be sad today. Not today. I am sad enough on most days.

Stathi straightened up, capped the bottle, and warily pushed himself away from the table. When he stood, he wobbled and was forced to place his hand on the wall to steady himself. He closed his eyes, tried to balance, and then opened them, only to let out a horrified gasp.

A woman stood a short distance from him. His hair stood on end as he looked through her.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

She looked at him with surprise. “You can see me?”

He nodded.

“Huh, go figure,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re the second one I’ve met.”

“Why are you here?” Stathi asked, forcing himself to sit back down. “Are you Death?”

She laughed, a pleasant, almost musical sound. “For some people, yeah, I guess I am. I don’t think I’m going to kill you, though, old-timer.”

“Oh.” His shoulders sagged.

Her head tilted to one side. “Why?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “I am alone in this world, miss. I have outlived my wife and my friends, my parents and my brothers. There is none of my blood left alive. I get up, I breathe, I eat, and I sleep. There is little else for me to do.”

She pursed her lips and then shook her head. “Guess it’s kinda terrible, getting old.”

“Yes, it is,” Stathi agreed. “Where did you come from?”

“A few houses up,” she replied. “I was bored. I didn’t want to try the cop outside the place. Cops, you know, you can’t really push them around.”

“Ah.” Stathi peered at her. “Forgive me, but you appear to be nervous. It is a strange sight.”

She laughed. “I bet. Yeah, I’m nervous. There’s a guy, he’s trying to catch me, and I’ve seen him twice around the house now. Part of me wants him to catch me because he’s okay lookin’ in this weird way, but part of me knows how bad it would be.”

Stathi was beginning to relax. He brought his hands together on his lap and asked her, “How does he look weird?”

“Guy’s got no hair. I mean, none at all. Weirdest thing.”

Stathi frowned. “The person you describe sounds almost like one of my former students. He was a young man stricken with a rare disorder that caused the loss of all his body hair. You don’t happen to know his name, do you?”

“Shane Ryan, he said, though I don’t know if he was telling the truth,” she answered.

Stathi smiled. “He was. I taught him in high school. An extremely gifted student. He had a full scholarship to a divinity school but chose instead a life of service as a Marine. You know, he lives close by.”

“Really?” she asked, a note of excitement in her voice.

“Oh, yes,” Stathi nodded. “If you were to follow East Stark Street up and then turn left onto Berkley. It is number one twenty-five, I believe.”

“And it’s close by?”

“Yes, everything in Nashua is,” he told her. “Less than a quarter-mile.”

“It’s good to know where he lives, so I can avoid him if I have to,” she confided.

“I am sure.” Stathi hesitated a moment before he asked, “What is your name?”

“Miriam.” She smiled, and he wondered how anyone could have shot the woman.

“That’s a beautiful name. It was my wife’s as well.”

“Stathi, you ever think about suicide?” the dead woman asked.

“Of course, but I could not. My upbringing would never allow it.”

She nodded and turned to leave.

“Miriam,” Stathi said.

She looked at him.

“I know you’re dead, but you could certainly leave by the back door if you like.”

Miriam smiled. “I would like that.”

Stathi stood up, took hold of the doorknob, and twisted it even as something cold and hard slipped into his back. The bizarre sensation of fingers closing around his heart sent a shiver of fear through him.

“I can do this for you,” Miriam whispered in his ear, and she squeezed his heart in her hand.

Stathi stiffened, then sagged, and hung, impaled upon the dead woman’s hand as she stopped his heart from beating.

Chapter 40: Manchester

Tuesday, 2:45 PM

Shane had left both his knife and his Colt at home.

He needed Marty Feldman alive.

Shane sat in Veteran’s Park, watching the junkies slip away to shoot up and the working girls as they plied their trade with the businessmen staying at the hotel across the way. His attention focused on the pair of dealers off to the right, young men trying to look like anything other than what they were.

The dealers had lookouts scattered along Elm Street. Some directed clients to the young men, others called in warnings about the police. Neither of the men nor any of their lookouts seemed to realize that the police didn’t care.

Manchester PD knew exactly who everyone was and what role they played. The entire, minuscule operation could be shut down in minutes.

Shane lit a fresh cigarette and saw his opportunity.

One of the young men took a handoff from his partner, did an elaborate handshake, then ducked his head down and left the park with a rolling gait, the type of walk that was supposed to scream, “Stay away from me. I’m a bad man.”

