Summer Shadows (28 page)

Dylan half turned, then lost his footing and fell to the ground with a wail. He swore, and Ron glanced at him before looking at the window again.

The face was gone, but a white circle played about the panes in its place, a fog left from someone breathing on the glass. Through a haze of fear, Ron recognized this, and a different sort of fear took root.

He ran to Dylan’s side and grabbed the boy’s arm.

“Come on, come
on
!”

“Wait, ow, my ankle! Dude, stop pulling! What’s the matter?” Dylan yanked his arm out of Ron’s grasp, but Ron grabbed it again.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Call the others, call them right now! Move!”

“We’re not leaving until I catch that ghost on film!” he snapped. “Fine time to lose your nerve.”

“There isn’t any ghost!”

“Shut up, Ron…”

“It’s a guy, Dylan, a man, a person! Let’s get out of here before he comes at us…”

Then they heard the shot.

As soon as Julia was out of sight of the kids, her fears came swarming back. The entry was dark, the air oppressive - even the dampness seemed ominous. She slowly put the key back into her purse and stepped into the kitchen without flipping on the light. In the gloom, it was difficult to see; but the room was as she left it, right down to the van keys on the counter.

But something was wrong. She could feel it. As she stood there, trying to calm her racing pulse, she heard something.

It was faint - a murmur, almost. If it was daytime and the room was flooded with light, it probably would sound normal. Tonight, it was enough to stop her heart in her throat and make her break out in a cold sweat.

Moving quietly, she went over to the counter and felt along the edge until she found the knife drawer. She opened it carefully and felt around until her fingers wrapped around the handle of a steak knife. It had a short, dull blade, but it was better than nothing.

Leaving the drawer open, she tiptoed into the hallway. Light spilled from the back bedroom and she realized that the light was wrong – it was too little to be the ceiling light and she had no lamps in there. It had to be coming from a flashlight. One that was resting on its side, perhaps, and there was no way she would have left one of those on without remembering it.

A shadowy figure crossed briefly in front of the light. She almost dropped the knife.

Oh my God! If I move, he’ll hear me…

Looking around frantically, she noticed that someone had stacked her laptop along with their CDs and DVDs in a pile near the office doorway, preparing for a quick getaway, perhaps. But what were they doing in the back bedroom? There was nothing in there but painting supplies and tarp.

She heard a creaking sound, like nails being pried up out of wood. It was a bone-chilling sound under the circumstances, but she realized that, if he was prying up floorboards, he didn’t think anything was wrong. She could slip out undetected. She took a step back.

There was another creak and then the sound of wood splintering. She heard a mumbled curse, and then an irritated, “Come on…”

The voice… She almost recognized it.

What could be under the floorboards? Without realizing it, she found herself moving quietly back toward the bedroom to take a look. If he was tearing things up, he would not be paying attention to possible intruders.

Ignoring the screaming warnings in her head, Julia crept forward, step by step, until she was at the doorway and could peer around the corner. Clenching the knife, she could see a bulky shadow crouched on the floor. The intruder was grunting as he struggled with something.

The rug was pulled back. A few of the floorboards were pried up, and the pry bar laid next to them. A flashlight lay on its side on the ladder, shining on the work in progress. The rest of the room was in darkness.

The intruder shifted suddenly, in response to the sudden hum of a cell phone. Quietly cursing, he stood and pulled the cell phone out of his pocket. He sounded exasperated as he hissed, “
What
?” into the speaker.

Julia pulled back, her heart pounding. She’d heard that voice before. If she could just catch a glimpse of his face... She waited a moment, then slowly leaned in again until she could see him. He was standing, looking at something in his hands. He was of medium height and build, but his face was in shadow and there was nothing else distinguishable.

He swore again and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He grabbed the flashlight and the pry bar next to it and whipped the light around. It caught Julia’s half exposed face.

Julia didn’t stop to think or to negotiate. She turned and ran.

Get out! Get out!

She heard him following her and panicked, thinking that his hands were inches away from her.

Something caught her foot and yanked. She fell blindly, dropping the knife as she hit the ground hard, losing her breath.

He stepped on her hand, and then something fell on her head, hard. She was lost in a swirling sea of stars, struggling to stay afloat in a liquid darkness.

