The Unearthed: Book One, The Eddie McCloskey Series (25 page)

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Enjoy speculative fiction? Evan Ronan recommends Boyd Craven’s post-apocalyptic series,
The World Burns
.

EXCERPT FROM THE LOST

Thriller writer Evan Ronan, author of 
The Unearthed
, brings you the second edge-of-your-seat adventure in his paranormal series…

Fourteen years ago
...Tessa and her friends played a dangerous game on an icy lake. When the ice broke, no one could save Tessa from drowning. Her death cast a pall over the lives of everyone there.

Five years ago
…Eddie McCloskey’s brother was murdered on their last paranormal investigation. Now Eddie, who swore off ghost hunting, faces the biggest case of his life.

Now
...Marty Kindler, heir to the local gentry, claims the whole town is haunted. Either this is the find of the century, or it’s all a hoax. Only Eddie can find the truth.

But Eddie better hurry, because someone is trying to kill the people who were on that ice with Tessa all those years ago.

The Lost
 is approximately 80,000 words and is specifically formatted for Kindle, with an active table of contents.

Eddi
e
killed his beer and wondered, not for the first time, whether he was an alcoholic. He decided to think about it.

Over another beer.

He’d managed to lay off the drugs since he got out of the joint. The years between his brother’s death and Eddie’s incarceration had been a confused blur of booze, broads, and bongs.

But the last year had been good. He’d bounced around but now he’d found a quiet little place, a decent job, and was scraping money together. In a few months, he’d have a safety net again and could go back to school.

He put the empty on the bar and signaled for another.

George, the bartender, darted his eyes toward the entrance and pretended not to understand Eddie was asking for another. George had a wicked comb-over that defied gravity.

“All set?” George asked.

George had been anxious for Eddie to leave after the previous night’s tiff with Marty Kindler. Eddie didn’t care much for Kindler, but townies treated his family like royalty. The Kindlers had founded the town way back and more recently the Mill, which at one point had been the town’s largest employer. The Mill had fallen on hard times of late and had laid off three-quarters of its employees over the last couple of years.

Normally that level of job loss would piss people off, but Kindler had the ready-made excuse of the worst downturn in the economy since the Great Depression.

So the townies still treated Kindler with deference even though Eddie had it on good authority that the man’s incompetence was to blame for the Mill’s troubles.

Eddie almost pushed the issue and asked for another brew but thought better of it. “Take it easy, George. I’m rolling.”

George did his best not to look relieved. “Nothing against you, Eddie. This is a small town and I can’t afford to piss off the wrong people.”

Small was an understatement. The city limits were about a nine-iron apart.

Eddie stood up. The townies should have run Kindler out on a rail. Instead they walked on eggshells around him.

“You shouldn’t worry about a jerkoff like Kindler. Guy like that feeds off it.”

“Easy for you to say.” George folded his arms. “Case you didn’t notice, business ain’t exactly booming. And you’ve got nothing to lose.”

Last night, Kindler had come into the bar with five athletic-looking strangers all wearing expensive suits. After a blitzkrieg of Tequila shooters, Kindler set his sights on Lenny Brisbane, a harmless local drunk who had had his fill of cheap whiskey and was half-laying on the bar blubbering about the inanity of the two-party political system and how the Irish lived in France before the French till Caesar subjugated Gaul.

Kindler decided it would be amusing if he shoved some ice cubes down the back of Lenny the Drunk’s shirt.

The cold was enough to reach Lenny through his drunken stupor. Lenny’s body jerked upright like he’d been shot with adrenalin. He fell off his stool and landed in a heap on the floor.

Eddie owed Lenny nothing. Lenny the Drunk could in fact be annoying at times, spouting off all this useless knowledge of questionable veracity that he’d never used to any benefit.

All the same, Eddie didn’t care to see the guy get run over by an entitled asshole like Kindler.

“Why don’t you leave the guy alone?” Eddie said.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Drifter?” Kindler called him that because he’d been in town for three weeks and, truth be told, looked the part.

“Speaking of business, I heard yours was flushed down the shitter by some idiot who didn’t know his ass from page eight.”

Still on the floor, Lenny the Drunk went apoplectic with laughter.

But the rest of the bar went quieter than a high-school kegger just broken up by the cops. For a standing eight-count, the only sound in the bar came from the TV tuned to the Sixers game.

Then Kindler pushed away from the bar.

Eddie slipped off the seat and faced Kindler. He balled his fists and fought the butterflies and girded himself for the main event of the evening.

One of the suits cuffed Kindler’s arm.

