C.H.A.R.O.N., page 8
“I’m sorry to have to ask,” Calabrese said, and Travis couldn’t imagine how painful this was for the sheriff, given everyone’s long shared history. “But apparently, you’re the only witnesses. Chris asked Travis and Brent to come in from Pittsburgh to lend a hand, given all the strange goings-on. They’re specialists.”
Liz locked eyes with Travis. “Well, I damn sure hope you’re an exorcist, because what’s going on in South Fork is straight out of hell.”
Travis cleared his throat, not wanting to confirm or deny.
“What happened?” Calabrese prodded gently.
Liz shared a look with her girlfriends and then straightened her shoulders and lifted her head. Travis guessed this was her “nurse” persona, the stoic front she presented amid the heartbreak of hospital work.
“We were playing bunco and dishing the news—splitting a bottle of wine and some munchies,” Liz said. “Talked about what happened to Becca and Rick. Jamie said gun sales are up at the hardware store—everyone’s on edge. Then we heard screaming.”
She paused. “Jamie had a gun in her purse—she’s got a permit—and I had a shotgun in the closet. We went out onto the porch, and we saw Shelly on her patio and—oh, God—she had a hammer, and she was smashing her left hand.”
Liz bit her lip, steadying herself. “I don’t mean like someone does when they mean to drive a nail and miss. She was smacking that hammer down with her full strength, over and over, screaming all the while, but she didn’t stop. We yelled to her, but it was like she couldn’t hear us or was too lost in her head to know we were there. We should have run over right away, not just stood on the porch. But we couldn’t believe it. Didn’t seem real. We were frozen.”
She closed her eyes. “She screamed louder, and that got us going. We started over, thinking we could maybe tackle her and get the hammer away, but we were halfway there, and she hit herself in the throat with the claw end.” A shudder ran through her body. “No—not just ‘hit.’ Shelly sank the claw into her neck and pulled. Like she meant to rip her throat out—and she did. We didn’t touch anything. We ran back here and called 911.”
Liz opened her eyes and looked at Calabrese, her gaze begging for answers. “Why? I went out to lunch with her two days ago, and she seemed fine. No new heartbreak, no job problems—situation normal. But fuck, Tony, who kills themself like that? There are a lot easier ways to go.”
Liz looked down at her hands clasped so tightly on her lap that the whites of her knuckles showed. Angie and Jamie moved closer, wrapping their arms around her, holding space for her to regain her composure.
After a few moments, Calabrese cleared his throat. “Did any of the rest of you see anything different?”
Angie and Jamie shook their heads. “No,” Angie replied. “Just like Liz said.”
“She kept on hitting,” Jamie murmured, clearly upset. “One hit like that would make most people throw up or pass out—maybe both. She had to have broken bones on each strike. She kept on going until her hand…there was just pulp. I don’t understand.”
Travis hung back, feeling very much the outsider. A glance at Brent confirmed his partner felt the same. He let Calabrese lead the investigation and watched for anything that might bear further examination.
“One more question, and I’ll leave you alone tonight—although I’ll need to get your official statements tomorrow down at the station. Do you know anything about the history of the house Shelly lived in?” Calabrese asked.
The women looked up, seemingly surprised at his change in direction. “Shelly bought it from Mrs. Peterson,” Liz said, squinting as she concentrated. “Mrs. Peterson had lived there since I was in middle school—only sold because she had to go into a nursing home.”
“There was a man before her—a widower,” Jamie supplied. “I remember because my mom brought him chicken soup once when he was really sick during the winter.”
“Jacob Straub,” Angie added. “Yes. I only remember because he gave out good Halloween candy even though I imagine his own kids were all grown up by the time we came along.”
“I think Mr. Straub might have bought it from the original owners,” Liz said. “And now that I think about it, I wonder if there wasn’t something shady about them—just reinterpreting things my mom said from an adult’s perspective. She wasn’t going to let us Trick-or-Treat at his house because of something the previous owner did until we proved a new person lived there. As far as I ever heard, Mr. Straub and Mrs. Peterson were good people.”
