Deadly Decision (5 page)

After stripping off my shirt, I hacked the blade of the hoe into the base of the weeds. My mind wandered to the past twenty-four hours. Grasping the magnitude of what had transpired was beyond me at this point. I had no idea what it all meant, except that I had seen something impossible. My biggest concern was Trina. Could she be in danger from the ghost boys…or something else? I still refused to call them demons.

I looked over my shoulder toward the house. Yellow rays from the sun wrapped the house in serenity. And yet, the tranquility was nothing more than a façade that distorted reality.

I plunged deeply with the hoe. One layer of weeds gone; more behind it. Muscles ached. Sweat ran down my face and stung my eyes. My back felt sunburned.

Behind the next layer of weeds was a small clearing. Leaning on the hoe, I looked at the unexpected garden. Who would plant anything and let weeds the size of Amazons grow around it?

I looked closer. This was where tools had been used, but it wasn't to grow vegetables.

 



 

A crowd gathered out front. Two boys had stopped on the sidewalk when the first cruiser, carrying the investigators for the attic, had pulled into the drive. By the time the second cruiser arrived, the spectators had grown to eight. Lots of excitement for Cashua Street.

Ted and I waited on the front porch. I groaned when the officer unfolded his gangly frame from the cruiser.

“Hey Paul,” shouted one of the bystanders, a boy about fifteen, dressed in a long shirt and pants that belted a foot below his waist. “What's going on? Need any help?”

Officer Studler lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “Hey Travis. Usual stuff. No problem.”

“You might as well tell me. I'll read about it in the paper anyway.”

“Probably right. Where is Mary Frances?” Studler's gaze roamed the small crowd. “Not like her to miss an announcement on the police scanner. She's got to fill up that newspaper of hers.”

“There's a brush fire on Pocket Road. I can take her place.” The boy walked toward the porch.

“Just stay put, Travis. You know what happened last time you tried to tag along.”

“Yah, Travis,” one of the other teens said, “put your nose where it don't belong, and your cousin might shoot it off.”

Ted and I accompanied Officer Studler to the far right hand side of the back yard.

I pointed out the newly exposed six-foot clearing with its ten healthy plants.

“Didn't expect to find marijuana growing in the middle of town,” Officer Studler said. “Especially not at the old Barnett place.”

“How'd they get here?” Ted asked.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing. You live here.”

“You don't think I did it?” Ted's face turned red.

I turned my head, trying to hide the grin that forced its way onto my face. Ted wasn't guilty, but I enjoyed his discomfort.

“Marijuana doesn't grow on its own.” Studler kicked a clump of soil with the toe of his shiny black shoe. “Expect a team to come by to remove the plants. And Mr. Hancock, they better still be here.”

“I didn't…”

“Someone did.”

Ted and I watched as Officer Studler sauntered toward his cruiser.

“It had to be that boy,” I said. “I knew he couldn't be trusted.”

“Mitch?”

“Like the man said, it has to be somebody. Mitch lived here. The hoe and shovel were in the garage. It makes sense.”

Ted stared at the plants, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“What do you know about the kid anyway?” I asked, unwilling to let the subject of Mitch drop like it had the night before. “Where did he come from before he started to work here?”

Ted's face pinched in misery. “I don't know.”

 



 

The next morning I packed to go home. The day was starting to be another sunny, warm one.

Trina cried and clung to me as I headed out to the car. “I'll be back in two weeks.” I shoved a small travel case into the back seat. “We knew this would just be a long weekend.” I wiped tears off Trina's cheeks. “When I come back, I'll be able to stay for the whole summer.”

“Everything's all wrong.” Her hazel eyes lacked focus, like a deer in the headlights on a dark wooded road. “Jimmy's dead, and now drugs on the property. Dad, what's going on?”

“You don't need to worry about either one, honey. The police will handle them. In the meantime, get some rest. You look tired.”

She leaned against my chest. “I am tired.”

“You don't have to do all the work at once. Give yourself a break until I get back.”

“Dad, what about the other ghost?” she asked, her face buried in my shirt, “What if he's hurting Jimmy?”

“Jimmy's safe now.”

“I kept praying he would be found.”

“He has been found, honey.”

“No, not this way.” She pushed me away. “I wanted him to come home, to grow up and live in this house. I don't understand. You always said ghosts don't exist. How can you have seen Jimmy?”

I didn't have an answer. My mind struggled with the same question.

 



 

Internal thoughts distracted me as I headed home. A horn behind me sounded. I moved through the green light. I didn't bother looking for a radio station. Cars zoomed by. I pushed on the accelerator, rolled down the window, and reached for my first swallow from the thermos.

If Ted or Trina had seen the ghosts, would I have believed them?

I stopped for gas. My shoulders itched from the sunburn. Back in the car, I wiggled against the seat, but that made the irritation worse. More coffee.

Officer Studler said street value in Darlington for the small crop of marijuana would be around $5,000. Not a lot of money for a drug lord, but a good stash for a self-user. Someone was having fun, and potentially had been for a long time.

I missed the Interstate 77 turn off. Car horns.

Is there a connection between Jimmy's death and the drugs? How did he die? What about the first ghost boy?

What force brought me to the attic?

 

 

 

 

7

 

“Are you sure you didn't imagine them?”

“The eye bolts and threads were real. I'm not one of your clients, Betsy; I didn't make them up.”

Betsy was my only sister, two years older and light years ahead of me in brainpower. We were sharing our weekly dinner, at Betsy's this time. She had never married, and neither of us dated much. Dinner together was something we looked forward to.

Since getting home from South Carolina three days ago, the ghost boys had constantly been on my mind. I was distracted at work, and other teachers were beginning to ask if I was ill; I didn't offer an explanation. I wouldn't confide in anyone other than Betsy. After all, she was a clinical psychologist. If anyone could help me, she could. But I was unsure how she would react to her baby brother seeing ghosts.