“We can’t be involved in …” The guy lowered his voice and spun Kindler around and tried to herd him toward the front door. Eddie didn’t hear the guy’s next words, but Kindler was distracted enough to give George time to act. The bartender hurdled the bar and forced Eddie out the back door before the shit hit the blender.

Now as he headed for the door, Eddie realized he still hadn’t thanked George for last night. He should have. The bartender had most likely saved Eddie from a serious ass-whooping. Eddie was okay with his hands but he wasn’t Bruce Lee good. Against Kindler and his crew, he would have come out looking worse than last week’s garbage.

Eddie felt the bartender’s eyes on him. He stopped next to the old Donkey Kong cabinet and looked back at George.

“Don’t worry, George, if it happens again, I’ll take it outside. And thanks.” Behind him, the front door creaked open and the cold December wind raced inside.

George shot him a skeptical look. “You’re wel—”

“What’re you going to take outside, Eddie?”

Eddie’s stomach dropped. He turned.

Marty Kindler filled the doorway.

Kindler wasn’t tall, but he was thick. Not fat. He didn’t look like Mr. Universe but the strongest guys don’t. The strongest guys look like refrigerators with fire hydrants for appendages. Kindler was the kind of guy you had to hurt to defeat.

Eddie waited a second for his stomach to climb back into its correct position. “Well if it isn’t the great white dope. Beat up any drunks lately?”

Eddie had learned in the joint that you never back up. You always move forward or you’ll be shorn.

Kindler stepped inside. This was it.

“You threatening Mr. Kindler, Eddie?” said another voice.

Lieutenant Whitmore, in charge of the local donut-eaters, sauntered in.

The cold wind slammed the door behind him.

Shi
t
.

Eddie shifted gears. Kindler had brought the law with him. And that wasn’t good for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was Eddie being a convicted felon.

Eddie was a drifter and nobody liked drifters. Not even drifters. The townies looked at him like he was sporting fangs and casting no reflections even though he’d been gainfully employed for the last three weeks. But what was three weeks compared to the families who’d lived here more than a hundred years? To them he was just a guy from someplace else who would be better off elsewhere. Eddie liked being alone, in fact he loved and craved solitude.

But why had Kindler brought the law? Eddie couldn’t be locked up without cause. Or could he?

Of course he could.

This was after all a small town and he’d seriously pissed off one of the landed gentry. But why had Whitmore brought no backup? The law could make life miserable for him if they chose.

Whitmore didn’t look like he was ready to brace Eddie. The cop’s hand wasn’t riding his holster. His neutral stance and general attitude were not aggressive, just coldly authoritarian. For all Whitmore knew, Eddie could be armed and dangerous, an unknown element. But the cop made no moves. And if he’d come here to arrest Eddie, some drifter he didn’t know, he should have taken the shock and awe approach. It wouldn’t be like arresting some local-yokel he’d known for twenty-plus years, some guy he could have asked nicely and eased off the bar stool. He didn’t know Eddie from Adam. If he was here to make an arrest, he should have come with one other guy at least. And he should have had another covering the back door in case Eddie tried to pull a Usain Bolt.

Whitmore wore one of those abbreviated cowboy hats that looked good on nobody. As if realizing this, the cop removed the hat and stared impassively at Eddie.

Eddie looked at Kindler. The man wasn’t exactly dressed for a fracas. Cashmere topcoat over a blue blazer, pink button-down shirt, grey flannel slacks and penny loafers.

Despite their laid-back attitude, Eddie didn’t relax.

Maybe they were just stupid. In fact, he knew Kindler was stupid. He couldn’t put it past Whitmore. The Bubblefuck, Pennsylvania Chief of Police didn’t hire astronauts exactly.

Kindler stepped toward him and Eddie instinctively assumed his ready-stance. Left side to opponent, hands loose, weight on the back foot.

But he was totally unprepared for what happened next.

Kindler smiled. “Let me buy you a drink, Eddie.”

Kindle
r
said, “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot and I want to make it up to you.”

This reeked of a set-up.

Kindler closed on him and snaked an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and continued talking like he’d just ingested a kilo of speed.

“Crazy cold, huh? Maybe the Mayans were right, maybe 2012 is the end, huh? You know, Nostradamus predicted it. So did Aramis. Or Dumas. Or that other frog … Hugo? I don’t know.” Kindler let go of Eddie. “End of the world, or a new age, or both. Nobody knows. Nobody knows. Buy you a drink? You thirsty?”

Whitmore watched this whole display stoically. He didn’t roll his eyes but his left eyebrow arched due north. His cold gaze never left Eddie.

