Ghost Hunters, Pt. 42

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

He stared at the monitor, unable to process the information. It wasn't that he saw anything necessarily strange. It was just too coincidental to be ... coincidental.

JD couldn't do anything but stare at it.

The newspaper from October 29, 1982 stared back at him, unblinking, unflinching. The headline blazed, burning itself onto his mind.

LOCAL POLICE OFFICER KILLED IN FREAK CAR ACCIDENT.

He read the brief article. It spoke of Rick Stanton, a local police officer, whose car went off the road just after 2 a.m. on the morning of October 29, 1982. It outlined how the car was found just south of the quarry, effectively wrapped around a tree trunk. Skid marks determined the car swerved at some point, and apparently left the paved surface. When it did, Stanton lost control of the otherwise mechanically sound vehicle and hit a tree at high speed. It seemed, the report speculated, that Stanton tried to avoid something in the road. He wore the seat belt, but died in the crash anyway. It also announced his service record, his accomplishments, and the decorations he'd received. He was survived by a brother in New Mexico and his family. No one else. But JD couldn't help noting the date, then flipping back to the other search results he'd found.

The next headline was from October 29, 1987.

HOME INVASION GONE WRONG CLAIMS LIFE OF LOCAL POLICE OFFICER.

The article was about Stanley Migo. He was found dead in his home while his wife was away visiting relatives downstate with their two children. The house was a wreck, as though an attempted burglary had been interrupted. Migo was shot at point-blank range in the heart ... with his own weapon. It seemed that the officer had been overpowered and the weapon he himself held was turned back on him and fired. It hit him straight through the heart and he perished, the bullet from his .45 caliber automatic lodging in a wall behind him.

JD clicked another open window.

LOCAL MAYORAL CANDIDATE, EX-COP COMMITS SUICIDE.

October 29, 1992, the date shouted at him.

He didn't bother to read the article. He knew what really happened anyway.

He sat back, trying to digest what he was seeing. He glanced at the clock ... it was nearly one a.m.

It was October 29, he remembered. He'd first gone to the house on October 26. The weekend was a blur of activity, none of which he could explain.

And now this.

He shuddered involuntarily.

The events weren't given any significance in the articles he could find. There was nothing mentioned of Robin Brown's disappearance. He would have to try and find the information again to confirm the date he was killed. But he already knew the answer, without ever having to ask.

He was certain Robin Brown died on October 29.

He book-marked the pages, and closed them, standing up to move to his bed. He realized he didn't order a drink from the drive-through before, and the salty taco meat and cheese dried his throat. Or perhaps what he'd read robbed his mouth of moisture. He stood up and stretched, then opened his bedroom door.

The house was deathly silent and as black as a tomb.

He hesitated, staring into the inky hallway that lead to the stairs. The shadows seemed to move, to shift, to whisper quietly, just out of his audible range, moving along the walls toward him.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He needed to get hold of himself. He chided himself for being spooked like a child by ghost stories.

Except, something in the back of his mind whispered, this ghost story spoke to them.

He shuddered again. The light from his room seemed to be swallowed up and die before it reached down the hall. He didn't remember the house seeming so dark before, even in deep winter and in the wee hours. He shrank back just inside the door jamb, and listened.

Silence.

Under that, the tiniest whisper. Just beneath the silence he would have sworn he heard a voice.

Listening.

Silence.

He shuddered again. He was sure there was no sound. He was straining his eyes into the blackness at the end of the hall, trying to discern familiar structures, shapes, walls ... anything. Only the depths of the dark, like a squid's ink cloud, looked back at him.

He listened. He stared.

The shadows taunted him, the silence teased him.

He shrank back again. This time he drew himself to full height and retreated into the room, fishing in his desk drawer until he found the mini-flashlight, designed for a key ring. He twisted the body barrel and the tiny beam lit up red, and he cursed himself for making filters for every light he owned. He strode confidently back to the hallway, and shone the beam down the hall.

Only the hall was revealed. There was a picture on the wall where the stairs turned left and went down to the first floor. Beneath it, a half-round table with a picture frame and a vase, silk flower propped in it carefully, leaned against the wall. Dillon's door was shut, and there was no sound from his room. The wall adjacent to JD's door was his own bathroom. Behind him, the end of the hall, and two guest rooms directly across from one another. Another picture frame hung there, a larger one, a print of an oil painting matted within it.

He saw only his house, and nothing more.

He shone the light toward the stairs again. He fully expected to see something, a figure, a form, a shadow or silhouette -- something.

But the hall was empty.

He strained his ears, trying to will them to hear above, below and beyond the range of human sensory perception, to detect the sound of a voice, a whisper, a footfall ... anything.

The silence was deafening to him.

He stepped out into the hall and began to move to the stairs.

He felt -- not really heard, or saw, but felt -- something behind him, moving in stealth, moving with him as one, trying to close the distance between them. He wheeled around sharply, heart racing, body tensed and half-crouched, expecting anything, brandishing his tiny flashlight like a sword in front of him.

Only the hall was there, the walls illuminated red by his little crimson beam. He took a long, slow breath, trying to calm himself. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. He was halfway between his bedroom and the stairs. Not a great distance, he reminded himself. He stood up, and let his breath out slowly, trying to soothe his nerves.

