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Phantoms

Terence West

United States by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc., Markham,

Ontario Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic,

electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or

retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Double Dragon eBook

Published by

Double Dragon Publishing, Inc.

PO Box 54016

1-5762 Highway 7 East

Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada

www.double-dragon-ebooks.com

www.double-dragon-publishing.com

ISBN: 1-55404-275-5

A DDP First Edition July 15, 2005

Book Layout and

Cover Art by Deron Douglas

Phantoms

From the Files of the Office of Paranormal Research

Book One

Dedication

This book is for Donna, who always made sure my nightlight was plugged in and my closet door was

securely shut. Thanks Mom.

Chapter 1

The clock read 12:50, but that meant little to him. At his age he had, at best, a vague conception of time.

Rolling onto his back, he jostled his little legs and kicked off the covers. It was warm tonight, even for

him. Looking to his left, he stared at his fluffy brown teddy bear. It had fallen from a sitting position to a

crumpled mess next to his pillow. Reaching over, he snatched up the stuffed animal and held it tightly in

his arms. Charlie Grant would turn eight years old tomorrow.

Charlie was small for his age. The other kids he played with were much taller than he was. As he lay

quietly in bed, he wondered if he would ever grow up. He touched a small scratch on his left cheek and

winced. He would show those other kids once he grew up. He knew the cut was an accident, but they

didn't have to laugh at him. He didn't mean to cry, it just hurt so much. Next time, he would remember to

be much more careful as he slid into second base. Running his hand over his messy blonde hair, he tried

to think about something else.

Looking over at the nightstand next to his bed, he began to reach for his glass of water, but stopped. It

was empty. Pushing his bear aside, Charlie swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He wasn't supposed

to be up right now. It was way past his bedtime. He didn't want to make his parents mad, but he really

needed a drink. Sliding off the edge of the bed, he snatched the empty glass from his nightstand and

began to walk toward the door.

He stopped. Something didn't feel right. His wide innocent eyes quickly scanned his room. It was the

smallest room in the house, but his parents assured him it was just his size. To his left, there was a small

window that looked out onto the front yard of their two story house, and in front of him, he could see his

toy box, still heaped with action figures from the previous day's adventures. To his right was the closet.

Always closed at night. Always.

A small round nightlight was plugged into the outlet next to his door. He didn't really like the light. It

always seemed to cast strange shadows across the room; mean outlines of things he didn't like, but

Charlie was brave. Clenching the glass tightly in his small clammy hands, he pulled his attention away

from the shadows and walked briskly to get some water. His heart began to pound. It felt like something

was watching him. Charlie froze. The room seemed to become still almost instantly. He could hear his

heart pounding in his chest, but then came another sound. A sound so terrifying, it shook him to his very

bones. Slowly turning his eyes to the right, he could see his closet door slowly opening. It creaked and

groaned as its old hinges rubbed against each other. In an act of sheer will, Charlie slowly craned his

head to look at the closet. The door had been partially opened and was starting to close again. Looking

into the closet, Charlie could only see darkness, but then terror gripped him. He wasn't sure how, but

before he could even register the thought to run, he was already out of his room and charging toward his

parents. Bursting out of the room, Charlie dropped the glass to the floor and dove head first into his

parents’ bed. The bed shook hard, then stopped.

Charlie's father shot straight up out of bed. Groggy and dazed, he looked frantically around the room.

His boxers were hanging down slightly exposing the small gut he had been cultivating over the past few

months. Rubbing his hands over his eyes to wipe the sleep from them, he looked down to see Charlie

cocooning himself in his blankets. He let out a soft sigh of relief, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Charlie," he said softly. He could hear his only son breathing heavily, almost frantically. "Charlie," he

added a little more sternly. Reaching over slowly, he pulled the blankets away from Charlie's face. He

recoiled slightly when he saw the fear in his eyes. "What's the matter, boy?"

"What's going on?" his wife asked as she sat up in bed.

"Mom, Dad," Charlie began as he started to catch his breath, "can I sleep with you tonight?"

Dylan Grant looked over at his wife and smiled. This was not the first time this had happened. He

rubbed his thick brown beard as a smile emerged on his face. Dylan was a tall and well built man. He had

medium length dark brown hair that hung to the middle of his neck. It was naturally wavy, which drove

his wife crazy. He was closing in on his thirty-fifth birthday, but he didn't feel it. In his mind, he was just a

big kid. "I don't know. Cynthia, what do you think?"

