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Title: Christmas
Spirits A MARYLAND
COURTROOM DECEMBER
16, 2002
1 P.M. The
sharp crack of wood upon wood echoed through out the silent court room
prompting the three men
standing before the honorable Edgar T.
Shoemaker to jump silently. The
judge suppres- sed the
satisfied grin such actions gave him.
He cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hand and read
the defendants' names allowed: "Melvin
Frohike . . ." The
shortest and eldest of the trio stepped forward, clearly ill at ease in
the freshly tailored suit bought for
the occasion. ".
. . John Fitzgerald Byers . . ." The
bearded man couldn't have stood any straighter, the first man noted with
some contempt. Nonetheless,
at the sound of his name he immediately 'snapped to', his tailored suit
flawless. ".
. . Richard W. Langly . . ." The
blond immediately stopped tugging at the borrowed tie and over starched
white shirt, and cast bespectacled eyes up toward the bench.
Equally unsettled- -if not more so- -he fought the urge to stuff
his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
He was regretting not having taken Byers' offer to loan him a
suit as well, until he remembered the loaner trousers were an inch too
short for him. Robe-boy
would just have to deal with the jeans.
He
shuffled forward. The judge
was singling him out- -he knew it. They
always did. It was the hair
thing. Everybody had a
problem with the long hair. He
now wished he'd heeded further advice to wear it pulled back in a pony
tail. ".
. . are hereby ordered to serve 100 hours of community service.
To begin immediately. Court adjourned." The
gavel's ending proclamation seemed less ominous now over the stir of
people as they exited the court room. The
three Gunmen openly relaxed- -even Byers to the point of tugging at his
own tie. A rarity with him.
Langly in the meantime, had pulled his off and unfastened the top
two buttons. He flung the
tie to it's rightful owner with a hushed, "Thanks, dude."
John
Byers rolled the loaner tie and stuffed it into a suit pocket.
"We best find out our assign-ment," he prompted in his
usual clipped tenor. "The
sooner we get this over with . . ." "
. . . The sooner we can get
the hell out of here and back to the paper," Frohike muttered in
agreement. "I just hope
whatever we get handed isn't any worse than spending the last three
nights in jail." Langly
scowled. "I can think of at least one." His
room mates groaned openly at the possibilities.
The
younger man had been raised on a dairy farm. WESTERN
MARYLAND'S HAVEN HOME
FOR BOYS AND GIRLS DECEMBER
19, 2002 8:30 A.M. The
Gunmen's ancient VW micro bus rolled into a parking space just as a
group of pre teen boys and girls, dressed in identical blue and grey
sweatshirts and blue jeans, gathered on the build-ing's front steps.
Catching sight of Langly in the passenger seat, one of the older
boys cried out, "Look
the grunge mobile comes with it's own hippie." "Can't
we just slip out of the country?" Langly whined as he cast a
baleful eye toward the youngsters. "Go
to Canada, or . . .?" Byers'
and Frohike's collective glares silenced him immediately.
The
little man reached around the blond and opened the door.
He slammed his hip into his, forcing him to the pavement and
followed. "Oh,
look they got a midget," guffawed another teen, this time a girl.
"He's ugly." "Sure
it ain't a troll?" Another
snickered. "Naw,"
came a third voice. "It's
an elf." Frohike
openly bristled. "So
help me, I'm gonna paddle some a . . ." Byers
had come around from the drivers' side and all but hurried his two room
mates past the group. As the
door closed behind them, he heard someone say, "They even got their
own Man in Black. How weird
is that?" Away
from the scrutiny of the teens, the three Gunmen took in their
surroundings. To their
left was a long administration desk.
A tattered log book lay open for both guests and inhabitants of
the building to either check in or out.
It was surprisingly unmanned at present.
To their right was a larger,
separate room- -possibly a resource or study room.
A bank of six computer monitors and their accompanying CPU's ran
along the nearest wall. "Nice
fossils," Langly commented dryly.
"I think I grew up with one of those."
Byers silenced him with another stern look, convinced the
facility relied heavily on public donations.
By the looks of the interior walls' peeling paint and water
stained ceiling, generosity was fleeting at best.
The Gunmen took turns signing in and went in search of someone in
charge. "I
see you made it past the welcoming committee," came a sardonic
voice from behind them as they passed one of the offices. The
three men whirled to a willowy, no nonsense black woman.
She was perhaps in her late forties.
"Misters Byers, Langly and Frohike, I presume?"
Each man raised his hand as she spoke their names.
"Good." She waved them toward the cubicle she'd stepped
from. "In here
please." The
Gunmen, however, stood their ground. "Madam, might we get on with
what ever punish-ment you've laid out for us?"
John Byers addressed. "We're
journalists and have a dead line." Openly
unimpressed, the woman sneered, "Lucky us.
Maybe you could write a nice gooey piece on the home just in time
for Christmas. Now come with
me. You're due for
orientation." "Hey,
doll, we already went through two days of that crap," Frohike
barked, all the more cranky from the lack of sleep.
