The Lingering Dead (13 page)

Read The Lingering Dead Online

Authors: J. N. Duncan

BOOK: The Lingering Dead
4.97Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Chapter 12
After a relatively restful night—meaning Jackie had actually slept for more than three hours without waking up from a nightmare that involved blood, death, Nick, Laurel, her mom, or some combination of all of the above—she woke to the simple, blaring beep of her alarm clock. Bickerstaff padded up from the foot of the bed and rubbed his face against hers.
Jackie slapped her hand over the clock, swatting at it until she hit the off switch. She sneezed. “Damn it, Bickers! Get down.” The cat leaped to the floor when she threw back the covers and sat up. In her reading chair in the corner of the room, sat Laurel's pale, ethereal figure. “Laur? How long you been sitting there?”
She smiled and shrugged. “A while. You were sleeping so peacefully. I couldn't bear to wake you up.”
Jackie rubbed her hands over her face, digging out the sleep from the corner of her eyes. “Which means you have something you want to tell me?”
Laurel grimaced. “It came back, hon. That thing is just hanging out on the other side, waiting for you. I know it is.”
“Shit.” Jackie slammed her hands down on the bed, got to her feet, and headed to the bathroom. “I mean, maybe it doesn't matter. If I never cross over again, it might just go away.”
“Which is fine,” Laurel replied, passing through the bedroom wall and into the bathroom. “At which point I'm more concerned it might get me. I can't directly leave you or get to you anymore, hon. Do you really want to have to travel every time I come or go?”
“No,” Jackie said. “That wouldn't be ideal, but Laur?” She pulled off her pajama top and reached into the shower to turn on the hot water. “I'm not going to go over and tell that creepy fucker to leave me alone. For now, we'll just have to deal with the fact that some alien porcupine bastard is following me around. Maybe we'll all figure out a plan to deal with it, but right now the thought of that thing freaks the hell out of me. I've got enough on my plate.”
“Can I ask how things are with Nick?”
“No,” Jackie replied. “I'm actually dealing with it though, sort of. So don't worry.
Laurel nodded. “I know. Enjoy your shower. This is going to be a long day.”
 
 
Shelby picked her up at seven-thirty and they were all sitting at the conference table with coffee, Annabelle's pastries, and Hauser on the speakerphone.
“A bunch of shiny, happy people living there in Thatcher's Mill, guys,” Hauser said by way of greeting. “I haven't found any discrepancies to indicate record tampering. The Thatcher family on the other hand, is ... well, honestly, I'm not even sure what to make of this info.”
Jackie washed down her chocolate croissant with now-lukewarm coffee. Hauser being unsure meant she was going to have no clue. “That bad, Hauser?”
“It's not bad, per se,” he said. “Just, well, get this. Robert Thatcher married Mildred Wilcott about five years ago. Wilcott took the family name and then also had her first name changed to Beverly.”
“First name, too?” Jackie asked. That was odd.
“Her name was Mildred,” Shelby said. “I'd be so inclined as well.”
Cynthia slapped her across the arm. “Shut up. You're so mean.”
Shelby stuck her tongue out at her. “Just honest. Mildred is simply dreadful.”
“Anyway,” Hauser said loudly, “now it gets weird. Robert Thatcher was born Isaac Larson. He changed his name when he married his first wife, Beverly Thatcher.”
“Say what?” That was a new one on Jackie. “The second wife took the name of the first wife? That's pretty damn creepy. Why would anyone want to do that?”
“Assuming they wanted to,” Nick replied.
Hauser chuckled. “Oh, it keeps going. I've found seven Thatchers so far who joined the family and became either Beverly or Robert Thatcher. They really do want to keep the family names alive. It'll be fun to see how far back this goes.”
Nick sighed, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug on the table. “It will be the Thatchers who ran the mill in the 1890s. I'll bet you anything that's where the chain starts.”
Together, Shelby and Jackie said, in the same exasperated tone, “Drake.”
“Wonder if that has something to do with the curse that got mentioned?” Cynthia said.
Shelby laughed. “Cursed to become a Thatcher? That's ...” She turned to Cynthia. “Is that possible, Cyn?”
“Something like that? Not likely. Not without help,” she said. “A curse is more subtle.”
“So, someone is coercing them,” Nick added. “Why is having the Thatchers around so important?”
“Why don't we go ask them?” Jackie said.
“Yeah, you'll have to,” Hauser said. “Apparently there's no home phone.”
“None?” Jackie found that hard to believe. “No cell service either?”
“Not that I can find,” he replied. “If something comes up, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I'll keep looking as much as I can. Other priorities, FBI stuff.” He paused for a moment. “Sorry, Jack.”
“No need, Hauser. Thanks,” she said.
“It might be after hours or lunch break, but I'll keep seeing what I can dig up. Glad to help my favorite
agent
.”
The speaker went silent. Jackie grimaced. “Wipe those looks off your faces right now.” Their pity was the last thing she needed or wanted. “I'm here by choice. Nobody forced me to do this, so just ... don't.”
“All right,” Nick said. “Fair enough. Are we heading back to Thatcher's Mill, then?”
Jackie downed the last of her coffee. It would be a while before she had any of the good stuff. “Yes. Let's see what other weirdness we can dig up in that ghost town.”
 