And again he felt there was something just outside the circle of light he cast, hiding, evading, circling.

He whipped around fast, nearly dropping off balance and teetering in the hall, one hand groping for the wall, the other whirling the flashlight around.

Only the walls and sundries were there.

He was concerned now. His imagination was running away with him, and this was not characteristic of him. He again drew a breath, trying to force himself to relax. He walked normally, ignoring the sensation that something was about to touch his neck, to grab at his heels, to seize his shoulders, and walked down the stairs. He plodded as he always did, refusing to speed up or slow his pace, denying internally that something was there, something was right there, just within reach, just about to clutch at him ...

He turned the light on in the living room from the wall switch and the stab of light hurt his eyes with its suddenness. The red filter on the flashlight kept his eyes from adjusting while it glowed. The white light of the end table lamps flanking the sofa poked his brain mercilessly. He stopped for a moment and let his vision finally assimilate, and turned slowly to look back up the stairs.

Nothing.

He strained his ears into the dark, listening.

Silence.

Shaking his head, still disappointed with himself, he went into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he noted the drink options. He took a container of cranberry juice out, and set it on the counter. He reached into the cabinet above the jug and got a tall water glass, filling it nearly to the brim. He drank long and fast, the juice crashing into the back of his parched throat and soaking it all the way to his gullet as the cold liquid slid down his insides. When he'd drained the glass, he set it down, and as he raised the jug to fill it again, the lights blinked out.

It was pitch black.

"Dillon, cut it out," he snapped into the dark. "I can't see anything and I've got a glass. Turn the lights on."

Silence.

He strained, listening in the black. There was a patch of strangely pale illumination cascading in from the large picture window in the living room, but he couldn't see anything else. Dillon would normally be giggling uncontrollably at this point, as he did when he was a child. He was never able to stay hidden in hide-and-seek, and could never startle anyone because he couldn't control his laughter.

JD didn't hear anything. Nothing. Not even the house settling, or the ticking of a clock, or the sounds of the world outside.

He felt for the refrigerator, and pulled the door open. The bright whiteness of its interior blazed out. He squinted against it.

It darted out of the darkness at him, lit from below by the refrigerator light, stopping suddenly just inches from JD's wide eyes.

A face, the eyes two black, wet orbs behind the lids, the skin writhing with worms and maggots wriggling beneath, pushing through the minute holes torn through the surface. The mouth, yellow- and green- stains over the teeth, lips pulled back from them, the black-blue tongue strung with thick, ropey strands of pus and mucus.

"FIND THE NOTE! IN THE GARAGE!"

JD screamed and threw himself back, falling onto his hind quarters, skittering back until he struck against the cabinets behind him. He shut his eyes, turning his face, and suddenly the lights blazed back on.

He opened his eyes, hands out in front of him.

The kitchen was completely empty.

His felt his heart pounding, racing, his pulse thready and his body covered in sweat. He heard a sound, and only a moment later he realized he was panting, gasping for breath. He looked around, checking his surroundings.

Just the kitchen.

Slowly, slowly -- as if he'd been injured, or might be -- he stood. Listening.

Only the sound of his raking breath in the kitchen. Beneath it, the throbbing of his jittering heart thumped in his eardrums.

He walked forward, cautiously, as if looking for a dangerous animal. He approached the border between the kitchen and family room, the large picture window now a black patch beneath the wispy sheer panels covering it. He padded softly, trying not to make a sound, and then darted quickly around the corner as if to surprise whatever he saw there.

Which was nothing.

He backed into the kitchen, and pulled a stool out from beneath the counter, and lowered his weight on it. He leaned on one elbow propped on the counter, and tried to catch his breath.

It was quite some time before he did.

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Ready to go on to Part 43?

Ladies and Gentlemen ...

... I did it!

I just put the last installment together of my very first (okay, not very first, but you know what I mean) novel!

Yes, it's finally finished!  Well ... the rough draft, anyway.

It topped out at just over 94K words (yikes!), and it started life as an innocent little exercise in dialog.  I was just practicing dialog.  My Beloved fell in love with the story, asked me (repeatedly) to keep it going, and before I knew it, it was a full-on novel.  I didn't realize it would be so easy, and please so many (all three of you who've been reading it).

I'm so happy I could just puke.  It's amazing.

Next year, maybe I'll NaNo with the rest of you, provided my work situation is stable.  Which it hasn't ever been in November since Lord only knows when.  2001, I think.

But it's in the hopper.  Now I can step back and take a look at it and just ... refine.

It's nice.

Thanks, babe.  I couldn't have -- and wouldn't have -- done it without you.  It was really your novel.  I sure hope you liked it end-to-end as much as you did in the beginning.

Whew!

-JDT-

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Ghost Hunters, Pt. 41

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

JD watched the image fade. He turned and silently went for the stairs. A second later, the others followed behind. He pulled the chain at the top of the stairs so they could see and wouldn't stumble, and the sudden stab of light on their retinas made them squint and shield their eyes.