Travis saw Brent making a note on his phone to check the house’s deed. “Thank you,” Travis said, sure that Liz and her friends needed time alone to grieve. “If you think of anything else that seemed…strange in a spooky kind of way…please let the sheriff know, and he’ll pass it along to us.”
Liz gave him an appraising look as if trying to figure out where Travis was coming from and too overwhelmed to do more than silently question.
By the time they walked back to the sheriff’s Jeep, the ambulance was gone. Calabrese crossed the crime scene tape to meet them. “I’m going to be here for a while. I called Tammy, and she’s going to swing by to pick you up and take you to Fisher’s. If I find out more, I’ll meet you there or at Chris’s house later.”
The sheriff ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been a helluva week so far…and I don’t think it’s likely to get better.”
A blue F150 pickup stopped at the curb, and Travis saw Tammy waving at them to get in. They climbed inside, apologizing for getting the seat wet.
“You oughta see what happens during deer hunting season,” Tammy laughed off their apology. “It wipes off.”
Tammy’s smile faded as she looked toward the rain-soaked patio and the crime scene tape. “Sometimes I think it won’t end until there’s no one left in town,” she said to no one in particular. “I’d sure like to know what someone did to get the town so cursed.”
Travis understood the grief beneath the anger and marveled again at the stubbornness—or desperation—of the people who refused to give up their home to the darkness that stalked South Fork.
“We’re hoping we can figure that out—and make it stop.” Travis frowned. “I saw two churches in town. Can I ask—”
“Pastor Horton at the Methodist church is a nice man but shallow as a puddle,” Tammy replied, navigating the rain-slick streets. “He can mouth the words at weddings, funerals, and baptisms, but don’t expect perspective. When a tornado hit the trailer park outside of town a few years back, and everyone in town knew someone who either died or lost everything, Pastor Horton decided to start a series of sermons on the church’s stained glass windows. Because that’s what we all needed to hear at a time like that.” Her voice dripped sarcasm.
Travis winced at the well-earned condemnation. Although he had shed the collar years ago, he had no patience for clergy who ignored the needs of their flock.
“And the Catholic church?” Travis hated to ask, yet needed to know.
Tammy sighed. “I think this town broke Father Prochazka. My family wasn’t devout, but I remember people spoke well of him when I was a kid. Then…to tell you the honest truth, I think South Fork cost him his faith. I mean, why should he be the only one left in town who believes?”
She shook her head. “He just kinda dimmed over time, like the light inside went out. Started looking for Jesus in the bottom of a bottle. Can’t say I blame him—he’s not the first person in town to do that, won’t be the last.”
Tammy tapped the steering wheel. “People don’t really expect any miracles; they’re just trying to hold things together for them and theirs, one day at a time. Doesn’t seem a lot to ask, now does it?”
“Why do people stay?” Brent asked from the back seat, his tone making it clear that his question was sincere.
“Because it’s home. Yeah, there are some folks who are too old to start over or don’t have anywhere else to go. Every year there are fewer kids born, fewer to graduate. Most of them light out of town like their tails are on fire—and I can’t blame them,” Tammy said.
“Some have family here to care for and can’t afford to move. I guess the rest of us are just too stubborn for our own good,” she said with a bitter laugh. “You ever heard of Centralia—the abandoned town with the hundred-year mine fire burning underground? I imagine South Fork’ll be a ghost town eventually, but it won’t be a coal fire that drives us out. There’s something infernal in the bones of this place, and it’s getting stronger.”
She pulled up to Fisher’s, which had a dozen cars parked in front, all older models. “Come by the library in the morning. I’ll be thinking about what materials to pull for you tonight. I like mysteries—and I haven’t had a good challenge in a long while.”
Travis and Brent got out, and Tammy rolled down the window on the passenger side, leaning across the bench seat. “You two be careful, you hear?”
They nodded, and she drove off, leaving them to navigate the muddy gravel on their way inside.