Along with a round robin grilling concerning proper conduct as
child care providers, the trio had pulled an all nighter creating both
pristine backgrounds for themselves in pre-paration of Haven Home's
standard security screen, and laying out pages for the The Lone
Gunman by Friday's self proposed dead line.
"My
name is Aleesha Johns,"
she said icily, snapping their attentions back to the present.
"Ms. Johns."
She approached and stood toe to toe with the older man.
"You will address me as such.
Not doll, honey or some other testosterone challenged term of
endearment. Understood?" Frohike
gulped and managed a respectable, "Yes, ma'am." Her
gaze turned toward Byers and Langly.
The former uttered an equally passable "Yes, ma'am."
While an openly intimidated Langly simply nodded. "In
here." The
Gunmen silently crammed themselves into the small cubicle barely big
enough for one person. "The
state of Maryland has it's own set of rules," she began,
"concerning the welfare of these children, and, I have mine: "Foremost,
don't take liberties with these kids, no matter how tough they talk-
-sexually or otherwise. You
will perform the tasks handed you, and, satisfactorily, to earn your
time." Her dark eyes cut to the bearded, nattily dressed Gunman.
"However, Mr Byers, I'm afraid that suit ain't gonna get you out of
bathroom detail." Byers
felt his cheeks flush red; refusing to look at Frohike who had warned
him of this possibil-ity. "I
brought a change of clothing- -just in case," he mumbled and
indicated the door. "If I may?" She
nodded, excusing him. "You'll
report here by nine a.m. and leave by three p.m.
That's when the children arrive back from school." Johns
continued. And
she's worried about us interacting with these kids?
Frohike thought. Even
if we wanted to -
-strike that! - -we'd never have the opportunity! As
they exited, Frohike's bespectacled eyes fell across two framed
photographs on the woman's desk.
The first one depicted a small Afro-American boy about six,
cuddling a worn teddy bear; his own dark eyes intense and mistrusting.
The other photo showed two other children- -a boy and a girl-
-both white. The
second boy was slightly older than the first, but his eyes shared the
same intensity as his counter-part.
The girl was perhaps in her early to late teens. "I'll
introduce you to the custodian. His
name's Bobby," Johns continued as she led them toward another small
office. Byers had since
rejoined them. Not
ordinarily one to 'dress down', he now wore black multi-pocketed utility
trousers, combat boots and a white t-shirt.
11:30 A.M. Melvin
Frohike cast a wary eye toward Johns' office before entering.
He'd had more than enough of her during the morning's briefing,
not to mention her constant vigil of the Gunmen's progress throughout
the morning. He was not
anxious for another confrontation. She
wasn't in her office. Probably
up somebody else's 'incompetent' ass.
Thankfully he and his room mates, despite their less than
favorable housekeeping skills, had gotten the south end of the building
clean enough for her satisfaction. Frohike
quickly snatched up the waste basket and dumped it's contents into a
larger receptacle. As he
replaced the smaller can, his eyes fell across the picture on Johns'
desk once again. Cute
kids. Adults now, he
realized. His own
familiarity with photography, as well as the subjects' clothing,
identifying the photo as having been taken decades before. "Those
kids died in a Christmas eve fire about thirty years ago," came a
gravely voice from the doorway. The
Gunman jumped. It was Bobby. Shit!
All he needed was this simpleton to go running to Johns about his
snooping through her office.
Thankfully, years of covert ops, often necessary in their
self imposed line of work, prompted a cool head. Rather
than patronize, the Gunman stated, "It didn't think it was
recent." He didn't ask as to fire's cause- -the Christmas season
had both it's share of joys as well as hazards.
The
older black man- -he had to be damn near sixty!- -continued, "They
got all them kids out. But,"
Frohike openly cringed, preparing himself for the worse.
"that one boy ran back in to save that bear he's
holding. The other two were
brother and sister. She was
also working here. Hoped to
save enough to get her own place and adopt her brother.
When the fire started, he went back in through the basement to
save a puppy he was secretly caring for.
She went in after him. They never found his body.
But they found hers." Frohike
replaced the picture and exited the office.
He didn't want to hear any more, but Bobby dogged him
through the next several rooms. "Since
then, the electricity's never been right," the black man continued.
"Especially this time of year.
It got even worse when they put them damn computers in." Pausing
in his work, the little man whirled on him.
"Have they had anybody out to look at it? The
electricity, I mean?" The
other man shrugged. "When
they can afford to. But it
don't do no good." "You
two want to snap up this tea party and get back to work?"
Came Ms. Johns' voice
from behind
them. The two men stiffened
and old Bobby hurried away with a mumbled, "Yessum." Frohike
held his ground, both defending he and his fellow man, as well as
fishing for more information. "Bobby
was telling me about those kids that died in a fire thirty years
ago." She seemed
unaffected by his attempts, however. She's
heard it all! Okay.
We cut the crap! "He
also told me you've had some electrical problems.
My friends and I are investigative reporters.
Gooey stories not withstanding, we may be able to right some
possible wrongs here." Johns
looked at him evenly. "That
so called paper you work for is self-published," she intoned icily.
