*DISCLAIMER*
If you’re reading this and wondering what the hell it is or why there may be typos and other such issues, please read the books page here for more information.
Everyone else, please enjoy! Chapter 5 will be posted on Saturday, May 9th.
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Chapter Four
Convalescence
i.
As the 737 touched down, Maggie’s stomach dropped. Not from the motion of the plane, but rather from the bittersweet return to her homeland.
It was just after nine in the morning when the plane broke through the clouds and lowered itself over the Atlantic Ocean on it’s approach to Logan International. Maggie could see the streets alive with congestion.
Once she debarked she walked the long trail to the gate entrance and there she saw Dr. Death. A pair of teenage girls, hip-hugger jeans so tight and low Maggie wondered how they’d even gotten them on, standing around him. He was signing autographs from pages torn from a notebook one of the girls had been carrying on her person.
Death was easily enough spotted. He wore a ratty green army coat, a black t-shirt with the imprint of a skull in white, jeans and motorcycle boots. His long, dark hair, usually flowing with dreadlocks was pulled back with an elastic and his scruffy beard worked downward from his sideburns to three or four inches off his chin. Maggie always thought Dr. Death looked more like a biker than a rock star.
When he saw Maggie approach, Death waved the two girls off and offered his friend an arms-wide-open hug. The two teenagers looked back with a distinct expression of jealousy before continuing on their way. He pulled back from the hug, held her at arm’s length and looked her over. It had been more than six months since they’d last seen one another.
“How are you holding up?” He asked with a sincerity in his voice and kindness in his eyes that belied his overall appearance.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said honestly. “I don’t think it’s really settled in on me yet.”
“Come on, let’s go get your bags,” he said and put his strong arm around her as they walked through the main concourse.
It was while they were waiting for her blue suitcase to appear on the luggage track that Maggie finally broke down. Not in great heaving sobs, this was, but rather a quiet shuddering with her face pressed in Death’s army jacket. He held her and let her cry, even though he was sure he’d seen her bag go by. At one point a young man wearing a Dr. Death t-shirt-THE DOCTOR IS IN it read with a picture of a syringe filled with skulls-looked as though he were going to approach them, but Death fixed him with a hard gaze that made the young man change his mind.
When the tears had passed she pulled away from his shoulder and the blood had drained from her face, making it look like a round, white balloon streaked with mascara. A woman standing close by slipped a hand containing tissues between them and smiled, embarrassed by having witnessed such a personal moment, but compassionate enough to intrude.
“Thank you,” Maggie said sheepishly. The woman smiled that smile again and walked off to get her own luggage.
Maggie wiped her eyes and blew her nose and this time when Death thought he saw her bag, he pulled it from the track.
“You did say it was blue, right?”
“Afraid of grabbing the wrong bag?” She chided.
“Look at me? You going to tell me I don’t look like a criminal?”
She laughed. “That’s my bag.”
On the way through the parking garage, she told him repeatedly that she was grateful for the fact that he’d picked her up. She told him it wasn’t necessary for him to drive her all the way to Crescent Bay. He told her that it was his pleasure to do both.
When they reached his Lincoln Navigator, he popped the hatch and placed her luggage in the back. He unlocked the passenger side door electronically, using a small remote on his keychain, but he opened the door for her as she climbed in.
“I thought you’d have a Ferrari or Porsche or some other kind of sports car,” she remarked humorously.
“What makes you think I don’t?” He smiled and closed the door once he was sure she was safely inside.
She took in the interior of the car as he walked around to the passenger side. The vehicle might have been brand new, though it didn’t have that new-car scent. Instead it smelled clean and bright and was spotless inside. A leather strap studded with metal skulls hung from the rear view mirror. Other than that, the car looked as though it could belong to an obsessively clean soccer mom.
Death climbed in and started the engine.
“Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” She asked one last time.
He just smiled, backed the oversized car from the parking spot and began the drive to Crescent Bay.
ii.
Denise Scarpagio had been told by the nightshift manager to pay no attention to the man waiting in room twenty-nine. The man was waiting for Brendan Lowes to wake up, as he had important business to discuss. Denise supposed there was some official truth to what she’d been told. She’d read the reports before her 6AM shift had started and of course there were two bodies in the trauma center’s morgue to testify to the seriousness of those reports.
