Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

No one had to die over this.

All Troy had to do was make a few adjustments, shred a few documents, rely on his “contacts” in the police department and Federal Prosecutor’s Office to grease a few wheels and make sure that Lady Justice turned a blind eye to his lawlessness. He was a rich man, and that’s what rich men do. Always have.

But Troy was also a man who lived in fear. And The Ghost was more than happy to reap the benefits of that fear. A couple more scores like this and he’d be a rich man himself.

He was thinking about what he might do with all that money when he noticed movement down the street.

Grabbing his field glasses, he aimed them toward the cousin’s house. The door was open and two men and a woman were moving quickly down the walkway, Pope among them, followed shortly by a another woman carrying a small boy in her arms.

The boy looked listless. Sick.

What was this all about?

They climbed into the gray Suburban, and before the tail-lights lit up The Ghost tossed the field glasses aside, uttering a curse as he started his engine.

Moving targets are always problematic. This assignment was getting far more complicated than he’d like.

It looked as if he was really going to have to earn his money today.

An hour and a half later, The Ghost found himself parked, of all places, in a gas station just off the Oasis lot, his field glasses trained on the front gate of the neighboring Nevada Women’s Correctional Facility.

He could not fathom what these people were up to. A trip to the hospital had been followed by a straight trek out here, leaving the child and the second woman behind. He would not harm a child, but the woman was a loose end he knew he’d have to take care of at the earliest possible opportunity.

Following the Suburban, he at first thought they were headed to the Oasis to confront Troy directly, but rather than make the turn, they had continued on to the prison.

The only reason he could figure for this stop was a visit to Pope’s wife. The child killer.

But why?

It made no sense.

Unless it had nothing to do with Troy at all. Unless they were up to something that was entirely unrelated to Troy’s paranoia.

The Ghost had to admit he was curious. But when it came down to it, none of this made a difference. It was not his job to understand these people and their motivations. His only concern was logistics.

The assignment might have become more complicated, but it hadn’t changed.

Troy wanted the spillage mopped up.

The situation contained.

And all The Ghost could do was wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

It was growing dark by the time they left the prison.

Anna could tell that Pope was in no mood for conversation, so she sat quietly in the backseat of the Suburban, thinking about Susan’s words.

And about her madness.

As much as she understood Pope’s desire to see the woman dead or locked up here forever, Anna didn’t believe she deserved either. What she needed was help. A long, heavy dose of psychological therapy. And even that wouldn’t guarantee she’d ever be whole again.

Anna knew it all stemmed from that moment in the alley. If Susan’s terror had been only half of what Jillian’s was-or Anna’s, for that matter-then it was more than enough to permanently damage her.

Then again, maybe Susan wasn’t so crazy after all.

She believed that her son had visited her, had forgiven her for her sins. But if Anna’s mother could pay a visit, why not Ben? Perhaps the dead return when we need them most. To reassure us. To guide us.

To save us.

If nothing else, Anna now knew that the world did not quite operate the way she once believed it did. There were entire levels of existence at play that most people never even knew about.

So where did she draw the line when it came to deciding who was crazy and who was not? Or what was real and what was merely fantasy?

Did ghosts inhabit our homes? Were aliens among us? Did parallel universes exist? Were there tears in the fabric of time?

And oh, yes What about the bogeyman?

Pope’s house was located several miles north of the Las Vegas Strip, in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Anna had grown up in Northern California, where most homes had wide green lawns, but the houses on Pope’s street had front yards full of rocks and cactus.

Pope’s was also full of weeds.

It was a two-story, Spanish-style home that stood in the middle of a cul-de-sac. There was activity in both of the neighboring houses, but Pope’s stood silent, its windows caked with a year’s worth of dust and grime.

“Never thought I’d see this place again,” he said, as Worthington pulled to the curb out front.

“You never thought you’d be face-to-face with Susan again, either.”

“Thanks for that, Jake. It was a treat.”

“Don’t mention it. You think she was telling the truth?”

“The part where she was completely off her rocker? Or the one where she was only mildly insane?”

“About her bogeyman book.”

Pope shrugged. “Maybe you should’ve asked me that before we drove all the way out here. We don’t even really know what we’re looking for. Could be a book full of random gibberish.”

“So you’re saying you don’t believe her?” Anna asked.

“Who the hell knows? Right now you wouldn’t have much trouble convincing me the Earth is flat, so I guess I’m pretty much up for anything.” He popped his door open. “But there’s only one way to find out, so let’s get this over with.”

Pope’s keys were in a drawer in his hotel room.

He’d seen no use for them when he fled the place, so it looked like they’d have to resort to some good old-fashioned B and E.

They decided to go in through the back and were surprised to discover that someone had beaten them to it. The glass in the rear-door window had been shattered and the door was unlocked.

Squatters, most likely.

Both Jake and McBride shifted into law enforcement mode and pulled their weapons. Jake brought out a flashlight, flicked it on, then gently pushed the door open.

“County sheriff,” he called. “Whoever’s in there, identify yourself.”

Silence. No response.

“We have weapons,” he said. “Identify yourself now or risk getting hurt.”

Nothing.

He and McBride exchanged glances, then stepped inside.

Pope took up the rear. One thing he had learned during his encounter with the twin defenders was that he was no hero. Let the people with the guns and expertise lead the way.

As he stepped through the doorway and took the place in, he was overcome by a sudden feeling of sadness.

The kitchen was on the right, with its checkerboard floor and double-wide refrigerator. There was a breakfast nook in one wall, where he and Susan and Ben had spent many a morning, slurping bowls of oatmeal and talking about the day to come.

Pope couldn’t help but yearn for those days. The warmth he’d felt. The glow of family. As much as he hated Susan now, as blind as he’d been to her illness, he did remember those times with fondness. With love.

And it hurt his heart to know that he’d never see them again.

The spell was broken when he spotted the mess on the floor. Shattered plates and glass, rotted food. Whoever had been squatting here would not get the Good House keeping seal of approval.

They moved into the living room.

He’d left the place as-is, but Jake and Ronnie had gone through and cleaned up, putting sheets over the furniture in the hope that he would one day return.

Some of the sheets were missing now and the furniture had been rearranged to suit the squatters. There was clothing strewn across the carpet, along with discarded food wrappers, some old magazines, faded newspapers.