End of the Road (Ghost Stories Trilogy #1) (26 page)

Chapter Sixty

Two weeks had passed and
Lieutenant Adams still had me as a desk jockey and I had a pile of things to
follow up on. Pressing, urgent things like helping to solve murders and trying
to pinpoint the location of a suspected meth lab in Seligman, but all I could
think about was my growing file at home. I was distracted and every task seemed
to take twice the effort to process. Ordinarily I’d be chomping at the bit to
prove myself. Just like when I was in school, trying to get 100s on all of my
tests and papers. Each day crawled by. My thoughts focused instead on tracking
down living relatives of the I-17 ghosts.

It would have been easy
to use my resources as a sheriff’s deputy, but printing out information and photocopying
was all I dared to do. If I actually attempted to contact the relatives as a
representative of the Sheriff’s Office, that could too easily come back and
bite me in the ass. As inconvenient as it was, I needed to stay under the
radar.

One of the first things I
did, after verifying all of the ghosts’ stories, was place a call to Juanita’s
daughter. She had written her cell phone number on the back of the business
card she gave me at the hospital. I left her a message to let her know about my
research and how I was going to attempt to locate any living relatives. When I
hung up, I felt better for letting someone in on my secret project. I’d be
surprised if she returned my call. Her mother had already moved on and she
didn’t have a connection to the others.

I forged ahead without
needing her affirmation or blessing and set about locating Lawrence’s
ancestors. This was the most challenging task because I was tracing back to
Depression-era Boston. Records from then weren’t stored on some giant database.
Fortunately, Lawrence’s father had been a physician, and a prominent one at
that. I decided to start with him; Dr. Theodore Stephen Cranston.

I hit pay dirt the moment
I entered Lawrence’s father’s name online. Prominent physician he was indeed
and Harvard Medical School liked to brag about their successful alumni.
Lawrence told me how his wife had been a patient of his father’s and they met
when she visited Dr. Cranston’s home office. I didn’t know that he’d been a
leading researcher in asthma and other respiratory disorders. He had papers and
case studies published in numerous medical journals.

Harvard Medical School’s
website had a lengthy obituary in which the Helen Merrill-Cranston Foundation
was listed - an organization founded by Dr. Cranston, in honor of his late
daughter-in-law, for funding of research in asthma treatment. The foundation
was still in existence. Bingo, this was the kind of information Lawrence would
want to know.

I clicked on the “About
Us” page and was surprised to see Lawrence’s face staring back at me. A caption
beneath the faded black and white picture read: Lawrence Cranston and Helen
Louise Cranston nee Merrill, May 11, 1924, Boston. It was taken on their
wedding day. The young couple was smiling and Helen had an arm looped through Lawrence’s.
A bouquet of flowers balanced on her other arm. Her dark hair, straight and cut
into a short bob, framed her face. A gauzy veil billowed out from an ornate cap.
Even though their attention was focused on the camera, they leaned comfortably
towards each other. Lawrence’s dark suit contrasted against Helen’s white
dress.

A brief history was
provided below that picture that explained how Helen had been a patient of Dr.
Cranston’s long before she became his daughter-in-law. It was under his
advisement that she moved to an arid climate, which at the time was thought to
improve asthma symptoms.

I bookmarked the foundation’s
website and printed out the “about us” page. Lawrence’s folder finally had some
substance.

Next, I moved on to
Lawrence’s brother’s name. Russell Stephen Cranston. He was three years younger
and at the time of Lawrence’s passing, lived in New Hampshire where he
practiced dentistry. The genealogy website I had registered with proved to be
the only resource. Through this site I learned that Russell had married and
fathered four children; two sons named Lawrence and Theodore and two daughters
named Helen and Sara. He named them after his brother and family.

Uncharacteristically,
tears welled in my eyes and I had to stop reading. The dead were definitely
honored by the living in Lawrence’s family. I printed this page out as well as
a picture of Russell’s family tree. According to this, which was last updated
five years earlier, Russell passed away in 1984 at the age of 82, but was
survived by his children, grandchildren and even a great grandson.