Eddie was still suffering from acute awkwardness but managed to blurt, “I’ll have a drink.”

Kindler gave George the nod, and the bartender went to work.

“Let’s grab a booth. More privacy. We can talk.” Kindler looked around like the place was crowded. But other than them, only Lenny the Drunk was patronizing the bar, and he was busy checking his eyelids for holes.

Kindler led the way to the last booth and sat with his back to the wall so he could watch the bar. Eddie didn’t want his back to the door, but Kindler didn’t move over for him so he sat opposite. The booths were designed for one person a side, so when Lieutenant Whitmore nudged Eddie over he felt trapped.

Nobody said anything.

Kindler’s lips smiled but his eyes declined to join the fun so Eddie just stared at him, perplexed.

Whitmore made a big production of peeling his gloves off one finger at a time.

George brought a tray of drinks. He deposited a shot and a beer in front of Kindler, a pint of lager in front of Eddie.

George had another beer on the tray, but Whitmore held out a palm like he was directing traffic. “On duty, George. No thanks.”

George put the last beer in front of Kindler too. Before he left he managed to look disapprovingly at Eddie.

Eddie laughed. He didn’t know how else to react to the bizarre situation.

Startled, Kindler almost tromboned the shot of Canadian Club but managed to keep it down which of course only made Eddie laugh more. Even Whitmore cracked a smile in spite of his earnest Dirty Harry demeanor.

“I’ll cut to it,” Kindler said. “Something I want to ask you.”

Eddie assumed they were about to go First Blood on him so he might as well have a good time before he got his head bashed in or before he was run out of town. “I didn’t kill Kennedy.”

Whitmore frowned at Eddie’s joke. Kindler didn’t seem to get it.

“Look, Kindler, I know you’d like nothing better than for me to leave your little fiefdom, but I like it here so I’m going to stick around for awhile.”

Eddie swigged his beer and looked from Kindler to Whitmore. Nobody said anything.

Eddie put his beer down. “Last night, you and the manbots were about to do the Mexican hat dance on my face and now you’re buying me a beer?”

“Forget last night. I was just playing, wanted to see if you had any bottle. All in good fun.”

“I get it. You want me out. But I won’t go willingly.”

Kindler frowned. “Eddie, that’s the last thing I want.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say so he sipped some more beer. Whitmore made a big show of looking away as if he didn’t approve of this conversation.

Kindler’s frown flipped to a smile. “I want you to stay.”

Eddie couldn’t square the Marty Kindler sitting across from him with the guy who, less than twenty four hours ago, had been ready to use him as a punching bag.

Eddie had broken one of the unwritten rules of this town: never talk back to Marty Kindler. The Kindler family had opened the Mill sixty years ago and for fifty-nine of those years had provided good jobs to the locals. At least, that was how some of the people saw it. Others feared him for the same reason they loathed him, because he had money. Many in the town just thought of him as a dangerous but incompetent twit, somebody who couldn’t figure out where to put his dick even after watching a porno.

“You’re thinking about last night.” Kindler waved a hand in front of his face as if to suggest the details were meaningless. “Forget it. I was just seeing what kind of soul you had. Two kinds in this world.”

“Yeah. The living and the dead ones,” Eddie said.

Whitmore groaned like he had kidney stones and rolled his eyes. Kindler did a double-take as if Eddie had just laid some profound truth on him.

“Exactly right. Exactly. But we’ll get to the dead ones later. I was only talking about the living ones. You know, two kinds of living ones.”

Eddie looked to Whitmore again. So far, the cop hadn’t given him the MIranda or otherwise invoked his authority.

Whitmore patted down his unpat-downable buzz cut. “We’re just here to have a word.”

“You’re not here to arrest me?” Eddie said, heavy on the skepticism.

Whitmore stiffened. “You done something worthy of arrest?”

“Not unless you want legal trouble.”

Whitmore’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I don’t have much of a sense of humor about arresting someone.”

“I’d say you don’t have much of a sense of humor about anything.”

It was an incredibly dumb thing to say. But Eddie said it anyway. He didn’t like being boxed in, didn’t like cops trying to push him around when he hadn’t done anything.

Kindler reached across the table and patted Whitmore’s shoulder. “Ease up, Lieutenant.” Kindler looked at Eddie. “Eddie, cops are a necessary evil. They’re just part of the simulation.”

Eddie had no idea what Kindler was on about and Whitmore might as well have been a cigar store Indian the way he was sitting there. Eddie decided to listen and suck down as many free brewskis as Kindler was willing to buy.

Kindler said, “George, my man’s dry over here!”