You haven’t met a bad man yet, Shane thought and stood up.

His own pace was slower, calm, and assured, nothing extraordinary about his movements, nothing that would stick in someone’s mind should the police, for some reason, feel the need to look for witnesses. He kept his hood up over a battered baseball cap, sunglasses on. The sweatshirt was a dull gray with a faded Patriots football logo on it. His jeans were worn, but not threadbare. His boots didn’t have a shine, nor were they particularly battered.

Everything was forgettable, which was what Shane wanted.

The rolling gait of the dealer was more theater than anything else, and it allowed Shane to casually catch up to him. When he was within several feet of the young man, Shane could hear hip hop coming out of a pair of earbuds the dealer had in.

Oh, you’re a sweet setup, aren’t you? Shane wondered, following the young man down a small alley. As the dealer stepped into a doorway, Shane continued past, not slowing his pace. A second later, the young man was behind him, following. Shane smiled, feigned a stumble, and went down to one knee.

It was an action the dealer hadn’t expected, and as he tried to come to a stop, Shane attacked.

His blows were fast and brutal, driving the young man back against the wall. A strike against the dealer’s forehead tore open a thin gash and sent blood spilling down into his eyes. A snapped backhand to the left of the throat sent the young man to the alley’s floor, his hands clutching at a bright, polished revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Shane plucked it out, opened it, and dumped the shells onto the ground. Then he took out the cylinder and threw it down the alley to the right. He tossed the rest of the weapon into a trash barrel behind him.

The dealer tried to get to his hands and knees, but Shane kicked his arms out from under him.

A cry of pain escaped his lips as he struck the ground. He lay there for a moment, and then he reached for his phone.

“Come on,” Shane grunted with disgust, taking the phone away. It appeared to be a burner, a cheap flip-phone. Shane tore out the battery and snapped the device in half, dropping it next to the dealer’s face.

“We done now?” Shane asked.

“I’m gonna kill you,” the young man gasped.

Shane reached out, took the dealer’s pinky finger, and said, “This is to assure you that I am not screwing around.”

He broke the finger, and the young man howled.

Shaking his head, Shane put his hand over the dealer’s mouth until he stopped screaming. Removing his hand, Shane wiped it on the front of the young man’s shirt.

“Now,” Shane began, “you have nine more fingers, ten toes, and your genitals. Not to mention your eyes, ears, nose, lips, and tongue. There are a lot of body parts that I can remove, break, or otherwise injure before I run out of options.”

“Money’s in my pocket,” the dealer whispered.

“I don’t want your money,” Shane told him.

The dealer stared at him, confused.

“Honest,” Shane said, moving a little away and sitting down. The young man tried to push himself up again, and Shane shook his head. “No. I’ll break your other pinky if you get off the ground without permission.”

The dealer laid back down without hesitation.

Shane nodded. “I want information.”

“’Bout what?”

“Not ‘what’. Who. Marty Feldman.”

The dealer’s eyes widened a fraction.

Good poker face, kid, Shane thought.

“Don’t know him,” the young man replied.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Shane whispered, leaned forward, and punched the dealer in the nose, driving the young man’s head into the ground. As the dealer swore, Shane broke the other pinky and covered the mouth again.

When the young man became quiet, Shane smiled. “Okay. Let’s try this again. Marty Feldman.”

The dealer told Shane everything he wanted to know.

Chapter 41: An Unwelcome Intrusion

Tuesday, 3:00 PM

Carl stood in front of the framed photograph of himself. It had been taken, at the behest of his mother, in 1914 at the beginning of the Great War. The photograph was all that remained of his life prior to the war, a sad piece of history that reminded him of his mother’s death while he was a prisoner of the Americans.

And here I am. Korporal Carl Frederick Hesselschwerdt, Stroßtrupper. Dead and bound to this place and worrying about my living friend.

Carl smiled. Motion off to his right caught his attention, and when he turned, he saw Thaddeus standing by the fireplace.

“Hello, Thaddeus,” Carl greeted, his English slightly tinged with his birth language. “How goes it today?”

Thaddeus smiled. “It’s okay, Carl. I’m kind of bored. Eloise and the Davis sisters are talking about dresses, and the dark ones are arguing about stocks and bonds.”

Carl chuckled. “Well, I’m sorry to hear this. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Sure,” Thaddeus said. “I’d like that. What are you up to?”