Cynthia waved her hand in the air as she scooted back down in bed. "Why can't you sleep in your own

room, Charlie?" She was much more petite than Dylan. Measuring only five foot three inches, her

forehead barely reached Dylan's chin when they stood next to each other. She had long blonde hair and

what Dylan referred to as "sky blue eyes". She used to be afraid to age, but even now, at thirty-two, she

was one of the most beautiful women around.

"There's a monster in the closet," Charlie admitted sheepishly, not wanting his parents to know he was

scared. After all, he was a big boy now.

Dylan ran his large hand over his son's hair. "I've got an idea."

"What, Dad?"

"Let's go find that monster and flush him out!" Dylan stood and walked across the room toward his golf

bag. Hastily looking over the silver clubs, he grabbed a wedge out of the bag.

Charlie started to shake his head. "That's not a good idea, Dad."

"Why not?" Dylan asked, holding the club tightly in his hands. "Your old man's a pro at this. I bet you

didn't know that back in college your dad majored in monster hunting."

Cynthia chuckled. "Stop making things up, honey."

Dylan shook his head. "No, it's true," he said with a laugh. "While other kids went out for the football

team, I went out for monster hunting."

"Stop egging Charlie on and take him back to bed." Cynthia pulled the covers up tightly to her chin. She

had to be up in less than five hours to be at work. She had a major meeting she had to be well rested for.

Dylan knelt down in front of Charlie. "Your mom never was a believer," he said in a whisper.

Charlie laughed. His dad was his hero. They did everything together. Tomorrow was going to be extra

special for him. His dad was taking the day off from work to take Charlie to his first major league

baseball game. He had even promised to show Charlie how to run the scorebook. Sitting up in bed,

Charlie scooted toward the edge and hopped off. When he was with his father, they were invincible.

"Are you ready to go get that monster?" Dylan asked as if he was taking the family out for ice cream.

Charlie nodded his head. "Yeah."

"Then what are we doing standing around here for? Let's go."

Dylan started for the door with Charlie closely in tow. Once in the hall, Dylan glanced across at Charlie's

room. The door was still wide open and an empty glass was lying in the middle of the floor. Dylan looked

down at his son. "Did you leave that glass there, Charlie?"

Charlie nodded.

"I'm going to let it go for the moment, but as soon as we get that monster, I want you to pick that up and

put it where it belongs, okay?"

"Okay, Dad."

Turning back toward Charlie's door, Dylan lifted the club in front of him. It was his sword and he was

headed to slay the dragon to bring peace back to the kingdom, or at least a good night's sleep. Taking

another step, he stopped. Something wasn't right. Looking down the hall to his left, he caught a glimpse

of a dark form moving past the window. "What the hell was that?" he asked himself. Reaching behind

himself, he patted Charlie on the head. "Stay here for a minute, okay?"

Charlie looked up at his dad. He was transfixed, staring unblinking at the window at the end of the hall.

"Dad?"

"It's okay," Dylan assured him without turning his attention away from the window, "I just want to go

look at something. Stay here." Without another word, Dylan began to walk slowly down the hall, his bare

feet sinking into the thick carpeting.

Charlie looked at his dad, then returned his attention to his room. He glared into the darkened space.

What happened to my nightlight? He began to feel his heart pound in his chest again as he heard a soft

rustling noise coming from within. Turning around, he ran back into his parent's room and dove back

under the covers with this mother.

Dylan stopped. Turning around, his eyes widened. There was no sign of Charlie. "Son?" The golf club

momentarily loosened in his hands. "Charlie!" he said again. An odd sensation passed over him. He felt as

if he was being watched. Spinning around, he saw a pair of burning red eyes outside the window peering

in at him. Dylan's mouth fell agape as he stared.

The window shattered inward sending shards of glass sailing past Dylan. One of the larger pieces sliced

through his upper arm. Blood instantly began to seep from the wound. Slapping his hand on it, Dylan

began to stumble backwards through the hall. He kept his vision trained on the red orbs still outside his

window, barely noticing the crunch of glass under his bare feet. All at once, the eyes blinked once and a

dark object flung itself in through the shattered glass. There was no sound from the creature, only the

howl of the wind outside. The dark form undulated and transformed as it moved down the hallway

toward Dylan, its form finally settling on something vaguely human. Dylan could swear he was looking at

a man standing before him wearing a large flowing black cape, although he could make out no detail in

the creature, only darkness and those burning red eyes.