She might have heeded the nightshift manager’s orders if not for the man himself. There was a smugness in his demeanor and an arrogance in the way that he watched her work. His beady eyes reminded her of a rodent, and Denise despised rodents. He sat in the guest chair, his suit perfectly creased, his feet flat on the hard, antiseptic floor. In his narrow lap a thick briefcase lay and he rested his long-fingered hand, folded together, on top of it. Most of his hair was dark, almost black but the stuff at his temples was going gray. On most men his age, such a look would be seen as aristocratic, on this man Denise thought, it only looked like the stripes in a fur-bearing creature. All he was missing, she thought was whiskers and a long pink tail.
He watched her take Brendan’s pulse. He watched her check Brendan’s IV. He watched her examine Brendan’s leg, which was elevated with a series of straps. Finally, she could take no more and the nightshift manager be damned.
“Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?” She asked the man coldly.
“I am,” he said. That smug quality, she was not surprised was in his voice as well as his appearance.
“Shouldn’t the police be the first to talk with this young man? Are you a police officer?”
“I’m not.”
“Are you related to the patient?”
“I’m not.” The man grinned a bit, showing clean and even teeth.
“Well then,” she said a bit huffily. “I’ll ask you again. Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”
The man’s grin widened as he considered her question and the woman herself.
“Perhaps you should attend to your own business, and let me attend to mine.” Though the man’s grinned was maintained, there was no humor in his face, especially his eyes. They were cold hard nuggets of granite, emotionless and empty. Denise shivered, though she had hoped the man didn’t notice.
She wanted to enforce her prerogative and have the man wait outside in the main waiting room. He didn’t belong there and they both knew it. But there was something about this individual that scared her. At first she was convinced that she didn’t know why. Then it came to her in a great wave of certainty. If she were drowning, going down for the last time and he was there on the edge of the pool, he’d only watch. She’s reach out her hand, desperate with her final lungful of air and he’d just stand there, grinning that grin and keeping his very expensive suit dry. The last thing she’d see as the water covered her open eyes, as the lungs tried with dying desperation to hold onto the last oxygen they would ever have, would be those heartless granite eyes.
The most she could will herself to do was scowl at him as she left room twenty-nine. Unless there was an emergency, she reasoned, she would not go back in. Not as long as that man was present.
Austin Ledbetter watched the nurse go. He took her parting scowl and dismissed it for what it was. A vain attempt at some sense of control. It was something he’d gotten used to long ago. For the most part, when their will was pushed aside, people were petulant and childish.
He lightly drummed his fingers on the briefcase and looked out at the sunny day. The large window took up most of the opposite wall and he hoped the sun would stir the man he’d come to see. It was a beautiful morning for a round of golf and he had no interest in wasting it in the drab hospital room. He hated most things about Crescent Bay. The tourists and the chumminess of the locals were first on his list, but the Sarasin estate held a lovely eighteen-hole course and he could spend what remained of the morning by himself, once this business was done.
Ledbetter looked at the young man on the bed. There was nothing special about him, save his luck. He lay on the bed with only his leg having sustained major damage. There were a few bruises on his neck and face, the usual compliments of a car accident. His client’s grandson had barely been in one piece and it was likely going to be a closed casket funeral, no matter how much money the old man threw at it.
None of that bothered him in the least however. With Danny Sarasin gone and Danny’s parents killed in that suspicious yacht explosion-here Ledbetter smiled to himself-there was no one else to inherit the Sarasin fortune. So why not give it to a trusted companion? With Danny out of the way, Ledbetter’s workdays would be less stressful as well. No more clandestine visits and sizable checks to cover whatever trouble he caused. Danny’s days of causing trouble were over.
The young man on the bed began to stir and Ledbetter watched him intently. The eyes fluttered open, took a moment to focus and then the head turned first left, toward the sunny window he didn’t recognize and then to the man sitting at his right, also unrecognized.
At first, Brendan remembered nothing of the night before. The bright sunlight made his eyes ache and he blinked them repeatedly against the attack. Slowly they adapted to the light and focused on the drop ceiling above him. Images from the night before began to filter into his waking mind. It all caught up with him. The jolt of the crash. The clicking monster. The kind police officer. Then there was the view of fluorescent overhead lights as he was wheeled into the hospital with anxious faces peering down at him. There was the cold as his clothes were cut away and finally the nothingness of anesthesia.
