Ghost Hunters, Pt. 34

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

"Dang, man," Dillon muttered into JD's back, "why's it gotta be so frickin' intense?"

JD sighed, opening his eyes. The yard was clear. There was nothing there. No body. No blood. Nothing.

"It's over," he said solemnly.

Wendy pulled her face slowly from his jacket sleeve, glancing cautiously at the yard. "My God ... I never imagined anything so ... so awful."

"Ghosts are all morbid an' crap."

"Yes." JD tried to move forward, but Dillon's weight pulled on him.

"Uh ... it's over now, Dillon. You can let go."

"Dude ... I so need a hug, man."

"Get one from Wendy and let go of me."

"I so can't, dude. I need a man-hug."

"Will you get off, please?" Reluctantly, Dillon lifted his hands from JD's shoulders. He strode to the spot where the wailing apparition had stood, between the windows and the bare, claw-like limbs of the shrubs.

"Somewhere under here," he spoke softly to himself, "is the pipe he buried."

"The suicide note everyone said he didn't leave," Wendy intoned, moving to stand beside JD again.

"Do we dig it up or somethin'?"

JD sighed again, raising his eyebrows quizzically. "I suppose we should. I don't ... I still don't know how we're going to explain to the police how we found it, though."

"Maybe that doesn't matter, baby," Wendy said, stroking his arm with her hand and laying her head on his shoulder. "Maybe that we find it is enough. Or maybe just knowing it's there will satisfy Jenkins' ghost."

JD snorted a brief laugh and shook his head. "Maybe. 'Jenkins' ghost.' I can't believe I'm not arguing this. Two days ago, I would have argued this. Vehemently. Now ... now, I don't have any grounds TO argue."

"Is that a bad thing, lover? Is it so wrong to believe in something you didn't know was there before?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't ... I don't know. It doesn't matter. It is what it is."

"Dude, if we don't dig it up, how we gonna know if it's the note or somethin' else?"

"What else would it be?"

"I dunno ... bomb?"

"A bomb?"

"Why not?"

"Why would he want to blow someone up?"

"'Cause he hates life?"

"But he's dead."

"'Cause he's a creepy-ass ghost?"

"Stop it. It's not a bomb. He already showed he wasn't involved in Brown's murder. The other two were. If he was angry and murderous, why wouldn't he exact revenge on them?"

"Dude, don't you get it yet?"

"Get what?"

"JD, the reason he didn't avenge his partner's death wasn't because he didn't want to. He couldn't."

JD looked down at Wendy. "Because of his sister?"

She nodded. "If he tried to expose the people involved, tried to come forward in any way -- they'd probably have killed her. And any children she had."

JD nodded. "I guess. It seems unlikely that Migo would want to hurt his own wife and children."

"I'm sure he wouldn't. That doesn't mean others involved wouldn't, though. They had them both over a barrel. We have no idea how many people were involved in this thing."

JD drew a deep breath again. "You're right. It's plausible."

"Dude, it's what happened. They told 'im if he didn't say Robbie-boy done it, they'd whack his sister, her kids, any anybody else they wanted to. He hadda play the game for them, man."

"Well ... that ... that sucks."

Wendy laughed uproariously for a moment. "At a loss for words, huh?"

"He just said it sucked. Those're words. Home-boy ALWAYS has somethin' t'say."

"Not always."

"Dude, always."

"That's not true."

"See?"

"Anyway," Wendy interjected, "we need to dig this thing up."

"Well, I don't happen to have a shovel with me right now."

"Dude, let's use the one the ghost used."

"We can't, Dillon."

"Why not?"

"Because it happened years and years ago, dork. It's not there now."

"Really? How many years ago?"

"I don't recall. I don't know if Bea said. And I haven't looked that up yet. I guess I should. I should look up Migo and Stanton too. Maybe if they're still alive they can ... I don't know. Be brought to justice."

"For a 35 year-old murder," Wendy said softly. "How strange that would be."

"Not as strange as the conversation telling the police about this note, and how we found it."

"Can't we say were we doing something in the yard for the homeowners?"

"In late October? Involving digging?"

"I'm just saying, maybe we can find a viable excuse."

"Dude, you ain't come up with an idea yet. Why not?"

"Uh ... okay. Maybe we could ... I don't know. Like what?"

"We can say there was a very soft spot here and we wanted to make sure there wasn't a broken pipe or something under the window. Would that work?"

JD shrugged. He was sick of feeling helpless. He knew he'd end up looking stupid and feeling that way too if he couldn't find a legitimate reason to dig for the tiny section of pipe he'd seen buried.

He wasn't even sure it was there. It had been years since Jenkins' death. It could have been dug up long ago.

"Let's ... give it some thought, I guess. We have some time to do other things. Maybe ... maybe we'll think of something realistic enough to be passable."

He watched that spot on the ground through the rain. The water ran off the eaves of the house three floors above them and dripped into pools at the base of the window.

"I wonder why the police never noticed the disturbed ground? Shouldn't that have been obvious, even in casual observation?"

"The rain, dude."

"What about it?"

"It made the mud all soft an' stuff, dumb-ass. They couldn't tell nothin' was diff'rent."

JD thought about that. "What are you, an idiot savant?"

"If that's rude, then I know you are but what am I?"

"What if it's not rude?"

"Well ... you said 'idiot' so I'm pretty sure it's rude, cling-turd."

"Uh-huh. What's a cling-turd? No. Never mind."

