Chapter 32: Discipline
Monday, 6:20 AM
Grayson Breen was still drunk.
He lay on his side, his back to the wall and his head as close to the bucket as possible without having it in the bunk with him. His roommate was on patrol for the next week, and Grayson was making the most of it. He had lost his town privilege after getting into two fights in the same night, and he had been forced to pay double for the beer smuggled in for him.
This is asinine, he thought with a groan, pressing his hands against his stomach. Guy should be able to get drunk on his time off.
There was a loud, hard knock on the door, and the sound reverberated through his head. He groaned and managed to grunt, “Go ’way!”
The person on the other side hit the door harder. “Come on, Grayson, open the damned door.”
Grayson ignored it.
“Let us in,” Sergeant Anderson demanded from the hall.
“I said go ’way!” Grayson yelled.
The doorknob rattled, and Grayson weakly flipped off the unseen person.
There was a muttering from the hallway, and a sharp voice said, “Open it.”
A key jingled, and the door opened.
Shocked, Grayson pushed himself up, the world swimming before his eyes.
Sergeant Anderson walked into the room, flanked by a pair of her security personnel. The older woman, who was firm and even-handed, looked upon him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
“Get up, Breen,” she commanded.
“Can’t,” he answered. “Too drunk.”
She nodded to the security personnel, and they dragged him out of bed. Grayson vomited from the sudden, jarring movement, and both of the security people stepped around it.
Sergeant Anderson led the way out of the room and down the hallway.
Grayson yelled in pain as the tops of his bare feet were dragged across the grated flooring. Dully, he felt the skin tear and blood begin to spill.
The security team didn’t slow down.
They marched steadily until they came to the boss’ office. Sergeant Anderson knocked on the door with the same authoritative power and waited until Timmy, the boss’ dead companion, called for them to enter the room.
They did so, and a heartbeat later, Grayson was dumped unceremoniously onto a large swath of plastic sheeting. He tried to get to his feet, but Sergeant Anderson shoved him back to his knees.
Blinking, Grayson attempted to focus through the haze of alcohol in his brain.
He saw Alex Kallistos sitting behind a large desk, and it looked as though the boy was sitting on books in order to appear taller than Grayson knew him to be. Timmy, the dead man, stood off to the right. There was no one, either living or dead, between Grayson and the boss.
“Grayson Breen,” Alex’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke.
“Yeah.”
Someone slapped Grayson in the back of the head, almost sending him to the floor.
Grayson cleared his throat.
“Yes, sir,” Grayson said, trying to understand how a boy, no matter how frightening, could control so many adults.
“You work in communications,” Alex continued.
Grayson nodded, and again he was slapped. Wincing, he muttered, “Yes, sir.”
“You are responsible for all outgoing emails to the people gathering the ghosts.”
Nervousness spread through his body as Grayson answered, “Yes, sir.”
“So, if there’s an email sent to a woman in Los Angeles, or a man in Austin, or another man in Manchester, you’re the one who’s responsible?” Alex Kallistos smiled as he asked the question, and for a reason Grayson couldn’t quite understand, he smiled back.
Kid’s nothing. Just a kid. What the hell is everyone all freaked out about? “Yes, sir.”
“I can assume you sent out the email to our gatherer in Manchester, New Hampshire?”
“Um…” Grayson began.
“His name is Marty Feldman,” Timmy said helpfully.
“Hey, thanks,” Grayson smiled. Turning his attention back to Alex, he nodded and said, “Yup. Sent him the email about someplace else in New Hampshire. I don’t know. Nashua? Am I making that up?”
“No,” Alex laughed, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t. Do you remember what you wrote?”
“Sure, I copied it down from the morning brief,” Grayson yawned. “I told Feldman to go check the place out. Told him it should be safe since the person was, like, never home. That’s all. Typical stuff.”
“Notes from the morning brief?” Alex asked.
Grayson nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“What happened to the white sheet you were handed?” Alex inquired. “Sergeant Betchell, your superior, he told me that everyone gets a copy of the white sheet first thing in the morning.”
“Yup,” Grayson agreed, “I did. Thing is, it’s just easier to write notes for the whole day on it. That way, I don’t forget anything.”
“Do you remember two days ago?” Alex asked.
Grayson frowned, and then he shook his head, laughed, and replied, “Nope.”
“Breen!” Anderson snapped.
“Sergeant.” It was the dead man who spoke, his voice cold and harsh.
Not another word was spoken by Sergeant Anderson.
Alex Kallistos got out of the chair.
Knew he wasn’t that tall, Grayson thought with satisfaction.
The boy paused, shook his head as though he had water in one ear, and then nodded.
“You good, kid?” Timmy asked.
“Huh?” Alex blinked and grinned at the dead man. “Oh, yeah. Peachy keen.”
The boss came to a stop in front of Grayson, and it was only then that Grayson saw the boy was carrying a wooden box about the length of a shoebox.
“Do you know who Shane Ryan is?” Alex asked.
Grayson shook his head.
“Do you know where Nashua, New Hampshire is?”
“Nope.”
Alex smiled softly. “Did you know you were talked to about it two days ago?”
Grayson laughed. “Boss,” he said, “I can’t remember last night.”
Alex snickered. “Huh. Yeah, you drank a lot. I know. They told me this morning.”
The boy sat down on the floor, putting the box on his lap as he motioned for Grayson to sit as well.
Happily, Grayson did so.
“Once upon a time,” Alex whispered, causing Grayson to lean in to hear him. “There was a man named Shane Ryan.”
“Was he a good guy or a bad guy?” Grayson asked in a stage whisper.
“Both,” Alex answered, and then he held his finger up to his lips for quiet.
Grayson gave an exaggerated nod.
Alex smiled. “So, Shane, he took care of bad guys. Most of the time, it was because he was bad, too. Really, really bad. Shane got rid of ghosts who weren’t nice. People, too. And, Shane had a house filled with ghosts.”
Grayson blinked. Something picked at his memory, and Alex Kallistos paused.
“What is it?” Alex asked, his tone gentle, persuasive.
“I think I remember something,” Grayson admitted. “Something about the guy’s house.”
Alex smiled. “Yeah, I bet. He has a big house, Grayson. Really big. Filled with ghosts and ghostly things. The type of things I like.”