Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

I avoided any cracks about a university not named New York or Columbia. It wasn’t easy, but I ignored my smart-ass instincts. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”

The beefy man didn’t move. He just stared at me with his brown eyes set under bushy black eyebrows.

He said, “What are you charging Streeter with?”

“Not that I need to explain the criminal justice system to you, but I believe they have a decent narcotics charge on him for a start. They’re looking into some kind of homicide charges for the bodies that were buried at the house. I’m not involved in that part of the investigation.”

“Sounds like we’ll never get an answer about who shot poor Mickey Bale. He was a great guy who lived right. He was gunned down in our own little town, and the cops aren’t going to do shit about it.”

Somehow I managed to keep my cool. I don’t even know why I continued to engage this moron. He sounded like the people who spouted off about officer-involved shootings but didn’t have any more facts than a newscaster did and had no experience in police work.

I counted to five silently, then said, “I think the drive-by shooting will fall into place once they get clear statements from everyone. Just show a little patience and calm down. I think you’ll be surprised by how satisfied everyone will be with the efforts of the police.” It was a subtle little dig to tell people to calm down when they were agitated. Usually it only served to upset them further. Maybe I wanted to take this argument to the next level. But it wasn’t worth worrying about anymore.

Anthony said, “I ought to call the FBI and ask them to look at how the police department is run here. We never should’ve brought in an NYPD detective to run operations. And she never should’ve brought you in on anything they were doing. The whole thing stinks.”

Then I let my instincts run wild. I leaned in a little closer to him and said, “No offense, but if I were you, I would never mention the word stinks. There’s nothing like a fat guy in an old shirt during the summer to remind me why people should shower every day.”

That didn’t sit well with the big man, and he balled his right fist.

It was like a neon sign saying, “Watch out—this guy is about to swing at you.” Then he did. A wild, looping haymaker.

I ducked easily and brought my right hand hard into his solar plexus, then twisted and hooked my left elbow into his chin. He spun, bounced off a wall, then tumbled off the sidewalk onto the muddy street.

He landed so perfectly, with just the right amount of mud on his face, that I took a quick picture with my phone.

He was slowly working his way to his feet by the time I pulled away in our big passenger van.

Chapter 92

It was our final full day at the Ghost House. With the sun shining, the house looked anything but haunted. A breeze from the east was blowing, and the storm felt like it had washed away a year’s worth of crime. Everything seemed fresh. Including me. I felt renewed somehow. Sadie was safe, and Dell Streeter was secure in jail.

Mary Catherine and I sat on the edge of the porch with our feet dangling down as we watched the kids play on the dock and in the water. Parents understand how special days like these are. I was just glad I realized it, too, before the days ran out. The kids seemed like they were growing up awfully fast.

We watched as Ricky ran down the dock and launched himself over the side. He was now able to perform a fairly spectacular atomic cannonball. He may not have carried as big a payload as I did, but he still splashed Jane and Juliana as they attempted to act sophisticated. They had been lying on blankets, away from the other kids. Slowly but surely they were distancing themselves from childish activities.

After the wall of water fell on top of them, I was worried about a spurt of acrimony. But these were my girls. They exacted revenge by jumping into the water on top of Ricky. Everyone appreciated their spirit.

Seamus felt well enough to stand on the shore and watch. He still wouldn’t wear shorts. Instead his pants were rolled up almost to his knees. That exposed his white Irish legs, which almost glowed in the sun.

The entire picture showed all I could ever want out of life. Almost.

It was time.

I turned to Mary Catherine and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Who’ll watch the kids?”

“Seamus and Juliana. It’ll be fine.”

We took the path that wandered away from the lake a little. There was more shade there, and it was cooler. The heat and my nerves had made me start to perspire. I needed a little shade and a slight breeze. I looked around us as we walked. It was beautiful. The deep green of the trees, the sound of the birds.

It’s rare in life when everything you want lines up just right. This was perfection.

Mary Catherine held my hand and chatted as we strolled along slowly. It was always easy to talk to Mary Catherine.

She said, “What a fine vacation.”

I turned to see if she was being sarcastic. As usual, she had no bitterness or alternative meaning in her words. She really had seen the best of the trip.