Rancor: Sinister Attachments, Book 1 (16 page)

Maggie nodded. “Yeah, it’s not a very nice place.”

“Sorry, I don’t want to ruin your weekend.” He took a handkerchief from his fishing vest, blew his nose, and stuffed it back into one of the vest’s many pockets.

“Oh, you’re not,” Maggie said, but she knew this trip was not going to end well.

“I’m going up with the others; you should join us.” He turned and walked to the bow and sat across from Bruce and Deborah.

Maggie looked across the blue water toward shore. There, on the bluff, was the sanatorium. It looked majestic, like a mansion for a wealthy lumber baron. At the same time, it was eerie looking.

“Hey, Margaret,” Deborah said. “Why don’t you come up here and join us.”

It’s only a dream. It’s only a dream; she kept reminding herself as she stood up and walked to the head of the boat. When she passed the cabin, she smelled a foul odor. “Is there a dead animal on board?”

“That’s just the leftover smell of a propane leak from the stove that I had earlier. It’s fixed; there’s nothing to worry about,” the captain said.

Maggie was not sure there was nothing to worry about. Captain Zimmerman must have been drunk before they undocked, and she did not trust his judgment. Nonetheless, the four of them sat talking, laughing, and drinking for a couple hours.

When Bruce returned from the bathroom, he had Deborah’s beach bag in his hand. He sat it next to her and put his hand on her bare thigh.

“Time to check your blood sugar, babe,” Bruce said.

“Don’t want to forget that.” Deborah giggled as she reached into the bag and took out a small case with a glucose meter inside. She poked her finger, drawing a drop of blood, which she then placed on a strip in the machine. “It’s fine, eighty-eight.”

Maggie noticed the captain squirm in his seat and then tense up as if he had seen something frightening. Then she saw Bruce sneer at the captain.

“Margaret, let me test your blood sugar,” Deborah said, approaching Maggie with the lancet.

“I’m not diabetic, I don’t need it checked.”

“You know how alcohol can cause hypoglycemia.” Deborah kneeled next to Maggie and reached for her hand.

“Don’t let her touch you,” the captain said. He reached over and pushed Deborah’s hand away. “They’re not what they seem.”

As far as Maggie was concerned, nobody was as they seemed; not even herself. She braced herself on the seat as the water became choppy and dark clouds began approaching the boat. “What’s going on?”

The captain pointed between Bruce and Deborah. “There’s a hooded . . . something in a black hooded robe.”

“You’re drunk, old man,” Deborah said. She reached for Maggie’s hand and punctured the skin on a fingertip with the lancet.

Maggie jumped from the poke, but Deborah held her hand tight as blood dripped into a small glass ampule.

“What are you doing?” Maggie tugged her hand away. “That’s not a test strip.”

Deborah returned to Bruce, put the capped tube into the meter’s case, and returned it to her bag. Then both Bruce and Deborah looked at the terrified captain.

“Do you see it, Margaret?” Captain Zimmerman asked, reaching inside his vest as if he was having a heart attack.

Maggie shook her head and held her sore finger as cold raindrops began to fall from the black swirling sky above.

Bruce looked at Deborah. “Who would’ve thought a drunken sailor could see our friend.”

They laughed. Then, without warning, Bruce stood and lunged for the captain. Maggie began screaming as Bruce tried to push the captain overboard.

Then a single gunshot broke through the wind with a crack. Bruce stumbled backward, falling at Deborah’s feet. Deborah sprang at the captain and began clawing at his face, causing him to drop the snub-nosed revolver he had hidden under his garment before she managed to push him over the side of the boat.

Maggie reached down and picked up the gun while Deborah watched a massive swell pull the captain under.

“You bitch,” Deborah said as she returned to Bruce and knelt next to him. He was lying face down and groaning in pain. Blood rushed from underneath him as the rain diluted and washed it down the deck.

Maggie stood when Deborah stood. She pointed the gun at Deborah. “Stay away or I’ll shoot.”

Deborah smiled, rolled her eyes, and raised her hands. “Are you going to kill an innocent person like you did Susan?”

“I didn’t kill Susan, you did.”