Brendan’s mouth may have been dry but until he looked down and saw his leg, he hadn’t noticed. When he saw the metal pins, the gauze and the drainage tube, it suddenly felt as though his breath were dust. He moved the fuzzy caterpillar of his tongue against the dry roof of his mouth and when it came away, there was a clicking sound. Brendan immediately winced and looked for water. There was some, at least he thought the plastic pitcher on the small-wheeled table should contain water. There was a clear plastic cup beside the pitcher and in the background an older man with a severe looking face that seemed to be watching him with controlled amusement.
Brendan tried to ask the man who he was, but his throat was closed and swollen dry. Instead he reached for the pitcher which was just out of his range. It might have been set that way by the hospital staff so Brendan didn’t strike it if his arms flailed in his sleep. Or this man could have pulled it just out of arm’s length for the comic value. After a moment, the man stood and walked to the table. He was a very tall man and there wasn’t the slightest sign of a crease in his suit.
The man poured a glass of water and handed it to Brendan who took it in a shaky hand and downed the room-temperature water in a single gulp. It wasn’t enough to give the relief he needed so Brendan handed the glass back to the man and nodded to the pitcher. The man’s expression darkened a bit, but he poured Brendan a second glass of water.
When the second round of water was down his throat, Brendan laid his head back on the pillow, closed his eyes and found his voice.
“Who are you?” Brendan asked, his eyes still closed. The damned sunlight was still biting into his vision and the man’s stern face was nothing Brendan wanted to focus on.
“My name is Austin Ledbetter.”
“Do I know you?”
“No. We’ve never met before this moment.”
“Then you’ll have to pardon me if I seem rude, but what are you doing here?”
“Ah,” Ledbetter said, an air of good humor in his voice. “A man who likes to get right to the point. I like that.”
Brendan opened his eyes and looked into Ledbetter’s face, but although there’d been a touch of humor in the man’s voice, there was none showing in his eyes.
“I represent Mr. Edgar Sarasin.” Ledbetter waited for any expression from Brendan that the name he’d just dropped carried any weight. When it didn’t, he continued. “Mr. Sarasin’s grandson was the other car involved in the incident last evening.”
That got the response from Brendan that Ledbetter failed to achieve with dropping Sarasin’s name. Brendan’s car had been struck by Danny Sarasin, Edgar Sarasin’s only living relative and heir to the Sarasin throne. The man in front of him, this Austin Ledbetter was no doubt an attorney there to offer Brendan a financial settlement before any thought of a trial and a potential damaging of the Sarasin name could be initiated. Brendan studied Ledbetter’s cool demeanor, eager to hear more.
“I’m curious Mr. Lowes. I wonder, do you remember the events of last evening?”
“I remember some,” Brendan answered warily. He didn’t want to say too much to this lawyer. Not about what he remembered or what he might have been doing or thinking at the time of the accident. Brendan wanted to give this man no leverage to use against him.
“Well there is some question as to who struck whom,” Ledbetter lied.
Brendan’s jaw hung slack and his face paled.
“Not on my end, of course,” Ledbetter spoke truthfully. “I know it was Danny Sarasin who smashed into you in that intersection.”
“You do?” Brendan asked, now completely confused.
“Absolutely. You see, I’ve been cleaning up Danny’s messes for longer than I care to realize. The rumors you’ve no doubt heard at the local markets had more truth than fiction. Still, I represent Danny’s grandfather, an old and sickly man who has no wish, in the last year or two of his life, to have his grandson’s name dragged through the mud, so to speak.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Brendan said, aware that he was losing any sense of direction or power in the situation.
“Of course not. I suppose I’m not making sense.” Ledbetter flashed Brendan a smile then. It was meant to be disarming. The small, flat and perfectly even teeth seemed to remind Brendan of a well-concealed shark mouth hiding just beyond the perfection and supposed benevolence. “My client would like to make you an offer. Perhaps the most important offer he will make before shuffling off this mortal coil.”
Mortal coil? Brendan thought. Who talked that way?
“What offer is that?” Brendan asked, his mind sharply expectant.
“Mr. Sarasin wondered if you might be so kind as to take responsibility for the event that took place last evening.”
“Responsibility?”
“Yes, in a rather public manner,” Ledbetter said and flashed that hidden shark smile once more.