"How the hell are you gonna to print it when you can't even
pay your fine?" They
had their ways, Frohike thought.
Admittingly, all as shady as the next.
However, he proposed, "Let me and my boys take a look at
the wiring. We've got some
electrical and computer know-how." "Journalists
with both electrical and computer back grounds," Johns patronized.
"Diversity not withstanding,
are you certified?" "We
are," the Gunman shot back, careful not to divulge any
contradicting information already obtainable
through the bogus papers he and his room mates had provided. However,
Aleesha Johns was not one to embrace specialties when dealing with the
likes of these three. (You
didn't work the master's house until you sweated in the fields some.)
After some deliberation, the woman said, "Finish what you're
doing. Then come see
me." 12:45 P.M. Byers
and Langly welcomed the change of venue.
Particularly after spending the morning de-fending their
respective honors mopping floors and unclogging toilets.
Because
of his leaner build and lesser electronics skills, Byers took the attic.
Langly gained the computer
room by default and Frohike headed for the basement. The
beam of Byers' head mounted flashlight suddenly died, plunging him into
darkness. "Damn!"
He shook his head and thumped the connection with his index
finger in hopes of coaxing a loose connection into compliance.
To
no avail. Peeling
the light from his head, the bearded man realized too late that the lack
of light would prevent his accessing the damage.
He'd have to return to ground level.
"So much for top of the line," he muttered, jamming the
light back on his head. The
bearded Gunman began to back out of the cramped crawlspace when two
nickle-sized red dots appeared in front of him.
He blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks. No.
They were stationery. As
his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he realized the red dots lay
in the center of another shape- -also round, with two protrusions on
top. Ears? Another
more elongated shape appeared below this.
A body? If so, two
smaller protrusions angled outward at it's top, and two longer ones at
its bottom, allowing it to sit. It
was an old teddy bear! What
the hell was it doing up here? He
didn't expect it belonged to any of the kids they'd met earlier . . . He
squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them.
The head mounted flash light suddenly snapped on, blinding him
momentarily. Blinking
to clear his vision, he was startled to find the bear had disappeared!
The headset's earpiece squawked with a brief burst of feedback. Frohike
grimaced and jammed his index finger into the device.
Other than Byers' clipped com-mentaries and Langly's separate and
chronic wheeze as he muttered his own crude deliberations through the
miles of wiring on his end, it was silent. Then
it was back. Lower
in pitch- -almost mournful. He
jabbed the earpiece again, but the noise continued. "Hey,
cut the chatter!" he barked. All
three Gunmen cut their mics; the younger two without question.
They had orchestrated enough covert ops not to question a direct
order. Frohike
continued to read each junction box where a series of wires met, with a
hand held meter, convinced someone or some thing was watching him. Probably
that bitch, Johns, he thought.
Just waiting for us to make a mistake so she can send us packing! Another
drawn out hum- -no, more like a dog's howl- -emitted from the earpiece
once again. "I
said, cut the chatter!" The
headset was off! He
heard the sound again. He
immediately recognized it as a dog's- -or was it a puppy's?-
-plaintive whimper. He
sidled up to the corridor intersection to his left.
There was nothing but dated boxes marked IRS.
Another
series of whimpers and howls crescendoed and died, followed
by a scratching sound to his
right. As he felt what
little hair he still had to stand on end, he fought the urge to retreat.
He flipped on the headset mic. Still
trying to shake off the attic's apparition, Byers returned to the
facility's community room and knelt where Langly was laying half in and
half out of an access panel tracing through the com-puter bank's wiring.
"Anything?"
the bearded man prompted. Openly
frustrated by his room mate's impatience and his own failure to find the
suspected flaws, Langly straightened and returned the multi-meter to its
case. "It all checks
out," he moaned. "This
hardware's in better shape than ours.
What about you?" "I'm
not sure." Langly's
head snapped up; clearly ready to denounce Byers' lack of electronic
expertise. (Thanks to he and
Frohike, the bearded man at least knew enough about basic electronics to
keep his ass from getting fried! He
was simply their respectable 'suit', editor-in-chief and head
financier.) Byers
seemed paler and more distant than usual.
Staring
at the older man, Langly snickered in spite of himself. "You look
like you've seen Cas-per himself." "I
think I did," the other replied remotely, his words far too
profound to be anything less than sincere and he went on to tell Langly
about his experience in the attic. "Mulder,
I would believe," the blond chuckled when he'd finished.
"Frohike and I at least have an excuse for either popping or
smoking all things chemical or organic before we met.
But not you, dude. You're
so clean, you squeak." "I'm
not kidding, Langly," Byers shot back in his high tenor- -now an
octave higher, revealing the stress he was under. Their
headsets suddenly crackled with Frohike's voice.
"Byers? Langly? You
got your ears on?" "Talk
to me," the blond acknowledged.
"Is
Byers there?" the voice seemed a little more agitated than usual,
even for Frohike.
"Affirmative,"
came Byers' answer. "Come
down here!" The
two men exchanged panicked looks before Byers turned and raced down the
hallway. Langly was
left to wait; his window to the others via a simple headset.