“No, not true.” Deborah began taking small steps toward Maggie. “It’s already in the record what happened. Now . . .” Deborah pointed toward Bruce, “you’ve killed Bruce and the captain. You’re sick Margaret.”

Maggie shook her head and began backing toward the cabin, trying to stay a few feet ahead of Deborah.

“Where’re you going, Maggie? All that’s left is overboard like the captain.”

Maggie knew there had to be a marine radio at the helm, so she kept backing her way toward it, while Deborah kept following her.

“You’re a pitiful case, Margaret McGee. Maybe they’ll give you the death penalty and put you out of your misery.”

Gusts of wind rocked the boat as Maggie turned and ran to the helm. She picked up the radio’s handset, pressed the button on the side, and frantically said, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

It was no use. Deborah ran up to her and began clawing at Maggie’s face, causing her to drop the handset and stumble backward into the lower-level galley. While lying on the floor, next to the stove, she could smell the propane—it was still leaking. Deborah was on top of Maggie, trying to take the gun from her hands.

Maggie whispered, “It’s only a dream. It’s only a dream.” She squeezed the trigger, knowing it would spark and cause the propane to explode. In the slow-motion seconds before the explosion, she knew she would die. Then, she thought, hadn’t she already died?

THIRTY-TWO

As Maggie transitioned from sleep to wakefulness, she crossed her arms and felt her damp skin. She did not remember feeling any pain when the boat in her dream exploded. It was as if her soul had left the body before the rapid combustion scattered pieces of flesh and bone over the agitated water.

She sat up. Night sweats had soaked her shirt with perspiration. Anxiety from the flashback, she thought. Fortunately, she had stuffed another shirt and pair of underpants into her backpack before leaving her apartment yesterday. However, she still needed her phone charger. After she showered, she would go up to her apartment, get it, and then leave this place, for the last time. 

When Maggie had finished showering, she walked into the living room. Ethel was still snoring on the couch. A thin line of drool ran from her mouth, down her cheek, and onto the pillow.

“Ethel, are you awake?” Maggie wanted to let her know that she was going up to her apartment, but Ethel was out. Too much booze and pills, she thought. She would come back down when she finished and leave a note for Ethel if she were still not awake.

Maggie held her apartment key in her hand as she walked out of Ethel's door. The storm had passed, and the sun was shining; there were no signs of Bruce, Debbie, or Susie. She closed the door and walked to Mr. Zimmerman's office; he was not there. I should speak with him before I leave, she thought.

She looked toward the staircase. Was it safe to climb? She tiptoed toward it. Maybe she should wait for Ethel to wake up and have her go with her to get the rest of her belongs. However, she knew Ethel would not go with her because she did not want her to go back into the apartment. Maggie kept walking toward the stairs, looking up at the second floor and listening. There were no sounds of people, or spirits, moving around; only the sound of occasional clicks and taps in the walls.

The summer sun cast warm rays into the building, making her think that it had the capability of repelling evil. Just as fictional vampires exposed to sunlight will spontaneously combust, maybe these spirits would react the same way. Had she seen them in the sunlight? They were always inside the building. Then she thought, there is no such thing as vampires, and even if there were, these lost souls were not vampires.

Maggie reached the top step on the second floor and looked over at her apartment door; it was closed. She looked up the next flight of stairs leading to the third floor and Mr. Zimmerman's apartment. Maybe she should speak with him first, tell him she was moving out, and then come down and get the rest of her things.

She walked around to the third flight and looked toward the top. She had never been on the third floor. One light foot at a time, she climbed the stairs. If it were not for the sound of the soles of her shoes grinding dirt into the wood steps, there was no sound. She felt alone in the building. All alone and frightened.

When she reached the top floor, she noticed a sign next to an apartment door with the superintendent's name on it. That must be Mr. Zimmerman's apartment.

She walked across the hall and knocked gently on the door, not wanting to draw attention to the fact she was upstairs.

There was no answer. She knocked again, this time a little louder. Still no answer. Where was Mr. Zimmerman? He has not been answering his phone or in his office. Maybe he was hurt or sick and needed help, she thought, as she turned his doorknob. The door opened.

