Dead Sure?: A Paranormal Mystery (33 page)

Deliberately they began to emerge from the trees moving in a line that maintained their spacing and swept the yard in front of them as they closed in on the main shack.

Only now did Charles step forward to the edge of the tree line. With a final push of resolve, he slid back the lever on his Tommy gun and opened fire. There’d be no turning back now.

The still night erupted with load screams as his stunned cohorts realized they were being shot. Bullets sheared into their flesh, coming from god knows where. Tony was just beginning to realize that the attack was coming from behind him and not in front as the second bullet shattered his spine, dropping him face first to the ground.

The racket stirred up the Scarafini boys, who had been peacefully playing cards in the house. They came scrambling out the door, guns drawn, wondering who on earth was shooting. Against their own better judgment they hadn’t posted a guard tonight, and all four of them had been together drinking and gambling.

At this point instinct just took over and they began to fire at their attackers, who appeared to be writhing in agony as they staggered or dropped forward. A few stray bullets hit the Scarafini shack but nothing that was even close to scoring the mark.

In less than a minute, the shooting had stopped and darkness reclaimed the yard. No more muzzle flashes, just a small amount of light shining out of the shack door.

Walking cautiously over to one of the bodies, a tall goon gave it a quick kick. “Deader than a door nail,” he exclaimed.

A bald man with a medium build flicked on his lighter and eyed one of the other bodies. “Poor bastard, looks like he’s been back shot.”

“What do you mean poor bastard, they were here to snuff our wicks. Looks to me like some generous fella did us a favor.”

“True enough, they had the drop on us for sure on top of having us outgunned.”

“Seems to me we shouldn’t be standing out here in the open,” replied the fourth man, who had remained silent up until this point.

“It’s no big deal. If the bastard that did this wanted us dead too, he wouldn’t have stopped shooting,” confirmed the bald man.

*    *    *

Charles had made away hastily from the scene of the attack. He felt relieved that it had gone so well.
Just a couple more loose ends and I’ll be sitting pretty. Those goons never suspected a thing. What a bunch of idiots. Angela thinking she could have Tony bully me into playing along, hah. If anyone is going to tell anybody how to play things, it’s gonna be me. I bet those Scarafini boys can’t figure out what the hell just happened, and that should give me just enough time to wrap this thing up nice and tidy like.

Charles arrived at the clearing where he and the gang had pulled over, leaving Wes to watch the getaway vehicles.

Wes saw Charles approaching and began to move towards him. “I heard lots of shooting. Did everything go all right? Where are the rest of the guys?” a worried look starting to creep across his weasel-like features. 

Charles finished limping up towards him slowly and casually. He didn’t reply to Wes’s inquiries right away, he just kept a firm gaze fixed upon the man. Calmly, he began to reply. “You know something Wes, I never really liked you very much,” and with that he reached quickly into his shoulder holster, pulling out a revolver. Without a hint of remorse, Charles shot a very stunned-looking Wes directly between the eyes. The body flew backwards from the bullet’s impact, slamming into the front fender of the truck before sliding to rest on the ground.

Hastily, Charles finished his work, stuffing rags into the fuel caps of each vehicle, leaving just enough fabric hanging out to set them ablaze. Lighting a cigarette, he took a few puffs and then proceed in turn to touch the tip to the end of each of the makeshift fuses.
This should make some wonderful headlines. Gang war erupts into blazing brawl at the Scarafini gin mill. I almost wish I was going to be here to see it.

*    *    *

It was just now nine p.m. according to Reggie’s watch. “It’s time to do our part,” he said, opening the car door and stepping out into the cool night air.

Tim started to reach for his door handle but hesitated, fear sweeping over him.
How did I go from being an accountant to this? A robber breaking into a museum, this has got to be a bad dream, although parts of it aren’t so bad.
He began to smile thinking of the passion he and Angela shared.

“Hey, bonehead, stop grinning like a monkey and let’s get this business over with!”

The words jarred Tim back to reality. This was no dream, not by any means. He needed to focus now if he was ever going to set things right and see his precious daughter again.
Little Rene Melissa needs her father. It’s bad enough losing one parent; I won’t let her lose another.
His resolve thoroughly bolstered by this thought, he grabbed the door handle and climbed out of the car, looking composed and ready for action. So much so that Reggie did a double take at the change in his companion.

“You look ready to go,” he said in his raspy-gravely voice.
I thought this guy was a lightweight, but he looks pretty intense all of a sudden. I had better keep an eye on him. Maybe he’s been playing us all.

They had parked near the back of the museum, deep in the shadows of the loading dock where new exhibits and things were brought in and out. Fortunately the area wasn’t very well lit, so the black car melted into the shadows.

Reggie led them along one of the back walls to a service entrance. It was a large rusty steel door with a sign on it that read ‘Employees only’.

Tim expected this to be the way in. He figured Reggie would do like in the movies and whip out a lock pick, giving them access within seconds. So when they continued passed the entry, he was rather surprised. “How are we getting in?” Tim asked in a loud whisper.

Reggie rasped back, “Just shut your trap and keep close.”

A minute later they had come around another corner of the building to a wall with many large windows running up and down it. Passing by the large casements, they came to a stop in front of a small window well. The window below was made up of thick glass block.

“I hate to tell you this, Reggie, but that’s not going to open.”

Without answering, Reggie bent down and pulled a large hunting knife from a leg sheath around his calf. He smiled savagely as he stood up.

Tim’s heart skipped a beat, as he watched in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He hadn’t come this far to be denied his goal.

