The Frighteners (19 page)

Cyrus and Stuart walked through several desks and another wall, through a locker room, and into a cell that held a couple of recently booked, scruffy-looking muggers.

Cyrus’s face lit up as he recognized one of them. “Hey, Benny, my man, who you been hustling?” he said.

Frowning, Stuart pulled him through another wall and into another cell. The two of them walked right through the sleeping frame of Steve Bayliss and into Frank’s cell.

Bannister was sitting on his bunk, holding his head in his hands. He didn’t look up when his friends got there.

“Frank!” Stuart said.

There was no response.

“Frank?”

Bannister didn’t stir.

“Yo, Frank!” Cyrus snapped.

Stuart waved his hand in front of Frank’s eyes, but Bannister didn’t react.

“Hey, man,” Cyrus yelled.

He tried to shake Frank’s shoulder, but his hand passed straight through Bannister’s body.

“What’s that about?” Cyrus said. “Did you see that?”

“I saw,” Stuart said, shaking his head.

“My hand went right through him. That never happened before.”

“Forget it, Cyrus. He doesn’t believe anymore.”

“Can that happen?”

“The Judge told me he’s seen it a couple of times. When a living person who can see emanations stops believing in them, he can’t see or feel them anymore.”

“What are we gonna do?” Cyrus said. “We just can’t leave him here.” He knelt in front of his friend. “Frank! We gotta get you outta here, man. These cats are gonna stitch you up for a capital offense.”

But still it was like Bannister was alone in the room. The two ghosts were left there, for the first time in their lives without a thing to say.

Dammers also stared at Bannister, spying on him through a small window set in the door. He couldn’t see the emanations, but watched Bannister with the silent confidence of a man who had won many encounters through dirty tricks.

“What’s happening, Agent Dammers?” Deputy Passell asked, walking up carrying a notepad and a pencil.

“I’ve been watching the prisoner,” Dammers said, without taking his eyes off the tiny window.

“What’s he doing in there?”

“Just sitting, staring at his hands. Sometimes he stares into space.”

“That doesn’t sound like Bannister. Maybe he’s sick.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Deputy,” Dammers said, shooting Passell a quick glance.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it won’t be long now.”

Passell’s face took on a quizzical look.

“What do you mean?”

“Bannister has entered the acceptance stage,” Dammers said, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “He’s grappling with his guilt and seeking resolution. I’ve seen this happen many times before with these serial killers.”

“You know, I’ve known Frank Bannister for many years, and find it hard to think of him as a serial killer,” Passell said.

“That’s what makes them serial killers,” Dammers told him. “Nobody ever suspects them. Ted Bundy looked like a smart college kid. John Wayne Gacy was a public-spirited citizen who liked to play a clown at kids’ parties. Joel Rifkin was a gardener, and Jeffrey Dahmer worked in a chocolate factory, for God’s sake. Nobody ever suspected any of them of being a murderer.”

“That’s exactly the problem with that scenario, Agent Dammers,” Passell said.
“Everyone
suspected Frank Bannister of something or another.”

“Everyone thought Bannister was a crook or con man,” Dammers said. “It’s as good a disguise as I’ve ever heard of.”

Passell frowned and shook his head. “You realize,” he said, “We have no forensic evidence . . . nothing at all . . . linking him to any of the deaths.”

“It won’t be necessary,” Dammers said. “I expect this case to end in suicide before it reaches court.”

Passell frowned again, and this time Dammers saw it. A smirk broke out on his face. “They always do,” he said softly.

“All this is over my head, I guess,” Passell said. “I’m just a small-town deputy sheriff. Look, I’m sending out for burgers and stuff. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. I feel in a mood to celebrate. I think I’ll go out and have a sit-down dinner. Any recommendations?”

“Bellisimo’s, I guess. The place where Barry Thompson died . . . I mean, was murdered. How
did
Bannister do that, by the way?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Dammers said.

“Sure,” Passell said dully.

“I’m going out to eat and will be back in an hour,” Dammers said. “Make sure nobody gets in to see the prisoner without my permission. I’ll hold you personally responsible if anyone does.” With that, Dammers turned and strutted out of the police station.

Passell peered in at Bannister, who hadn’t moved. Shaking his head, he trudged down the corridor and knocked on the door of Sheriff Perry’s office.