A
networking connection inside an open access panel sputtered and died,
blanking out all six computer screens. "What
the hell- -?" The
blond grabbed up the meter and dove back inside the panel. Everything
was as he'd left it, so there was nothing to indicate a loose wire.
He
felt something brush against the back of his neck and he swiped at a
stray lock of yellow hair that had pulled loose from its pony tail.
It was persistent and kept aggravating him.
He finally straightened again and readjusted the hair tie. Returning
to his work, his eye caught something on the computer screen in front of
him. At first he turned
toward the door, thinking someone had entered.
No. He
blinked and turned back- -the image was gone. "Heavy,"
Langly mumbled, not immediately concerned.
However, he again searched the room, almost expecting his room
mates to catch him second guessing himself.
"All I need is those two raggin' on me."
He continued tracing the defective 'loop'. That
damn hair had pulled loose again and was tickling the back of his neck.
Cursing, Langly straightened to secure it once again and saw his
own reflection in the second screen.
Behind him was a young girl, blowing on the back of his neck!
Again,
he whirled to find no one behind him.
The momentum careened the back of his head in to the desk. "Ow!
Shit!" Blinking away the stars, he turned back to the screen
. . . and her! .
. . taunting him. No.
Beckoning him to follow . . . Where
. . .? He
didn't care. Panic-stricken,
the blond Gunman lept to his feet and bolted from the room. He nearly
knocked Byers and Frohike, who were engaged in a heated discussion, down
as they entered. "What
the hell's up with you?" Frohike demanded, catching his breath.
Then he saw the horror etched in Langly's sharp features.
"Oh Christ!" Byers
saw it too. Realizing the
blond hadalso experienced a possible vision, he demanded, "What the
hell did you see?" In
his agitated state, however, Langly was unable to articulate, and simply
pulled them into the room. Once
he'd found his voice, the younger man explained everything in his usual
animated way. "You saw girls
on these screens?" Frohike
grumbled, when he'd finished. His
gruff voice was tinged with
jealousy. "No.
One girl- -the same girl- -two different times," Langly
insisted. "At first it was just a glance, then it was in that
second screen. She
was," he grinned sheepishly, "you know, playing with my hair
and stuff." Frohike
snorted. "Sounds like
your night fantasies are invading your conscious state- -such as it
is." Byers suppressed a
grin. The
blond bristled and tipped his head toward the latter. "What about
the teddy bear you saw?" Despite
his sudden bravado, Langly was still visibly shaken and his voice still
quavered slightly as he spoke. Turning
back to Frohike, he quieried, "Or did he tell you?" "He
told me," the little man was suddenly somber. "When I told you
two to be quiet earlier? I
thought I heard a dog- -maybe a puppy- -howling and whimpering in the
basement. But I couldn't
find it. That's why I had Byers come down.
His eyesight's a hell of a lot better than either of ours."
Byers, however, appeared to be questioning these very attributes.
Though neither willing to admit nor deny the puppy he'd heard
might be linked to his room mates' apparitions,
Frohike added not unkindly, "At least I thought so before
you told me about that teddy bear." "So
what now?" Langly demanded. The
color in his face- -at least what passed for healthy- - had returned. Frohike
looked at his watch. It was
about two-thirty. "Finish
up, pack our gear and report back here tomorrow." "Can't
we just appeal to the judge?" the blond whined. OFFICES OF THE
LONE GUNMAN TAKOMA
PARK, MARYLAND 7:05 P. M. "Sounds
like you guys are invading my turf," agent Monica Reyes teased the
Gunmen's answer-ing machine. Byers
had left the initial message upon their return, in hopes the latest
recruits of Fox Mulder's controversial X-files, could provide some
spectral guidance. They were thankful that she had answered and not her
more critical partner, John Doggett. "Call me back so we can talk
at length. Thanks." John
Byers snatched up the phone a split second ahead of Frohike and dialed.
"Hello?
Monica?" he said into the mouthpiece, then tabbed on the
speaker phone. "Hi,
John." The agent
greeted cheerfully, refusing to refer to any of the Gunmen by their more
familiar last names. "So
you're branching out into spectral analysis.
Interesting. No
offense, but its not as lucrative as that paper of yours." Monica
Reyes mild taunt prompted the Gunmen to bristle slightly.
"Seriously guys. You have most of the equipment on hand
already- -video and still cameras, thermometers . . .
I can make some calls and have the rest waiting for you at
headquarters." The
three men perked up, embracing the woman's sudden sincerity and support.
"Do you have a piece of paper and pencil handy?"
Byers snatched up a notepad and aptly caught the pen Langly
pitched to him. He announced
he was ready and for the next several minutes, the four of them parlayed
back and forth until Byers had nearly ten pages of explicit notes. "However,
before you tread into virgin territory," Monica warned, "you
need to appeal to those apparitions you saw." Richard
Langly wasn't sure he liked her meaning.