“Mr. Zimmerman, it's Maggie,” she said from the doorway. “Are you home?”

There was no answer. She would need to go inside and check on him. Maybe he had a stroke or a heart attack and was lying ill on the floor. She walked inside the L-shaped living room. His apartment was larger than hers was, she thought as she called his name again.

The living room had magazines stacked on the floor next to a recliner and smelled of rotten meat. A TV tray with a half-eaten plate of food sat next to it. When she walked closer, she noticed flies on the food and the stench of something more rotten than a TV dinner.

Her heart pounded rapidly; she knew something was wrong because the bit of food on the plate could not cause the gagging odor filling his apartment. She forced herself to look around the corner of the room toward the bedroom. The door was open. She kept her hands over her nose as she walked closer. When she looked inside, she screamed. Mr. Zimmerman was lying face down with all four limbs tied taut to the legs of his bed. Whoever did this to the poor man did not stop there; they had taken something sharp and stabbed his back repeatedly.

Maggie was shaking as she searched for Mr. Zimmerman's phone. Finding a wall phone by the kitchen, she picked it up and dialed 9-1-1. As she spoke with the dispatcher, she heard someone climbing the stairs.

“I hear someone,” she whispered, looking toward the open apartment door.

THIRTY-THREE

She dropped the phone, leaving the receiver dangling by its coiled cord, and ran to the door. She was about to close it when she noticed that it was Ethel, limping up the steps like a resurrected mummy pursuing the archeologists who disturbed his tomb.

“Ethel, thank God,” Maggie said, running up to her. “I’m talking to nine-one-one, you stay here, and I’ll be right back.” 

Maggie went back into the apartment, picked up the phone, and continued speaking to the dispatcher. She hung up as Ethel walked inside.

“Is Mr. Zimmerman . . . dead?” Ethel took the scarf from around her head and used it to cover her nose.

Maggie nodded. “We’re supposed to leave his apartment so that we don’t contaminate anything. I’ll open the front door when the police get here.”

Maggie helped Ethel set down on the top step. “Did you see Mr. Zimmerman?”

Maggie nodded and looked at the floor. She did not want to talk about it.

“Did he have a coronary . . . or was it something else?”

“Something else.”

Ethel took a cigar from her pocket and lit it.

“I don’t know if you should smoke that, it might contaminate the area.”

“It’ll mask the smell and besides, I’m too sore to walk back down the steps.”

Maggie agreed and walked down the hallway to a window where she would see the police driving down the driveway. They waited in silence, occasionally giving each other a reassuring smile.

“They’re here. I’ll be right back,” Maggie said, walking past Ethel and down the staircase. She let the officers in and took them up to Mr. Zimmerman’s apartment.

After an officer had instructed Ethel to stop smoking, he wrote down Maggie and Ethel’s names and addresses while another police officer set up a boundary with yellow crime scene tape and orange cones. He questioned both of them about their accounts of the incident as a man with a tie came up the stairs. When he got closer, Maggie noticed he had a police badge on the left breast and a firearm clipped to the belt of dark-gray dress slacks.

“Hi, Detective Becker,” the officer said, turning his attention from Maggie and Ethel to the detective.

Detective Becker stepped past Ethel, still sitting on the top step, and smiled at Maggie as he walked into the crime scene with the officer.

Ethel looked up at Maggie and grinned. “He’s a crime scene investigator, like on TV . . . and he likes you.”

“Shush, not so loud,” Maggie said, blushing. “They’ll hear you.”

Ethel groaned as she changed position. “Are they done with us yet? My butt is getting sore.”

Maggie listened to the conversations in Mr. Zimmerman’s apartment. She heard someone mention that the weapon that inflicted the fatal wounds had not been found. And that, even though, the victim had been dead for a few days, there appeared to be recent stab wounds, as well. It was Susie, Maggie thought. She had a knife and had gone to the third floor. But Susie was a ghost. Can
a ghost
use a real knife and kill someone?

The detective took his gloves off, disposed of them, and walked out of the apartment and up to Maggie. “Hi, I’m Detective John Becker, the crime scene investigator. Are you Margaret McGee?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m Maggie.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”