She heard someone scream. It might have been her.

Far away, a door slammed. Dana screamed, a shot rang out, and panic gripped Julia. She fought desperately but she couldn’t hold off the dark tide. She saw nothing more.

39

A
t first, Ron thought it was a car backfiring. It happened all the time back in Springfield, where the neighbors were always working on old junkers that they like to call “classic cars”. But this wasn’t Springfield, and this wasn’t a car.

The sound ricocheted around them, making it impossible to tell which direction it came from or even from how far.

Ron’s attention was quickly captured by another sound: from the other side of the house, he could hear scuffling, grunts, and what sounded like someone prying wood.

“What was that?” Dylan said, in a small voice.

Ron, with his head cocked to one side, said, “George and Mac…” He jumped up. “They don’t know about the guy!”

“Wait!” Dylan shouted, but Ron was already rounding the back corner of the house.

A second shot sounded.

This time, there was no mistaking it. It was close by, maybe even from inside the house. Ron skidded to a halt and listened.

His legs were rubbery. He found his feet, and he started to run, to get to the others before anyone was hurt.

Behind him came an explosion, and the backdoor burst open.

He whirled around and froze. The tall figure on the porch had an enormous sack slung over one shoulder and held something in his free hand, something small and metallic.

A gun!

Ron made a small sound, and the figure turned to him for a second, then jumped off the porch and raced through the backyard, coming to a stop at the fence. He threw the heavy sack over the fence into the trees, then made a move to climb over.

Without thinking, Ron took off after him. The figure was halfway up when he got there. Ron grabbed hold of a leg and yanked. The figure shouted in surprise and nearly fell, but grasped the top of the fence. He tried to kick the boy off, but Ron held on tight. He was thrown against the fencing again and again, losing his breath and bruising his side.

“Guys! Help!”

The boys spotted him and came running, Dylan lingering behind.

The man spotted the boys. He thrust downward with a vicious kick that caught Ron on the cheek and mouth.

He saw stars. He tasted metal and he fell, blindly, into the moist tangle of weeds on the ground below. His side landed on a rock, knocking what little remained of his breath out of him. Through the tears, he saw the man pull himself nimbly over the fence. Then the figure was gone, and George crashed into the wooden wall above where Ron lay.

Dylan was there, too, grabbing George’s arm.

“
Are you insane?
” he screamed. “Let him go!”

Mac took the flashlight out of Dylan’s hands and shone it through the gaps to the woods beyond.

“Let’s get back,” Dylan said suddenly. “He might come back.”

“Geez,” George whispered. “Good thing he took off. We could have been in real trouble.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Mac said, tossing away the stick. “Nice ghost you got here, Dylan. I didn’t know they were able to kick people around like that.”

“Let’s get out of here.” Dylan was already moving toward the house. “He’s probably a criminal hiding from the law.”

“We almost caught him, too,” George said, disappointed.

“We almost got killed,” Dylan whispered. “Let’s get out of here.” He was acting far differently from the way he had when he thought that there was only a ghost.

Mac crouched down beside Ron.

“Are you okay, Ron?”

Ron nodded, but the movement hurt. “My mouth,” he muttered thickly. His head throbbed, and he wouldn’t unclench his teeth for fear that they would fall out. He tried to lift himself up, but it was painful, and he fell back again with a groan.

George leaned over him, his expression difficult to make out in the gloom. “Dude, can you move?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron muttered, forcing his mouth to move. It hurt, but not nearly as much as he had anticipated. He carefully propped himself up, and this time there were extra hands to help him.

Dylan bounced on his toes a few yards away. “Hurry,” he said, panic raising his tone again. “Come on, he might be coming back.”

“Dude, chill,” George snapped. “Ron’s hurt. Come give us a hand, will you?”

Dylan took an unwilling step closer. The two other boys hefted Ron onto his feet and propelled him along through the yard towards the back porch.

As they reached the back door, George said, “Let’s take him inside.”

“What?” Mac squeaked. “Are you crazy?”

“Dude, Ron can’t go too far as he is and, if we’re inside, we’ll be able to hear the guy if he breaks in. Besides, I really want to see.”

They stared at him incredulously.

Ron shrugged off their hold on him and leaned himself against the wall. His mouth was starting to throb and he wished that they would stop arguing.