I was getting ready to
continue researching when my cell phone rang and vibrated, causing me to jump.
Eric’s name was on the screen. I took a deep breath before answering, “What’s
up?”

“Do you want in on some
action?”

“Um, what kind of action
are you talking about?” I asked, immediately regretting the implied innuendo.

Eric paused and then laughed,
or cleared his throat, I wasn’t sure. “Is that an offer?” he said and continued
before I could respond, “the information you dug up on the meth lab was legit.
We’re getting ready to raid. Do you want in?”

“I can’t. I’m grounded,
remember?”

“Yeah, well this is my
investigation and my call. Consider yourself paroled early because of good
behavior.”

“Why? You transferred to criminal
investigations from patrol to get away from me.”

“Because I know how hard
it’s been for you being benched. You’ve been hard on yourself too. What
happened, it was strange and unexplainable, but not your fault. If there’s one
thing I know about you is that you love your job and being stuck behind a desk
would just about kill me, I can only imagine what it’s doing to you.”

“It hasn’t been that
bad,” I said, staring at the image of the Cranston family tree that was up on
my computer screen.

“So…you want in or not?”

Of course I wanted in,
but I was suspicious of Eric’s gesture. He wanted something and I didn’t know
what. That was unnerving. Not as unnerving as him understanding and
sympathizing with my situation. This was a reminder of the man I fell in love
with before emotions, stubbornness and loss pitted us against each other.

My eyes moved from the
screen to my holster hanging on the back of the chair next to me. The butt of
my gun stuck out and shined dully in the light from the chandelier above my
dinette table.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“At the station. We’re
moving out in 30 minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you
there,” I said and hung up.

Eric worked on a
different floor, but by the time I got up there, he was already in the parking
lot. I made it there with only minutes to spare. My hair was tied back in a
tight bun, the familiar tugging at my temples helped me stay focused and more
in control.

Eric glanced up and
flashed a quick smile when he saw me approach. He had a map open on the hood of
an SUV and was pointing at a circled area. He was giving out orders and I stood
off to the side to wait for mine. Adrenaline hummed in the air as the other
officers prepared. I recognized most of the officers in Eric’s crew, but only
from passing them in the halls at the station. O’Reilly and Thompson nodded at
me while others did not so subtle double takes. Apparently everyone knew who I
was.

When Eric was done, he
folded up the map and tucked it in his back pocket. The sun had just barely set
and the earth still radiated heat from the day. A fine sheen of sweat glistened
on his forehead.

“Are you ready?” he
asked, turning to face me.

“What do you want me to
do?”

“You’ll be helping to
secure the area. We’re sealing off a parameter before moving in. Chances are
whoever is in there will be tweaking out of their mind, which makes them
unpredictable.”

“And dangerous,” I added.

“Right - we don’t need
any neighbors getting hurt.”

I fished the keys for my
car out of my pocket. Eric looked at the keychain with Minnie Mouse dangling
below my fist and his eyebrows lifted up in surprise. “You don’t have a
cruiser?” 

“No, Adams requisitioned
it when I went on desk duty.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of
that.” He stood with his hands on his hips. His forefinger tapped in rapid
motion as he figured out what to do.

“I can take my own car.”

“No, too much liability
if it gets damaged. Come on, you’ll ride with me.”

We walked over to a white
Chevy Tahoe with a gold and brown county logo on the side. I hopped in and
buckled the seatbelt.

“This is like when you
were training with me, huh?” he said when he started the engine.

“Yeah, but this is a much
nicer ride. The upholstery isn’t stained and frayed like in your old cruiser.”
I noted the beige seats seemed almost brand new.

“And the air conditioning
works great.” Eric turned up the dial and cold air blasted out of the vents. I
welcomed the change from the late summer heat.

We drove in silence that
bordered on awkward. The last time I was in the car with Eric he was pissed at
me for running out into the desert to confront ghosts.

Displaying his intuitive
side he said, “If you see any ghosts, it might be a good idea to not engage
this time.”