"Duh."

"Let's get out the rain," Wendy said sternly. "I'm soaked and getting cold."

They moved quickly to the porch, out of the steady rain, and JD unlocked the door. They went inside and moved to the parlor. The house was cool but not cold, but they shivered in their sopping clothes. Wendy took off her jacket and rubbed her hands together in front of her.

"I think you're going to have to turn on the heater in here, lover. It's chilly! And maybe we can find some towels?"

JD looked nervous. "Uh ... I don't know ... I don't know if I should be going through the homeowners' things."

"Dude, we can wash 'em or whatnot, but we're soaked!"

"Are they coming back before we can wash and dry them, JD?"

"No ... they aren't coming back until spring, but ..."

"SPRING?? Dude, get the damn towels!"

"Oh, hon, come ON."

"All right, all right ... I guess I can offer to pay the utility bill for this month. But based on the size of the house, I'll need help."

"Fine," Wendy giggled and started up the stairs to find a linen closet.

"Get the frickin' heater, dude."

"I'd better check the pilot on the furnace first. Actually, I'd better make sure the furnace can even be used first. We don't want a fire."

"Whatever, just hurry up!"

"Okay, okay, relax."

JD moved past the stairs and into the kitchen. He checked the doors for what he was certain would be an access to the basement. He also watched for the thermostat. He found the basement entry near the back of the walk-in pantry, next to what he imagined must have been the servant's stairwell. The basement was dark, but light was cast from the windows seated at ground-level, letting in parts of the leaden overcast day from outside.

The basement was surprisingly uncluttered, clean and rather empty. Some canned foods and homemade preserves lined a sturdy old wooden shelf crafted from dimension lumber, and a few paint cans rested atop a locked metal cabinet in one corner. A few scattered boxes were on other wooden shelves, but the bulk of the space was open.

The floor was concrete, stained with age and water, the ceiling composed of the joists supporting the floor above. The basement was not quite full-height, but probably seven feet. JD noticed that the ancient foundation, patched and quilted materials from the variations of days gone by, stuck out into the basement below the window at several points. He pulled on a chain to turn on the stairwell light as he went, and the space was dimly, weakly illuminated by the bare-bulb fixtures mounted to the shiny silver conduit racing under the joists.

He descended the stairs, and heard a distinct sound.

Water gurgling.

He walked forward, finding another chain, and pulled on it, sending another yellow-white patch of light onto the cobbled floor. He turned to look behind him, and saw that one -- only one -- of the windows looking through the foundation of the house had paint broken away between the wide, short sash and frame. The others were all painted shut.

The sound he'd heard, the creaking of that ancient hinge ... it had come from that single window opening. Jenkins had used it to come out of the basement unseen when he witnessed Brown's murder. JD wandered over to the window, and noticed that the half-shelf of the reinforced foundation formed a kind of step. He got onto the step on his knees, and twisted the window catch to open it. It resisted violently, but finally squealed loose. He pulled the window open toward him.

The fresh, cool air washed over him like a wave from the ocean, the banter of the constant rain prattling at him. As the window drew back, the hinges creaked in protest.

Just as he'd heard last night.

He closed the window again, and looked behind him. There, beside the window opposite him, was an old iron pipe that rose from what he thought might be a sump pump and went out through the exterior wall beneath the line of the earth outside.

"Perfect," he whispered.

The water he heard was gurgling through the pipe, but some spilled gently back into the basement, falling in a tiny puddle near the middle of a much larger water stain on the floor. A large, plastic bucket caught it and gathered it up. Another, empty bucket stood at the ready a few feet away.

He looked around the spartan basement for any gardening tools, but remembered the detached single-car garage in the yard on the other side of the house. He guessed that, from his position at the leaky little pipe, he was somewhere under the parlor.

But the basement didn't cover the entirety of the first floor. It was far too small for the sprawling house.

He walked forward a bit more, tugging on another chain to light another bulb near the back wall.

A solid wall of newer concrete greeted him.

"They remodeled and filled something in." Chiding himself inwardly for talking aloud to the walls, he headed for the stairs.

He had the excuse he needed to dig up the yard. Now he needed the tools to do it.

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Ready to go on to Part 35?

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 33

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

They ate in near silence. What little conversation they did have was about things other than the case. It had grown out of control, and all three of them knew it. They did what they could to keep their minds off of it for one meal. But as the waitress cleared their plates away, and JD and Wendy sat sipping coffee while Dillon gulped soda, they knew they would have to face it again.

They stared at their bill, laid on the Formica table top pitted with scars and scrapes from decades of abuse, as if it were a viper.

JD finally collected the money and the courage to go pay the tab. He slumped back into the worn vinyl seat that gasped for breath as he sat. He sighed, and looked at them. Dillon seemed contented enough, having been fed. Wendy tilted her head to one side, and gave him a mirthless smile.

"Can't avoid it anymore, love."

"No. No, I suppose not."

As they got up from the table and moved to the door, Dillon looked outside.

"It's rainin'," he said absently.

They got into the car quickly, and as they drove toward the old Victorian with such a long history and so many unspoken secrets, carried so long in its annals, JD took his time. He didn't realize how uneager he was to see the old house and to hear its stories again. He had a growing sense of dread as they approached the mansion, not because of what he'd seen, but because he began to feel something he didn't expect to have to feel.

Responsibility.