Brendan was stuck somewhere between, “What the fuck?” and “Go piss up a rope!” when Ledbetter’s fingers magically produced a long, rectangular piece of paper. It was a check and Brendan squinted to certify that his light-wounded eyes weren’t playing high jinks.
“Of course my client is an exceptionally generous man and understands the considerable discomfort such an act of charity. Can you read the check clearly?”
“It looks like three quarters of a million dollars.”
“It is three quarters of a million dollars. A number we feel is fair for what you may experience.”
Brendan didn’t want to think of life with that kind of money, he couldn’t stop his mind from some strong imaginings. Afraid he was going to make a mistake of emotion or ill-thought, he asked, “Might I have a day or two to think about it?”
The good humor, whether real or counterfeit disappeared straight away.
“Well now, Mr. Lowes. I can understand that you may want to think things through, but in reality there is very little time before the public forms its own opinions, even if we were able to hold back the story from the local press.”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult, doesn’t Mr. Sarasin own the Gazette?”
“Nevertheless, the court of public opinion of which we’ve all been a party to at one time or another, will come to judgment and then your choice will have no purpose.”
“I’d still like a little time, Mr. Ledbetter,” Brendan said a little tightly.
“Fine,” Ledbetter snapped and the check disappeared into one of his suit pockets. “Just don’t take too long, Mr. Lowes. And please don’t insult yourself or my client by attempting to hold out for more money. We’ve already identified this as an ample and fair amount, given your current financial affairs.”
Ledbetter reached to get his briefcase.
“You got into my finances?” Brendan found himself in an uncomfortable sense of awe and not for the first time in that conversation.
Ledbetter carried on as though Brendan hadn’t spoken. At the door though, he was caught by surprise by Crescent Bay’s Chief of Police. Ledbetter took a momentary step backward as he met Chapman Carter’s curious gaze. The moment was no longer than a flash of faraway lightning and then Ledbetter regained his composure and moved toward the door which Chapman held open for him.
When the door was closed, Chapman hooked his thumb over his shoulder and asked, “Who was that guy?”
“His name’s Ledbetter?”
“Really?” Chapman Carter seemed genuinely surprised. “The Austin Ledbetter eh? Interesting. What did he want?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you?”
“Try me.”
iii.
In the night, sometime after Alexa had left him alone, Wilson kicked the heavy comforter from the bed. By the morning though, the air conditioning made his skin into gooseflesh and he woke up shivering. The room was dark, as Alexa preferred it and Wilson bumped his shin against a dresser on his way to the bathroom. Once the needs of his bladder had been addressed, he pulled a robe-Alexa kept a number of larger robes for overnight guests-over his shoulders and set out to find his sometime companion.
Wilson found her on a sofa in the den. She slept, one leg dangling from the couch and her robe had fallen open. Wilson found nothing attractive about the vision, though. The nearly naked woman before him seemed tragic. Her pale face was interrupted by dark circles beneath her puffy eyes. Her black hair was a tangle of snakes attempting escape from every direction. Even her breasts, which had seemed so plump and alive the night before now looked forlorn and deflated. This was the morning after and as usual, Wilson felt nothing but a sickening regret. Sex with Alexa was perhaps the best he’d ever known. He was guaranteed at least three orgasms, which was two more than what he usually found with bedroom playmates. The morning after with Alexa was always less than appealing.
“Hey,” he said softly and shook her shoulder. Alexa’s head lolled to the left and drool slipped from her open lips. Her skin felt cold and damp and suddenly Wilson began to worry. Had she died in her sleep? Had she drunk herself into a coma? Wilson knew Alexa’s indulgences probably better than anyone and the idea that she’d drunk herself to death or close by was not out of the question.
“Alexa!” He called, shaking her a little more vigorously but could not rouse her. Panic began to creep into his belly and it was like slush, all heavy and cold. What would he do if she were dying? If he called for help he might be somehow implicated in her condition, and if not, his evening whereabouts would certainly be made public. Alexa was Wilson’s guilty secret. If his parents discovered he’d been sleeping with the Vallencourt girl, his financial well being might take a severe blow. But could he leave her there to die?