“That, I am not quite certain of yet. I do know it will not be standing and staring at a photograph of myself,” Carl assured him.

“Okay,” Thaddeus laughed.

They left the small study on the second floor, walking into the hall and to the main stairs. As they descended them, a curious event occurred, causing both Carl and the dead boy to stop halfway down the stairs.

A woman walked into the house.

Through the door.

Carl saw the wound in her belly, the way she was dressed, and took a chance, asking, “How are you, Miriam?”

The dead woman’s head snapped up, and her attention locked onto Carl.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Who?” Carl replied, feigning ignorance and confusion. “I have Thaddeus beside me. The dark ones are in the pantry. I haven’t seen the musician in a terribly long time. I’m afraid I cannot assist you.”

She shook her head, grinning. “I already know he lives here. I want that chrome dome. Get him down here and have him face me if he’s man enough.”

Carl nodded to Thaddeus, and the boy ran off as Carl began his descent.

“Look at you,” she sneered. “Disgusting. You don’t even look like a man.”

“Ah.” Carl offered up a half-smile as he reached the floor. “You’re a rather brash young woman, aren’t you.”

“And you’re a miserable knucklehead,” she replied. “Anybody can see that.”

“So they can,” Carl agreed.

“I want you to get Shane Ryan down here now,” she barked and took a menacing step forward.

“No,” Carl shook his head. “I am afraid that such an option is not available to you. In fact, I must insist that you leave the house. Some of the others who reside here are sure to take umbrage with your presence.”

“Others?” she laughed. “I saw one kid who took off running.”

“Yes. One child, who ran off to tell the others what was going on,” Carl assured her. Then, switching to German, he smiled and stated, “I’m going to destroy you, you know.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What the hell did you just yap about?”

Carl launched himself at her, striking her in the chest and seeking to gain some purchase upon her. She screamed at him and took hold of his left ear, pulling on it. Carl ignored the strange, ethereal pain inflicted by her efforts, and grabbed hold of her left thumb, bending it as far back as he could.

Her agonized screech was well worth the pain. She dropped her hold on his ear and tried to pull away from him. Carl only tightened his grip, pushing the digit as far back as he could. She lashed out with her free hand and her feet, the blows painful despite him being dead.

With a snarl of triumph, Carl tore the thumb off of the woman and cast it aside.

She tried to step away and into another room, but the Davis sisters emerged. As they swarmed around her, some of the dark ones appeared in the hallway. They were little more than small shapes that appeared to be wayward shadows. But when they found Miriam Shaw and sank their teeth into her, she screamed and fear filled her face.

For the first time, it appeared as though she understood she could be destroyed.

She swatted the dark ones away as Thaddeus and Eloise assaulted her from the side. Once more, Carl stepped forward, striking at her with all the force he could muster. The others continued to assail her as well, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though they might destroy her in the hallway.

But she broke free and fled the house, vanishing through the front door.

The others went to follow, but Carl called them back.

“Wait,” he told them as they gathered around him. “She is injured, and she is frustrated, but she is by no means cowed. Miriam is not half as dangerous as she believed herself to be, but we should not be sloppy. We have driven her from our home, and we will not let her get away. Thaddeus and Eloise, follow her, be quick, and stay together. I do not think she can do much to either of you.

“More of us should go,” a voice declared from beneath the floor.

Carl shook his head. “Only two. Thaddeus and Eloise are far more adept than even me when it comes to chasing people.” Carl turned to the two children, both of whom nodded and raced from the house.

“Even if they cannot track her to her item,” Carl continued, “we can rest in the assurance that Shane knows where she is. He will want to know she sought him out here.”

There was more disagreement, but Carl paid it no mind. Instead, he walked to the front door, and then through it. He looked out over the yard, trying to see either of the children, but they were already out of sight.

Chapter 42: Marty’s Place

Tuesday, 4:00 PM

Shane entered the building easily enough, and by the time he had made it through the first floor, he was positive Marty Feldman had sought refuge someplace else. That the building had housed Marty’s criminal enterprise was plain as well.

There were multiple rooms on the second floor where people could sleep. Shane found a weight room as well. One room had all the fittings for a small but functional armory, a place for weapons to be modified and repaired. In the basement, he found a large, well-stocked pantry and refrigerator.

Marty and his colleagues could have waited out any sort of law enforcement storm if they had needed to.

