Murder Out By Caster Bridge

Chapter twelve

Stuck behind a red light, a loud squeaking sound penetrated my hearing and made me turn my head to look out the passenger side window just in time to see a person on an old rickety bicycle wobbling up. Seeing me, he knocked on the glass and did a motion downward with his thumb.

I hit the button and the window lowered automatically.

"Thank the ever-loving hell," the young man said, running a hand through his messy brown hair. "Are you, by any chance, heading towards town?"

Hearing that voice, it was the guy from the bridge. What was his name? Nick? No, that doesn't sound right. Norton? Still not right.

"Uh, hello?"

I shook my thoughts away and looked at him embarrassingly. "Oh, uh, yeah, I am. Do you need a lift somewhere?"

"Yes. That would be nice," he said. "You wouldn't believe the morning I had. My stupid motorcycle wouldn't start this morning, so I had to use my ancient bike that got a flat about a quarter-mile back. Idiotically, I didn't see what was in front of me thanks to a squirrel running out in front of me and made me divert and wound up hitting something sharp."

"I get the point," I said. "Where are you heading?"

"Oh, Mickey's Garage. Do you know where that is?"

"No, but you can install it into the GPS on the dashboard. Also, you can put your bike in the back. It's unlocked. There should be plenty of room. Do you need a hand?"

"That's okay. I can take care of it myself," he said as he opened the back and placed his bike in, and then shut the door. He slid into the passenger side and fixed his brown leather jacket and then ran his hands on his khaki jeans. I couldn't help a grimace when I noticed dried mud on the rim of his brown sneakers with neon green laces.

He then smiled goofily. "I appreciate this. Thanks a ton, man. I wasn't sure I was going to make it on time." He leaned over and installed the address into the GPS.

I couldn't help but notice that his down-to-earth hazel eyes were the perfect combination of green and brown. Shaking my head, I averted my gaze briefly. "By the way, I'm..."

"Weston Brooks," he said. "I know who you are. I'm Norman Forrest. I'm the police detective's son. But you may have already guessed that considering we saw each other briefly. What were you doing out there?"

"My cousin and I found the truck."

"How did you manage that when no one else did?"

I shrugged. "Do you mind if we don't talk about it?"

"Sure. We can talk about something else like..."

I drove onward until I stopped at the next stoplight. I couldn't help it, but my gaze wandered out of the passenger window. I could distantly hear Norman's rambling voice carry on and on about something that sounded oddly like some kind of conspiracy theory, but I lacked the focus to concentrate on the words. My gaze was locked onto the graveled road leading through a long trail of evergreen trees.

"Do you know what's through there?" I asked aloud, cutting off whatever Norman was chatting about as I glanced at him.

Norman's gazed at the road I was looking at. "Oh, that's the road leading up to one of the oldest houses in town. You can't see it from here because of all the overlaying trees, but there is a mansion at the top of a hill. Strangely enough, on our county's website, it is listed as one of the most haunted places to visit even though no one has dared to step foot on the property. And the sad part is that no paranormal group has ever been out here to investigate. And I have never dared to go alone. That's why..."

I tuned out more of his rambling. I wasn't interested in hearing him talk about ghosts. They weren't real. Well, I used to believe that until I saw that truck. Then again, you would probably expect someone with magic to just believe in anything. Well, not me. Unless I see it for myself, I wouldn't believe it. And that ghost truck thing could have just been a one-time scenario.

Though, as I continued to peer at the strange road, I could swear I could make out a weird fog and what looked like a person coming out of it.

"Hey!" yelled Norman. I blinked, seeing his fingers snapping in front of me. "Dude, wake up!"

I shook myself out of my weird trance and knocked his hand away before looking at him annoyingly. "Knock it off! I'm awake!"

"If that were true, you would have heard me."

"I did."

"Liar," he stated. "I've been telling you that the light has been green for about five minutes now. You looked like you were a zombie or just brain-dead. You seriously had me spooked for a second."

"I'm sorry. I'm fine," I said, glancing out the window to the road again, seeing nothing. A chill ran down my spine, but I ignored it.

"Are you sure about that? I can drive if you need me to."

"I doubt you have a normal license."

"Hurtful," he said, offended. "Is it because I rode a bicycle that you even came up with that assumption?"

"That. And it's just everyday common knowledge that there are different licenses for different things. And you have to have a special license for riding a motorcycle. Also, if you had a regular license you would have taken another car or rode with someone."

"Okay, first off, you are a little right, but I wouldn't ride with my dad. He and I don't see things eye to eye. But I would have technically bought a car or a backup motorcycle."

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, for one, money is tight. And two, my dad won't let me since I still live at home."

"Strict Dad, huh?"

"Strict doesn't begin to cover it," he sneered. There was an undertone of hate in his voice, but there was barely any hateful feeling in his emotions. How was that possible? I also wondered about what he said but decided not to comment on it because Norman shook his head. "I would rather not talk about it, honestly."

"Fair enough," I said, driving, but the light changing back to red had me hitting the brake pedal. So hard the front jerked us forward. "Dang it!"

"And this is what I call karma," he said, hands on the dashboard as he gazed at the light. "You deserved this for zoning out."

Shooting a glare at him ended our conversation. However, with the GPS, I was guided to Mickey's Garage. I lived here my whole life, but I had never been to the garage before. If there was something wrong with the car, my mother fixed it herself or called someone else. She taught me the basics of how to change the oil or how to fix a tire.

And of course, with my luck, we got there ten minutes late.

"Damn! Late on my first day of work," I heard Norman mutter under his breath, irritated.

"I'm sorry."