“Aren’t we going to call the police?” Mac insisted. “That guy beat up Ron.”

“We can’t. We were trespassing,” Dylan said. He was shaking like a leaf, and Ron wondered if there was something actually wrong with him. “Look, if they find us like this, they aren’t going to believe another guy was here. They’re gonna think we beat up Ron ourselves.”

“Unless we find the bullet holes,” Ron croaked.

“What bullet holes?” Mac asked.

“Wasn’t he shooting at you?”

“Shooting? No! Those came from down the street somewhere.”

Ron winced. “He was holding a gun.”

“That was a phone,” George said. “We saw him making a call just before he ran to the window in the other room.”

“That’s when George had the brilliant idea to try to break in while he was out of sight,” Mac sighed. “Great idea, George. Never listen to a jock. Anyway, the upshot of it is, we found a squatter who beat up on Ron then took off. I think we should call the police and let them handle it.”

“No,” Dylan insisted. “Not without proof.”

“Fine,” George said. “Then let’s go get some proof.”

He wrenched open the back door and stepped into the inky blackness. Mac groaned and followed with the flashlight.

Dylan hesitated, looking to Ron for guidance.

Ron found the phone number he was looking for and called it, but the call went directly to voice mail: “This is Robert Wilde. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get right back to you.”

Ron said, “Hi, um, Officer Wilde, this is Ron. Not an emergency, just wanted to talk to you. All right, um, talk to you later.”

He hung up and faced Dylan’s disapproving stare.

“You call the cop?” he demanded.

Ron drew himself up and off of the wall to stand toe to toe with the taller boy. For once, he didn’t feel intimidated. Dylan had cowered in the shadows, refusing to help a wounded friend, and now didn’t want to do the right thing by reporting this to the authorities. Ron couldn’t believe that he had been so foolish as to follow him.

His voice dripped with contempt as he replied, “Well, doing it your way hasn’t really worked, has it?”

Before Dylan could overcome his surprise enough to respond, they heard George shout, “Guys! You’ve got to see this!”

With a look of disgust, Ron went inside.

He found himself in a shadowy room that he thought was a kitchen. The floor was hard beneath his sneakers, and it smelled of mildew. The only light came from Mac’s flashlight in the other room. Walking carefully, his hands out in front of him, he followed it until he joined the boys in what appeared to be a living room.

Mac was in the middle of the room, shining his flashlight on George, who looked out another door into what Ron assumed was the entryway.

When Ron appeared in the doorway, Mac dropped the flashlight beam to the floor. “Look,” he said, grimly. “Proof.”

There were fast food wrappers, a pile of blankets, unopened cans of beans, a knife, and some musty old pillows. A messy pile of newspapers spread out near the kitchen doorway where Ron stood, and some clippings were tacked to the wall.

Ron shivered, then jumped when another beam of light appeared from behind him, and joined Mac’s playing out on the floor. Apparently, Dylan had recovered somewhat.

Moving the light around quickly, his voice trembled as he asked, “What is this?”

“It’s an incident room,” Ron said grimly.

George snapped his fingers and stepped into the circle of light. “
That’s
the word,” he said. “That’s what I was trying to think of. Incident room.”

“Incident room?” Dylan asked.

“Someone was researching something,” Mac said. “See the clippings on the wall?”

Dylan flashed his light over the clippings as he and Ron leaned in. One of them was an article about the Mones and their museum, another was of a painting of Stephanie Lang’s. The third was not really a clipping, but a copy of one that had been carefully cut out. There were a few other pins pulled halfway out with jagged bits of paper clinging to them, as though someone had been in a hurry when he tore them off.

“All of these have something to do with the murder here,” Ron said, glancing at Dylan. “I wonder if he was investigating it.”

The older boy nodded.

Mac snorted. “I don’t think this was an ordinary private eye, Ron. This is the room of an obsessed man.”

“Let’s get out,” Dylan begged, but George shook his head.

“That guy was terrified,” he said. “He ran like a scared rabbit and left half his stuff. Besides, no one would be dumb enough to take on the four of us. I want to look around. Maybe he left more clues.”

Ron moved toward the other doorway where George lingered, staring out into the dark. Nothing moved, there was no sound except the creak of the floorboards under their feet.