Where did you go, huh, Marty? Shane wondered. He glanced up at the corners in the hallway, saw a small camera, and smiled. Shane flipped the camera off, turned, and went back to the main room. There were several sofas and overstuffed chairs, a decent-sized kitchen, and a variety of other items that seemed particularly mundane, especially in the current setting.

In the hall, Shane paused as he caught sight of a door tucked back into the wall. Frowning, he stepped up to it and found it was slightly ajar. He nudged it open with his foot, eased his hand in, and flipped the light switch.

Empty shelves stood against the walls, but the room’s window caught his eye. Someone had left a thick line of salt across the sill. Glancing down at the floor, he saw more salt had been poured along the threshold to make a long, unbroken barrier.

You knew what you were stealing, didn’t you, Marty. A nice little room to store all your ghost friends in. And how many came through here, huh? How many were sent off to whoever you’re working for?

I don’t think there are any clues as to where you’ve gone off to, Marty, Shane thought. Don’t think that’s going to let you get away. Not at all.

Now, I just want to find you all the more.

With a grim smile, Shane left the building.

***

Marty found he was perspiring, so he turned the closed-circuit television off.

He had never seen a human look like a predator before, and he had seen a great many bad men while in prison.

None of them had walked or acted like Shane Ryan.

The man was dangerous. Far more than any other person Marty had encountered before. He hadn’t considered it, not even after the beating.

But seeing Shane in the Clubhouse, the way he had moved…

Marty shook his head and sat down in his chair.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The question was harsh, his introspection unrelenting.

How am I going to get out of this?

He closed his eyes and thought about the question.

I am going to start making small withdrawals. I won’t be able to put them back into a bank or into a vault, or anything like that. I have no doubt that Alex will be able to find a way to hack into them.

I’ll need to keep the money on me. I don’t need to worry about clothes, or a car, or any of that.

I’ll be able to get away if I keep it on the down-low, and if I make sure to plan it all out.

Marty opened his eyes and nodded to himself.

Yes, I need to plan it out. Every last step.

He stood up and crossed the small studio apartment to the sink. It was barely large enough to fit a plate into, but it served his purpose. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands, and took a long sip.

Time to do some research, he thought. He dried his hands, picked up his knapsack, and left the room.

He was headed toward the library.

Chapter 43: Dinner

Tuesday, 5:30 PM

Hal Doolittle sat in his home office, the door closed and locked, his computer on, and the volume turned down. He was perspiring as he watched the video on the screen, one hand on the mouse, keeping the cursor hovering over the X in the right corner of the incognito window. His blood thundered through his chest, making his heart ache. But he couldn’t look away.

Beyond the thin door to his office, he heard his wife Darlene yell at her mother, who, in turn, yelled back.

Hal didn’t care for either one of them, but he couldn’t afford a divorce.

Which was why he sat in semi-darkness, watching illicit videos with the volume down.

The computer clicked as the power dipped, and his hand reacted, closing the window. His heart raced, and he waited to hear something, anything from the hallway about what he was doing or why the electricity had faltered.

There wasn’t any inquiry.

His wife and mother-in-law continued to argue with one another in the kitchen.

Hal swallowed nervously and considered whether he should risk bringing up the website again, or if he should call it quits for the night. A glance at the clock showed it was five-thirty in the evening, which meant it was almost time for dinner.

No chance to finish that video, he thought morosely. And I won’t be able to come back to it tonight.

For a brief moment, Hal wondered if he might be able to watch it on his phone, but then he remembered he no longer had a security lock on it. Not since Darlene found the videos when I forgot to delete them.

He sighed and stood up, taking a moment to adjust his trousers.

“Well, you seem a little excited,” a woman said from behind him.

Hal jerked around, his eyes darting about, searching for the woman who had spoken.

Was it Darlene? Did she put a camera and a speaker in here? His heart raced, and he felt faint. No, no, she couldn’t do that, not without me noticing.

“That was a helluva stag film you were watching,” the unseen woman continued, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Your old lady sure as hell doesn’t look like those girls.”

He swallowed nervously, wiping his suddenly sweating palms against his pants. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice low.

“Just a girl,” she replied and stepped forward.

She seemed to step out of the wall. There was no place for her to have hidden, but his mind raced as he looked at her. She was stunningly beautiful, despite the grotesque makeup she was wearing on her stomach and the fake blood staining her pants. A smile settled onto her face, and she turned around slowly for him.