Betsy's face lost its expression, the forgotten forkful of lasagna gripped in her hand. I knew the look; she was processing. I wondered if she morphed into blankness during sessions with her clients. People didn't understand Betsy's odd empty-eye expressions.

When she was in third grade, the principal called Mom to the school because Betsy was daydreaming during class. However, Betsy had been able to repeat everything the teacher had covered that day. Her grades were excellent, and eventually the teacher gave up trying to change her. Now, staring at the familiar blankness on my sister's face, I knew she was thinking about what I had told her.

I kept eating. No sense in the food getting cold. Maybe she would come up with an answer I had overlooked.

Betsy lowered the untouched lasagna to her plate. “So what do you think they were, the ghost boys?”

Shrugging my shoulders, I took a bite of garlic bread and wiped the crumbs from my face. “You know I don't believe that people die and become ghosts; their souls are taken to heaven. But that's the problem; I know whatever was in the attic wasn't evil. Wouldn't I have felt negative vibes?” I took a gulp of coffee. “Did you study this kind of thing in school?”

“Maybe it was exactly what the policeman said. You saw the bolt and your subconscious created the vision of the child chained to the wall.”

“I
know
I didn't see a picture of Jimmy. How much attention do
you
pay to tiny little posters stapled to telephone poles when
you
drive?”

Betsy chuckled. She had been given more than her share of speeding tickets.

“So what do you think? Am I crazy?” I set down my fork. “Maybe I should forget it ever happened.”

“I have never known Bill Iver to imagine anything. You saw
something
in that attic.”

“But what?”

“Have you prayed about it?”

I had prayed, but it felt hypocritical. I was praying for an explanation to something I had been taught not to believe in. “It's not something you pray about.”

“Why not?”

“Come on Bets. You think God wants to hear about me seeing ghosts? ‘Tell me God, did I really see the ghost of a human?'”

“Sarcasm aside, God's the only one who can give you the answers.”

“Ted said something like that, too—that God had a plan. Seems strange to me that God would have a plan involving ghosts.”

“You should listen to your son-in-law once in a while. He's a good man.”

“If he's such a good man, why didn't he see the ghosts instead of me? I don't understand why you like him. He'll never be able to support Trina. You should see that house, Bets—”

“To me, it sounds like it was more Trina's idea than Ted's, but that's not the issue.”

“What's your point?”

“I'm getting to it. You are driving to South Carolina stressing over all this—having to be in the same house with Ted, seeing a historic home which to you say needs a wrecking ball—and your imagination takes over.”

I didn't like the way this conversation was going, but held my tongue.

“Once in Darlington, as you go through the house, you get more and more upset. By the time you get to the attic, you have exceeded your ability to suppress your emotions. So subconsciously, in an attempt to release tension, you create a vision of two ghosts, one dominating, and the other a victim.”

“It wasn't like that, Betsy. They were real.”

“They couldn't be. You
know
that.”

I stared across the table. My own sister didn't believe me.

“It's not unusual for people to play out their anger in fantasy. In a way, it's healthy.”

“So am I crazy?”

“No. But you do need to deal with your anger over Trina marrying a man you don't like.”

“It's not that I don't like him.” I groped for words. “He doesn't have a job. What kind of a man marries a woman without being able to support her?”

“He has a job. He's a self-employed artist.”

“He swishes brushes across a canvas and calls them paintings. Trina painted better than that when she was in first grade.”

Betsy got up from her chair. “Follow me. There's something I want you to see.”

We went to the spare bedroom. On the bed was a square, flat package about 12 by 20 inches, wrapped in brown paper. She loosened the paper and held the object up for me to see.

My eyes widened in surprise. I looked at Betsy, then back to the painting. “Where did you get this?” I reached my hand out and gently touched the frame, hardly daring to believe what I was seeing. In front of me was the one item I had always wanted—a picture of Great Grandpa's old house.

This was not a photograph, but a skillfully done painting. Memories of my youth flashed through my mind, the hours I had spent on the front porch: the swing, the breeze, the feeling that all was right with the world. Amazingly, the artist had captured all of that. I annoyingly rubbed at my misty eyes.

“This was supposed to be your birthday present, but you need it now.”

“I've never seen this before.”

“I had it painted from an old picture. Did you notice the child on the swing? That's you.”

Even though the figure was tiny, I recognized the resemblance, and marveled at the skill it took to recreate a memory.

Betsy looked me straight in the face. “Ted painted this.”

I stared at her, my surprise palpable. The painting not only depicted a scene, it shared an emotion. Few paintings I had seen did this. I looked back at Betsy. “Then why doesn't he paint like this all the time?”

“He does, Bill.”

“No he doesn't. I've seen his paintings. They aren't anything like this. No one's going to buy the junk I just saw in Darlington.”

“Trina told me he already has a contract for those pieces.”

I look again at the picture in my hands. No doubt, it was a masterpiece, at least to me.

“Ted feels God directing his art in another direction, Bill.”

“I don't get it.” There seemed to be a lot of God's direction going on that I didn't understand.

“Churches are changing from what they were in our childhood.” Betsy's eyes softened. “Our society has become more relaxed. Ted feels that if our churches don't follow, we won't be able to attract our young people, and he believes God is directing him to create art for our modern churches.”

Betsy's thoughts about God made Him sound like He actually intervened in small things in our lives. I was living proof that she was wrong. Anger bubbled in my belly. I didn't want to argue with my sister. “God does not care what pictures we put on our church walls, or if we don't put up any at all. God has better things to do with His time, like keep the world from blowing up. Things like that.”