"You will not escape," the being hissed in a low, angry voice.

"Leave me alone!" Dylan cried as he moved faster. "Cynthia!" he cried out. "Cynthia, call 911!" Dylan

looked down at his hands and stopped. He gripped the golf club tightly. Taking a deep breath, he lunged

forward at the being and swung with all his might, but connected with nothing. The blade of the club

sliced right through the middle of the creature without any effect. The force of the swing threw Dylan off

balance and he tumbled to the floor. Looking up, he saw he was lying at the feet of the being.

Turning his head to the right, he peered into Charlie's room. To his horror, a second pair of red eyes

appeared. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. Pushing himself off the floor, he tried to run for his room,

but was cut off by the first shadow. The creature lifted what looked like an arm and pointed it toward

him. Four thin tendrils of darkness shot from the hand like coiled snakes and wrapped themselves around

Dylan's neck. Reaching up, Dylan tried to tear them off, but they were like steel. Gasping for air, he

watched as the second pair of red eyes emerged from Charlie's room and moved toward him. This one

was also in the form of a human. He didn't appear three dimensional in nature, rather flat. Its billowing

darkness reached out and began to wrap around Dylan. It felt cold and evil. The darkness began to

engulf him as it slowly moved up his body.

The second shadow echoed the first's sentiment. "You will not escape."

Dylan felt his eyelids becoming heavy. The oxygen was being cut off to his brain; he was dying of

asphyxia. A horrid smile crossed the faces of the two shadows as Dylan took his final breath. Retracting

the darkness, the two of them ripped Dylan in half. Red blood splattered against the wall in a horrible

pattern as his torso fell next to his legs. Reaching down, one of the shadows slid its fingers forcefully into

Dylan's chest. It wrapped the darkness around his still beating heart and ripped it from the man's chest.

The creature held it above its head to examine. Once satisfied they had what they came for, the two

creatures slowly moved toward Dylan's bedroom and entered.

Charlie looked out from beneath the covers at the two pairs of burning red eyes in the darkness of the

room. Reaching over, he shook his mom's shoulder in an attempt to wake her up. "Mom," Charlie said

frantically.

"What is it now, Charlie?" Cynthia asked, still half asleep.

Charlie swallowed hard as he stared at the eyes. "The Shadow People are here," he whispered.

* * * *

The large office was lavishly decorated. The walls were painted a creamy shade of white that emanated

warmth. Pictures dominated a majority of the space, as well as several tall filing cabinets and book

shelves. Trophies collected from all over the world sat quietly observing the day-to-day routine. A large

brown wooden desk sat to one side with two dark, plush seats in front of it, while a large, round

conference table occupied a substantial section of the floor. A huge window behind the desk was letting

the soft rays of morning light spill into the room. Two men sat inside, one in an expensive leather chair

behind the desk, the other in one of the chairs facing it. Both men were swathed in the usual business

attire of suits and ties.

The one behind the desk swiveled his chair around to face the other man in his office. Lifting a small tan

folder off his desk, he leaned back in his chair and flipped it open. Adjusting his wire-framed glasses, he

began to peruse the pages inside.

"Mr. Bishop," the man began in a light tone, "I assume you know why you've been called in here."

Nick Bishop adjusted his dark gray tie and sat forward in his seat. Folding his hands together, he

propped his elbows up on his knees. He was a young man with short, messy dark hair and piercing blue

eyes. He was clean-shaven with the exception of a small patch of hair on his chin below his lips. His

black suit was hanging loosely off his thin, muscular frame. "I do, Chairman Weiss," he answered in a firm

voice.

Thomas Weiss set the folder down on his desk and rubbed his bearded chin. He was sometimes called

"the Old Man" of the firm because of his gray hair, but in actuality, he wasn't even close to being the

oldest member there. "Why did you want to join the Office of Paranormal Investigation?" Weiss asked

after a moment.

Bishop pointed to the yellow folder, "It's all there in my files."

"Yes," Weiss said with a nod, "it is, but I want to hear it from you."

"Is there a problem with my application, sir?" Bishop asked.

A smile crossed Weiss’ face. "A little defensive, aren't we?"

"I'm sorry." Bishop looked away from Weiss as he ran his hand through his hair. "This is very important

to me."