"Appeal to them? How
. . .?" BERTRAM
BYERS' RESIDENCE RESTON,
VIRGINIA
8:00 P. M. John
Byers raised his hand to knock, then, with a deep exasperated sigh,
dropped it back to his side. He
and his father had finally reconciled their decade-long rift months
earlier; guaranteeing only
sporadic visits at best. The
holidays held their own bitter memories. He
was eight when his mother died a week before Christmas.
While the rest of the world em-braced the joys of the holiday,
the Byers' non descript bungalow had remained devoid of the tradi-tional
holiday trappings to this day. It
was now or never. He
knocked. Bertram
Byers had found solace in the strict, utilitarian rules and discipline
he had been raised with, since his wife's death to cancer thirty years
earlier.
His son had embraced this very discipline without undue question.
Like
his father, it had become more evident following his mother's death;
carrying John Byers unfalteringly into
his adult life. Then in 1989, the younger Byers had unexplainably, and,
against all logic, quit his staid DOD job with the FCC, to help publish
the controversial government bashing publication known as The Lone
Gunman. Thus, alienating
them from each other's world. His
father waved him into the house, silent. In
another situation the two men could prove charming and articulate.
Now they stood silently in the middle of the room, waiting for
the other to speak first. They
did so- -simultaneously. "How
you doing, John/dad?" Rather
than be amused, or bemus-ed, by this however, they continued; each
answering the other's question, "Fine.
And you?/Well." John
Byers hesitated only for a moment before revealing in his usual no
nonsense tone, "Dad, do you still have that old teddy bear of
mine?" This
proved to be the very icebreaker they desperately needed.
Nontheless, the elder Byers was taken aback by the query.
"Its still sitting in that old rocker in our bedroom,"
he managed. "Your
mother would have never forgiven me if I'd gotten rid of it." "Do
you mind if I have it?" The
younger man all but stuttered. Too
surprised to formerly respond, the older man simply nodded. His
son rushed down the hall toward the room in question and plucked a worn
teddy bear from the cane rocker. "To
think I gave you up because I didn't need you any more," he
whispered into the bear's whimsical expression.
The tattered ears had absorbed a lifetime of little boy's
secrets; the dark orbs upholding its undying promise never to reveal
them. As
he turned to leave, Byers' eyes fell across a framed photo of he and his
parents. He grimaced at how
young he must have been- -five perhaps?
Like always, the Byers family was dressed to the nines.
Not extravacly so, but well enough to exude a healthy confidence
they were worthy of the respect
bestowed of both superiors and subordinates.
Even at this tender age, John Byers was too disciplined to
exhibit the typical spoiled pretentiousness of an only child.
"You
know how many co-workers begged to know how I'd gotten you to give up
that bear, John?" The
voice startled him from behind. The
younger Byers grinned in spite of himself, remembering.
Replacing the picture, he stated.
"I was six. The
other kids were all older than I and kept making fun of me.
I had to make a quick decision or risk being permantely
ostersized." "No
one believed me," the other chuckled.
"However, your mother wouldn't let me throw it out."
John
Byers suddenly reached out and hugged his father stiffly; the gesture
clearly an unfamiliar practice. "He-
-It'll be fine, dad," he promised.
As he cradled the stuffed animal in the crook of his arm, his
father's expression suggested that his life might be forfeit if he were
to fail in his mission. At
the front door, the elder Byers' voice stopped his son in his tracks:
"What are you and your friends doing for Christmas,
John?" The
bearded Gunman blinked back his amazement.
His father had never extended such an invitation-
-season not withstanding- -to either he or his room mates. "I'm
not sure," he was painfully honest.
Then revealed, "We pulled community service for a parking
violation last week." Bert
Byers bit back his amusement. "Where?" "Haven
Home for Boys and Girls." However,
John Byers decided against revealing the appari-tions he and his room
mates had seen. At least for
now. The
older man all but beamed. The
bear was probably a gift for one of the kids.
"Maybe you can all
stop by later?" Still
taken aback by his father's sudden hospitality, John Byers managed,
"That'll be nice, dad. Thanks." OFFICES OF THE
LONE GUNMAN DECEMBER
21, 2002 10:20 A. M.
The
woman's voice on the other end of the phone seemed vindictive toward
Frohike's request to adopt a puppy from their facility. "Ma'am
this is the fourth place we've called," the older man pleaded.
His voice was surprisingly patient, despite having spent the last
two days engaged in humiliating menial labor and dealing with Aleesha
Johns. In addition, the
Gunmen had began taking eight hour shifts laying out the final pages of
the LG, while the other two slept or ran the necessary errands. However,
the woman was adamant. As
with the other facilities, all available puppies had either been placed
or were currently in the adoption process.
Or so they said. He slammed down the re-ceiver and turned to
Byers. "Maybe we can
get lucky with just the bear." "I
still opt for an appeal," Langly muttered from behind his computer
monitor.
Ignoring
the blond, the bearded man shrugged and stated, "Let's hope we can
convince Ms. Johns to let us proceed."
HAVEN HOME
FOR BOYS AND
GIRLS 11:30 A. M. The
three Gunman trudged into the facility and signed in.