In a moment, they were in the house. JD went unerringly through the kitchen, foyer and directly to the parlor. He dropped into a seat in front of the computer, his face set and serious. As Wendy and Dillon came in behind him, he played back the horrible, soul-chilling wail of the Jenkins shade, recording it onto the PC at the same time. Then he launched the sound program Dillon had used to accelerate the sound before. He tweaked it, with the speakers turned very low, adjusting until he was satisfied with what he heard.

He sat back then and looked at them seriously.

"What?" Wendy asked, concerned. "What is it?"

He shrugged, shaking his head. "It's nothing new. The same general message, just more of it."

"What message, dude?"

"Listen for yourselves," he said, and positioned the mouse on the screen and clicked the playback button.

The voice was higher-pitched from the acceleration, but came through clearly, once again reminiscent of the Alvin and The Chipmunks sound.

"The note ... in the garage."

Wendy wrapped her arms around herself and shivered sharply. "God, I hate that sound."

"Dude, I'm so gonna have nightmares if you keep playin' that."

"Sorry. But we had to know what it said."

"Now we know. We can't do anything about it until tomorrow, though."

"The significance is that the note is in the garage, definitively. According to this ..."

"Ghost, home-boy. It's a GHOST, okay?"

"... whatever. The message indicates that I never needed to go hunting in the ground to find that note Jenkins buried the day he committed suicide. It's been in the garage the whole time. I think."

"You think?" Wendy said, incredulous. "Come on, Jaded -- you hear what the ghost is saying! How can you still wonder?"

"Remember, Wendy," JD slowly, patiently spoke to her, "the events we're seeing are 35 years old in most cases. I don't know how long ago Jenkins committed suicide, but that didn't happen recently either. That note was underground. Who found it? How? When? And why is it in the garage now? What happened?"

She sighed. "You're right. You've got a point. How do we know when it came up? Is it still in the garage? How many people have owned this house in that time period? Any one of them could have found it. And why wouldn't you throw something like that away? What value would it be to anyone else?"

"Maybe it was one o' them time-pill thingies," Dillon said, dropping into a chair on the other end of the table.

"A what?" JD said, trying to decipher Dillon-ese.

"You know, one o' them things where they put a bunch o' crap inside an' bury it so they can dig it up later an' shit. See what's changed, what thing were like back then, that kinda crap."

"A time capsule?"

"That's what I said, a time-pill."

JD chuckled. "If someone thought it was a time capsule, wouldn't they have opened it to see what's inside?"

"How d'ya know they didn't, brainiac?"

JD froze. "What?"

"How d'ya know they didn't open it already? They coulda; whoever found it pro'ly was interested, right? Curious an' whatnot, right? So mebbe they DID open it."

"JD, if someone opened that pipe, how're we going to find the note?"

JD shook his head slowly, processing. "Let's hope that didn't happen. Because if it did, there's no way to know what became of the contents."

"Ghost's sayin' the note's inna garage, pencil-neck. So it's there."

"How would you know that?"

"Ghosts ain't dumb. Why tell us t'look there if it ain't there?"

"Because the message was part of a 35-year-old --"

"Nope. No it ain't."

"What??"

"Sheesh, you goin' deaf over there, Helen Keller? Think about it, genius -- if the stuff we seen where Robbie gets whacked an' all that stuff is stolen an' his bod's moved an' buried an' crap -- if all that's 35 years ago, why's a ghost back then talkin' 'bout a note that ain't been written yet?"

JD dropped his head backwards and groaned.

"God. God, I'm an idiot."

"I been tryin' t'tell ya that for years, dude."

"Wow, Dilly ... you're like Rainman, you know that?"

"Oh, thanks, Wen, I -- hey! Is that a slam?" Dillon knit his brows thinking about it, staring at his shoes. "I ... that mighta been a slam. Once I'm sure it was, I'm so not talkin' to you no more."

Wendy giggled and kissed his cheek playfully.

"That's good news, then, lover. The ghost is showing us the playback AND giving us hints about where to find the stuff we need to blow this case wide open."

"'Blow this case wide open'? Wendy, what on earth ...? How did you come to that?"

"Oh, c'mon -- the man killed himself. You don't think he told the whole story in the note?"

"How could he? His sister would be in no less danger than before."

"'Less ol' Migs is dead by then. Or dyin'."

JD shook his head. "Well ... for the second time in a couple of minutes, I'm ... amazed by you."

"Yeah, but ... you can be amazed by shiny things too. It's no biggie."

"Let's get someplace where we can find out for sure, baby. Someplace with the Internet. We can search."

"Uh-uh," Dillon said firmly, "no frickin' way. Nobody does NOTHIN' 'til I get some damned FOOD, y'all."

"Oh, that's right!" Wendy exclaimed. "Poor Dilly -- you were hungry a while ago weren't you? Okay, let's stop and get something on the way and after we eat, we can start trying to find out if Migo is still alive."

"What about Stanton? He was the one that actually killed Brown. He's just as much a threat as Migo is ... or was."

"I don't know," Wendy contemplated, staring off. "I didn't get the impression that Jenkins was as concerned with him. He was more like ... a lackey, I guess. Kind of a henchman."

"Yeah. He didn't seem long on brains, y'know?"

"And who would know better about that than you?"

"Besides, it's no harder to look them both up. We can do all of that when we get home."

"Or tomorrow," JD said, yawning. "We've had a lot of stuff thrown at us without very much sleep over the weekend."

