“Hey, so, we’re kind of in the hot seat right now.” Troy’s statement was met with snickers, and he grinned. “I know, big shock. I don’t really care either. Dean Stratham has made some noise about us not doing any more keggers for a bit, but we do have those photos of him with Professor Chilton. Chilton doesn’t want her husband to see them, obviously, and it’s the same with Stratham and his wife. I don’t think we could push for anything regarding academics, but we can definitely push about the kegger. But I want to put this to a vote before the house. What’s that saying, ‘political capital is finite’ or some crap?”
The brothers laughed, and Troy grinned. He was about to speak again when the room’s single light flickered. The temperature sank, and he found himself shivering. He opened his mouth to complain about the air conditioning coming on whenever the hell it wanted when he realized he couldn’t hear the rumble of the central air’s system.
As his brain processed the information, the light went out, leaving the brothers in a gritty light.
“The hell is going on?” someone asked.
“I’m ‘going on’,” a woman said.
Troy looked around, trying to see who had spoken. One of the brothers near a window pulled open the blind, and light flooded the room. The breath from every one of the brothers gathered was plainly visible in the cold air.
The speaker was not.
Troy turned around, wondering if he had left the door to the kitchen open, but it was closed. Something cold wrapped around his throat, and a voice whispered in his ear.
“I don’t like you. I don’t like any of you. You remind me of Brian,” the unseen woman informed him, her fingers tightening around his throat, digging into his flesh. “Brian broke my heart.”
Troy’s drink fell from his hands, and he struggled to free himself from the grip of the woman. He swung at where he expected her hands to be, his mind racing, refusing to accept the fact that he couldn’t see someone who was in the process of choking him to death.
He heard the others talking, trying to figure out what he was doing, why he was doing it.
It wasn’t until Troy was lifted out of the chair, his bare feet dangling above the floor that panic entered their voices.
A teenage girl appeared in front of Troy, a smirk on her face.
“I’m dead,” she told him. She looked at the brothers, all of whom stared at Troy and the girl with dumbfounded expressions. “And soon, you’ll all be dead, too.”
Troy stiffened as she squeezed harder, and the last sensation he felt was the breaking of his own neck.
***
Monday, 3:00 PM
Penny sat in the cheap motel room that she had rented for the trip. Suzette was back in her box. The laptop was secured in its case. Her private phone was in her hand, and she was halfway through her second pack of cigarettes. She logged into the private chatroom labeled, “Proctor Problems”.
She was one of seven proctors sent out by Alex Kallistos. Her primary area of operations was the Northeast, which made it easy for her to get back to New York and the Village. The proctors had created their own chatroom for one simple reason.
Alex Kallistos had forbidden them from speaking to anyone other than another proctor about their duties.
None of the proctors were sociopaths.
Well, not completely, she sighed, checking for any private messages. There weren’t any, so she went directly to the main message board. No one had checked in since the day before, and she had read that update from Rich. He was working Texas, which was hell on his fair skin according to the update.
Penny sighed and put in her own update.
In New England. Just watched a frat house get brutalized. Word to the wise, only females should get Suzette. She’s not fond of boys.
Penny considered adding a little more, then, with a shake of her head, she made sure the volume was up on her phone, that the notifications were on for the chatroom, and dropped the phone onto the bed. She finished her cigarette, stubbed it out, and got to her feet.
I need a shower. A shower and a steak. No, a shower, a steak, and some stupid twenty-five-year-old who thinks he’s all that, she thought, stripping her clothes off on her way to the bathroom. I need to forget all about today.
It’s as simple as that.
Chapter 7: Gathering Intel
Monday, 4:00 PM
“Shane,” James Moran greeted when he answered the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Death,” Shane answered, lighting a Lucky. “What else?”
James chuckled. “True. It does seem to be the only item of late. You have something you would like me to look up?”
“That’s the thing.” Shane exhaled, smoke streaming out of his nostrils. “I’m not sure. There’s not much information for me to go on.”
“Why don’t you give me what you do have?” James invited. “The object, the ghost, whatever it is you might have.”
Shane did so, and as he spoke, he could hear the scratch of a pencil on paper.
“Not surprisingly, my friend,” James sighed, “it isn’t ringing any of the proverbial bells. However, I will go into work after dinner and prowl through the files. Perhaps we will be lucky enough to find a match.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” Shane agreed. “Thanks a lot, James.”
“You’re welcome.”
The call ended, and Shane placed the phone face-up on the desk. He stared at it, frowned, and then took hold of it again. Scrolling through the address book, he found the number for Captain Jack Thompson of the New Hampshire State Police.
Let’s see if this guy is worth anything.
Shane dialed Jack Thompson, and as the phone rang, he prepared himself to ask a State Police Captain for photos of a crime scene.
He grinned and waited for the man to answer.
***
Monday, 5:00 PM
Jack sat at his desk and looked at the photo of his wife and son. The weather was getting warmer, and, as it did every year, it reminded him of what he had lost. He stared at the image a moment longer and then turned his attention back to his computer.
Jack opened his email and considered how best to phrase his request for the crime scene file from Nashua. I’ll tell them I’m interested because there might be a new drug on the street that’s making people go haywire. Just a rumor, nothing positive, but I want to take a look. That should work.
And how have I come to this? I know I wanted Shane Ryan’s help, but is this helpful?
Jack considered the question for a moment. Finally, he nodded.
It is.
He typed out the email with short, quick stabs at the various keys, a hunt-and-peck style that had, for the most part, vanished from police departments. When the message and request were finished, he glanced over it for any glaring typos, decided it was good, and sent it on its way. Standing up, Jack stretched and walked out of his office and into the main room of the State Police Barracks. Some of his troopers were gathered around the dispatch radio, and there were looks of concern on their faces.
Without interrupting, Jack walked to the radio and stood behind Viola, the dispatcher. He closed his eyes as he listened, translating the chatter as it came through.