“That’s not a social life, Shane. That’s a love life.”
“Whatever.” Shane shook his head. “I told you we’d talk about my little chat with Mr. Warren Thorne after dinner, and here we are, after dinner.”
“We could talk about Jacinta, if you would rather,” Victor stated, his lips twitching into a smile. “You know, we could even bring Tom out. I’m sure he would like to hear about her.”
“Vic, I am not above punching you in the mouth,” Shane warned playfully.
Victor held up his hands in mock surrender. “I yield, Shane. I yield. Tell me, what have you learned from the esteemed and dangerous Warren Thorne?”
“He confirmed that there’s an organization focused on gathering haunted items, although he was adamant he didn’t know why.” Shane glanced up at the sky and then back to Victor. “The man running the robberies, the one I’m looking for, is named Marty Feldman, and he operates out of Manchester, New Hampshire.”
“That’s good news,” Victor observed.
“Almost,” Shane continued. “See, there’s always a catch. When Warren was having a chat with Marty, he learned that the man was working for someone else. Someone far more powerful than Marty. There wasn’t a name given for this new guy, but Warren said it was obvious Marty was scared of him.”
“Was Marty scared of Warren?” Victor inquired.
“Not that Warren said,” Shane sighed, “which could mean nothing or everything.”
“Do I dare ask what the plan is?”
“Sure,” Shane replied. “I go back up to Manchester, and I find this Marty Feldman. When he finishes answering my questions, I gut him like a fish and leave him to bleed out in his bathtub.”
Victor winced. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“Sorry, I’m still frustrated about the Moran deaths.”
Victor nodded his understanding. After a moment, he asked, “Will you be returning home tonight?”
“Yeah,” Shane answered. “I’m sober, so, you know, off I go. Carl will be happy to see me. He hates when I’m gone for too long. He worries.”
“Everyone worries about you, Shane. You live a dangerous life.”
Shane grinned. “Sometimes.”
Victor shook his head. “There are no ‘sometimes’ about it. You do. It’s as simple as that.”
Shane felt his smile falter, and then, he nodded. “Yeah. I know. I never really worried about it before. Does that make sense?”
“No,” Victor admitted. “But I also didn’t join the Marines.”
“Not many people do,” Shane replied. He smoked in silence for a moment. “I’ve lived a dangerous life, Victor. There’s no denying that. I’ve been to bad places, and I’ve done some bad things. I can sleep at night because I have the ability to compartmentalize.”
“Do you ever regret it?”
“No,” Shane answered. “I made my choice. Every time I renewed my oath and I continued on, I knew what I was doing. I could have gotten out at any point if I wanted to. The fact is, I didn’t want to. Hell, I enjoyed it, Victor. There’s nothing like it in the world. You’re with your brothers. You may hate them at times, but when it comes down to it, you’re there for each other. No one else. Yeah, I love my country. I’m proud as hell to be a Marine. But all of that, all of it fell away when we were taking fire. You don’t think about the flag, or apple pie, or any of that when some muj has you pinned down with automatic weapons fire, and his buddies are trying to flank you. You’re there for the guys in your platoon. You’re there to make sure the Corpsman can take care of the wounded. That’s it. That’s what it boils down to.”
Shane was silent for a moment. “And I miss that. More than I ever thought I would.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I’m old for a grunt, Victor,” Shane said. He lit a fresh cigarette. “Besides, there are only so many times you can stuff an eighteen-year-old’s guts back into his belly and listen to him cry for his mom. That’ll break you quicker than anything.”
Silence fell over the two men, and they sat in their chairs. Shane smoked his cigarette, and in the recesses of his memories, he heard the chatter of automatic weapons, and the cries of the wounded and the dying.
Chapter 23: Nick’s House
Saturday, 9:30 AM
Something was wrong.
Nick set down his morning paper, took off his reading glasses, and placed them beside the paper on the coffee table. He tilted his head to one side and listened.
There was a soft scratching sound, a noise that was vaguely familiar.
Concerned, he stood up and left the television room for the other side of the basement. He flipped on the lights and glanced around. None of the mousetraps were tripped, and nothing appeared to be out of place at his workbench. Frowning, Nick scratched the back of his head and turned off the light. As he walked back toward the television room, he heard the noise again.
It came from above him.
Nothing should have been making noise from the first floor.
Nick was alone. Sandy was out shopping with Jeff, trying to pick up bedding and clothing in the hopes that the boy would stay with them permanently.
Nick looked up the basement stairs at the closed door. He contemplated how best to approach the situation, and he knew he had only two options. Either slip out the back and go over to Plourde’s house or go upstairs and confront the trespasser.
Nick started up the stairs. His heartbeat quickened, but it didn’t race uncontrollably. He knew he would take whoever it was by surprise, and he was counting on that to give him the edge in whatever confrontation occurred.
I’ll be real polite, he thought. Tell whoever it is to get out. Just take off. That’s all. No need to press charges.
Nick went into the hallway. As he stepped out onto the worn linoleum, he heard the noise again and recognized it as rustling. The sound came from Sandy’s sewing room, and for a brief moment, he wondered what anyone could think they were going to steal out of it.
Nick straightened up, pushed the thought out of his mind, and strode toward the open door. He stopped in the doorway, opened his mouth to speak, and froze.
There wasn’t anyone in the room.
The windows were closed. And he couldn’t see anything that appeared out of place.
The room, he realized, was colder than it should have been. As if in response to his thought, the heat kicked on in the basement, the furnace rumbling to life. The Zone Register Terminal in the sewing room had triggered it, but nowhere else in the house.
Why? Nick thought, walking further into the room. Closed windows. All locked. He held up his hands to the molding, but there wasn’t any sort of draft coming in.
Shaking his head, Nick turned and left the room. He walked to the kitchen, made himself a cup of coffee, hesitated, and decided to indulge himself. Pulling a chair over to the refrigerator, he stepped up, opened the cabinet over it, and reached into the darkness of the cabinet, past the old vases and mismatched china that they stored there.
For a moment, his fingers groped around, and then they locked onto the smooth glass of the Jägermeister bottle. He eased it out, stepped down, opened the bottle, and added a healthy dose of the liquor into the coffee. The powerful smell of licorice filled the room, and Nick hastened to put the bottle back.