"Dude, did you slam me? Was that a slam?"

"See? We're all very tired."

"But we have to find that pipe tomorrow JD ... or at least the note." Wendy was firm. "We can't spend all day goofing off and not get out here to look for it."

"I guess we could stay --"

"Don't say it, bean-breath," Dillon cut him off gravely. "We are NOT sleepin' in THIS house. No frickin' WAY."

JD sighed. "All right, all right ... let's get home. We can do a bit of research tonight and finish up tomorrow, but we really need to get some sleep. We'll need to have sharp eyes and minds tomorrow."

They gathered their things and headed out, JD making sure the house was locked up behind him. They decided to take a single car rather than two. Wendy would drop JD and Dillon off at home and then pick them up at 10 a.m. the following morning. From there they would come back to the brooding old mansion to search the depths of the leaning, shoddy garage for the note the apparition stressed was there.

The exhaustion of the day began to set in as the quiet car rolled easily over the blacktop ribbon lacing through the woods. JD kept expecting the night to be swallowed in fog at each bend, every curve, but only the blackness and still embraced them. At long last they reached the edges of their own town, more alive and awake than the sleepy little hamlet they'd left behind. They went through a drive-through and got Dillon as many tacos as he had cash for and a drink that seemed to be the size of a trash barrel. When Wendy finally pulled to the curb in front of their house, he realized none of them had spoken except to order food.

"Well," she said, turning in her seat to face JD as Dillon clambered out of the back, "I guess this is good-night."

"Yes," he said shyly. He wondered if he was supposed to invite her in, but was embarrassed to handle the situation insensitively. "Unless ... unless you're too sleepy to drive ..."

"I'm fine, baby-doll," she said, flashing her heart-stopping smile at him. "It's just a couple of minutes away. Besides, I need fresh clothes for tomorrow. I can't keep borrowing yours."

"Oh, I don't mind --"

"I know, sweetie," she giggled, "but I do. I want to look my best for you. And wearing your clothes ain't it."

JD blushed. "Are you sure?"

"Yep. I'll be fine."

"I ... I'm going to miss you. It was ... it was really special to wake up with you -- you know. There. Feeling you. Hearing you. Smelling you ..."

"Smelling me?? Lord, did I stink?"

"No! No, that's not ... I like your scent. It's intoxicating. And ... comforting somehow. I don't know how to explain it. I'm -- I'm not very good at this, I'm afraid."

She laughed then, earnestly and from her soul, and he smiled with her, blushing deeply.

"Baby, you're doing just fine. I'm going to miss you too. Dream of me?"

"I always do. Well ... I'd like to think that, anyway. I don't always remember my dreams, of course, but when I do I usually --"

"Just an expression, lover," she interjected, then quickly leaned forward and kissed him deeply, warming him to his core. He entwined his fingers in her hair and tried to return the kiss, uncertain, but wanting more of the sensation that came with it. When they finally parted, Dillon was approaching from behind JD.

"Dude. I can't get in."

"What do you mean, you can't get in?"

"Which word didn't you understand, rocket-scientist? I can't get in. Unlock the door."

Wendy giggled wildly. "Good night, Dilly. See you tomorrow."

"'Night, sexy-lady. See ya." He winked at her and strode off toward the door again.

"How can he be so insightful one moment and dumb enough to be unable to get in a locked house -- that he's got the KEYS FOR -- the next?"

"That's the paradox of our Dilly-boy," she grinned.

"I ... I love you, Wendy."

"I love you too, JD. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be on bated breath."

She winked at him, and he reluctantly climbed out and shut the door behind him. He stood at the curb while she drove away, until she turned a corner and was gone. Sighing, he turned back toward the door, where Dillon was tapping his foot impatiently.

"Today, dude. I'm starvin'."

"That's news?"

"The news is gonna be your body, which they'll find when I kills yer ass. Unlock the door so I can eat."

"Why didn't YOU unlock the door?"

Dillon held his hands up, one filled with a large, bulging plastic bag of tacos, the other clutching an enormous drink cup.

"Some of those are mine, you know," JD gestured to the bag as he pulled the keys out of his pocket to open the door.

"I had to eat yours to survive while you were gettin' laid in the car, dude."

"You're just jealous."

"Hellz yeh I'm jealous. Wendy's too hot for you."

"But not for you?"

They stepped inside, and Dillon made a B-line for the kitchen table. "Well, DUH. She's too hot for anybody but, like, Brad Pitt an' shit. Still -- I'm better 'n you."

JD laughed. "Yeah. Right. Keep telling yourself that -- eventually you'll start to believe it. Like any good lie."

"Hmph." Dillon couldn't respond as he pounded down a taco, picking the fragments dropping from it from the paper wrapper spread on the table as a place mat.

JD took one from the stack and folded the paper partially back, nibbling delicately at it as his brain began to wander. "I really should do some research tonight before going to bed. I should have some background before too much time passes."

"Hmm, mm-hmm," Dillon hummed, never breaking his chewing motion. He slurped a huge swallow of soda pop from the enormous cup and went back to his food. He opened a second taco before the first was gone so that the eating process would be uninterrupted. JD watched in wonder.

"You're going to choke on that if you don't slow down."