He felt that it was being placed squarely upon him to act on the information he now had. He wondered if, in some way, he was being asked by those accused but innocent to right a wrong nearly four decades old. He wondered if he were the first to see these events in their entirety. He wondered what he was supposed to do without being able to convey the information evidentially.

He pondered all of these things as he pulled up the winding old street toward the house that seemed so innocuous, so ordinary among the others in the neighborhood. The tall trees, silent witnesses to what transpired, seemed to be more jagged and harsh, stabbing at him with limbs like pointing fingers, singling him out as the one charged with the house's sinister enigmas.

He parked in front of the Victorian as he had for the last two days, and watched the water roll from the windshield in sheets. The constant, steady tattoo of the rainfall on the car's roof drummed a background of noise to his thoughts. He shut the car off and sat in the silence, for a moment forgetting his companions.

"Dude," Dillon's voice rattled in the quiet, "who's that?"

JD and Wendy turned to look out the passenger window simultaneously, both of them suddenly keenly awake and aware.

There was a man standing in the yard, alongside the house.

Near the parlor windows.

"I ... I don't know."

"JD, what's he doing?"

"I don't know, Wen. I really don't have a clue."

"Dude's got a pipe or somethin'."

"How can he smoke in the rain?"

"Naw, man ... like that white plastic pipe stuff y'get t'fix your toilet an' stuff. Y'know, like under the sink."

"PVC? He has a PVC pipe?" JD leaned forward trying to see more clearly through the rivulets of water that trickled down the sides of the car. The rain wasn't driving, but it was relatively heavy, and steady, and he couldn't see clearly through the windows and over the tops of the dense hedges surrounding the yard.

"He's goin' t'get somethin' off the porch, too, but I can't see what."

"JD, what should we do? Call the police? He's not the homeowner, is he?"

"No," JD answered without hesitation. "No, not the homeowner. I have no idea who the hell that is."

"Should we ... go see?"

"Dude, why we always gotta do the opposite of what they tell ya t'do in those 'Be Safe'-type BS workshops an' stuff?"

"I'll check it out. Stay here. And Wendy, I mean stay here this time, okay?"

She looked at him.

"Seriously, Wen," he reiterated. "You can see if anything happens, but until then, just stay in the car, all right?"

She sighed. "Okay. This time."

"Dude, I so ain't goin' witcha."

"I wasn't counting on it. I want you to stay here with Wendy anyway."

"Oh. Whew! I thought you was gonna make me go with you."

JD ignored him and got out of the car. The rain pelted him immediately, pounding against his head and shoulders. He hunched slightly, reflexively, and trotted toward the gate. Pushing it open, he started around the house to his right, toward the windows of the parlor. He saw the figure standing there, with what looked like a section of PVC pipe sticking out from the pocket of his overcoat.

Propped in one hand was a handle, but his body obscured the rest of the object.

JD slowed his approach. "Hello? Can I help you?"

The stranger did not answer. He didn't acknowledge JD at all.

"Hello?" JD repeated, moving slowly now. He finally stopped.

The man wiped his sleeve across his heavily-shadowed face, hidden beneath a broad-rimmed hat and his upturned collar. Finally, he swung the handle in front of him, and JD saw it was a small garden spade.

He froze. "Excuse me -- who are you?"

The man continued to ignore him. JD was less than 15 feet away now. He stood still, but tensed to run if the strange man did anything sudden.

He stabbed the spade head into the soft, moist ground and pushed it in to the ferrule with his booted foot. He bent slightly and tore a large, deep divot from the bed of plants just below the windows of the parlor. He held up that hunk of mulch and top soil with the spade in one hand. With the other he worked the PVC pipe out of his pocket, and then seemed to hesitate. His body convulsed for a moment, and again he wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat, still holding the section of pipe in his hand. After a moment, he tossed the pipe into the divot.

He pulled the spade out from beneath the pile of earth and it fell back mostly into place. He began to tamp the bulge down with his foot, the soft, squishy mud oozing around the deep treads of his shoe. He skirted some of the loose, wet mulch from the surrounding ground over the area, and when he finished he seemed to inspect his work. He took the shovel, and started back toward JD.

JD panicked, a rush of adrenaline burning through his veins, and he stepped back. The darkly shadowed man walked with a purpose toward the front of the house and JD stepped quickly to one side, reaching out to catch the stranger's arm as he passed.

He gasped loudly when his hand passed right through the arm of the passing man.

He stared at his own hand for a moment, as the man walked back through the gate and around the corner. JD chased him for a moment, and caught sight of Wendy and Dillon racing out of the car after him. The stranger stopped at a car parked across the street and nearly half a block farther up, opened the trunk of the vehicle, and took something out. He dropped it into his pocket, slammed the trunk closed and walked back toward the gate. Wendy and Dillon stopped, but JD stood directly in the man's path as he headed back for the old Victorian.

He passed directly through JD unfettered.

Wendy yelped, covering her mouth with her hands. Dillon backed up a step. JD followed as the figure went through the gate, and propped the spade against part of the porch. JD turned to Dillon.

"Is that where he got it?"

Dillon dumbly nodded, in slow motion.

"I thought so. Come on!"

He trotted to follow the strange man back around the house.

"JD ... what's going on?" Wendy said quietly. "Is this ... is he ...?"

"Yes," JD said, and moved into a position just a couple of yards away from where the figure stood, staring down at his muddy footprint in the soft dirt just beneath the window of the parlor.

"That's the footprint we saw the first night," JD stated, more to himself than to the others.