“Do you like what you see?”

Hal didn’t want to answer. He wouldn’t have answered either, but it seemed as though her question, the way she asked it, demanded a response.

And so, he gave it.

“Yeah,” he nodded, licking his lips. “I do.”

“Yeah, I know you do,” she smiled, coy. “I think you’re okay, too. You know, I think we might have a good time together. What do you think?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

His wife’s jarring voice nearly shook the spell the woman in the room was weaving around him. A frown flickered across her face. “Is she always like this?” the woman asked.

Hal nodded.

“She can’t be easy to live with,” the stranger said, her tone one of pure sympathy.

“It’s hard,” he admitted.

His mother-in-law yelled about the biscuits being burnt, and a second later, the smoke detector went off. Darlene shrieked at her mother, and Hal grimaced.

“Why don’t you do something about them?” the woman asked.

Hal blinked. “Like what?”

“Stop them from yelling,” the woman cooed. “You’re a strong man, I can see that. You’re tied down to that harpy. She doesn’t deserve you. You look like the type of man who would travel, too.”

“I want to,” he admitted. “I joined the Navy and saw the world from a ship. I want to do it again.”

She smiled. “Of course, you do. You just need to get rid of your ball and chain. What’s your name, handsome?”

“Hal,” he whispered.

“Hal, I’m Miriam. Maybe you should go and take care of your wife, huh?”

Hal nodded and got to his feet. He took his letter opener from its spot on his desk, clutched it, and turned toward the door as Darlene yelled to him that dinner was ready.

“I’m coming,” he answered and opened the door.

***

Claire Lester saw her son-in-law walk out of his excuse of a home office with a strange, dull expression.

Not that he ever looks that great, she thought, frowning.

“Mom, get out of the way!” Darlene barked.

“Don’t get all snippy with me!” Claire snapped. “It’s not my damned fault you’ve burned the roast.”

Turning her attention to Hal, Claire was about to speak, but she hesitated. For a second, she thought there was a woman behind him. When she blinked, the figure was gone.

“Oh,” Claire said in a high-pitched voice, “I suppose you’d like a Miller Lite with dinner again, Hal?”

He bestowed upon her a distant smile as he walked to Darlene, who was bent over the oven and trying to wrangle the burnt roast out. Something flashed in his hand, and then Darlene screamed, falling forward and going face-first into the oven. Hal’s hand rose up, and a spray of blood followed it.

Claire sat, petrified, her eyes fixed on his hand, in which he gripped the letter opener that she and her late husband had given him years earlier.

Twice more, he drove it into Darlene’s back, and the smell of scorched flesh joined the odor of burnt roast.

Hal turned his attention to Claire, and she saw with horror that his expression hadn’t changed. There was still that small, distant smile, and it was what drove her to her feet.

Something grabbed her by the shoulders and thrust her back down into the chair.

Claire tried to fight against it, but it was futile.

Hal stepped forward, and she attempted to speak.

He smiled and stabbed her in the mouth with the letter opener.

***

Hal looked around the kitchen and smiled.

His mother-in-law and his wife were dead. He looked at Miriam, who stood by the stove.

“You did a good job,” she told him, nodding. “All you have to do now is go and get my sunglasses, then we can take a little trip together. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sounds good.”

He walked out of the side door and into the garage.

“Do you have a car?” she asked.

Hal shook his head. “Nope. Can’t drive. My license is suspended.”

“Well, it makes no nevermind,” she smiled. “You can walk there from here.”

He nodded and went out through the garage. His wife’s blood mingled with her mother’s, and both dried on his hands as he walked.

Hal walked in a daze, not quite certain where he was going, but listening to the gentle guidance from Miriam. Soon, he turned onto a well-kept street, and far ahead, he saw a police SUV.

“You’ll need to go around to the back,” Miriam whispered, and when he looked to her, he saw she was no longer near him.

“I’m still here,” she assured him. “I don’t want anyone but you to see me.”

He smiled at her words and quickened his steps.

Hal was less than thirty feet from the house and the police when he veered toward the backyard. As he did so, the officer stepped out of the SUV. The officer called to Hal, but he ignored the man.

Instead, he ran for the backyard. Hal could feel the fat jiggling on his bones, the ache in his chest as he forced himself to go faster. He reached a slim fence, paused to prepare to climb over it, and stopped. Pain exploded in his head, and he stiffened. His entire body vibrated, and he crashed backward.