"Mm-mm," Dillon shook his head.

"How'd you come up with that stuff back at the house, Dill? You spend a lot of time thinking about this without saying anything to us?"

Dillon seemed to pause. His mouth continued to chew, but at a slower pace, and he sat back and stared off into the kitchen wall, thinking.

"Y'know," he said, swallowing the last of his taco and sipping his drink to clear his throat, "I don't know, really. I just ... it just came t'me, I guess. Weird, huh? I don't really ... THINK about it. It just sorta ... pops clear, I guess."

JD leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. "Just 'pops clear'? Like clairvoyance? Or a sense of communication?"

"Communication?"

"Do you feel you're getting messages from the ghosts, maybe?"

"Dude, if anybody's gettin' messages from dead people, it's you, bro."

"True. I can't argue that ... unfortunately."

"Why's that bug you?"

JD shook his head. "I don't know. I really didn't want this to be supernatural, and I don't know how to rationalize it away. I really don't."

"Yeah, I figgered."

"So -- are the ghosts telling you things?"

"Nah. I guess I just sorta see it clear for some reason in my head. But nobody's givin' me nothing."

JD sat back, and Dillon leaned forward, both of them eating at their respective paces. JD had one more taco and left the remainder of the sack for Dillon to mash through. He went upstairs and closed his bedroom door behind him, dropping heavily into his comfortable high-back chair, and launched his web-browser to search.

What he found frightened him.

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Ready to go on to Part 42?

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 40

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

The car bounced over the edge of the pavement, keeping perfect track with the red glowing lights in front of it. Wendy edged easily over the rough transition at the end of the road, and watched carefully until the brakes lights of the truck beamed powerfully at them and the vehicle stopped. She pulled the parking brake lever and quickly shut the car down as she pushed her door open, her free hand fumbling with the buckle of her seat belt to release it. JD noted the swiftness of her movements and hurried to get out with her. He wasn't sure why.

Dillon unfolded himself from the back seat and they stood beside the car, watching the lights of the truck in front of them. They heard the hollow metallic sound of the truck door closing as they approached, and Wendy froze, Dillon bumping into her as he quick-stepped around the back of the car to catch up to her.

JD noticed their sudden halt.

"It's okay," he said softly, "he won't notice us. He never has, and probably never will. I don't think Migo and Stanton will either. We can follow safely."

They hesitated a moment more, staring into the dark, and JD smiled as he proceeded toward the fence he'd hoped the night before. He realized he didn't have a flashlight when the terrain became dim and obscured by the dark and the fog. They passed the truck, and there was the car that JD followed the night before, parked nearer the fence, a few yards ahead.

He treaded lightly, hearing their footsteps behind him, and a wisp of the fog washed aside to show Jenkins' figure, silhouetted against the diffused and ethereal light, moving up the path on the far side of the fence. JD hopped over the fence, then reached for Wendy to help her over, his head turned to face Jenkins.

He clutched at the body than leaned into his hands and the weight, the texture, the feel was all wrong. He recoiled slightly, and looked back.

He stared into Dillon's grinning visage. "Heya, stud-muffin," he sneered.

JD nearly dropped him, and moved aside. "Will you quit fooling around? Come on, Wen."

"Dude! You're gonna let me fall??"

"Yes, now move," JD snarled.

She moved gracefully over the fence giggling, and JD and Dillon helped her down the other side. Once she was steady on her feet, they started up the access road after Jenkins.

"He's going to hide in the woods next to a clearing at the top of the road," JD said, rushing to catch up to the shade that wove in and out of misty clumps of cloud as it drifted up the road. "He'll leave before they do. I don't know what happens after that. I want to stay with him. The other two will be burying Brown's body."

They didn't answer, and he had to look back to make sure they hadn't been separated. The outline of the trees against the soft, gray dimness seemed ominous and threatening. They moved as quickly as they dared, trying to stay near the middle of the road. The crunch of the gravel under their shoes seemed too loud to JD, and he reminded himself forcefully that these events were 35 years past, and he was not intervening in them. No one could see him. No one could hear him.

No one but Brown and Bea. He pondered that momentarily before forcibly pushing it out of his mind.

They kept the figure ahead of them in sight, still not closing the gap. When the shifting waves of mist cleared, they found their distance and bearings and kept plodding forward when it vanished as the holes closed.

JD knew that the figure would stand at the top of the road for a moment before going into the trees across the clearing, careful to be out of sight. When they reached the top of the road the fog thinned for a split second just as that shadowy form stepped silently through the trees and disappeared for a moment. JD went on to the clearing and heard the muffled, laboring voices of Migo and Stanton working to hide their filthy secret, but didn't get close enough to make out their words. Wendy was wide-eyed with horror as she saw them shifting material to cover the crumpled, lifeless form in a canvas bag somewhere in the carved section of the mountain.

A few seconds later, with the images and sounds of what he'd seen earlier echoing through JD's mind, that figure from the trees snuck quietly to the edge of the boulders, tossed like a child's play blocks across the quarry's opening, and hid. They watched from the edge of the access road as he listened for a few minutes, then moved back into the trees. A moment later he emerged much closer to them than they expected, making them jump, jerking back in fright.