"JD, what's happening??" Wendy was terrified, and she moved to cling to his arm as he stood watching. Dillon pressed himself against JD's back, watching from over his shoulder.

"We're about to see Darren Jenkins commit suicide."

"Oh crap, dude ..." Dillon muttered, and pressed his forehead into JD's shoulders. "... I so can't watch this, man."

"Oh my God, JD ... we've got to do something ..."

"We can't. This is different than the other playbacks, Wendy. It always has been. Jenkins is the silhouetted figure in the house we saw. He's always in shadow, and never interacts with us. I don't know why. He completely ignored me before when I spoke to him."

The shadowy figure stood for a moment, then tipped its head back.

That blood-curdling, bone-chilling wail swelled from somewhere indistinguishable, echoing and vibrating them. Wendy let go of JD to cover her ears. Dillon did the same. JD wanted to hear it. The terror it evoked in them was visceral, animalistic. He fought his panic, gritting his teeth, but he was whimpering and nearly collapsed when it finally died away, ringing off in the rainfall's constant thudding.

He shuddered violently, goose-flesh raised all over his body.

The man fished into his pocket, and pulled out an automatic pistol.

Wendy smashed her face against JD's arm. Dillon's hands fell back onto his shoulders.

The figure raised the gun under his chin, tilting his head back slightly.

JD shut his eyes.

The bang! made them all jump sharply.

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Ready to go on to Part 34?

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 32

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

The three of them stood in stunned silence for a moment. They were shocked and it showed on their faces clearly.

"Is -- is there anything else I can do for you?"

JD shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog.

"No ... no, thank you very much."

The librarian made a strange face and turned to go back to assisting the younger woman with the growing line of people at the check-out station.

They glanced at each other and turned in unison to go out the door. The cool autumnal breeze helped snap them out of their daze.

"JD ... didn't we talk t'that lady yesterday? I mean, we didn't slip into somethin' funky like in th' yard last night, right? I think it was last night ..."

"Yes," JD said, his voice hardly a whisper. "We did. I was certain it was yesterday." He knit his brows. "Yes, it was absolutely yesterday," he asserted, more sure of himself. "Yesterday we lost ... track of time out in the house's yard, but the day was the day. It WAS yesterday. I'm sure of it."

"It's ... it's Saturday, right?" Wendy was ashen. "You told me on Friday you met with a librarian that gave you all the information you couldn't find on the murder of Robin Brown and some information about his partner."

"That's right. It is Saturday."

JD scanned for a newspaper stand, but didn't see one nearby. He wanted to confirm the day and date, and didn't want to feel foolish by asking someone. He sighed and set his jaw.

"Well. This is certainly ... an unexpected wrinkle."

Wendy laughed mirthlessly. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Dude, you didn't even believe in ghosts, now you're surrounded with 'em. HA! That's funny."

"Why's it funny?"

"'Cause, dude, they can so tell you don't believe in 'em. They're like cats. Cats also wanna snug-up t'people that don' like 'em. Ghosts must be like that too. They wanna be up in your face an' stuff, 'cause you don't think they're real. Or somethin'."

"Hmm. That's genuine comedy, all right."

"Okay, so we can't talk to your librarian friend today, but we can still do the research, right?"

"Uh ... well, I guess so. We can look up Migo and Stanton, see what we find on them, I guess."

"Dude, y'think they're dead too?"

"I ... I don't know. Why?"

"I dunno. The other dudes in the movie are."

"That's true, baby. Maybe EVERYONE involved is dead."

"It doesn't matter. I'm not even sure why I'm doing this anymore. I'm not sure what I'm going to tell the homeowners, I've NO idea what I'm supposed to do about knowing the location of Robin Brown's body, and I have no idea exactly what's going on with this ... mystery. It's a 35-year-old crime."

"Murder doesn't have a statue of limitations, lover."

"I know, but ... what am I supposed to do? I can't go to the police with this information. They'll want to know how I got it, and I have no idea what to tell them that doesn't make me sound insane."

"The conversation we heard implied there were a lot of cops involved in this. I wonder why only Migo and Stanton are the ones we've seen?"

"We probably should have this conversation somewhere else."

"Dude, don'tcha want the townsfolk knowin' you solved their only murder case? You'll be, like, a hero or somethin'."

"Please. I'll be committed."

"Let's ... I don't know. Should we go on to the house and have a look around? Would you rather do that than do the research?" Wendy shrugged helplessly.

JD nodded slowly. "Had I known this earlier I would have just done the research online at home. I can't believe ..." He trailed off and his brows knit again.

"Baby, I know you're confused by all this," Wendy said, cupping his chin with her hand. "But sometimes, when we look for something, we find it. You were trying to find things paranormal, and now you have. I know it's hard to accept, JD, but this is really a supernatural event. You've seen not one, not two, but FIVE ghosts now. And you have no explanation for them. You're going to have to stop hurting yourself trying to dispel the myth of the supernatural and just embrace what's right in front of you."

"Yeah, dude, you ... you gotta ... I dunno. What she said, I guess."

"This is so impossible," JD muttered, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple. "I just ... this is just so impossible."

"It so ain't, bud."

"I know it's hard for you, JD," Wendy soothed, taking his hand in both of hers and kissing it lightly. "But ... just go on with this as it is and it'll get easier for you to know what to do."

"Easier?" he repeated in disbelief. "Easier, Wen? I don't think so. This is ... this is like believing in Santa Claus. You're asking me to just accept Santa Claus here. I don't ... I don't know if I CAN. It's just ..."