“Sheriff?” he asked.

“Come in, Tom,” Perry replied.

“I’m ordering dinner. What can I get you?”

“Let me look at the menu.”

Perry pulled open his middle desk drawer and withdrew a doodled-on copy of the take-out menu from Marco’s Deli, which was down the street near the Kinko’s and the nearest takeout place to the police station.

“What did I have last night?” Perry wondered out loud.

“A meatball hero,” Passell offered.

“Well, gimme another one. And a Coke.”

“Diet Coke?”

“You must be a comedian. If you’ve having a meatball hero, why bother with a diet Coke?”

“I guess this is the end of the diet and training regime,” Passell said.

“Well, I took the first step. I asked Ray Lynskey to help me lose weight. That very same night, the son-of-a-bitch dropped dead. I figured that was a sign that God likes me the way I am.”

“That sounds like pretty good reasoning to me,” the deputy said, writing down the order on his notepad. “It makes a lot more sense than Dammers does.”

“What
is
Eliot Ness up to tonight?”

“Well, I spotted him in the hall peeking in at Bannister.”

“Did he catch Frank communicating with the afterlife?” Perry asked with a smile.

“No, but he did tell me he expects Frank to kill himself.”

“No way. That woulda happened ten years ago if it was going to happen at all. You know, back when Frank was drinking himself to death?”

“I agree, Sheriff. But this Dammers guy, he seemed pretty sure. I don’t know . . .”

“I
know,” Perry said. “Dammers is stranger than Frank ever will be. At least you can have an ordinary conversation with Bannister. Talking to Dammers, I feel like I’m addressing Charles Manson or something.”

“Didn’t Dammers go undercover with the Manson family one time?”

“I heard that rumor. I was afraid to ask. Look, Tom, I have a call in to Jack Loomis.”

“The town attorney.”

“Yeah, I need a meeting with him to resolve this jurisdiction issue and also to get an opinion on how much shit I have to take from this pint-sized dictator.”

“He’s been getting on my nerves, too,” Passell said.

“There was a time, like thirty years ago, when the mere mention of FBI affiliation or the simple flashing of a Washington badge would send shivers up the spines of local law enforcement everywhere. But that was before the Watergate scandal and before J. Edgar Hoover started showing up in party dresses.”

“What did Loomis say?” Passell asked.

Perry tossed up his hands. “He’s out on a fishing trip. He and a couple of friends hired Captain George’s charter boat and are on a bluefin trip in deep water. They won’t be back for two days.”

“What do we do?” Passell asked. “Dammers is acting like he expects Frank to kill himself right in our cell.”

“Well, that won’t happen, will it?” Perry said, slamming his open palm on his desk.

“It sure won’t.”

“We’ll keep Frank on ice for a day or two and see what shakes out of the tree,” Perry said. “In the meantime let’s see if we can find
some
evidence that Frank killed someone . . . other than a lot of mumbo jumbo about telekinesis.”

“Dammers went out to eat.”

“Maybe he’ll choke on a chicken bone,” Perry said.

“He said he would hold me personally responsible if anyone gets in to see Bannister without his permission.”

“What time warp did this guy step out of? He sounds like something from an old movie. Look, if a lawyer shows up and asks to see Frank, he gets in. If Frank gets sick, he sees a doctor. And if Dammers doesn’t like it—well, he can damn well go back to riding around the Mojave Desert with the Manson family.”

Passell smiled. “I’ll get you your sandwich now.”

“Ah, forget about it,” Perry said. “I think I’m gonna go home and take some abuse from my wife. Keep an eye on Bannister for me.”

“You got it, Sheriff.”

“If the bastard is guilty, we’ll make a case against him. If he isn’t, no popinjay from Washington is gonna push him over the edge while I’m sheriff in this town.”

It was less than half an hour later that Lucy pulled her car up in front of the sheriff’s office and ran inside, ignoring the no-parking zone and the presence of several squad cars. Deputy Passell was eating his sandwich alone at the reception desk, watching the evening news on a small, black-and-white television when she hurried up to him.

“Dr. Lynskey,” he said, a bit surprised. “How are you? Did you get any sleep?”

“Never mind that,” she said. “I want to see Frank Bannister—now!”