This time, Travis and Brent took seats at the bar, more interested for the moment in hearing what others were saying than debriefing. Chris acknowledged them with a nod and brought them hot coffee that smelled of whiskey.
“To take the chill off,” he said.
Travis closed his eyes as he took a sip and tuned in to the conversations around him.
“…couldn’t believe it when Liz called me and told me the news.”
“…Shelly and I were in band together. Can’t believe she’s gone.”
“…this town is like a bad horror movie, only it never ends.”
“…Shel and I went to prom junior year—remember? Whatever happened, she deserved better.”
Travis caught snatches of other discussions—about the weather, sports scores, or the headlines. Quiet voices mentioned the recent trio of deaths in a near-whisper as if not wanting to provoke bad luck. It didn’t require a psychic to pick up the tension, a combination of fear, worry, and desperation.
He knew the two of them had drawn attention—outsiders were easy to spot. Travis suspected that only their borrowed sheriff’s department rain slickers kept the questions at bay, for which he was thankful.
“Specialty of the house.” Chris set down two steaming plates of pierogi, haluski, and kielbasa in front of them. “The pierogis are house-made, garlic-potato filling. We always sell out.”
Travis and Brent thanked him, and Travis enjoyed the simple comfort of the hot, filled dumplings, buttered cabbage with onions, and savory meat. From the way Brent dug into his meal, Travis guessed his partner felt the same way.
They were nearly finished with the meal when the door opened, and a gust of cold wind swept inside. A man in a black slicker with a broad-brimmed bucket hat and Wellington boots stomped in and shook off like a wet dog. He let the hat fall back on its strap and unbuttoned the coat, revealing a dark shirt and a clerical collar.
A few of the patrons murmured a greeting as he passed, others nodded, and some didn’t look up from their drinks. He responded with a half-hearted wave and walked up to the end of the bar, not far from where Travis and Brent sat. If the priest noticed them, he didn’t show it.
Guess that’s Father Prochazka, Travis thought. The clergyman looked to be in his mid-sixties, bald with a fringe of short gray hair, clean-shaven. Old sorrow swam in the man’s light blue eyes, and he carried himself as if the weight of the world rested on his narrow shoulders.
“You get it?” he asked Horvath, who nodded and pulled a paper bag from beneath the bar. He set it on the counter, and the man laid down a few bills, clearly familiar with the cost. “Keep the change. Thanks.”
The bag clinked when Father Prochazka picked it up, suggesting more than one fifth of liquor inside. The older man’s expression set in defiance as if daring anyone to comment. No one seemed to care. He made his way back to the door and disappeared into the storm.
“You think there’s a place in hell for being your priest’s dealer?” Chris asked as he refilled their coffee and cleared away their plates.
“Kinda doubt that’s high on the list of sins,” Brent said. “Whatever gets him through the night. Not gonna judge.”
They took their coffee to a table in the back, and Travis dodged out to the Crown Vic long enough to come back with their laptops. Since they were staying with Chris, there was nowhere to go until the bar closed.
Customers came and went. Some stayed for an hour or two, while others stopped to chat and left with takeout bags. Travis wondered if the diner was equally busy or if some of the patrons who bellied up to the bar had eaten dinner and came to Fisher’s for a nightcap.
While Travis searched deeds, Brent looked for historical documents. The surprisingly strong Wi-Fi signal made the effort less arduous than usual since they often struggled with glitchy internet and poor reception while on the road.
Travis began with the deed to Rick Donaldson’s lot, tracing it back through foreclosures and title disputes until he hit paydirt in the 1920s and let out a low whistle.
“What?” Brent glanced up from his screen.
“The trailer’s lot was on top of a defunct coal mine,” Travis said.
“Most of Pennsylvania is on top of a defunct coal mine,” Brent snarked.
“True. But this one had an especially abysmal record for cave-ins, bad air, and accidents. And back in 1933, a guy named Gustav Schmidt went psycho with a sledgehammer on his fellow miners. Bludgeoned six men to death, gravely injured another four, before Gustav threw himself into an open shaft and died.” Travis cleared his throat. “Presumably died—they never recovered the body.”