The specter was wordless as it quietly went down the hill, then the head hung as it stomped to a sagging stop. The soft sounds of weeping could be heard. After a few seconds, it seemed to stand to full stature again and went down the road toward the vehicles.

"What's going on up here?" Wendy whispered in the stillness. "Are those the two murderers?"

"Yes," JD said, not bothering to match her tone. "I don't think you have to whisper, Wen. He can't hear us. I don't think."

"Dude, what 'bout the killers, man? Can they hear us?"

"I doubt it, Dill. It seems that only Brown could interact with us. And Bea, the librarian."

"Yeah, she can inneract like nobody's bidness," Dillon agreed.

JD nodded though Dillon couldn't see him. "They're burying Brown just like they did last night. But the fog lifted and the events quit playing out while I was up there. I never saw any of this."

"He seems sad. I mean, for someone that was a bad cop, he ... I think he cared about his partner. His friend."

"Yes," JD said, and he felt it too. Jenkins did seem sad about Brown's death.

They followed down the road, the pace more quick this time. There were occasions when JD let gravity pull him more quickly to ensure he kept pace with what he now realized he was inwardly calling a ghost, and not lag too far behind. Wendy and Dillon followed him closely, trying to stay single file to be away from the treacherous edge of the access way.

Jenkins was piling into the truck when they got to the bottom of the hill. JD stopped for a moment, listening and staring back up the hill.

Wendy noticed his gaze. "What?"

"I don't know. I got the impression he was ... I don't know. It's just that, he's leaving. And I don't hear Migo or Stanton. They're still at the quarry clearing. What's going on?"

"I sort of assumed they were going to meet here. Maybe they weren't?"

"Dudes, if we're followin' Jenky, we better move it."

The truck was backing away from the cars ... passing right through Wendy's to do it. In a moment, it completed the three-point turn and headed for the highway.

"Let's hurry up," Wendy said. "We'll see where he goes."

They moved quicker, going for the fence. The high weeds made them slow down, and Wendy stepped carefully, taking JD's hand as he held it out to steady her while she stepped up the fence face.

"Thanks, handsome," she said, kissing him lightly and quickly before hopping over the top and landing soundly on the other side.

JD blushed, smiling stupidly, watching her as she turned around to flash that melting smile at him again over the fence.

"Uh, dude? Couldja move yer ass? He's gettin' away."

"Oh!" JD said, snapping out of his trance, and clambered over the fence. Dillon was a beat behind, and they bolted for the car.

They fell into it as one, the engine firing a moment later. Wendy left room for the truck in front of her, so she could do a fast, gravel-spitting U-turn to head down the access road to the highway, slowing to check for oncoming traffic before accelerating onto the highway.

In a moment, they caught sight of the red tail lights of a truck ahead of them in the thinning fog.

"Is that him?"

"I-I don't know," JD stammered. "It could be, I guess ... or it could be an actual truck."

"Dudes, you guys dumb or somethin'? There ain't nobody on this road at night. This dump's a ghost town after dark. I mean ... well, yeah, it is. Heh. So yeah -- it's him."

"How can you be so sure?" JD turned around. "I've seen other traffic on this road. It does serve as a state highway, you know."

"Pff. It's for ghosts, man. Besides, if it ain't Jenky, he ain't gonna notice us followin' him anyway, right?"

"But we could be led on a wild goose chase following some poor trucker just trying to transport his goods somewhere."

"I have most of a tank of gas," Wendy said. "I'll follow until ... wait a minute, I know how we can tell."

"How?"

She pressed the brakes, slowing the car quickly.

The lights ahead slowed at exactly the same pace.

"Yeah," she said, picking up speed again, "it's him."

"You're hawt, Wen. Every time you do somethin' like that, you're even hotter."

She chuckled. "Sorry, Dilly, none for you."

"I know, but ... damn, chicka! That's rockin'. I love me some women drivin' tricks, dudes."

"Uh ... thanks for ... sharing, I guess," JD said. "Why don't you contact Danica Patrick or someone like that? You're making me uncomfortable."

"'Cause Danica Patrick don' make you squirm, little-willy," Dillon teased.

They followed along the highway, the slight downward grade of the road winding them toward town. With unerring accuracy, the truck wove its way through the town, leading them back to the stately old Victorian standing silent and dark behind its dagger hedges and sentinel trees. It turned at the corner adjacent to the house and pulled the truck to the left-side curb.

Jenkins was out of the vehicle and heading for the gate when Wendy pulled up in front of the house. Her headlights cast briefly over the shadowy form and did not illuminate it.

"It's like he's made of shadows," she whispered as they parked.

"Maybe he is now," JD mused aloud, and opened his door. The apparition was going toward the parlor window again, moving quickly now, the head turning as if looking up the street for someone.

"He's watching for them," JD muttered. "He knows they're coming back here."

"How'd he know? How d'ya know he knows?"

JD shook his head. "Look how nervous and in a hurry he seems. What else would he be nervous about?"

"The people that live here seein' him?"

"Maybe. He didn't have a problem just going through the gate, though, and he's watching up the street. Like he's looking for a c--"

JD's words caught in his throat as a pair of headlights appeared, two yellowish disks emerging from the fog, and moved to park behind the truck.