"I can see that." Weiss pulled off his glasses and set them down next to the folder. He rubbed the bridge

of his nose with his finger and thumb, massaging the two small red indentations caused by the glasses.

Looking back up at Bishop, he started to run his fingers over his beard again. "I just want to know a little

more about who Nick Bishop is," Weiss confessed. "I do this with all the new recruits."

Bishop breathed a sigh of relief and slipped back into his seat. "I'm sorry, Chairman," he said again.

"You wanted to know why I want to join the Office of Paranormal Investigation?"

Weiss nodded.

"I guess to use a popular phrase, I am a ‘believer'," Bishop said with a smile. "I just want to know this

kind of stuff is real."

"What," Weiss hated to use the word, "'Stuff'?"

"The paranormal." Bishop sat forward again. "I know these occurrences are happening, and I want to be

part of the organization that proves it. I want to take the paranormal out of the domain of science fiction

and tabloid magazines, and shout to the world that this is real."

"Those are very high ideals, Mr. Bishop, and something we here at the OPR haven't been able to do in

thirty years." Weiss lifted his glasses off the desk and slipped them back on.

Bishop shook his head, "But, sir, I've read some of the OPR's files. You have documented proof of the

paranormal. How can the scientific community not recognize that?"

"Easily," Weiss stated with a bit of disdain in his voice. "Unless something can be repeated or quantified

under laboratory conditions, scientists won't accept the findings." Weiss leaned forward on his desk.

"When I started this organization, I had the very same ideals you have right now. I was hell bent to prove

to the entire world this kind of phenomenon was real, but over the years, this company's, as well as my

own, ideals have changed. We're not here to change the world, Mr. Bishop, just to study it." He lifted a

small blue coffee mug from the side of his desk and took a sip from the warm liquid inside. "We've

become the guardians at the gate, so to speak. We have the knowledge, and when the scientific

community finally accepts the idea, they'll have to come to us."

"So what is the OPR's mission?"

"The same as it has always been, to collect information, to find the truth," Weiss said as he set the mug

aside. "That hasn't changed." He flipped open the yellow folder again. "It says here you were recruited by

the CIA, but dropped out a week before you graduated. Why?"

"The Agency just wasn't for me."

"It says here you were among the top of your class."

Bishop nodded, "I can't quite justify my actions. I just came to a point where I knew I was on the wrong

path. I wasn't cut out to be a part of the intelligence community. I just didn't fit in.

"Fair enough," Weiss replied. Flipping over a page in the folder, Weiss stopped. "You have a medical

condition?"

Bishop ran his hand over his chin. "I wouldn't really call it a medical condition, sir, but yes, I am a

chronic insomniac. I assure you it won't interfere with my job performance."

"Very good," Weiss said with a smile. "Let's make sure it doesn't." Closing the folder, he lifted it up and

slid it into a drawer on his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he looked over his new recruit. "You don't

have a background in science, do you?"

Bishop shook his head. "I don't. I've taken science classes in college, but nothing serious. Why?"

"The OPR is mainly a scientific agency, Mr. Bishop. Most of our members have degrees in various

science related fields."

Bishop smiled, "I thought you were just ghost hunters."

"We are," Weiss admitted, "but we chase the supernatural with science and hard evidence. Your lack of

a solid scientific background could be a hindrance"

"But my FBI training should more than make up for that," Bishop argued. "I've been trained to correctly

interrogate suspects and witnesses, and I have an eye for detail. I may not be an egghead, but my

experience as an investigator will be invaluable."

Weiss laughed out loud. "Good answer." Opening the top drawer of his desk, Weiss pulled out a small,

stapled packet of papers. Standing up, he tossed them across to Bishop. "In that packet, you'll find all

your tax information, as well as medical and insurance forms. Fill them out and have them back to my

secretary by tomorrow morning."

"I'm hired?"

Weiss nodded. "Head over to photography after you leave. We need to get IDs made for you."

Bishop stood up and extended a hand toward Weiss. "Thank you, Chairman Weiss. You won't regret

this decision."

Weiss shook Bishop's hand firmly. "I hope not." Sitting back down, Weiss removed a small stack of

papers from his inbox on his desk. Tapping them on the desk to straighten them, he handed them to

Bishop. "Here's the information on your first assignment. I want you to study them thoroughly tonight,

then report to office three-thirteen in the morning to meet your partners."