“Agent Dammers said he’s to have no visitors,” Passell informed her, grateful he’d had the earlier conversation with his boss.

“In that case, let me talk to Agent Dammers.”

“I’m afraid he’s gone out to eat. But he’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“I am Frank Bannister’s doctor, and I insist on my right to see my patient,” Lucy said, her temper rising. She added, in a threatening way, “I hope you’re not denying a doctor access to a sick patient.”

“No, ma’am,” Passell said, a bit to her surprise. “I was just determining the nature of the visit. Sheriff Perry said to go ahead and let in Frank’s lawyer or doctor. No lawyer has shown up, but here you are and in you go.”

She was a bit taken aback, but pleased. “Oh,” she said. She had expected more of a fight.

“To be honest, I think he could use you,” Passell said. “He’s been in there playing statue for a couple of hours now. He hasn’t said or done anything.”

“Then we’d better go now,” Lucy said.

Passell stood up and put down his sandwich. “Sure thing. May I have a look in your bag first?”

“Certainly,” she replied, putting her doctor’s bag on the desk and opening it.

Passell gave it a quick search and, finding no weapons, gestured for her to take it back. “This way,” he said.

A minute later he unlocked the cell door and let her in.

“Thank you, Deputy,” she said, stepping inside.

“Just call me when you’re done, Dr. Lynskey.”

He locked the cell door behind her and walked back to the reception desk.

Bannister was lying on his back in his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, but rather turned away to face the cell wall.

“Frank?” she asked.

Still there was no response. She sat on the bunk beside him and touched his shoulder.

“I found your gun,” she said, “the gun the police say killed your wife.”

His eyes flickered and she thought she felt a tremor in his body. Unnoticed by her in the next cell, Steve Bayliss’s eyes sprang open.

“I went up to the old Bartlett House this morning to treat the daughter. You know, Patricia Bartlett? The one whose boyfriend killed all those people in the 1950s? She’s being kept as a virtual prisoner by her mother. Well, I found your gun hidden in the old lady’s closet.”

Frank turned toward her.

“You haven’t killed anybody, Frank,” Lucy said. “You’re a good person, Frank. Trust me.”

His eyes filled with tears as Lucy wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. She pulled him to a sitting position and he stared into her eyes for the first time. But then his eyes widened and he sat bolt upright, grabbing her shoulders.

“What is it?” she asked, startled.

She had the number forty-one tattooed on her forehead.

“Frank?” she asked in alarm.

Suddenly visible to Frank and standing alongside him, a horrified Stuart said, “She’s marked.”

Frank saw his two ghostly friends looking on, shocked and upset.

“Oh
man,
she’s next,” Cyrus said, looking around nervously.

At that moment the cell wall behind Lucy rippled and bulged. It swelled out like a blister and then formed into the shape of the Reaper.

“It’s him, Frank, it’s him!” Cyrus shouted. “It’s the cat that cut me!”

Frank pulled Lucy away from the creature, spinning her around and shielding her against the wall on the opposite side of the cell. Nearby, Bayliss sat bolt upright in his bunk.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

“Trust me,” he said. “Please trust me.”

“I do,” she said, and didn’t struggle as Frank pressed her against the wall. But the Reaper leaned forward, striking out with his hand. The hand and forearm passed right through Frank’s chest and into hers. She gasped in pain as she felt the icy cold fingers closing about her heart.

“Get him!” Frank said.

With that, Cyrus and Stuart leaped on the creature’s back, each grabbing an arm. The Reaper was caught off guard, as if the idea of being attacked didn’t occur to him very often. It hissed, its yellow eyes glowing, as the two emanations used all their might to hurl it back against the wall from which it came. With a might shove, Cyrus and Stuart pushed the thing back into the wall, which sucked it in with a wet, smacking sound.

Steve Bayliss slipped off his bunk and onto the floor. He rolled under his bunk and peered out in terror.

Silence hung in the prison air like a spiderweb. Frank pulled a terrified Lucy into the center of the room. Cyrus and Stuart whipped their heads around in all directions, trying to figure out which direction the Reaper would come from next.

“Who is this cat?” Cyrus asked.

“I don’t know,” Stuart said. “Could be the spirit of Etipites, an ancient Greek Olympic boxer.”