“Alexa!” He called once more, though angrily this time. She’d really put him in a disagreeable situation. Then he slapped her, a solid smack which left his fingers stinging. The imprint of his weapon began to display on her cheek and the panic in his belly grew thicker. Wilson had made the conscious decision to leave Alexa and the Vallencourt estate in the dust of his BMW when she opened her eyes. All at once Wilson felt decrepit and childish for his thoughts and out of gratitude went to his knees next to her.
“Oh thank God! I thought you were in a coma or something,” he said to her. She said nothing in return. Her eyes seemed out of focus but a gentle smile came across her lips. Then a vicious torrent of vomit shot through them.
Wilson’s eyes widened with surprise and he turned his head but not quickly enough to avoid hot ejection. He felt it strike the side of his face and grit his teeth behind his tightly pursed lips. He heard Alexa gag and sat stiff and solid, afraid any movement might cause an avenue of entrance for the slimy acidic stuff that had so recently been in Alexa’s stomach. The second and third retch sent stuff on the body of the robe he wore and then as quickly as it had started, the vomiting quit.
Wilson wiped stuff from the side of his face with a hand and turned to glare at Alexa. To his horror and amazement, she was smiling at him. Smiling by God!
“What the fuck are you smiling about?” He asked her angrily.
Alexa’s smile didn’t vanish at the ire in Wilson’s voice. In fact, a giggle began to accompany the smile.
“Stop it!” Wilson yelled.
Alexa continued to giggle. Between the anger and the stink of vomit, Wilson had reached his thin threshold of violence and with no further thought bunched up a fist and planted it into Alexa’s grin. Blood splashed across his knuckles as her lips broke open. For just a moment Wilson’s anger held fast, but when he pulled his bloody fist back fear overwhelmed him. Alexa was still grinning and Alexa was still giggling.
“You’re fucked up,” he said in a hushed and nervous voice. “There’s something wrong with you.”
With that Wilson ran upstairs to clean his face and dress, the sound of Alexa’s giggling chasing him up the stairs like a ghost.
iv.
Brendan feigned exhaustion to expedite Chapman’s leave. He liked the old man well enough, but it was the news that he brought with him that shattered Brendan’s heart like glass.
Once Chapman was gone and the door behind him closed, Brendan rolled his head into the pillow, burying his mouth and screamed like a damned man. With each breath came a fresh cry and this continued until his throat felt raw and his physical strength began to wane.
The clicking monster in the mist, the creature he had so wished would die rather than reach out for him again had been Rachel Flowers. Sweet little Rachel who had helped her father cut and wrap flowers to order in their little florist shop on Asylum Street. Brendan had practically seen the girl grow up from a bright-eyed little girl to a lovely young woman, round and firm in all the right places. Even as a woman of eighteen, Rachel had still been bright-eyed. The idea that such a beautiful girl could be reduced to the travesty he’d seen the night before seemed a sacrilege; a crime against both humanity and God.
Brendan thought of poor Bill Flowers, who had once lost his first wife in a car accident. And now his daughter. Fate just seemed to pick on some folks and it sickened Brendan that he’d been part of destiny’s little play. He ached for Bill and for Rachel. He also ached for himself.
When an authentic exhaustion sought him out, Brendan welcomed it and slipped away on its uneasy waves.
v.
Brendan was aware of another presence in the room even before opening his eyes. He prayed it wasn’t Ledbetter. Gingerly he opened his eyes. The shade to his room had been closed and Brendan got the idea that it was after dark. He silently held his breath and turned toward the chair. That breath came out as a choked cough.
“Well hello there,” Maggie said rather graciously.
“Hi,” Brendan answered and unexpectedly broke into tears.
Maggie put down the thick block of paper she’d been holding and went to him. She cradled his head gently against her soft brown hair and wiped the tears from his cheeks as they ran. She stayed silent until Brendan’s tears subsided.
“What are you doing here?” Brendan asked.
“I got a call from the Trauma Center. I’m still on your emergency contact information. You always were a procrastinator when it came to paperwork.”
“Yes, I am,” Brendan said with a wry smile. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” Maggie answered sincerely. “I might not have known otherwise and if anything had happened to you, I’d have been lost.”
“Something did happen to me,” he said dryly.
“You know what I mean,” and then Maggie’s eyes began to well up.
“Hey there, don’t cry. I did know what you meant. I was just feeling sorry for myself for a second there.”