“Yeah, what could go wrong?” Brent muttered. “You think Gustav’s ghost came back to take a whack at Rick?”
Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her father forty whacks…
Travis turned his laptop around to show Brent his screen. “This is a photo of the mining company’s employees a few months before the incident. Gustav is the guy on the far right, second row.”
Brent leaned forward for a closer look, and his eyes widened. “Looks exactly like the guy we got rid of.”
Travis nodded. “Yeah. And get this—Donaldson picked up the land from an auction on the cheap because the previous owner ‘fell down a sinkhole into a previously-sealed mine shaft’ and disappeared.”
Pennsylvania was undermined with thousands of miles of forgotten mining tunnels from hundreds of long-gone companies whose records were lost in fires, floods, or simply discarded.
Sinkholes were common enough that many mortgage companies required mine subsidence insurance in case the living room suddenly vanished into a bottomless pit. The mines themselves were the tombs of miners killed in falls, accidents, cave-ins, explosions, and suffocation from toxic gases.
They’re like the poor man’s version of the Roman Catacombs.
“I’ve been trying to find out anything I can about the history of St. Benedict’s Hospital,” Brent said as Travis took back his laptop. “Since I can’t get to the police records until tomorrow.” He shook his head. “I had forgotten how small towns work when everyone knows everyone else.”
“It’s got its good points—and its bad ones,” Travis agreed. “But it certainly cuts through the bureaucracy.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Find anything?”
“The hospital started providing veterans’ programs after World War II. Not like a comprehensive V.A. Hospital, but enough that most people probably didn’t need to go to Johnstown or Harrisburg for routine stuff.” Brent frowned, looking at the document he had open to take notes.
“Most of that is pretty standard. But about seven years ago, the hospital got a donation to expand its services to veterans—from TMQV,” Brent continued. “What’s really interesting is that TMQV appears to be a Russian nesting doll of shell companies with barely any documentation…but rumored to have ties with the CIA and NSA.”
A shiver danced down Travis’s spine. “What business is TMQV in?”
“Fingers in a lot of pies. Pharmaceuticals. Medical equipment. Imaging. Biological research,” Brent replied, shooting Travis a look.
“So…not a stretch to think they might have had some medical experimentation going on? Or at least clinical trials, research projects, a little off-the-books genetic manipulation? Wait—I think I’ve seen this movie.” Travis felt sick to his stomach.
“I can’t prove that—TMQV covered its tracks like a real pro—but that’s my bet. A bunch of folks here probably went off to the wars because they didn’t have any other prospects and came back busted up. Good care’s hard to come by—and expensive. Many of the people here might have a high school education—they’re not going to be quick to question doctors, and if there are abuses, a town like this flies under the watchdogs’ radar.”
Travis suspected that Brent’s anger was driven by his fear of CHARON and organizations like it and the Sinistram, which were willing to leave all morality behind in their quest for victory.
“If TMQV is so secretive, how do we find out what they were doing here?” Travis mentally listed possibilities.
“We look for the holes in the official records and follow the money,” Brent said. “They want to call it ‘veterans’ programs? Fine—I’ll go through the records for that and the personnel files. I bet we can reverse engineer this to get close enough to have a good idea what was going on—and whether it’s got anything to do with the deaths now.”
“You don’t think they would have taken their records with them?”
Brent shook his head. “The main files? Sure. But if they were hiding in plain sight, the hospital must have some record. People got paid. Staff was hired. Lab supplies and medical equipment got bought. Once we have a little more to go on, I’ll call Chuck Pettis and see what his bunch of ex-CHARON malcontents might know. I need more info to be able to ask the right questions.”
“We know there was a historical incident that matched Kendall and the maggots,” Travis said. “Now, we’ve got a match with Donaldson and the miner. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there was one or more stabbings where Becca died and that someone got crushed in a construction accident—or hammer murder—where Shelly was killed. When we match up the police records, I’ll be surprised if there weren’t multiple incidents spread out over enough years that people didn’t see a pattern.”