"This isn't on you. I would have been late no matter what. Just thanks for the ride. He's usually a pretty cool guy and understanding."

"I see. I'll apologize or do something to help if he doesn't accept. I could tell him the fault is on me that way the blame is off of you."

"You'd do that?"

I nodded.

"Thanks, but you don't have to do that. Mickey shouldn't be mad. I've known him my whole life. He's a decent guy," he said with a giant grin. But his happiness was cut short as soon as I pulled into the parking lot.

Mickey's Garage had some of the white letters peeling off the red sign. The building itself looked old and I caught a strong whiff of oil and heard a loud grinding sound. However, that wasn't what caught our attention. It was the two police cars with flashing lights and with the garage door open, I could see three people inside.

"What the hell?" bellowed Norman.

"What's going on?"

"I have no idea. But I am going to find out." Norman got out of the Jeep.

I followed after him. I didn't have time to prepare my mental shields for the bombardment of emotions that drove into my head as soon as I got close enough. The deep emotional sadness coming off the man sitting hunched over in a chair was almost overwhelming me. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good.

I walked inside with Norman as he looked at the man. "Hey, Mickey, what is going on here?"

The elder man with thinning white hair wearing oil-splattered overalls wiped his sweaty face with a rag. "Oh, Norman, you came. I was just about to call you after I was done talking to the police."

"What for?"

"To tell you not to come in today."

Norman went to the man's side and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Why? What happened here, Mickey?"

Detective Bradley stepped forward. "What happened here was the fact that Jerry Johnson passed away."

"What?" asked Norman. The surprise in his voice startled me, but what disturbed me the most was his emotions. I could barely feel the shock or sadness or distress. "That's... No, that is impossible. I just talked to Jerry earlier."

"Yes, Son, I know," said Detective Bradley. "I checked your phone records."

"You went through my phone without my permission?" yelled Norman.

"Yes. It's my job."

With the way the detective and Norman were glaring at each other, I decided it was time to intervene. "Hold up," I said, stepping in. This was probably the worst mistake in the century to interrupt, but I couldn't stop myself. "What exactly happened? Is it like what happened to Barry?"

Detective Bradley turned his attention to me with narrowed eyes. "Mr. Brooks, we meet again. And we don't have to tell you anything because it's confidential."

Mickey coughed, interrupting us. We looked over at him as he looked at us. "Detective, tell the boys. It's not like they had anything to do with this."

"Sir, I don't think we should," stated the detective's young partner.

"Not another word, Campton."

"Yes, sir," said the young detective. I observed the young man with suspicion. I couldn't help it. His emotions were strange. They are flickering between confidence to suspicion to a sense of uneasiness as though there was something eerily familiar about all of this.

"Come on. I think we are done here anyway. Again, Mr. Kingston, I am sorry for your loss. And if there is anything you might think of, call us immediately."

Mickey nodded, wiping his forehead again. "Will do, Detective."

Once the detective and his partner were gone, Norman looked at Mickey. "Mickey, tell me what happened here, please? Jerry is a good guy. I don't understand why he died."

"I don't know either, my boy," said Mickey in a thick southern accent. "They think Jerry offed himself."

Anger and disbelief were in Norman's ever-present calm emotions which startled me slightly. "That's impossible. Jerry wouldn't do something like that. Just like Barry wouldn't either. What is going on in this town?"

Mickey shrugged And then coughed into his handkerchief. "Your guess is as good as mine. I do agree that something unexplainable is happening. And your dad won't even do an autopsy because this is a small town. And you know how it is. They want all the evidence straightforward."

"I know," said Norman. "My dad is always shady. One time, he was called in thanks to that elderly lady who goes crazy thinking that her cats are possessed and he didn't check it out. I know I'm the crazy conspiracy nutcase around here, but he is always hiding something."

Mickey snorted. "That you are, my boy. But your father has his way of thinking. I'd think you and him would get along better. Anyway, listen, my boy, about your job and bike, I will fix it in a few days. I can't today. I'm going to close up and head home early. This stupid cold of mine I think has turned into a full-blown case of the flu."

Feeling like a third wheel, I nervously spoke up. "Uh, Mr. Mickey, you have my condolences."

Mickey's eyes flashed toward me. "I thank you, son."

Norman patted Mickey's shoulder. "Do you need help getting to your vehicle?"

"No, thanks," he said and then handed Norman the keys. "Here, leave your bike inside the garage and then lock up."

"Thanks, Mickey," he said.

Mickey bellowed out a laugh before breaking off into a hacking cough. "Damn allergies again," he said, getting up.

I winced at the intense pain that radiated through my knees and in my chest. I coughed and subconsciously rubbed my chest. "I feel you on that, Mr. Mickey, but maybe you should visit a doctor."

"I'll be fine, boy. Thanks for the concern," he said. "But I think I will just head on home to my wife and my kids and they will help take care of me."

Norman and I watched him get into his beat-up Cadillac before we went over to my Jeep. I helped him take out his bike and we carried it inside the garage and laid it up against the wall. As we closed up, a chill ran through me, and for a second out of the corner of my eye, I could swear I saw a young man in a baseball hat and overalls standing with us. But when I checked, no one was there.

"So, what are your plans today?" asked Norman as soon as we got in my Jeep.

"Well, I have work. I'm pretty sure Melinda is going to kill me."

"Oh my God!" said Norman excitedly. "You seriously work for Melinda Black?"

"Yeah. Why are you excited about that?"

"Are you kidding me? That girl is capital H.O.T. Do you mind me tagging along?"

"Don't you have other plans?"

Norman shook his head. "I was supposed to work, but that isn't happening. So, I might as well hang out with you."