She kissed his hand again. "I know. I know this is tough. But you did want to find something beyond yourself. You have. You wanted to find out what was going on in that house, and you have. You wanted to find the answers to this little mystery being played out, and you have. You wanted to know who killed Robin Brown and why, and now you do. If you want to prove the existence of ghosts, I think you've gone a long way toward that too. Whatever it is you were seeking to do, lover, you did it. You shouldn't be having such a hard time with this. You said you were open to ghosts if you had irrefutable evidence. I think you've got it. You're hoping that someone smarter than you will find something different, or hoping that some really obvious natural explanation is going to present itself to help you get a natural, normal, logical explanation out of this -- that's foolish. I think you have the proof you were looking for that there is another plane of existence you don't understand. And now that you have it, you don't seem to want it."

"Yeah, dude, you ... aw, screw it. Why even try after THAT?"

JD couldn't say anything. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Don't feel bashed, baby. I knew if you ever ran into something like this, it would be really, really hard for you. You've had easy ones up to now, lover. You're too smart for the easy ones. But this? This is the genuine article, JD. You talked to a lady, who helped you in a public building in broad daylight, that's been dead for nearly two weeks. There's no explanation for that. Benjamin Whosit isn't going to be able to come up with anything for that. All he'd say is that you either imagined it or that you're lying. If he'd seen it himself he'd feel differently, I'm sure, but it was you and Dilly. He'd say that was suggestion."

"But ... Dillon spoke to her independently of me."

"I found her in the hallway by the 'puters. She didn't say nuthin' t'me though, 'cept askin' if I needed help. When I asked for you, she pointed to the room."

"But you spoke to her."

"Yeah. She just pointed an' kept goin'. Guess she didn't like me as much."

"You must have spoken to her again when you asked for the microfiche tapes, right?"

"Yep."

"What'd she say then?"

"Nothin'. I said, 'my nerdy friend wants me t'get the microwave tapes from ya,' and she jus' sorta smiled an' handed 'em to me. She never said nothin'."

"That's just weird. It's like they're going out of their way to interact with you."

"Robin Brown interacted with both of you too, Wen -- not just me."

"True. But you're running into them face to face much more than I am."

"That's so true, dude. You're like, a ghost-magnet or somethin'."

JD shook his head.

"So now what do you want to do?" Wendy held his hand between hers and pressed it to her chest. "How do you want to handle this?"

JD sighed again. "I ... well, I don't know. Let's get something to eat and we can talk about ... I don't what the hell we can talk about. Something else. I'm out of ideas on this case."

She giggled. "We'll see how the conversation goes. I know you. You're not going to NOT talk about the case."

"I'm all in fer eatin', though. I heard that part."

JD sighed deeply and they started down the stairs to the car. "Okay, let's get Dillon something to eat. Then we'll ... I don't know. Look at the tapes at the house, I guess. Kill some time before it starts again."

"Dude, how y'know it's gonna start again?"

"I don't."

"So ... why we going back to the house?"

"Because, if it does start, we might learn more about what's going on. This time I'm going to follow the person inside. There are so many questions I have. I don't know if ..."

They looked at him. "What?" Wendy asked, noticing his face.

"You know, I want to find something out. Here," he unlocked the car doors for them. "Go ahead. I'll only be a minute."

"Where you goin', dude? I thought we was gonna eat!"

"We are, we are ... I just want to ask that librarian a question."

He bounded up the stairs, leaving Dillon and Wendy shrugging and getting into the car. They fastened their seatbelts, and waited. People continued to trickle in and out of the busy little library, as the sky became increasingly overcast. A gray slate of heavy clouds rolled under the higher, wispy mare's tails, and soon the light was diffused into a soft, shadowless tone of year's end.

A few seconds later, JD came trotting down the stairs of the library.

He dropped heavily into the car and closed the door behind him, staring at the steering wheel.

Dillon sighed. "You gonna say somethin' or we supposeta guess, Milk Dud?"

"Well. It occurred to me that we really didn't have a common thread for this entire -- thing. It was all being laid out for us, but I didn't really see a ... a cohesiveness to it. I was seeing things from Brown's perspective, from someone I assumed was Darren Jenkins, then this whole Migo/Stanton thing ... it was a jumble."

Dillon yawned hugely. "What'd you ask, JD?" Wendy said.

"I asked the librarian what Bea's last name was. I was just curious, and wondered what ... well, basically, what she had to do with all this. Her maiden name? It was Jenkins."

"Oh my God."

"Holy maiden name, Batman," Dillon said, stretching. "She Jenky's chick?"

JD shook his head. "I don't think so, because when I asked if I could look her up to send her family flowers -- because she'd been so helpful to me when I last saw her -- the librarian said that, for the last several months, she'd been living with her children down state. I would have to look up the last name Migo to find her."

Wendy gasped. JD nodded. Dillon looked blank.

"That, my dearest Dillon, means that she married Migo. One of the men that murdered Robin Brown."

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Ready to go on to Part 33?

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 31

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

JD drove them home. They were all quiet during the ride, but no one fell asleep again.

Wendy passed out on the couch shortly after they arrived. She sat down and laid her head back on the soft, full sofa and before long JD heard her softly, rhythmically breathing. Dillon raided the refrigerator for a few minutes before saying goodnight. JD sat at the counter of the kitchen separating it from the dining nook and reflected. There was so much left to do, so many questions still unanswered.