Before Tim was able to continue with that horrified train of thought, Reggie was crouching down next to the window well, using the knife to expertly remove the grout from between the thick glass blocks. It was a small matter of five minutes or so before enough of the blocks had been removed to create an opening large enough for a grown man to slip through.

“What do you think,” he said proudly. “Pretty slick, huh?”

Tim had to admit, it was slick all right, criminal but mighty slick. “That was impressive,” he managed to say quietly, still feeling a little edgy from his earlier thought about how the knife was going to be used.

“Slide in there, I’ll be right behind you.”

Tim silently did as instructed. It was gloomy down there except for some pale moonlight that was permeating the other window wells and giving off an eerie glow where it hit the floor.

Getting through the hole was no problem, but the drop down to the floor was a bit surprising. The distance was a little farther than Tim anticipated, and his shoes hit the tile floor solidly with a loud thumping noise. His knees momentarily seared with pain at the abuse. He just managed to hobble out of the way before Reggie came down behind him, landing in exactly the same spot. Reggie had obviously done this kind of thing before, and managed to land quite gracefully for a short stout guy.

The pain in Tim’s knees was quickly receding, only to be replaced by a wobbly nervousness. “Now what?” he asked, feeling completely clueless.

“I get you to the Wong exhibit and the rest is up to you. Angela didn’t give me any more details than that, and frankly I don’t want to know.”

Tim could swear an extra-angry look had crossed Reggie’s face. However, he just couldn’t tell. There was really never a moment in time that Reggie didn’t look like he wanted to kill someone. “Fine, where is it?”

“Follow me, it’s upstairs and down one of the main wings.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a couple of flashlights. “Don’t turn it on unless you need it, and for God’s sake, don’t point it near any of the windows.”

After a long, silent trudge through the dismal basement hallways, they found some stairs and headed upwards into the main area of the museum. Upon entering the main floor, the security lights seemed bright in comparison.

The place was huge. The marble floors and high ceilings seemed to go on forever. Again starting to feel overwhelmed, Tim reminded himself of his purpose and continued to soldier on.

Finally, they came upon an immense display area. There was a large sign that read ‘The Wong Exhibit, Ancient Chinese Cultural’. “There it is,” Reggie uttered, pointing to it. “Knock yourself out. I don’t need to tell you the faster the better. The less time we’re here, the less likely we are to get pinched.” He paused, letting it sink in, and then added, “Get cracking.”

Tim entered the exhibit; it was filled with case after case of objects. One display was filled with many brilliantly colored vases. Another contained weaponry, curved swords, spiked clubs, knives, and many other things. Yet another was crammed with clothes or remnants of clothes. 

His head began to swim as he continued walking past display case after display case.
Which one of these objects is the one I need? The entity that will fix things, there are so many choices.
There was a display directly in front of him now filled with old scales, tools, and coins of varying sizes and shapes.
Could it be as simple as just another coin? There are literally hundreds to choose from. How in the hell am I going to get the right one, if the damn thing’s even here? Angela mentioned other items that haven’t even been placed on display yet. For all I know, the thing I need could be in a storage crate back in the basement we just came out of. I need to calm down and think this thing through.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re looking for, do you?” said Reggie, his rough voice shattering the silence like a hammer breaking glass.

Tim thought about it for a minute and then decided honesty was the best approach, or maybe it was the only approach he could think of. “No, not exactly, I’m fairly sure I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Just great, just fuckin’ great! I break in here with an amateur that doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. Does the boss know you don’t have a clue, or did ya snow her into believing you knew what you were doing?”

“I resent that, Angela is aware of the situation,” Tim retorted.

Who does this clown think he is, calling her Angela? She probably has a thing for this stupid pencil pusher.
“Listen, I told you before, we have a limited amount of time. Do whatever you need to do and let’s get out of here. Frankly, this place gives me the creeps. I’m going to go walk around and make sure things stay quiet. When I get back I expect some progress.” He left the room, shaking his head in disgust.

*    *    *

Angela glanced casually at her wristwatch again. The time read nine-fifty-five p.m. Her adrenaline was really flowing as she speculated about how all the balls in motion were progressing.
With any luck that rat bastard Charles is dead on the floor of Scarafini’s gin mill, and the rest of the gang is loading up the trucks.
The thought brought her a temporary moment of pleasure before her mind continued on.
I sure hope the museum caper is going down well. Reggie’s no peach to work with, and when he finds out there’s guess work involved things could get a little ugly.
A worried look creased her brow. She felt it instantly, trying to relax her expression, concentrating on the loud trumpets bleating out one of the newer Jazz beats.
It’s time for the next phase of my plan. I must assure that the museum mission is successful.

Winding her way through the crowded ballroom, she looked around, trying to locate Mr. Wong. The place was packed; the party was in full swing. The distraction appeared to be working beautifully. A few minutes later, Angela located Mr. Wong sitting at a table with several other men. They were talking and laughing loudly, with Mr. Wong just looking on interestedly, almost as more of an observer than a participant. Maybe it was a language or a cultural thing, but the humor didn’t seem to be prompting much reaction from him. In fact, as she approached, he appeared almost bored.
It might be easier than I thought to get him alone.

Angela bent down very close to Mr. Wong’s ear. “Can I get a few minutes of your time alone?” she said in almost a whisper. She was hoping he would be able to hear her request over the loud music and conversation going on around them. 

Fortunately he was. “Of course, Miss Torrelli,” Wong replied politely. A small smile appeared on his face, somewhat hard to see with his large droopy mustache, but there nonetheless. Whether the smile was for Miss Torrelli or for a reason to excuse himself from the table was a mystery.