—right into that psycho who shot Frank. The one who smelled like barbecue.
She swung the metal bar, but he ducked and came up behind her, getting Moni in a choke hold. He pressed the gun to her temple.
“Time to die, whore.”
Tom
Torble ran as soon as he saw Tom coming, and after rounding a corner he ducked into a room. Tom followed, going in low, and saw he was in a root cellar.
An empty root cellar.
Torble had disappeared.
Tom looked around, but the room was completely empty. No place to hide. No exits. It didn’t make any sense.
Then he recalled the Butler House website, which talked extensively about secret passages and hidden staircases. Walking to the far wall, he ran his hand across the brick until he found a seam. Tom pushed against it, and it swung on hinges, exposing an old, wooden ladder.
Tom looked up, unable to see where it led. He went up anyway, climbing in the dark, expecting Torble to shoot him at any moment. The smarter thing to do was to go back, meet with the others, and get the hell out. But Tom didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for Torble to come calling. He wanted to finish this, today.
The ladder ended in a small, dark room the size of a closet. Tom found a latch, pushed it open, and then he saw he was on the second floor of Butler House, the only light coming from a candle—
—that Moni held. And behind Moni…
“Hello, Detective. What are you going to do now?”
Tom aimed at Torble’s head.
“Don’t you remember?” Tom said. “I’m the hero, rushing in to save the day.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to drop the gun, or I’ll blow this whore’s head off.”
“I’m not a whore anymore,” Moni said. “And I’m getting goddamn sick of all these goddamn psychos trying to hurt me.”
Moni thrust the candle behind her, into Torble’s face.
He cried out, letting her go.
She dropped to the floor.
Tom fired three times, two in his chest and one in his head.
Then he rushed over, pulling the gun out of Torble’s dead hand.
“Not bad for a pig,” Moni appraised. “I got your kit. Let’s go save Frank.”
They ran for the stairs as smoke began to fill Butler House.
Duncan
The men in gray walked out of the house and began shooting at Josh. He watched as his Dad was hit in both legs, watched as he fell to the ground, pinning his rifle underneath his body, unable to return fire.
The men kept shooting.
Duncan jumped into the van and didn’t remember anything Josh taught him.
He didn’t put on his seatbelt.
He didn’t check his mirrors.
He didn’t put his foot on the brake when he started the engine.
He just cranked it and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, the van spinning tires, and headed straight for those assholes shooting his father. They didn’t even try to get out of the way as he ran them both over, splattering the hood and windshield with blood.
Then he hit the brakes, threw the van into park, and ran to Josh.
“Dad!”
“I’m okay,” he said. “Just winged in the legs. Come here.”
Duncan knelt down and hugged his father, hugged him so tight.
“Nice driving, son.”
Duncan began to cry. “I forgot to wear my seatbelt.”
Josh patted his back. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. You did really, really good.”
And they held each other until Mom and Woof appeared with a group of people, including two wounded. A moment later, two more people came out of Butler House, a man and a woman. The woman helped Mom use a first aid kit on Dad, bandaging his legs. The man put some sort of plastic disk on another guy’s chest, the guy who had been either stabbed or shot.
“I hope hope hope heaven has heroin,” the shot guy said.
Then everyone got into the van and Mom drove away. Duncan watched through the back window, petting Woof, Mathison perched on his shoulder, as Butler House burned, lighting up the night sky.
Epilogue
At Bon Secours-St. Francis Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina, Dr. Frank Belgium died on the operating table at 12:52am from a gunshot wound to the chest.
He was resuscitated at 12:53am.
When he regained consciousness eight hours later, he asked the duty nurse for heroin. He repeated himself three times. He was administered morphine instead.
The woman who was admitted with him, Sara Randhurst, had eighty three stitches in her fingers, which she demanded be done in Frank’s room because she refused to leave his side.
Both were expected to make a full recovery. As was Chicago Homicide Detective Roy Lewis, who was treated for shock, dehydration, and multiple burns, cuts, and contusions.
Josh VanCamp, also treated for GSWs, left the hospital after treatment against doctor’s orders. He and his wife Fran called an immediate press conference, where they were joined by Mal and Deb Deiter. They all spoke at length about what had occurred at Butler House, and about what happened years ago in Safe Haven, Wisconsin.
Public outcry was universal. Full investigations were demanded.
Butler House burned for two full days, until almost nothing remained. What was left was bulldozed over by the state.
During the demolition, four construction workers reported seeing ghosts, and one was fatally injured when a piece of equipment malfunctioned, crushing him. When tested later, the equipment appeared to be in perfect working order.
FOUR WEEKS LATER
Hollywood, California
Tom
The sun beat down on Tom as he sprawled out on the chaise lounge, baking him almost as brown as Roy, who occupied the chaise to his right.
The Hotel Roosevelt was one of Joan’s hang outs, and she’d pulled some strings and gotten them suites for practically free. Tom’s Sam Adams was almost empty, and he was going to do rock, paper, scissors with Roy for who got the next round when a very pretty little blonde in a teeny little bikini came up to them.
“Ooh, how did you get all those scars?” she asked Roy.
“I’m a cop. I was tortured for a week by some maniacs dressed as ghosts. Shot me, too. You heard of Butler House?”
The swimsuit model’s eyes got wide. “Oh my gosh! You were at Butler House?”
Roy nodded. “Lemme buy you a cocktail, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Roy took her hand and led her to the poolside tiki bar.
“He’s adjusting well,” Joan said. She was in the chaise on Tom’s other side. Also in a bikini, also very pretty.
“Roy doesn’t remember most of it. I think he’s going to be okay.”
“Are you?”
He reached out and held her hand. “I’m getting better every day.”
Joan took a sip of lemonade. She had to visit a shoot later, so she wasn’t drinking. “That hooker. Moni. She’s a real trip. Killed three of those psychos by herself. Amazing woman.”
“No kidding. And she’s not a hooker. She’s a dominatrix. No sex. Just figging.”
“What’s figging?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Joan whipped out her iPhone and Googled it. A moment later she made a face.
“Figging is sticking a ginger root up someone’s butt. It is supposed to cause an intense burning sensation. Why would anyone willingly do that?”
“I said you didn’t want to know. And thanks for finding a press agent for her.”
“Are you kidding? I’m going to produce the movie. There’s a bidding war now for her story. Up to seven figures.”
Tom shook his head, amused as hell. So she finally got her million bucks. Go, Moni.
“Am I going to be a character in the flick?” Tom asked.