The officer was there beside him, kneeling down. Vaguely, Hal heard the officer call for an ambulance.

Behind the officer, Miriam glared, disappointment and hatred in her eyes as she looked down upon Hal.

Chapter 44: Decisions Made

Tuesday, 7:30 PM

Shane was mentally fatigued and not in the best of moods as he entered his home. He had spent hours searching Manchester after his unsuccessful attempt to find Marty Feldman in the man’s workspace.

I hope like hell the cops are gone from the Fallon house, he thought, walking toward the kitchen. I need to get Miriam out of there before she causes any more damage. If they’re not, I’m going to have to push the issue. It doesn’t matter what Jack has to say about it.

Shane entered the kitchen, got a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, and drank almost half of it before he sat down at the table. He rubbed his face. Maybe a shower will help me get my act together.

“Shane?” Carl asked from the doorway.

Shane looked up and smiled wearily. “Hey, Carl.”

Then, noticing the expression of worry on the dead man’s face, Shane asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Miriam Shaw was here,” Carl stated, coming into the kitchen and sitting at the table.

“What?” Shane asked, cold, hard anger settling over him.

“Yes,” Carl nodded. “She was quite angry.”

Shane was about to ask how she had been able to when he realized he knew exactly how.

The Fallon house was less than a mile from his. I’m definitely within range.

“Was anyone hurt?”

The smile that appeared on Carl’s face was harsh. “Only herself. She attempted to engage in combat with me.”

Despite the severity of the situation, Shane burst out laughing. “Damn.”

Finishing his water, he stood and looked at Carl. “Did she say why she was here?”

“For you. I sent Eloise and Thaddeus to follow her, but they lost sight of her before too long. I apologize, my friend.”

Shane nodded. “Of course. Don’t worry about it. Listen, I’m headed to the Fallon house.”

“Should you not wait for Captain Thompson?” Carl asked.

“No,” Shane replied, lighting a cigarette. “If she’s brazen enough to come here looking for me, I won’t risk any more lives by playing it safe.”

Shane took his phone out and placed it on the table. “All I need is a container for her damned sunglasses, and then I’m out the door.”

“Will you not take one of us?” Carl’s voice had a note of eagerness.

Shane shook his head. “No, Carl. Besides, you said she was injured. I should be able to handle her on my own. And, as much as I know you want to be with me, I need you here. If something does happen to me, you’re the one who has to protect the others. I’m sorry to burden you with this.”

Carl straightened up, saluted, and then grinned. “My friend, it is an honor, not a burden.”

Shane returned the salute and left the kitchen to find a prison for Miriam Shaw.

***

Tuesday, 7:45 PM

Jack Thompson hated that he was still shaken by what had occurred in the Fallon house. He made himself another mug of hot chocolate and added a dose of brandy to it.

I need to slow down on the brandy, he scolded himself. It’s not going to help anything.

His computer pinged, and he frowned as he glanced at his email. There was a new message from one of the detectives at the Nashua Police Department.

Man dead of aneurysm at Fallon residence after attempting to run past officer. Attempt to reach deceased’s wife resulted in the discovery of a double homicide.

Jack sat there for a moment, rereading the brief email. With a shake of his head, he sent back a short response and then picked up his phone to call Shane Ryan. It went to voicemail.

“Shane, it’s Jack Thompson. We’ll need to go to the Fallon house tomorrow, regardless. I think she’s been influential in another murder. I tried to get us in there tonight, but the Nashua chief and the State Police colonel, well, they don’t like each other all that much. There aren’t any favors I can call in to get access to another active crime scene.”

Jack hesitated, wondering if he should add anything else, then decided against it and ended the call.

Well, here’s to tomorrow, and whatever hell we find in that damned house, Jack thought grimly and raised his mug to his lips.

Chapter 45: Closing In

Tuesday, 8:00 PM

There was still one officer on duty outside the Fallon House, and Shane had no difficulty slipping past the man who appeared to be in an animated phone conversation.

Shane went to the back of the house and wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked.

She wants company, he thought, entering the home. She needs it.

He closed the door behind him. Retreat was not an option. Not after she had dared to enter his home.

The blinds were open, allowing light from the streetlamps to illuminate the room. Shane sat down in a chair and resisted the urge to light a cigarette.

She’ll be here soon enough, and no sooner had the thought finished than she appeared by the back door, as though that would stop him from leaving if he so chose to.