“Okay,” she said and dabbed her large brown eyes with a tissue. It had been a long while since Brendan had seen his ex-wife and she looked a little older, shorter and even a bit heavier than he remembered. It never failed to bewilder him how the memory fictionalized those who left us behind. There was Maggie before him looking more human than he could have possible dreamed. It was a strange relief to him.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?”
“I think so.” After a glass of water Brendan told Maggie about the trip to Dunkin Donuts and the subsequent accident. And for good measure, he threw in the bits about Sarasin’s lawyer and Chapman’s revelation of Rachel Flowers’ death. When he’d finished Maggie sat stone still for a long while without saying anything.
“You okay?” Brendan asked finally.
“I think so,” she answered. “It’s just all so overwhelming.”
“Tell me about it,” Brendan said bitterly.
“What are you going to do about the lawyer?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Did the guy even tell you he was a lawyer?”
Brendan thought about it for a moment as a blush crept over his face. “Not actually. I just assumed.”
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “He probably was. But really, what can you do?”
“It’s a lot of money, but what will happen to me here? People won’t be very friendly to me afterward. Most of Crescent Bay loves Bill and his family and there’s a fair amount that would be pissy about me killing off the heir to the town.”
“I honestly don’t believe the money was to keep you here in Crescent Bay. I pretty much think it was for the opposite.”
Surprisingly, that was something Brendan hadn’t considered.
“Leave Crescent Bay,” he said quietly.
“I know how that must settle with you, but there’s a big world out there Brendan.”
“Are you saying I should take the money and the blame?”
“Not at all. I just want you to realize that leaving Crescent Bay isn’t a death sentence. It’s not like being exiled from ancient Rome and having to scrape out a survival in the wilderness.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” She asked. “Because you don’t act like it.”
“This is where I was born. I love this town.”
“I know you do,” she said softly. “And I have to say, my honest opinion is to tell Ledbetter and the Sarasins that you feel badly for their lost but to go and shit in their hat.”
Brendan laughed at that until his leg began to throb.
“I always could make you laugh,” Maggie said happily.
“Yes you could.”
A moment later, over the intercom came the announcement that visiting hours were over.
“Well, I guess that’s my cue,” Maggie said and stood. She reached for her purse and the block of paper she’d been holding.
“Will I see you again?” Brendan asked, a touch of panic in his voice.
“Of course, silly. I’m staying at your house.”
“My house? Oh, you still have the keys?”
“Yup. Never took em’ off my key ring,” she answered with a smile.
“Well no ordering porn channels on my cable bill.”
“No worries. I’ve got something far more interesting to occupy my time,” she said waving the paper in her hand.
“What’s that?”
“Your manuscript.”
“Oh crap,” Brendan said woefully.
“Oh stop being like that. It’s very good.”
“Yeah?”
“So far anyway. I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said with a smirk.
“You do that. And Maggie, thanks so much for coming so far. I truly appreciate it.”
Maggie just looked at Brendan and smiled as she pulled the door open.
“Oh,” she said sticking her head back into the room. “You had a call while I was at the house earlier today. From a woman named Cara.” Maggie winked at Brendan. “You keeping secrets from me?”
“No,” Brendan answered uncertainly.
“Well at first she seemed a little put off that a woman answered your phone, which is a girl’s first clue that she likes you. Secondly, she damned near burst into tears when I told her about your accident. I’d expect a visit from her soon.”
Maggie departed then, leaving Brendan with warm thoughts of the woman he’d not thought of since Danny Sarasin’s Corvette plowed into him at the Asylum Street intersection.
vi.
The drive to the Crescent Bay Wreckage Yard took nearly twenty minutes and was one of the longest drives to anywhere in the town. Edgar Sarasin had wanted it as far away from the tourist eye as geographically possible. From downtown, Chapman Carter drove west along Asylum Street to Fisher Street and then north along Marsh Road. Ten minutes on Marsh Road brought him to the narrow, unpaved Castaways Lane. Crescent Bay Wreckage Yard was the only establishment on the road, a large lot of junked cars surrounded by a ten-foot barbed wire fence. Most of the items were largely useless with the exception of some heavy equipment, which the yard protected with the barbed wire and a German shepherd named Ripper.