Chapter 2

The red and blue flashing lights were casting an eerie glow over the front of the brick home. Various

police officers and investigators were moving about their duties. Yellow strands of police tape were

littered around the area, blocking access to the media and the public.

Amidst the bustle of the busy crime scene, a lone detective stood next to his battered green sedan

drinking a cup of coffee. A large man, he was wearing a long tan trench coat, an off-white dress shirt with

a red tie and a pair of gray slacks. The white shirt had various stains scattered over it, while his shoes

were generally untied. He wore a dark gray fedora over his thinning black hair that partially hid his rough

face in shadow. A three day beard was growing on his chin he had no intention of shaving, while dark

bags hung under his eyes from a lack of sleep.

"Detective Enbaugh!" An officer shouted from across the yard.

Jack Enbaugh looked up and tilted his fedora back on his head. Setting his paper coffee cup down on

the hood of his car, he began to weave his way through the crime scene toward the front of the house.

For an overweight man, he was relatively light on his feet. Stopping at the front door, Enbaugh looked at

the young officer. "What is it, officer?"

The young officer in his black uniform pulled off his hat and held it uncomfortably in his hands. "Coroner

wants to know if he can start removing the bodies."

Enbaugh took a deep breath and thought for a moment. "Move them."

The young officer nodded, then walked back into the house. Turning, Enbaugh looked over the front

yard. It was still wet from last night's rain. Turning his face skyward, he looked at the dark clouds

looming overhead. It was officially the hurricane season here in Stone Brook, Florida. The weatherman

on the radio this morning confirmed that a possible hurricane was forming off the southern coast. It was

still too early to tell, but it looked like it was preparing to head on shore.

Enbaugh had lived and worked in Stone Brook for most of his life. He had been born in California, but

his parents relocated to Florida when he was just a child. Stone Brook was a small town of about fifty

thousand people located on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, just slightly north of the cities of Tampa and

St. Petersburg. He had been protecting the population here for close to fifteen years now. He liked it

here. The town was big enough to have its share of trouble, but it was still free of the large city problems.

"Detective?" a voice asked from behind him.

Spinning around, Enbaugh saw three men pushing gurneys toward him through the house. Each one had

a body resting atop it with a plain white sheet thrown over it.

"Can we get you to move?" the first man asked.

Enbaugh nodded and stepped aside. The first gurney made its way over the doorjamb and onto the

cement walkway, followed closely by the second and third. The man pushing the third gurney stopped

and looked down. The front wheel had gotten jammed between the railing and the sidewalk.

"Hold on," he said to the others. "Let me see if I can get this loosened."

"Come on, Joey," the first man announced. "We're on a tight schedule here. Just pull it out of there and

let's go."

Joey knelt down next to the wheel and began to tug on it. Letting out a sigh of exhaustion, he wrapped

his hands firmly around the wheel and gave one final tug. The wheel shot loose and sent the gurney

toppling to the ground. The body of Cynthia Grant rolled onto the sidewalk in plain sight of everyone.

She had been decapitated and her body mutilated.

Enbaugh swore under his breath. Grabbing the sheet off the ground, he quickly laid it over the remains.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Enbaugh asked Joey angrily.

"I was just trying to--"

"Look over there." Enbaugh pointed to a small crowd that had gathered outside the yellow police tape.

Several members of the media were standing there with cameras rolling. "We don't want this to show up

on the ten o'clock news."

Joey shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Look," Enbaugh said quietly, "it's our job to protect these people from the crazies out there, and

sometimes that even means protecting them from the knowledge something horrible happened. Do you

understand?"

Joey nodded. "Sorry, Detective."

"Go grab your two buddies and get this cleaned up, and do not remove this sheet again," instructed

Enbaugh. Standing up, he watched Joey run over to the waiting ambulance. Looking down at the sheet,

he could see the two separate lumps beneath. A chill ran down his spine. He had never witnessed

anything this gruesome during all his years on the force. He had certainly read about this kind of thing, but

never seen it firsthand. Just another reason he liked living in Stone Brook.

Stepping over the body, Enbaugh made his way into the Grant's house. The living room was very large

and well furnished. Dylan Grant, the husband, was a doctor in this area, and a well respected one, while

his wife, Cynthia, was employed by a small advertising firm. Everyone knew the Grants had money, and

by looking at their home décor, it was obvious.

Enbaugh had already been here for three hours. He had been called out here at eight a.m. to investigate.