She gave him a smile that he was sure was meant to weaken his knees.

It did not.

There was a curious aura around her, one he hadn’t noticed before. Is this what she meant about wanting only weak men, men she could control? Is that why she doesn’t like strong ones?

She seemed to sense he was immune to her, and her smile faded away.

“Hell, it was worth a shot,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Wish I could get a fella like you. I’d be able to get outta this dump.”

“Yeah?” Shane asked. He hesitated, then took out his cigarettes and tucked an unlit one into the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she complained. “I’ve been trying for days to get outta here, but I got bupkis. I mean, come on. Every guy I meet, he wants to take me someplace, but then, he dies, or he does something stupid to get killed. I don’t get it. I haven’t had a run of bad luck like this in… well, I can’t remember when.”

She eyed him for a moment. “Why are you here? You come to take me on a trip?”

Shane grinned. “Sure, that’s it.”

He lit the cigarette.

“You’re lying,” she sneered.

Shane shook his head, exhaling as he did so. “No.”

“Then where are you going to take me?”

“The ocean,” he told her. “At first, I thought maybe I’d spin some nice little lie for you. Something to trick you, get you out of here. But you broke into my house. You attacked my oldest friend. So, no, I’m going to be straight up with you. I’m going to put you in a little prison lined with lead, and then I’m going to dump you in the damned ocean.”

Anger swept over her features, and her body tensed as she glared at him. “You actually think you can do that?” she demanded.

“I know I can,” he answered. Shane stood up, and the dead woman charged at him. He smiled, planted his feet, concentrated, and lashed out with his fist. The blow was solid, striking her in the center of the forehead, causing her eyes to widen a split-second before she vanished. When she did, a terrible thought crossed Shane’s mind.

I don’t know where the damned sunglasses are.

She appeared a moment later, rage upon her face.

“That hurt,” she spat the words at him.

“Kind of the point,” Shane answered. He finished his cigarette and field-stripped the butt, watching her as he did so. “I mean, if it didn’t hurt, would you be inclined to listen to me?”

“I’m not inclined now.” She picked up a lamp and hurled it at him.

Swearing, Shane caught it, not wanting any noise to alert the officer outside. As he did so, the flicker of blue lights caught his attention, and he was forced to jerk aside as Miriam threw herself at him, hands outstretched, fingers curled.

Dropping the lamp to the couch, he let out a grunt as one of her hands grazed his chest and caused pain to flare up. He swung an angry backhand at her and caught the tip of her head with his iron. The dead woman vanished.

Where the hell are her damned sunglasses? he thought, turning around slowly, trying to think of where they might be as he waited for her to turn up.

Movement at the corner of his eye alerted him, and he deflected a clumsy attempt to knee him in the groin. She howled as the iron struck again and she vanished.

Great, he grimaced, straightening up. If I were an idiot and I stole a pair of sunglasses, where would I hide them?

Miriam appeared a short distance away from him.

“Why don’t you just get out of here, huh?” she snapped. “Why don’t you mind your damned business?”

Shane shrugged. “I’m nosy. That’s all.”

“I don’t like you.”

The voice came from behind Miriam, and both she and Shane looked over in surprise.

Eloise stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, her right foot tapping, and, despite the desiccated nature of her flesh, an undeniably disgusted expression on her face.

“You came into my house,” Eloise stated, the anger in her voice growing. “My house! You tried to hurt Carl!”

A strange energy pulsed through the room, and it felt as though electricity rippled through Shane’s body.

“What are you going to do, you snot-nosed little brat?” Miriam laughed. “Wait, what nose?”

Eloise screamed, and the house shook.

No! Shane thought. The cop, Eloise!

But a glance out of the window showed the vehicle was gone.

The flashing lights, Shane thought. He must have been called away.

“Why don’t you lock her up, Shane?” Eloise asked, stepping toward Miriam.

“I don’t know where her damned sunglasses are,” Shane answered, and then he swore as Miriam hurled a decorative plate at him.

“Those are bad words, Shane Ryan,” Eloise scolded.

“Bad words?” Miriam laughed. “Why don’t you come closer? I’ll show you something bad, you dried-up little monster.”

“You can’t feel where her sunglasses are?” Eloise asked with genuine surprise.

“No, Eloise, I cannot,” Shane said, keeping his voice calm. “If I could, I wouldn’t be wandering around trying to figure that out.”