Chapman pulled his police car up to the locked gate of the yard and honked the horn. Immediately there was an eruption of barking and shortly thereafter Ripper was at the gate, teeth bared and a flesh-eating intention in his eyes. Chapman honked the car horn once more and leaned his head out the window.
“Ripper! Shut the fuck up!” The voice belonged to Jim O’ Riley. A few moments later the man appeared wearing only construction boots and cut-off denim shorts. His large stomach hung like a slab over the waistline. He stopped when he saw the police car at the gate.
“Whaddaywant?”
“Just open the damned gate,” Chapman called back in agitation. “And get the dog locked up for Christ’s sake!”
O’ Riley looked over his shoulder for a moment as though he needed to confer about his decision and then pulled a large keychain from his pocket and approached the gate.
“Get out of here, Ripper,” he said as he tried to work a key into the padlock. Ripper jumped up and in his excitement knocked the keys out of O’ Riley’s hand. “Fuck!” The man cried and gave a swift kick to the dog’s ass which sent the animal whining off into the mess of stacked, crushed cars. Finally O’ Riley got the gate open and Chapman drove through and up to the old trailer that passed for the main office.
O’ Riley met him there, huffing and puffing from the short run. Chapman watched him, quietly amused. There were stereotypes for a reason, he supposed.
“So now you’re in,” O’ Riley said crabbily. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to take a look at the cars from the crash.”
“What crash?”
Chapman looked sternly at the man, making sure that he expressed his one-hundred-percent-not-amused glare.
“From the other night?” O’ Riley asked after Chapman said nothing. “They’re not here.”
“Well where the hell are they?” The tension which had held a firm grip on Chapman’s stomach on the drive to the wreckage yard jumped up a notch.
“Well … they’re gone. Crushed and sold for scrap.”
“What the hell are you talking about. They’re evidence in a traffic fatality.”
O’ Riley only shrugged and didn’t meet Chapman’s gaze.
“And the rest of these junks? They haven’t been sold for scrap. Why those two vehicles? Why were they sold in such a hurry?”
Again, O’ Riley shrugged.
“Who told you to do this?” Chapman hadn’t expected an answer and was not disappointed.
“Jim,” Chapman said in his most serious tone. “Please put your hands against the trailer.”
O’ Riley didn’t move at first but when he saw Chapman’s hand move to the butt of his Smith & Wesson 4506-1 pistol-standard police issue for Crescent Bay-O’ Riley’s palms went quickly and flatly against the side of the trailer. Chapman patted large man’s pockets and came away with a large pocket knife but nothing more. Chapman put the knife in his own back pocket.
“Put your left hand behind your back please.”
“Come on Carter, what are you doing here?” O’ Riley asked but put his hand behind his back. He expected his right hand to be snapped into the handcuffs like his left had been, but that didn’t come.
“Where’s your partner?” Chapman asked.
O’ Riley nodded toward the trailer. Chapman guided O’ Riley away from the trailer turned him toward the door.
“Call him out,” Chapman said.
O’Riley did as he was told and Two Scoops appeared on the trailer steps. He took one look at the police car and stood stone still.
“Come on down,” Chapman said.
Two Scoops snapped his head around to see his partner and the Chief of Police standing to his right. Without warning, Two Scoops broke into a run.
“Yeah! Go!” O’ Riley screamed after his partner. Chapman gave O’ Riley a shot to the back of his head with a closed fist and fired a single warning shot into the air. It was against regulations to do so, but Chapman’s point was made. Two Scoops stopped running.
“Come on back,” Chapman said waving the pistol in their direction.
Two Scoops’ shoulders slumped as he slowly walked toward Chapman. He locked the other end of the handcuffs around Two Scoops’ thin wrist. He didn’t bother to pat the second man down and put them quickly into the back of the police car.
“You’re crazy man,” Two Scoops said. “We’re protected. You’re gonna find out the hard way.”
Two Scoops continued to bray and threaten until Chapman stopped hard for an imaginary squirrel he saw crossing the road. The two men in back found their faces pressed into the steel grill that separated the front and back seats. After that, the ride to Crescent Bay Police Station was a quiet one.
Copyright Notice: Online; A Ghost Story (First Draft) ©2007 by Stefan Bourque. All rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of U.S. copyright law, and it may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that this entire notice, including copyright information, is carried and provided that Stefan Bourque is notified and no fee is charged for access. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires consent of Stefan Bourque.