Nick stood up, suddenly uncomfortable in the room.
There was a sense of wrongness about the office. He glanced about, positive someone was watching.
Then, without knowing why, or even questioning it, he plucked the sunglasses off the desk, slipped them into his pocket, and left the murder scene.
A sense of cold settled over his shoulders, and Nick hurried to his car, eager to get home and into a place where death didn’t linger in the air.
Chapter 22: Warren Thorne
Friday, 7:00 AM
Shane looked around the small shed. He saw the lead inlay in the floor and knew there was more protection hidden from sight. On a small table, he had a bottle of water, a glass ashtray, a pack of Lucky Strikes, and his Zippo lighter.
In the center of the inlay was a lead-lined box, in which resided Warren Thorne’s book.
Shane adjusted the iron rings on his fingers, lit a fresh cigarette, and used a long dowel to flip back the lock on the box and push its lid into the upright position.
Warren Thorne appeared immediately.
The old man, clad in his white dress shirt and gray slacks, glared at Shane for a moment.
But it was brief and was immediately replaced by a disingenuous smile.
“Ah, Mr. Ryan,” Warren greeted. “What a pleasure.”
“I think we can dispense with those sorts of BS, right?” Shane asked.
Warren shrugged. “If you wish.”
“I do.”
“Ah, well,” Warren sighed. “Tell me, Mr. Ryan, what is it I can do for you?”
“I’d like information,” Shane stated flatly.
“Regarding why nature dealt you a bad hand with male pattern baldness and fate made you look as if you were run over by a lawnmower?” Warren asked with a smile.
Shane offered the dead man a grim smile. Leaning forward and resting his chin on his interlocked fingers, he said, “I am not above torture, Warren.”
The dead man laughed. “Do you really think you can torture me? I’m dead, after all. I thought you were brighter than that, Mr. Ryan. Oh, I’m well aware of the iron rings on your fingers, and I confess I was surprised at your abilities, but I do not believe that torture is something I should be concerned about.”
“And why is that?” Shane asked, getting to his feet and setting his cigarette down on the lip of the ashtray. He slipped his iron rings off and placed them beside his lighter.
“Well,” Warren answered, “as I said, I’m dead. I suppose that’s the most significant factor here. Second, I like to think of myself as a fair judge of character. You, Mr. Ryan, lack the ability to torture someone. Your code of honor and your sense of morality will prevent you from engaging in something so debasing as torture.”
“What about you?” Shane turned and faced the dead man. “Were you able to?”
Warren smiled coldly. “Most certainly. I had a purpose and drive, Mr. Ryan. Nothing stopped me from obtaining my goals.”
“Did you ever find it difficult?” Shane asked.
“No. Not once.”
Shane stepped into the circle, causing Warren to take a surprised step back, though he could go no further. “I never found it difficult either, Warren.”
Concentrating, Shane reached out with both hands, took hold of Warren’s head, and then tore his right ear off.
The ghost shrieked, his eyes wide with unaccustomed pain.
Shane let go of Warren’s head as the dead man continued to stare at him with horror, slowly raising one hand to touch the injured portion of his head.
Dropping the ear to the floor, both Shane and Warren watched it dissolve into nothingness as Shane stepped out of the inlay and returned to the table. He picked up his cigarette, took a drag off it, and slipped his rings back on. Shane sat down, settled in comfortably, and smiled at Warren.
“I have no qualms about torture,” Shane explained. “It is, at times, a necessary evil. Do I take pleasure in it? No. Does it bother me? Not at all. Not when it’s someone like you, Warren. In fact, I think I might even enjoy it.”
The dead man lowered his hand, composing himself. He smiled, winced, and then stated, “Tell me, Mr. Ryan, what is it you wish to know?”
“There was a man you met with…” Shane hesitated, not wanting to give away where they were, “in Connecticut. You told me you had information. I want to know it. All of it. Everything he told you.”
“You’re not going to threaten to torture me again, are you?” Warren asked.
“Why?” Shane replied. “You already know I will.”
Warren nodded. “True, Mr. Ryan. Quite true.” The dead man was silent for a moment, then, with a soft, cunning smile, he began to speak, and Shane listened.
***
Friday, 7:00 PM
They sat outside in the backyard. The lights from the house poured through the windows and cast elongated rectangles on the neatly trimmed grass.
“You know,” Victor said, breaking the silence that had settled over the three of them, “I used to hate working outside.”
Shane glanced over at the other man. “You wouldn’t be able to tell by the yard, Victor. Roses should come in nice this year. Everything’s trimmed back, ready to go.”
At Victor’s look of surprise, Shane shrugged. “I know I don’t seem the type, and I definitely don’t take care of my own yard, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”
Victor nodded and sipped at his tea. “Erin, my wife, she loved her garden. It’s the only reason why I work out here, why I’ve planted all these. It keeps me close to her.”
Tom stood up suddenly, wiped his eyes with his good hand, and went inside.
Shane watched him go in and then asked in a low tone, “Is he okay?”
Victor’s smile was weak. “There are some nights, for both of us, that remind us terribly of those we’ve lost.”
Shane nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”
Victor looked at him with surprise.
“What?” Shane laughed, shaking his head. “You think I don’t have feelings?”
“Honestly, I didn’t believe you acknowledged any such thing as feelings,” Victor confessed.
Shane grinned. “I do. I have lots of feelings, too many at times. I used to try and drown them with whiskey.”
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Victor began, “but Tom and I did notice that you did not bring any alcohol with you. Nor have you even expressed a desire to go to the package store to pick some up.”
“I’m cutting back,” Shane sighed. “I have to. Carl and Jacinta are both worried about me.”
“I know of Carl,” Victor said, turning slightly in his chair to face Shane. “But who is Jacinta? A new ghost?”
“Far from it,” Shane answered. He took out his cigarettes and glanced at Victor, who nodded. Shane shook a Lucky free, lit it, and exhaled through his nose. “No, Jacinta is a detective. Murder police in Detroit.”
“Shane Ryan,” Victor smiled, “do you have a sweetheart?”
“Come on, how the hell old are you, Vic?” Shane chuckled. “Yeah, I have a girlfriend. She’s great. Anyway, enough about my social life.”