Three teens horsing around just inside the door, stopped to stare
silently at the procession. They
immediately drew a larger crowd from those milling about the computer
room. Equally appalled by
the Gunmen's flagrant breech of protocal, the young volunteer at the
desk escorted them to Ms. Johns' office. John
Byers gathered his courage and stated in his clipped tenor, "Ms.
Johns, we believe your facility
may be haunted."
The
woman couldn't contain her amusement, or her anger.
"By your ghosts if Reynolds catches you in here
after your 'agreed' hours." "Please,
ma'am," the bearded man continued. "Security screens not
withstanding, somebody made sure we pulled this assignment.
We prefer your cooperation. But
we can, and have worked, around more severe opposition." Aleesha
Johns' hard expression all but backed him down.
"One call to your P.O., mister, and you'll be spending your
Christmas in jail." Byers
absorbed her threat and gulped back a secondary appeal for the moment.
He risked a glanced to the others- -Frohike's hard gaze pleaded
for clemency, as did Langly 's own fearful one. Such
opposition simply prompted another barrage.
"Just one night, Ms. Johns.
Please," Byers begged. "While
the children are in bed, we can set up our cameras . . ." The
black woman plucked the telephone's handset from its base and waved it
threatingly. From his
perspective, Langly saw the base's preprogrammed panel and hissed,
"She's got speed dial, Byers. Shut
the hell up!" But
Byers was on a roll. "Agent Reyes is a highly respected, FBI agent
whose specialty lies within the
realm of spectral analysis. Unfortunately,
while she is not immediately available to oversee our operation, she has
given us a full briefing on how to perform the necessary tasks in her
absence. We just need your
approval." Johns
pushed the button labeled D. A. and
held the receiver to her ear. "Mr.
Chas Reynolds, please," she all but oozed into the
receptionist's ear. "Yeah?"
came the unmistakable baritone of their P. O. "Chas,
I'm afraid you're going to have to make other arrangements with those
guys you sent me. Yeah, the
newspaper guys." The
Gunmen, however, had heard Reynolds harsh confirmation through the
earpiece. But when the man
asked for details, the woman ventured nothing more than an ulti- matum if he
refused to comply. The
Gunmen were out. They
refused to look at each other. Langly
was grumbling something about
incompetence; Byers certain it was directed at him specifically. Johns
suddenly held out the phone to the bearded man.
He took it with some trepidation. "What's
the problem, Mr. Byers?"
the P.O. demanded.
More
subdued now, Byers began with the apparitions they'd seen and concluded
with their de- sire to
place their cameras throughout Haven Home in hopes of capturing the
images on both still and video cameras. "Ghosts,"
the other voice stated flatly. "I
assure you," the bearded Gunman attempted again. "The children
will not be involved." "Neither
will you," Reynolds ordered; his voice heard by all.
"If you all leave by choice, we'll reschedule your sentences
until after the holidays. Force
our hand and we'll see that you'll spend the remainder of them in jail.
Understood?" "Yes!"
the Gunmen answered in unison. Byers
replaced the receiver. Frohike,
however, had had enough and snapped to his feet.
"Listen, lady!" The
dark woman's eyes shot
daggers at him, but the older man refused to back down.
"Our little inspection of the joint revealed some major code
violations as far as the wiring goes. That
means you may be on the brink of
another possible fire." "You
have five minutes before I call the cops." OFFICES OF THE
LONE GUNMAN 11:32 P.M. I
should be sleeping, Langly grumbled to himself as he booted up his
laptap. He yawned- -one more
day and this issue would be finished.
Byers' shift would be ending soon, passing the torch first to
Frohike, then to him at the semi-merciful hour of
8:00 A.M.- -only three hours before he was due
to get up anyway- -and run until 4 P.M. The
laptop's screen cast an eerie glow over the sharp features and glared
off the lenses of his outdated horned rims as he tapped into the local
DC papers dated the day of the Haven Home fire.
The girl he'd seen in the computer room, stared back at him from
a photograph with a young boy- -also killed in the fire. Langly
tabbed up the obituary columns and stared incrediously at the screen.
The two were originally from Saltville, Nebraska- -his home town!
That was too weird! He
requested the Saltville Guardian, the local paper.
As for the fire, it garnered a simple five inch column on the
back page. Not surprising.
He hit the obituary columns for that time frame.
His eye focused immediately on a photo of a blond girl with the
same sharp features he'd
been cursed with- -large nose and pointed cleft chin.
Poor kid, he thought.
Then he saw the name- - "Drucilla Langly!"
He enlarged the article.
"Sixteen. Daughter
of Warren and Arleen Langly of . .
." "Shit!
She's my sister!" he bit down on his knuckle to silence his
outburst- -not wanting the others to know just yet.
Langly checked the date again- -1970.
He would have been two years old at the time. Someone
knocked on his door. "Langly?"
It was Byers. No doubt passing by on his way to wake up Frohike.
The bearded man stuck his head in the door.