Why didn't Jenkins blow the whistle?
Who is the shaded figure with no features? He felt Jenkins was the logical choice, but it could be anyone.
Why didn't anyone search for Robin Brown? Why didn't the state authorities get called in?
If Robin Brown had no family, was there NO one interested enough in his life to make the effort to find him?
Why didn't Jenkins leave a suicide note? It's very rarely done.

There were others, but his head was clouded with exhaustion and he wanted more than anything to just sleep and forget everything. But there was more to do later in the day. Another trip to the local library was going to be the first order of business. Well, the second. Getting Wendy back to her car would be the first.

Next would be another visit to the house. He hoped it wouldn't be as confusing, as puzzling and disjointed, as the last.

Finally, fatigue overtook him and he went to bed. He dreamed of dark holes and cold gravel and dirt. He dreamed of crushing boulders and not being able to breathe. He dreamed fitfully, tossing and tussling in his sleep, sweating and waking in a start with the burn of adrenaline in his palms before drifting back off to repeat the cycle.

He had no idea how long he slept, but when he awoke, the light scratched his retinas rudely, making him snap his eyes shut and turn his head.

And he could smell Wendy. Her soft fragrance touched him and soothed his tormented mind. He felt that flowery, peaceful sensation he got whenever he could just be still in her presence, close enough to feel her but not needing contact.

Then he felt something, warm and delicate, smooth and soft as he adjusted his position.

He opened his eyes.

She was lying there beside him, soundly sleeping.

He gently laid his arm over her shoulders and felt her warmth, and she stirred only long enough to press against him, wearing one of his shirts, her own clothes discarded on the bed by her feet. He wondered if she'd had a nightmare, as he had, and came here to lay beside him without waking him. She'd slipped under the blankets and was in a semi-fetal position, with her hands beneath her head, her eyes lightly closed. The sunlight from the window played on her hair, and it shone coppery and bright.

He smiled. He couldn't help it. Whenever she was this close -- whenever he could see her, in fact, or heard her -- he smiled. He rubbed her back softly, so gently, careful not to disturb her, and could feel her soft breath on his skin.

For a brief moment, the vision of them waking this way every morning pealed through his mind like thunder. It was only a flash, but it was so strong and clear an image, he had to open his eyes to re-acquire his reality.

He brushed a stray lock of her hair from her cheek and admired the shape of her face, the gentle curve of her jaw, the soft clearness of her skin. Her beauty overwhelmed him, and he nearly wept. He squeezed his eyes shut and commanded his mind to focus, to control the emotions welling inside him. When he was composed again, he twisted -- slowly, so he wouldn't wake her -- to see the clock. They'd arrived home after 3 a.m. It was nearly 11 a.m. now. He'd lost nearly half the day, and still wanted to get to the library. He inwardly cursed himself for not setting his alarm clock, but realized that Wendy would've been woken up too. He slowly, reluctantly, eased out of bed, leaving her beneath the covers, and slid onto the floor. He stretched, trying not to grunt with the delight, and then went about his business of getting ready to face his day.

A quick shower later, he threw his clothes on, and found Wendy still sleeping beneath the golden sunlight of autumn. He dressed quietly, but when he sat down to put on his shoes, she stirred.

"Mmm ... baby?"

"Yes, love?"

"Are you okay? Did you get enough sleep last night? I didn't wake you when I came up did I?"

"No," he said gently, reaching for her. She took his hand in hers. "Not at all. Go back to sleep, Wen."

"What time is it?"

"Just after 11. I have to go to the library today and see what I can find. I'll leave a note for Dillon to drive you to your car when he gets up."

"No, don't go," she protested, pulling him toward her. "I want to go with you. I need a shower, that's all."

"You need sleep," he insisted. "It's okay, I can do this by myself so you can rest."

"Baby, I want to go with you," she insisted. "Please? Just wait for me, okay?"

He smiled again. "Okay. I'll get you some breakfast."

"No," she said, rolling onto her back. "Let's grab some lunch later, but let's get to the library first. I don't know what time it closes."

"I don't either."

"Does Dilly want to come too?"

"Who cares?"

She giggled. "JD! Don't be mean. Dilly's your friend. Besides, he's gone through this much already. Shouldn't he see it through to the end if he wants?"

"I so should, dude."

JD jumped. Wendy giggled again, propping herself up on her elbow. "Hi, Dilly."

Dillon was already dressed and ready. His hair was wet but his chin still unshaven. "Dudes, I'm all set."

"When did you take a shower?"

"While you were. I wanted to see if we could both take one an' not run outta hot water."

"What if we had, you dork? One of us would've frozen."

"We didn't," he grinned. "An' I do wanna go. Maybe the library'll be better on Saturday."

"Better for what?" Wendy asked.

"For hotties ... what else?" Dillon snorted. "See ya downstairs, slowpokes."

"And stay out of my bedroom!" JD called after him.

"I guess I'm the hold up now," Wendy said, then she licked her lips mischievously. "Long as we're already in bed ..." she purred.

JD stood up quickly. "Oh ... oh my God. Don't ... I can't ..."

She cackled wildly, throwing her head back onto the pillows behind her and slapping the mattress in mirth.

"What?"

"You should see your face, hon! It's PRICELESS!"

"I ... I mean, of course, you're ... I would love to ..."

She laughed again, from deep in her belly, and sat up and gestured for him. He sat down again and he draped herself on him, kissing him softly.