 
They were in Thatcher's Mill before noon. Jackie slowed as they crossed the bridge again, wary this time of any lingering dead strolling across the road. Now that she knew they were there, the ghosts were not difficult to pick up on. She counted five with just a cursory look around Main Street.
“Still a party in the Mill,” Shelby said. “Really curious why they're all here.”
“Maybe the Thatchers will give us a clue,” Jackie said. “I also think that ass-hat police chief knows something. I'm going to have a little talk with him again.”
Shelby reached over and slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Don't you just love her when she gets all firm like that?”
Nick turned and looked back at her, eyes narrowed. “Actually, yes. I do.”
Jackie's head whipped around, eyes wide. Shelby snorted but said nothing. For once she had no rejoinder. Nick turned back, one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile and gave Jackie a hard, amused stare before refocusing on the road ahead.
What the hell was that all about? Did he actually just say what I think he did?
“The Thatchers' place is on the edge of town,” he said. “Turn right at the diner.”
Main Street had the feel of a ghost town. Jackie saw more ghosts than actual living people out on the street. Even though it was a cool and blustery November day, she expected there would be more activity. It was also the post-Thanksgiving weekend, and she did not see a single Christmas decoration. “Anyone else find it odd that there isn't a single Christmas decoration up anywhere?”
They reached the end of the street and began to ascend the drive up to the Thatchers'. Nick leaned forward in his seat, studying the buildings up ahead with an intense gaze.
Jackie glanced over at him, wondering what was going through his mind. “You were up here before, weren't you?”
“Yes,” he said, barely audible. “This is where Drake and I left our mark.”
“You?”
“Let's just say the surviving Thatcher thought Drake and I one and the same,” he replied.
“Do tell,” Shelby said. “Do I know this story, babe?”
His reply was simple and final. “No.”
The drive leveled off, coming out of the leafless, tree-lined drive into a large, open turnaround. The farmhouse was painted a soft yellow, with white shutters, and a screened-in porch ran the length of the house. The bushes along the beds in front were trimmed to hedge-like perfection. Jackie even noticed there was a rooster weathervane on the roof. Off to the right of the house was the mill. From her angle she could just see the top of the wheel turning in the water. That building was also in impeccable condition. The whole place smacked of a backcountry tourist spot. She half expected to see gifts for sale in the window.
“Not quite the haunted house I was expecting,” she said.
“No, but it's haunted all right,” Cynthia said. “Can you feel it? It's more intense than the town by far.”
She's not kidding,
Laurel added.
Blessed Mother, there's a lot of death here. The wall between us is very thin here, hon. We may not want to stay here long.
Jackie stopped and turned off the Explorer. “What do you mean?”
Meaning that thing can't be far and we don't know what it's capable of.
“About what?” Nick asked.
Why did things always have to be complicated? “Laurel just mentioned that things are pretty thin here between us and Deadworld,” said Jackie.
“If a lot of people have died here, that makes perfect sense,” Nick replied.
“And that Spindly Man is following me around. We might not want to hang out here for very long is all Laur is saying. Can't say I disagree.”
Nick nodded. “Good point. We'll try and keep this brief. I have no more desire than you do to confront whatever that thing is.”
Shelby opened her door and stepped out. “Might have to at some point.”
“Only when we have to,” Nick said. “And right now, we don't. You want to go check out the mill, Shel?”
“Just don't go in,” Jackie added quickly. “I'd rather not get called on for breaking and entering.”
“Would I do that?” asked Shelby.
“Yes,” everyone said together.
She waved them off and began walking toward the mill. “I hate you all.”
Jackie began to walk toward the screen door when the front door opened. A man's feet echoed across the floorboards until he pushed open the screen and came down the steps. He wore a dark brown wool suit, white shirt, and a bowtie. Jackie had to do a double take. Yes, it was a brown and red plaid bowtie. His close-cropped hair was parted down the side and smoothed over with some kind of hair product. Round glasses gave him the look of an accountant, a very antiquated “I use an abacus” sort of accountant.
The man stopped a good ten feet from them. “May I help you? I was not expecting any visitors.”
Jackie took a step forward. “Mr. Thatcher? Robert Thatcher?”
“I am,” he said. “And who might you be, if I may be so bold?”
She took another step forward and thrust out her hand. “My name is Jackie Rutledge. My colleagues and I are from the University of Chicago.”
He glanced suspiciously down at her hand. “Professors are you, then? What could possibly bring you to our small neck of the woods, Ms. Rutledge? Chicago is quite the journey from here.” Robert turned and looked over at Shelby. “Excuse me, ma'am? What are you doing over there?”
Shelby waved and yelled back. “Just looking. It's a lovely mill. Does it still work?”
“Of course,” he said, giving Shelby a confused look. “Why wouldn't it work? It's been making our flour for years.”
Makes his own flour? Jackie could not quite fathom that. Was he Amish or something? “Mr. Thatcher, we are in the area exploring the history of ghost stories in the rural Midwest. As you can imagine—”
“Ghosts! Schools are studying such things these days?” He gave her a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. “What happened to literature and mathematics? Honestly! What an absurd thing to study. And you came up here to ask me about ghosts?” He laughed. “That's preposterous.”
So is your fucking tie,
she wanted to say, but the sound of Laurel clearing her throat rather loudly in her head made her bite her tongue. “Be that as it may,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm, “we wanted to see if you knew anything about the many ghosts that wander Thatcher's Mill or if you'd heard anything about the curse of Thatcher's Mill. We've heard a number of stories.”
“Curse? In the Mill? Surely you jest,” he said, clearly offended. “We're a plain and practical folk here, Ms. Rutledge. Curses are the work of heathens and you will not find any of them in this town.”

Other books

Positive by David Wellington
Aussie Rules by Jill Shalvis
Mystery of the Orphan Train by Gertrude Chandler Warner
Birthrights by Butler, Christine M.
Happy as Larry by Scot Gardner
Crazy, Stupid Sex by Maisey Yates
Evil Dreams by John Tigges