George said, “Come on, Mac, let’s go upstairs. This is a murder house, you know. Maybe we’ll find a body or something.”

“Great,” Mac grumbled. He adjusted his glasses and leaned into the clippings so far that his nose was nearly touching the wall.

Ron looked out into the darkness of the entry way. “The studio is upstairs.”

George was intrigued. “Studio?”

“The dead woman’s. Someone told me it was on the second floor.”

“Let’s go check it out.”

He took the flashlight from Dylan’s limp hand, and then disappeared into the gloom of the entryway. Dylan didn’t even protest, and Mac was too absorbed in the clippings to notice.

Only Ron limped after George, calling out, “Wait up.”

The entry was big with a sweeping staircase that looked as though it had been torn out of an old movie set. The railing was covered in cobwebs, and the stairs were slick with years of dust. When George shone his flashlight on them, there were footprints.

“He’s been up here,” he whispered.

They hurried up the stairs. Ron slowed when his foot slipped and nearly cost him his balance. He didn’t need any more injuries to explain away to Aunt Julia.

On the landing, they had their choice of doors. George halted, unsure; then Ron said, “Look at the floor.”

The footprints in the dust went into only one room.

Ron didn’t let George touch the doorknob, reminding him that they would disturb fingerprints. Fortunately, the door opened with a light push, and they found themselves in an enormous, shrouded room.

Big windows were covered by dingy shades. Drop cloths lay haphazardly over tired piles. In the middle of the room, the intruder had uncovered a paisley-clothed chaise lounge and propped up an empty easel next to it. Against one of the walls, empty frames, bolts of canvas, and canvasses stretched on wooden frames of all sizes and shapes lay waiting for the artist that would never return. Another wall was loaded with shelves and, under these, old sketch books lay scattered and open. They weren’t dusty. Someone had been using them recently.

“Geez,” George mumbled. “Dude, right down the street from you and everything.”

The old drop cloths gave the room a ghostly feel and the old, dried drops of paint on the floor were still shiny. From underneath one of the piles of clothes, tape snaked out. It was coated in dust, but Ron was willing to bet that it was the police’s crime scene tape.

He shuddered. The whole room felt like a crypt – all that was missing were the coffins.

Mac and Dylan came in then, and Mac said, “This is weird.”

“Tell me about it,” George said softly. He crossed to the lounge and sat on it, looking around thoughtfully. “She was killed in here, right?”

Ron, his voice clipped, answered, “Yes.”

“What do you think the guy was looking for?”

Mac shrugged. “I dunno. Souvenirs?”

Ron limped slowly around the edges of the room. “I don’t think he picked this house just because it was empty. I think he wanted something that was here, something valuable - evidence, maybe.”

“Something in this room,” George said. “Remember, the footprints only went into this room.”

“I wonder if he found it,” Mac said quietly.

“Probably not. I mean, he was still here, wasn’t he?”

“But he was carrying that bag awfully tightly,” Ron countered. “He had something in there. More clippings maybe. Where would he get those? They were pretty old.”

“Newspaper office, I guess,” George mused. “They keep back copies and stuff, right?”

“I don’t know,” Dylan muttered. He stood by the door, his hands jammed in his pockets, his manner sullen. “It’s creepy either way.”

“However he got them,” Ron said, “you’re right, Mac. He is obsessed.” He thought back to all the people they had met in the past two weeks. “You don’t think it’s that writer guy, do you?”

“Who?”

“The one who wrote that mystery. He told Aunt Julia that he spent months researching it, and it’s based on this murder. Do you think he’s the one who is…” He stopped, shaking his head. “No, that’s silly. He can get in here with permission and stuff. He doesn’t need to hide.”

“Check it out,” George said suddenly. He was bent over the floor next to the lounge, shining his light on the floorboards.

They gathered around him and looked at the dark spot on the floor.

George traced it with his finger, then withdrew it quickly before looking up. “She was stabbed or something in this room twenty years ago and this thing is still here. It’s like - time froze or something.” He looked at Ron. “Man. Imagine that night, living right next door to a murder, hearing the sirens and everything and realizing that there was a killer only a few yards away? Got to be scary. Sirens always give me the creeps.”