“Well, I can,” Eloise responded.

“Don’t even think about telling him,” Miriam ordered.

“The jacket,” Eloise told him, motioning toward a coatrack by the back door. A single jacket hung from a hook. She looked at Miriam. “What will you do now?”

“You’re not taking my sunglasses. You can’t!” Miriam shouted. She stepped between Shane and the coatrack.

“Oh, I can,” Shane smiled. “Isn’t that great? I’m going to bring you to the water. Help you travel, just like you wanted.”

“That’s not how I want to travel!” the dead woman yelled. Her eyes darted from Shane to Eloise and back to Shane. “Come on,” Miriam said in a wheedling voice. “Let go. Just, you know, drop me off somewhere. Lots of young guys around, maybe a bar or something? Please?”

Shane didn’t speak. Instead, he walked forward.

With a cry of desperation, Miriam attacked, her arms flailing, her kicks short and ineffective.

Shane didn’t bother moving out of the way. He moved in close, taking the weak blows on his arms and striking her with his elbows and stiffened fingers. The iron didn’t touch her.

Shane didn’t want to send her back into the sunglasses. He wanted to hurt her.

“Do you need help, Shane?” Eloise asked, taking a step toward them.

“Nope, but thank you,” he answered, driving a knee into Miriam’s thigh and knocking her aside. Again, and again he hit her. Desperation filled the dead woman’s face as she was forced back to cower against the coatrack.

“Stop!” she howled. “Please! Let me go!”

“No,” Shane answered and punched her in the mouth with everything he had. The iron connected as she cried out, and she vanished. Panting with anger, Shane tore the jacket down and ripped the sunglasses out of the pocket. She reappeared for a brief moment, but it was too late.

Shane pulled the small, lead-lined container out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt, opened it, and, as Miriam Shaw let out a scream of rage, he dropped the sunglasses in, snapping the lid closed.

The dead woman vanished, and he slid the container into his pocket once more.

Eloise looked up, waggling a thin finger at him.

“You could have been hurt, Shane Ryan. That would have made Miss Jacinta sad.”

He laughed, shook his head, and crouched to look into the dead girl’s sunken eyes.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and taking her cold dead hands into his own. “Thanks, kid.”

“A kid is a baby goat,” Eloise stated. “I am not a kid.”

“No, but I like to call you a kid because you’re cuter than a baby goat. But, seriously, Eloise, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, her voice filled with joy. “We should go and see Carl. He is very worried about you.”

“Of course, he is,” Shane mused, straightening up. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and slipped out the back door of the home, closing it softly behind him.

Chapter 46: On the Ocean

Friday, 9:00 AM

The smell of the ocean filled his nose, and the spray of saltwater struck both him and Jacinta. He tightened his grip on her, and she smiled up at him.

“You know,” she observed, “that bruise looks like crap.”

“You should have seen it Tuesday night,” he told her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Mío, it’s Friday. What the hell did it look like then?”

He shrugged. “You probably don’t want to know, but you can ask Carl about it.”

“Oh, I will,” she replied. Then, going up on her tiptoes, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. “So, we going to see any whales?”

“That’s what they said,” Shane grinned.

“And if we don’t?”

“I’ll sink the ship.”

“No!” she laughed, shaking her head.

“Well, the offer is there, if you feel slighted by a failure to observe any whales frolicking in the Atlantic,” he replied.

They were alone on the port side of the ship as someone spoke over the intercom. Most of the others were gathered near the bow, looking out for any sign of the whales which were promised. Shane reached into his coat pocket and drew out the lead-lined case that imprisoned Miriam Shaw.

“That it?” Jacinta asked.

Shane nodded.

“Looks like an oversized glasses case,” she mused. “Of course, I suppose that’s what it is.”

“Yup,” he nodded, and let the case fall into the ocean. It vanished beneath the water, and within seconds, they were well past it.

“Salt water’s crazy corrosive, you know,” Jacinta stated.

“I know.” Shane kissed her again. “Thing is, it’s pretty deep this far off the coast. I think it’ll work out.”

She nodded.

They stood in silence for a little while before she asked, “What happens now?”

“We watch for whales,” he told her. “Then we go home and enjoy one another’s company.”

“I love you,” she whispered in Spanish and pulled herself closer to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied.

As the Atlantic rushed past them, Shane held tightly to her and tried not to think of Marty Feldman or the person he might be working for.

* * *

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