Apparently, Cynthia's employer had expected her at work two hours earlier and had been trying to call

her all morning. He had told officers that Cynthia was never late. As luck would have it, one of the

officers on the force was a close friend of the family and was delivering a birthday present to the Grant's

son, Charlie, so he looked in on the family. That's when he found them.

Enbaugh began his usual routine at a crime scene. Pulling a pair of latex gloves out of the pocket of his

trench coat, he snapped them on. Slowly, he began to move over the living room. He needed to know if

anything was missing. Robbery was his first guess when he arrived this morning, although nothing

appeared to be missing. Enbaugh knelt down next to a small wooden coffee table located between two

brown leather couches. A small layer of dust had settled on the table. This would make his job easier. He

would be able to tell if anything had been moved or taken due to the dust. It would leave a clearly

detectable clean spot if an item was taken. He scanned the table and found nothing.

Standing up, he quickly glanced over the rest of the living room. Everything seemed to be in its place. He

noticed a small plastic cube on the fireplace mantle. Taking a step toward it, he smiled at the contents.

"Wow," he said under his breath.

"Jack?"

Enbaugh spun around. "Montoya."

Detective Caroline Montoya was slowly walking down the stairs into the living room. Half Enbaugh's

age, she was his partner. Her long blonde hair was tied up behind her head showing off her slender face

and neck. Long dark eyelashes hung seductively over her green eyes, while her lips were painted a deep

red. She was wearing all black this morning, from her long trench coat, to the blouse and skirt which hung

just above her ankles. "What are you doing?" she asked Enbaugh in a soft voice.

Enbaugh smiled. "Just doing a cursory check around the house. I wanted to see if anything was missing."

They had been partners for six years now. Montoya had transferred to the Stone Brook Police

Department after a three year stint as part of the Miami law enforcement community. "Come take a look

at this."

Montoya walked slowly down the stairs and into the living room. "What am I looking at?"

Enbaugh pointed to the plastic cube on the mantle. "It's a baseball."

"Wow," Montoya said sarcastically. "That's really neat."

"No, look at it. It's been signed by Mark McGuire, and it has the number ‘62’ written under the

signature."

"Which means what?" Montoya asked.

Enbaugh laughed. "You have no culture. This was McGuire's sixty-second home run during the 2000

season. You know, the year he hit the record breaking seventy homers?"

"That's absolutely fascinating," Montoya said with a yawn.

"You're missing the point," Enbaugh scolded her. "Last year, one of these home run balls went up for

auction and sold for in the neighborhood of sixty thousand dollars. This is a very expensive piece of

baseball memorabilia."

"So if it's still here… "Montoya started.

"We're probably not looking at a robbery," Enbaugh finished.

"Still not very conclusive," Montoya argued. "Maybe the thief just didn't know much about baseball."

"It's just a theory in progress." Enbaugh snapped off his rubber gloves. "Did you find anything upstairs?"

Montoya shook her head, "Just a lot of bloodstains." She turned around to look at the stairs. "It's strange

though, only that one second floor window was broken."

"Did the boys from forensics examine the ground beneath that window for signs a ladder had been

used?"

Montoya nodded. "They couldn't find any evidence that one had been used. The usual signs of smashed

patches of grass or indentations weren't present."

Enbaugh thought for a moment. "Is there any other way to get up to that window?"

"It's basically a sheer wall. There are no pipes or storm drains on that side of the house. No latticework

over there either."

"So why'd the killer use the second floor window?" Enbaugh wondered. He turned back around to take

another look at the autographed baseball, but it was gone. Only a small square clean spot remained on

the mantle. "What the hell? Did you take the baseball, Montoya?"

Montoya looked confused. "No, I've been standing here in front of you the whole time and there's no

one else in the room."

Enbaugh glanced around the living room. A worried look crossed his face. "How the hell?" He began to

walk across the living room. The plastic cube was sitting on the top of one of the brown leather couches.

"How did it get over here?" Enbaugh began to reach for it, when it shot off like a rocket across the room.

It impacted a mirror hanging in front of the staircase, shattering it on contact. The cube and shards of

glass fell to the floor in a heap. Enbaugh spun around to look at Montoya. "Did you see that?"

Montoya was already heading for the door. "I didn't see anything."

Enbaugh quickly started to chase Montoya. "Wait a minute!" He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun

her around just outside the front door. "You can't tell me that you didn't see that."

Terence West - Phantoms

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