He was devoid of the trademark tie and suit jacket and looked
rough, Langly thought. But
then he had gone right to work on the paper upon their return. "Are
you two switching?" He asked his room mate. "Uh,
no," the blond stated. "Just
squelching some creative energy. You
know?" Byers grinned understanding-
-he himself guilty of satisfying nocturnal inspiration.
He mumbled, "good night," and continued toward
Frohike's room. Langly
lay awake for several minutes listening to the muffled voices of his
room mates as Byers briefed the
older man on his progress. The
conversation lasted only as long as it took the younger man to reach his
own bedroom. Then died all
together as his door closed. Why
hadn't his parents told him about his sister? It
would be about 9:30 their time. Dad
might be asleep already, but mom would be up still.
She would be
easier to talk to. He picked
up the phone and after several agonizing minutes dialed.
The clipped, mechanical voice informed him that the number was
unlisted. Damn! The
Gunman dialed another number. "Yeah?"
answered a sleepy voice. "Kimmy? "Geez,
Langly!" the voice barked. "Its late!
Normal people work a 9
to 5 shift and prefer an eight hour sleep cycle." "I
need your hacking skills." "Since
when?" "Since
I have two nosey room mates and you don't.
I need my folk's unlisted phone number in Saltville, Nebraska.
Its Warren and Arleen Langly.
Thanks, dude." Langly
didn't await fellow hacker, Kim Belmont's response before hanging up.
OFFICES OF THE
LONE
GUNMAN DECEMBER
22, 2002 3:13 A. M. The
phone's insistent brrrr pierced his consciousness.
Frohike
reached out from the lighted layout table where he'd fallen asleep, and
slapped blindly at what he
mistook for the alarm clock their current situation had forced them to
buy. Realizing
the interruption was indeed the phone, Frohike snatched up the receiver
and muttered, "Lone Gunman.
Frohike speaking." "Mr.
Frohike?" It
was Ms. Johns! He
was instantly awake. "Ma'am?" The
voice on the other end was surprisingly hesitant as she stated,
"I'm afraid we have a situation
here." The
older Gunman fought to keep the edge from his voice.
On the contrary, he was almost fearful of the possibilities; he
himself guilty of prophecy. Aleesha
Johns' voice had lost it's own edge as she appealed, "Mr.
Frohike, some of the kids claimed they smelled smoke," she
began. "We've had to
evacuate until the fire Marshall deems our building safe." Frohike
guessed the rest. "Do
you have a place to stay?" The
woman openly sighed- -her voice edged with desperation, "The Red
Cross gave us vouchers for food and shelter. Unfortunately, everything's
either booked for the weekend, or they refused to accommodate us." So
much for keeping in the spirit of the season! The
little man thought glumly. Then
made a snap
decision. "Are you
familiar with the warehouse district?" She
was, and he promptly gave her detailed instructions on how to find them.
He was not prepared for her next proposal, however. "The
inspectors won't be out until Tuesday.
I won't object to you setting up your ghost bustin'
equipment until then. However,
you're on your own if they catch you trespassing." The
older man didn't hesitate. "Sounds like a plan." OFFICES OF THE
LONE GUNMAN 3:30 A. M. Richard
Langly was his usual pragmatic self.
Particularly due to his inability to get back to sleep following
his discovery, and being awakened a half hour early for his agreed
shift. "So I either go with you and Byers or stay here and help
counselor dearest babysit?" he grumbled. "Yes,"
the others stated simultaneously. Frohike
and Byers were already
dressed in night ops gear- -dark utility trousers, black turtlenecks and
knit watch caps, boots, and flak vests. The
blond hadn't yet gotten out of bed. Byers
began rummaging through the piles of clothing littering the floor and
pulled out a set of clothes identical to theirs.
Tossing them on the bed, he announced, "Go or stay.
You've got five minutes to decide."
Langly
didn't like either option, but in his mind, returning to Haven Home was
far worse than dealing with a handful of teenagers and Ms Johns.
Besides, once Byers and Frohike were gone, he could
further investigate his sister's death.
The
door buzzer echoed throughout the warehouse, prompting Byers' statement,
"Perhaps not." Near
panicked, Langly sprang out of bed, naked except for a tattered,
oversized t-shirt that revealed
more than it covered.
"You guys got those CPU's sealed?
Right?" he suddenly asked, jumping into the trousers, Byers
had found for him. The
bearded man had since disappeared down the concrete stairs to answer the
door. "Tight
as the proverbial drum." Frohike
promised, eyeballing the younger man suspiciously as voices drifted up
from the ground floor. However,
Frohike's computer savvy was the least of the blond's problems.
He could easily gain access to what he needed and reseal
everything with the excuse the little man knew nothing of the procedure,
all without the others discovering the truth.
It was the kids he was most concerned with.
He hadn't had the opportunity to personally seal the back-up
systems that held their more delicate ops. One
fourteen year old in particular made Langly nervous.
Since Haven Homes' arrival, Akeem Wells hadn't been able to keep
his eyes- -or his hands- -off the multi-banks of computers and other
hodge-podge of electronic gear that littered the maze of counters and
steel shelving. Once
alone with their guests, Langly begged Ms. Johns to keep better tabs on
her charges- -he himself counted eleven- -as they were eventually
rounded up and herded upstairs to the warehouse's loft.