The car stopped and the lights extinguished. Two doors slammed in the gloom, and a moment later, two figures emerged from the misty night to cross through the gate and headed for the back of the house.

JD moved to follow them and the others trailed him quickly. He followed a few feet behind, unwilling to let them get too far ahead in the dark and fog. An orange flame shot out of the mist and a tiny ember glowed a second later, followed by the sound of a cigarette drag being exhaled into the cool wetness.

"That you, Migo?" a voice said.

"Yeah, and Stanton too," Migo called back softly. "Where the fuck you been?"

"Where I been?" Jenkins snapped back. "I've been here, asshole. Where the fuck you been? You were supposed to get here at ten. You know how to tell time, shit head?"

"No, you fuck," Migo growled nastily, "we were supposed to meet at 9:30, NOT ten. Shit head."

"Who said 9:30?"

"You did, dick head. What the fuck's your problem? Huh? You think this is a joke??"

"No, I don't think it's a joke, Migo," Jenkins said, "I coulda sworn I said ten."

"You didn't."

"Well, fuck. Sorry then."

"Yeah. Where's our shit, asshole?"

"The bag's in the truck, right there." He gestured toward the truck parked just beyond the dense barren hedges at the edge of the yard.

"Go get it, Stanton. Make sure it's not fuckin' Lincoln Logs or somethin'. I ain't likin' what's goin' on here."

"What's not to like, Migo? We got the times screwed up. Where'd you go after that?"

"We went and got somethin' ta eat. You gotta problem with that?"

"No, I don't got a problem ... why don't you just fuckin' relax, okay?"

Stanton was plodding toward the truck across the yard.

"Ya can't go that way, dumb-ass," Migo softly called after him. "Go through the gate like everybody else." He shook his head. "What an asshole."

"You're in a mood," Jenkins said. "What's wrong with you?"

"What makes you say somethin's wrong with me?"

"You're just bitchy as all hell. Somethin' up?"

"No," Migo said too quickly, "nothin'."

They stood in silence and listened as Stanton opened the back of the truck, climbed in and sorted through the bag, which echoed slightly through the quiet neighborhood.

"Christ, that guy's an idiot," Migo spat, dragging hard on his cigarette again. "Listen ta all that racket."

Jenkins said nothing, just waiting. They couldn't see his face to tell what his expression was.

The truck door rolled down noisily and they heard it bang and lock. Migo jumped slightly when it did. "You got the fuckin' bag, jackass?"

A second later, Stanton poked his head over the top of the hedge. "Yeah, I got it. Let's go."

"Pipe down, moron!" Migo snapped, whispering harshly. "You wanna use a bullhorn next time? Jeezuz!"

Stanton shook his head and walked away, toward the front of the house.

"You're jumpy," Jenkins said smoothly. "You sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin' fine I toldya," Migo hissed. "Get lost, willya?"

"Tell Bea ta call me tomorrow," Jenkins called softly after Migo, who was walking fast away from him. "Been a while since we talked."

"Yeah, whatever," Migo said over his shoulder.

They listened to the bang of the car doors, and heard the engine roar to life. The car sped away much faster than they expected.

Jenkins listened to the silence for a moment, then walked to the parlor window and plied it open, emitting that horrible screech again. It wasn't as loud this time, though, and when he could fit, he wiggled through the opening.

"Come on," JD said quietly. "Let's get back to the basement and see ..."

"No, dude, let's just watch through the window," Dillon countered, stepping forward and pointing at the tiny window at the foundation under the parlor.

"No, Dillon, we won't be able to hear him."

"We won't make it in time," Wendy said.

"Yes we will," JD said, smiling at her. "This is our show. It's for us. Come on."

They followed him as he went around the house and up the porch stairs, and waited while he unlocked the front door. They filed in after him and went straight through the foyer, into the kitchen and to the staircase down to the basement.

He didn't bother to turn on lights as he went, and with Wendy clutching his shoulder they felt their way through the initial debris to the spot between the windows.

Jenkins' shade emerged through the concrete wall, slightly lit by the dim amount of lit falling through the basement foundation windows. He stopped for a moment, and they heard the sound of his sobs in the dark, the form of his body wracked by the heaving emotion. In a few moments, he recomposed, then picked up his bag and shouldered it.

"I'm so sorry, Robbie," he said quietly. "I'll think of somethin'. I'll think of somethin'. They ain't gonna get away with killin' you."

As the words faded in the stony room, the apparition vanished.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Ready to go on to Part 41?

Home of the Brave

What does bravery mean?

If you'd asked me that 20 years ago, I would have had some goofy answer regarding facing things that frighten most other people without fearing it yourself.  This is not bravery, however.  That defines stupidity, or at least a very poor understanding of mortality.

Granted, not all of us are afraid of the same things.  My wife is deathly afraid of spiders.  I don't like them either, and can relate to her phobia.  It's an irrational fear of something.  It's not rational for us to be so afraid of tiny creatures that don't really do much to bother humans.  Nevertheless, we are afraid of them and avoid and/or kill them whenever our paths cross.  But her fear is far greater than mine.