I chose to ignore him and
focused on the taillights from the SUV in front of us. We turned onto a dirt
road and dust spewed up, engulfing the caravan of police vehicles in a cloud.

Brake lights flared red
and we slowed down eventually rolling to a stop in a clearing on the side of
the road. Eric put the SUV in park and hopped out, adjusting his gun belt when
he stood up. Simultaneously, doors opened on the other cruisers and SUV’s. O’Reilly’s
hulking frame was easy to recognize when he heaved himself out of one. I joined
him and the officers who gathered in front of Eric’s vehicle. Headlights illuminated
our group, creating long shadows.

I was familiar with the
rural community we were about ready to enter; a collection of rusty trailers
scattered amongst the scrub brush covered hills located off of old Route 66, on
the fringe of Seligman. Most of the front yards contained a piece of shit car
up on blocks and a months’ worth of garbage in the carport. I had responded to
more than one domestic call in this area. It wasn’t surprising a meth lab had
sprung up here where it was isolated and people kept to themselves, especially
if there was something in it for them. A few bucks to keep things on the “down
low” didn’t cut into a cook’s profit.

The high winds from
earlier in the day had died down and the night was very still. The sun had set and
the night sky stretched out for miles, the clarity of thousands of stars almost
dizzying. Eric selected the team that would drive in first and I was part of
the team staying along the perimeter to make sure neighbors didn’t interfere.

I had never participated
in a meth lab raid before, but had heard stories. Meth labs were toxic,
volatile and highly combustible. Potentially, if the bust went wrong, the whole
lab could explode, emitting poisonous fumes and debris into the community.

Eric got back into his
SUV and pulled out onto the dirt road. Three other vehicles followed him. I
stayed on foot and hiked through the brush toward the lab. A dog barked in the
distance and I heard a door slam. Lights from a residence glowed ahead and I
walked toward it, with another deputy not too far behind.

“Is this the place?” I
hissed.

“No, the next one. It’s
about a quarter of a mile. We need to position ourselves just past this
trailer.”

I nodded and didn’t say
anything else. It was dark and anyone could be out there listening. We
continued on past the property; a woman was yelling inside and a child was
crying. Fortunately, the dog I heard wasn’t out front to alert his owners to
our presence. Four sets of brake lights flashed further ahead. Eric’s team had
arrived.

We stopped and spread out
to where the dirt road divided us. I drew my gun and waited; every sense on
high alert. Suddenly there were loud voices echoing down from the direction of
the meth lab. Sweat broke out along my hairline, making it itch. I ignored it
and focused on the commotion. A few minutes passed and nothing appeared to be
escalating so I relaxed my stance. 

Not too long after, my radio
crackled to life announcing the all clear. I let out a sigh of relief. Eric was
safe, the raid went as planned and wouldn’t be a PR nightmare for the
department. And I didn’t see any ghosts.

I walked past the trailer
and the woman was still yelling, the child still crying. The residents were
completely unaware a raid had just gone down. I wondered if the mother knew
their neighbor was a crazy meth lab scientist. Maybe she was one of the
tipsters and trying to clean up the neighborhood so her kid had a safe place to
grow up. The hulking outline of a beater truck and the stench of garbage
spoiling in the heat brought me back to reality.

One of the county’s vans
drove by heading towards the lab indicating a multiple arrest. The other
officer crossed the road to walk the rest of the way. I had seen her once or
twice, but we never officially met so I introduced myself.

“I know who you are,”
Deputy Christine Frasier said after we exchanged names.

“Ghost girl, right?” I
asked, not masking the annoyance in my voice.

“No, well yeah, but I
meant to say you’re Eric’s ex-wife. At least I thought he was divorced.” She
took a not so subtle glance at my ring finger and in the light of the moon I
caught a flicker of a smile when she saw it was naked of any jewelry.

“You’re right, we’re
divorced.”

“Oh.” I was waiting for
her to say ‘good’, but she didn’t. Instead she became friendlier since apparently
I’d been eliminated as competition.