Free Ghosts of the Past by Mark H. Downer Page A

he did so.
    He walked into the den, sat down in the big leather chair, and turned on the television with the remote control. He was perfectly willing to relax until his prey returned.
     
    Pulling down the driveway two hours later, Ferguson noticed through the den window the flickering images of light coming from the television. That’s not right, I never turned the TV on.
    He steered the Explorer into the garage, killed the engine, and got out. For some reason the question of the television being left on had heightened his senses, as he climbed the three steps to the landing and slowly opened the door to the den. He leaned his head in first and noticed the television was now off.
    His heart was beginning to beat faster as he stepped carefully over the threshold and into the room. Simultaneously, the movement behind the door reflected off the darkened television screen and he picked it up instantly. Without hesitation, he leaned into the door as hard as he could and slammed it into the intruder.
    There was a muffled groan and then the door came forcefully back into Ferguson knocking him backward onto the landing and then tumbling head over heels down the steps. As he got to his feet, Syron was coming into the garage in pursuit, blood pouring from his broken nose.
    Ferguson recovered onto his feet quickly and picked up the softball bat laying on the shelf to his right. Just as Syron had reached the bottom step, the stiletto still firmly in his grip, Ferguson swung the bat backhanded and landed it squarely in Syron’s right rib cage. The force produced an exhale of breath followed by a spontaneous scream of agony, the knife and Syron both dropping to the ground.
    Ferguson, however, was not about to wait around to assess the damage. Holding on to the bat, he turned from his attacker and ran out of the garage, down the driveway, and headed for the nearest neighbor with the lights on, which happened to be the Saunders. He didn’t bother to knock as he disappeared through their front door.
     
    Jimmy Syron was on the verge of suffocating. The blood and swollen tissue from what once was his nose, and the stifling pain coming from the right side of his torso, was making it almost impossible to breath. He was virtually crawling down the driveway while dialing Nieron on the cell phone.
    “You finished?” Nieron inquired as he punched the ‘Talk’ button.
    “I’m fucked up man, get the car down here to…” Syron stopped to spit out a mouthful of blood, “get down to the end of the driveway… NOW!”
    Nieron raced down the street and skidded to a halt. He opened the door and dragged Syron in over himself and onto the passenger seat. The piercing cry of anguish from Syron’s injuries could be heard through the window of the Saunder’s house, as the black Trans Am sped away.
     
    Officer Gil Brucker and his partner were wrapping up their report at the dining room table inside Ferguson’s house. Ferguson had been picking up the destruction for the better part of half an hour, while Brucker had been asking him all the pertinent questions as to the evening’s events. Additionally he was keeping a tally of all the items that appeared to be missing.
    There had been a couple of watches, an envelope containing $350 in cash from his winnings in a recent golf tournament, everything that was a precious metal or jewel from his jewelry case, and his jade and ivory pen set Max had given him at graduation. However, nothing of any size. No electronics, his golf clubs were still there, and his Browning 12 gauge had not been discovered in the top shelf of his closet.
    “Looks to me like you caught him in the act before he had time to pick you clean of the big stuff. Although, getting away in a car… they were not going to haul away anything too big. You got insurance don’t ya?
    “Yeah, I’m covered.” Ferguson replied.
    “Well, I think we’re about wrapped up here.” Brucker picked up the plastic zip lock bag lying on the table