“Good.”
***
Miriam’s Past, 1957
Gregor Shaw walked out of the grocers and toward his Packard.
Ray Harte followed, gripping the .38 caliber pistol he had stolen from his father. It was a five-shot, and all five chambers of the revolver were loaded. Ray moved as quietly as he could, the crepe soles of his tennis shoes silent on the concrete when compared to the thick-heeled engineer’s boots Mr. Shaw wore.
There was no one else on the street, and Mr. Shaw was paying attention to the brown paper bag of groceries, switching them from one arm to the other as he dug his car keys out of his back pocket.
Do it, Ray told himself. It’s the only way. Only way. She loves me. He won’t let her go. It’s the only way.
Ray heard Mr. Shaw, the man who had been his neighbor for six years, mutter to himself as he tried to unlock the car.
Steeling himself, Ray took two steps forward, put the gun within an inch of the back of Mr. Shaw’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot took Ray by surprise, and he almost dropped the weapon. He expected Mr. Shaw to drop immediately, but instead, the man remained upright for a moment, wavering, his blood splattered over the dark green roof of the Packard.
Then, the bag of groceries fell to the pavement as Mr. Shaw’s arms dropped to his side and he pitched forward. What was left of the front of his eye sockets broke on the edge of the car’s roof, and there was a vile, wet sound as the fresh corpse slid along it toward the ground.
For another moment, Ray stood there, weapon in hand, staring at his neighbor.
And then, he ran.
He ran as fast as he could, not so much afraid of getting caught as he was of delaying the delivery of the good news to Miriam.
Her husband was dead, and Ray and Miriam could be together. They could take the insurance money and go to Europe, just as she talked about. All those days when they would lie in her bed and talk about how they could be together.
If only something would happen to Gregor, she would sigh, and rest her head against Ray’s chest. I just can’t think of anything, though. If I had a gun, why, I think I’d shoot him myself.
Miriam didn’t have a gun, though.
But Ray’s father did.
When Ray reached Miriam’s house, he burst through the back door, out of breath, a beaming smile on his face.
Miriam was in the middle of pouring a cup of coffee, a map of Europe on the kitchen table. Her eyes widened when she saw the gun in his hand, and she hastily put the coffee pot back on the stove’s burner.
“What did you do, Ray honey?” she asked.
“I did it!” he answered, the words rushing out of his mouth. “I did it! I followed him downtown, and he went into the grocers. When he came out, there wasn’t anyone around. So, I did it! I did it!”
“Did what, Ray?”
He grinned. “I killed Gregor.”
A slow, happy smile spread across her face. “Are you serious, honey? Did you kill Gregor for me?”
“I did,” he nodded. “I shot him in the head and, well, his brains came out the front. He’s dead.”
“I don’t know of any other man who could have done that,” she told him, nodding. “You’re seventeen, Ray, and more of a man than most.”
He beamed with pride.
“Are you ready?” he asked her, nodding toward the map.
She frowned. “Ready for what, honey?”
“For us to go, to travel, just like you want,” he replied.
Her smile widened. “Ray, I can’t take you with me. I’ll come back and visit. We can roll around a bit and have fun, but that’s about it.”
Ray blinked. “What?”
She nodded. “You’ll have to stay here. It’ll be suspicious if we both leave.”
“But it won’t be if you leave?” he demanded, tightening his grip on the pistol.
“Exactly.” She smiled, and for the first time, Ray saw her smile was false.
“You don’t love me,” he accused, his voice quivering with newfound rage.
She started to look downcast, but there was a twitch of a smirk on her lips, a glint of malicious humor in her eyes. Slowly, a sneer spread across her face. “I love being in bed with you. Don’t think I didn’t enjoy it, Ray. But in love with you? No, honey. Not by a long shot. You were a little brighter than I thought. I felt for sure I was going to have to work you for at least a year before you’d decide to try and do something about Gregor. I’ve got to admit, I’m impressed.”
A cold hatred settled over Ray, and a sense of calm entered him.
In his memory, he heard his father speaking with his uncle. They were talking about the war and about how terrible it was to see a man get gut shot.
“You don’t love me.” It wasn’t a question. Not even a statement. Ray might as well have remarked that the sky was blue.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing did.
“Not at all, honey,” Miriam laughed. “Now, if you want one last tussle before I go off to run some errands, well, I won’t say no.”
Ray looked at her, at her stunning physical beauty, but again his eyes were drawn to hers, and to the cold malice behind them. He raised the pistol to waist height and pulled the trigger.
Her eyes bulged as she took a shocked step back, and she looked down at her waist. There was a small hole in the skin he had once caressed, and blood pumped out of it. She sat down on the floor and stared up at him.
Miriam started to speak, but Ray didn’t hear her. He focused on lifting the .38 up and pressing the hot barrel into the soft underside of his chin. His eyes never left hers as he pulled the trigger.
Chapter 11: Permission
Tuesday, 11:00 AM
Jack Thompson turned onto Berkley Street and pushed concerns about the murders at the fraternity out of his mind.
Samson and Delk are good detectives, he told himself as he pulled his car up to the curb of 125 Berkley Street. They’ll let me know when they’ve developed a lead or gotten any sort of evidence.
Shifting into park, Jack looked at the large home. It wasn’t what he expected Shane Ryan to live in.
What did I expect? A ranch or something? Jack shook his head as he pocketed his keys and got out of the car. You’d think decades of police work would have taught me not to be so damned ignorant. Evidently, that is not the case.
Jack walked up the driveway toward the house, and he glanced to either side as he did so. He had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, and it wasn’t coming from within the house.
By the time he reached the front door, it was opened by Shane. The man stood there in what Jack assumed was Shane’s go-to attire. Gray Marines sweatshirt, blue jeans, and combat boots. All of them well-worn.
“Nice to see you, Captain,” Shane greeted. “What can I do for you?”
“The idea of… of ghosts being behind so many murders has all been a bit much for me to grasp,” Jack admitted. “I thought I’d come by and talk with you more. Get to know you, try to understand it all better.”
Shane studied him, and when he didn’t say anything after a few moments, Jack asked awkwardly, “Going to invite me in?”
An amused look crossed Shane’s face. “Do you really want to come in?”