Despite
the hour, sleep was not an option for anyone.
Some of the teens unrolled sleeping bags - -boys on
one side, girls on the other- -and lounged in what available space they
could. Some
talked. Another girl,
about fifteen, Langly determined, seemed to be watching his every move
from the far end of the room. She
almost looked like the girl in the Guardian photo.
That was ridiculous. Sleep
depravation and his eyes were playing tricks on his mind.
Nonetheless, their eyes kept locking on each other. She
was wearing an old fashioned- -well, late seventies style, but still
ancient history to the thirtyish Gunman- -paisley dress . . .
Two
of the older girls and Ms. Johns had busied themselves inventorying the
kitchen cabinets and refrigerator in preparation of a shopping list,
when one of the girls unintentionally sent several pots and pans
cascading out of a bottom cupboard with a terrible din.
Some reacted with a shocked look or a sharp retort, including
Langly. With a hard
look to the Gunman in particular, Ms. Johns spoke quietly to the girl
and she sheepishly gathered the items and replaced them.
With calm restored, Langly again searched for the girl.
She wasn't there! Shrugging
it off, he ventured down-stairs to continuing researching his sister's
death before re sealing everything. He
did not see the three pairs of eyes watching him from behind one of the
shelves. STATE ROUTE
97 5:35 A. M.
It
had been raining steadily for the last hour, casting a heavier pall on
Byers' and Frohike's already dismal moods.
However, the thrill of intrigue was already cancelling out
exhaustion; the majority of their trip having been spent discussing
Langly's sudden moodiness, their inability to find the much needed puppy
and where in the facility to place their cameras and other borrowed
equip-ment. The
van's dashboard was making that squeaky sound again.
After several minutes, Frohike swore and smacked it with the
bottom of his boot. It was
immediately silent. Byers
shot him a dirty look as he signaled and turned left. "Nice
hit, MacGyver. Can't you
just tighten something?" "I'd
prefer to loosen some bureaucratic asses," Frohike mumbled,
returning to the original argu-ment. "You'd think the SPCA would be
more than willing to adopt out a dog." Byers
rolled his eyes, and stated, "They're only looking out for the
animal's best interest, Fro-hike. They
don't cater to impulse buying." The
other had to agree and looked out into the gloom.
Something caught his eye and he ordered Byers to
stop, then, "to back up. Slowly." The
younger man complied. He
had gotten only a few feet, when Frohike suddenly jumped out.
Byers braked suddenly and waited. Pounded
by the rain, the little man scurried back toward a clump of tall grass
and dove into the thick of it. After
several minutes, he emerged with his jacket wrapped around a shivering
ball of fur. The small dog
was not about to go quietly, however, and struggled to get away.
Frohike clutch-ed it to his chest in an attempt to calm it.
Returning
to the van, he entered through the side door and with Byers' help,
placed the animal into a blanketed box they'd quickly prepared.
For several minutes, the small dog continued to yip and whine as
if in pain. "Frohike,
that dog might be injured and quite possibly someone's pet,"
Byers stated the obvious as the man changed out of his wet
clothes. "We don't have
the right to just take it." Once
changed, however, Frohike plucked the animal from its makeshift bed and
cuddled it. It settled down
almost immediately and, with a deep sigh, closed its eyes and slipped
into a deep sleep. "We
can't leave it here," Frohike protested.
"We'll post a notice once we're done with it.
Until then, we've got our dog- -and our teddy bear.
Two out of three should give us better odds in satis-fying these
spirits." OFFICES OF THE
LONE GUNMAN 5:45 A. M. Langly
stretched and yawned. His
eyes ached and a slight hazing effect appeared just below his left eye.
He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them.
The haze was persistent, however.
He started to press his fingers into the edges of his eye
sockets, but thought better of it- -old-mother-hen Byers had often
warned him about this.
He tried to ignore it. To
no avail. The haze seemed
thicker as if it were taking on solid form.
It was as if someone were standing next to him- -but just outside
of his peripheral vision. This
trick of light (or whatever it was) tormented him for several minutes
and he fought the impulse to look to see if someone was indeed
standing there. Ten
minutes later, he had the last of their precious files buried and turned
off the unit. The smug grin
suddenly disappeared, however, as he realized the 'spot' had since
disappeared from his left side- -but was now on his right side!
The
blond whirled, first one way, then the other.
Nothing. The hell
with you Byers! he
thought. Langly
jammed his fingertips up under his glasses and into the orbital sockets.
He rubbed until his eyes burned and teared.
Pulling his hands away, he blinked several times to clear his
vision and looked around again. The
haze was gone.
He just needed sleep, that was all.
However, plans to return to his own bed were detoured by the sight
of 'Old Red'. The stately
and butt-ugly couch they'd rescued from a street corner ten years ago,
looked every bit as inviting. He
plopped down on the worn cushions and took one more look around.
Nothing was going to get past those CPU's, he thought with a smug
grin. Concio |