"Don't worry, lover," she said softly, sensually, licking his ear and raising goose-flesh all over his body. "I know you want it. You're just a 'save it for the wedding night' guy."

"How ... we've never discussed ..."

"I know you, JD," she cooed. "I'm fine with that. Just don't make me wait too long, or I might get ... impatient."

"Would you ... would find ...?"

"Don't be stupid," she spat, shaking her head and smiling askew. "If I get impatient, I'll take what I want. From you."

He smiled, blushing deeply, and stared at his shoes.

"I love you, JD," she said more seriously. "Don't you know what that means? It means you and me, babe. No one else. You're it."

He looked at her. "I've ... I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. Never."

She smiled. "Damn straight. Now, unless you want to see me naked -- and I know you do -- get out so I can shower. I'm going to wear one of your shirts, okay?"

"Okay," he grinned.

She was ready 25 minutes later, with one of his thermal undershirts beneath one of his T-shirts. She'd tied it off at the waist and it conformed to her deliciously. He admired her as she bounced down the stairs. Dillon was shoveling the last bit of cereal down his throat, and began to guzzle the milk noisily. He put the bowl in the sink and stood up.

"Are we all ready, then?" JD asked.

"Yep!"

"Bring on the boring, dude. I'm ready as I'm gettin'."

JD shook his head. "All right ... here's the plan," he instructed as they filed through the front door. "We need any and all information about the other two characters in the ... story, I guess."

"The killers?" Wendy said.

"Yes," JD confirmed, "but we only have last names. Migo and Stanton. I heard Brown say 'Rick', I think, but I'm not sure. And we don't know who that was in reference to. But I'm thinking we can find them if we check the roster of the police force for that time. At least one of them."

"How do we do that, love?"

"Uh ... I don't know yet." He unlocked the doors and they piled into the car, Dillon sliding into the backseat and sprawling across its entirety.

"Dude, you don't know? What're we supposed t'do, ask a Magic 8 Ball?"

"Well ... Internet first, I guess, then we have to ... I don't know. We can look for newspaper articles on microfiche I guess, but that could take a long time."

"Dude. I thought you had a PLAN."

"Well, I sort of do. But ... I'm just not sure how to execute it. Let's just start with the Internet and see where that takes us."

"What 'bout all the tapes from yesterday, dude? Whatcha gonna do with them?"

"I guess I'll have to analyze them tonight or tomorrow, depending. We know the stuff at the house will begin around nine, if it starts. As long as we're at the house by then, we won't miss anything. If we don't get anywhere at the library, I guess we can come back here and look at those before going back."

"That's too long a trip, baby," Wendy said, twisting beneath her seatbelt to face him. "Let's just plan on doing that tomorrow."

He sighed. "You're probably right. I did leave them in the car, though, so we can at least view them while we're waiting at the house."

"Dude, we LIVED it; why ya wanna WATCH it?"

"We need to see if there's anything on the tapes we didn't see in the actual ... performance."

"You don't think it was a playback anymore?" Wendy knit her brows as she asked.

"Well ... yes and no. It's not the imprint type of event I thought it might be. But they're definitely 35-year-old events, so I'm not sure what to call it now."

"Haunted, dude. Real simple."

JD raised his eyebrows. "Maybe. At least until someone better at this than I am takes a look at those recordings and tells me otherwise."

"I thought the tapes were ... blank?" Wendy said, recalling what they'd seen earlier.

"I didn't take a thorough look, though. I'll be more careful this time through."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just that ... blank is blank. If you fast-forward blank it shows the same thing as if you just play it. And those tapes seemed blank to me."

He sighed. "You're probably right, but ... I guess my brain can't understand how we can have five hours of blank recorded. We have to check and make sure there isn't' something we can see on them."

"Okay," she said, and took his hand to press it to her lips.

"'Kay, here inna car, that crap's gotta go," Dillon said. "I can't even go someplace an' hurl."

"Oh, stop it," she said matronly. "You act like you've never seen a romance going on before."

JD blushed. They rode the rest of the way chatting about other things, and when JD went down the main street of that tiny, sleepy town, he was amazed that not much more life was evident. The Post Office was bustling, and the diner seemed more lively, but when he pulled up to the library and parked, it seemed as sleepy and lonely as it had the day before.

They parked, and went up the wide concrete stairs toward the tall, stark white pillars.

"How cute," Wendy said. "It's such a pretty little building."

"It's actually pretty sophisticated," JD said. "I don't what I expected, but I was pleasantly surprised."

"Dude, they gonna have chicks this time?"

JD shrugged. They went to the heavy wooden doors and pulled them open, JD standing aside to let Wendy and Dillon through before following. His eyes adjusted quickly in the tiny foyer, and when he strode into the main lobby, he found the library was bustling with activity. Parents and children were murmuring about, trying to be quiet, but so many people stood in the building the buzz of their whispers was fairly loud. People of all ages, from university students to retirees to grade school children were moving in the aisles, sitting at desks, shuffling papers and opening and closing file index drawers.

"Wow," Dillon said, his head panning from one side of the building to the other. "Sure is busier 'n yesterday, dude."

"No kidding," JD said. "What the heck?"

"Must be test-time in school or something," Wendy added, lowering her jacket from her shoulders and leaving her arms in it.