I'm an acrophobe.  I don't like heights; never have.  Roller coasters?  Forget it.  I can't even do Ferris Wheels, because my disdain for high places is so strong.  I freeze up if the ladder to get to the top of a house is too tall.  I could never hang Christmas lights on a house that was two-stories.  Heck, I may not be able to do it at all now, because as I get older, I'm even more cowardly.

But if being brave doesn't mean being unafraid when others might be, what does being brave mean?  I mean, most of us would never rush headlong into a blazing fire, but firefighters do it for a living.  They clearly seem unafraid of something that would make most of us soil our underwear, if we wear it.  So what is bravery, then?

I think, now, that bravery is doing what you have to do despite being afraid.

Each of us has our own private fears, things that make us cower and whimper and weak-kneed.  For some, it's some thing -- like spiders, for instance.  For others, it's some event or catalyst -- like public speaking.  For others, it's situational -- like being unemployed.  When we can face and understand our fears, they're easier to name and to label, box and package and maybe even address.  Some will say we "conquer" our fears.  I disagree ... I don't believe you can conquer all the fears welling up inside the human psyche.  I don't buy into the notion that exposure to something makes it less frightening, either.  I've had some pretty awful situations thrust upon me and my tiny little family, and while we managed to survive them and come out on the other side, we never "conquered" them.  If anything, I'm more afraid of them now, having been exposed to them, than I was before I had to face them.  That certainly wouldn't have gotten a passing grade in a college psychology class, but it's the truth, flat, bald, plain and simple.  I'm more afraid of something because I had to face them than I ever would have been without having experienced them.

And yet, in the face of our fears, we have to do things sometimes.  We have jobs that have to get done, whether that's a literal job, or place of employment, or tasks that face us, or something that has to be addressed during a time of great fear.  If you're in the middle of that blazing inferno and your child is screaming for help in the other room, you're going to find a way to overcome your fear(s) and get to the child or die trying.  If the spider can be dealt with no other way, you will find a way to squash/eliminate him somehow.  You have to do what you have to do, and doing that while you're afraid is the very definition of being brave.  At least I think so.

First responders rush up a building that's been hit by a jet plane.  That's bravery.  They didn't necessarily know the building would collapse on them, but they did know the jet fuel was burning like a crematorium and they went up anyway.  They did what they had to do even if they were afraid.  And I bet they were.

Bravery.  It comes in a lot of forms, in a lot of different acts and events every single day.  We may not always get to see it, because sometimes it's internal, but bravery is the heart of so many actions every day.

True enough, we aren't all "heroes" and go rushing into fiery infernos to save the lives of others.  Sometimes we just squash a spider.  Other times it's bigger, still others even smaller.  We do what we have to do even when we're afraid of the situation, the person, the circumstances or the thing.  Then we are brave, then we are courageous.

With those things in mind, I would like to tell you that I live in the Home of the Brave.  No, not the United States, though I live there as well.  The Home of the Brave, in this case, is the home that my wife has made for me and my children.

She is, without a doubt, the bravest person I've ever met.  She has faced more hardship and tragedy than any one person deserves, just in the last five years of our marriage.  It wasn't at my hands, but it wasn't anything I could prevent, either.  Time and again we were pummeled with situations beyond our controls, circumstances we could not escape, events unfolding around us we could not influence.  And in the middle of all of that, in the midst of a heart broken beyond reckoning, when it seemed even the least of our prayers would go unanswered, she moved forward.  She stayed at my side when she could have done something easier, something different, something less noble.  She chose to cling to me with every precious thing she had slipping away, being ripped from her fingers with no way to stop it.  She stood and faced the ugliness unfolding in front, behind and around her and she never once faltered, failed, slipped or collapsed.

She is the bravest person I've ever met.

I don't think that would have been my answer five years ago.  I don't know that I recognized her strength, her unwavering, unblinking courage, until very recently.  I don't know how many silent tears were shed under starry skies in solitude, how many times she gnashed her teeth and spat resentful curses at everyone and everything.  I don't know how much she wept alone in dark places away from prying eyes, where she would never have to explain.  But I never saw it even once.

I don't know what comfort, if any, she ever received from me during her hardest times.  I think I'm too shallow, self-centered and self-pitying to have noticed she needed it.  I was "dealing" with my own issues and feelings at the time, and God help me, I don't remember offering her a shoulder to cry on for her own solace.  I failed in every aspect as a husband in that time, and she never spoke a word against me.  She never once held a mirror to my weakness, to my pathetic whining and crying.  She did nothing but shoulder her burden without complaining and go on as best she could.  She never asked me for a single thing during that time, never asked me for a listening ear, never sought my understanding and caring.  She never did anything but be the supportive, loving spouse she's always been, the loving, caring, nurturing mother she's always been, and she was always the loyal, trusted, empathetic friend she's always been.

She is the bravest person I've ever met.

Now, the hideous head of our mottled, tumultuous past has reared again, and there she is, silent and stoic, facing her fears again.  She's doing what she has to do in the face of something that would probably reduce me to a quivering blob of nerves and worry.  Actually, it has done that.  She uttered not a sound, made not one groan of weary anguish.  All she did was sigh, and move on.  All she ever does is move on, and do the best she can.

She is the bravest person I've ever met.  The bravest person I've ever known.

The Home of the Brave?

Yes, I live there.

-JDT-

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