JD stepped toward the desk, where there were two young women and one older lady. She was matriarchal and had a double-chin that wobbled when she walked. Her locomotion was more like a shuffle, shifting her considerable weight from one leg to the other and sort of rocking along. Her glasses hung from a chain around her pudgy neck, and the corners of her mouth vanished into her puffy cheeks when she smiled at them.

"May I help you?" she asked, and her voice was soft and melodic, like a woman who had been a life-long singer.

"Hi," JD said, smiling in return. "I'm looking for another librarian ... I don't see her today, but I spoke with her before. Her name was Bea. Is she in today? Or do you know how I could get in touch with her?"

"Bea?"

"Yes."

"You sure it was Bea?"

"Yes, I read her name tag. She was very helpful and I was hoping to work with her again."

"Can you describe her?"

"Kind of a tall lady, wears her hair in a bun? Thin?"

"And you're sure the name was 'Bea'?"

JD raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I'm quite sure. Is -- is anything the matter?"

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Bea passed away Thursday before last."

JD's jaw dropped and Wendy gasped.

"But ... but that's impossible! I ... I saw her just yesterday! My friend and I were working with her here!"

"Yesterday?" the librarian said slowly, her eyebrows raising. "I'm sorry, that's wrong. As I said, Bea passed away week before last, and this library was closed yesterday for Founder's Day. It was the anniversary date of the day our benefactor turned this building into a library and bought the first books for the town. We celebrate it every year and close on that date."

"I ... I ..." JD stammered.

"I'm sorry, you're mistaken. You must be."

Technorati Tags: fiction

Ready to go on to Part 32?

Hall of Fame QB Steve Young: Hypocrite

I just watched Steve Young, NFL Hall of Fame quarterback, look straight into the camera and lie.

He said, on the air, on ESPN, that he thought the New England Patriots were hurting their reputations and the reputation of their owner by "running up the score" and celebrating touchdowns.

I'll grant him this much: he retained the requisite short memory that is so necessary for quarterbacks in the NFL to be successful.  He's already forgotten his own career, I guess, and the team for which he played.

Interesting that a man who won his only Super Bowl (never could match Montana's feat of 4, eh, Young?) by a HUGE margin speaks about running up the score.

I remember a game, either in 1986 or '87, wherein Montana left the game early because of a knee injury.  (Skeleton-by-Waterford was my nickname for ol'  Big Sky.  People hated me for saying it, but he was a bit fragile, I thought.)  Young came in against the highly (over-)rated Chicago Bears.  The final score was 41-7.

Hmm.  Sounds like a Patriots score, doesn't it?

Back to that Super Bowl, though.  What year was it?  It was after the 1994 season, in 1995.  The San Francisco 49ers were playing the San Diego Chargers.  It was a game that went down in history as the Super Bowl with the most touchdowns (10) scored and the highest combined point total (75).   The final score?  49-26, San Francisco.  The quarterback?  One Steve Young.

Let's roll back a little.  How about the Super Bowl following the 1989 NFL season?  While the quarterback wasn't Steve Young, he was on the roster as the second string, back-up, not-good-enough-to-take-the-starting-job-from-Montana quarterback.  And the final score?  Let's check.

Why, it was San Francisco 55, Denver 10.  A 45-point differential??  My God, that's ... that's absolutely classless!  Isn't it?

No one called George Seifert classless.  He'd taken the team from head coach  Bill Walsh who retired at the end of the 1988 season.  After winning his 3rd Super Bowl.

NO ONE said George Seifert was classless.  But clearly, the 49ers poured on a very Patriot-esque performance, and scored unceasingly.  They remain, in fact, the only team in NFL history to score at least two touchdowns in every quarter of the game.  Joe Montana surgically dismembered the Denver Broncos defense.  But no one said that Montana was classless for doing it, or that they were "running up the score."  Not a soul.  No one said anything negative about the San Francisco 49ers except those that were already detractors due to their superiority on the field that year.  They were a great team, and no one likes a great team.

And these are only a few examples.  Over the decade and a half of very good football teams in San Francisco, there were many, many more.

Why the spotlight on the 49ers?  Because that's the team for which Steve Young played the most well-known (if not the largest) portion of his career.  Catching splinters and warming the benches to be sure, but he was on the roster.  Now, he sits on ESPN and says he's "restless" about things around the league and tells a national viewing audience that the Patriots are hurting themselves by being a team that does so well what he could only wish the teams he played on could do.

The 49ers ran the score up plenty of times on weaker teams.  They did it repeatedly.  Now he's saying no one else should do it?  Where was he, and his large and stuttering mouth, when the Indianapolis Colts were doing it week in and week out during Peyton Manning's record-setting season?  49 touchdowns?  You don't accumulate 49 touchdowns without scoring any points.  They were running all over teams that year.  If they didn't have a defense capable of stopping anyone, maybe that helped it look less like what it was, but I guarantee (!), had the Indy defense been able to shut teams down and keep them off the boards, it wouldn't have stopped Manning from throwing his 49.  Anyone who says it would have is a liar, period.

Steve Young is a hypocritical jack-ass with more mouth than brains.  EVERY team does this from time to time, when the opportunity presents.  Anyone detracting the Patriots from doing it right now would be detractors of them regardless.  No one would even be thinking this way if not for the whole stupid "SpyGate" deal.  But you know what, everyone?  There is no cheating going on here this year.  The New England Patriots are simply kicking the shit out of every team they play, period.  It may not be true for the rest of the season, but it's true to week 8 of the 2007 season.

-JDT-

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