The Frighteners Read Free Page A

trash . . . irresponsible scare mongering. What are you trying to say here? That Death is the greatest serial killer of all time? This really sucks, Steve.”
    He flinched. Suddenly the prospect of working on a lobster boat alongside his father and grandfather no longer seemed quite so distant. He looked around nervously at the small newsroom, the six other denizens of which—two reporters, a secretary, a sportswriter, a gossip columnist, and the executive editor—were pretending they weren’t aware of the dressing-down he was getting. Bayliss loved the newsroom, even though it didn’t smell of ink and there wasn’t a single typewriter in the building, only computer screens and the soft tapping of electronic keyboards. He was not about to lose this job without a fight. He decided to risk Magda’s anger by defending himself.
    “Magda, people are scared of what’s happening.”
    “Me, too, I’m scared of what’s happening to a bright . . .”
    She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. He gaped at her hand as if it were something just descended from an alien spacecraft.
    Magda lowered her voice: “. . . and attractive young reporter.”
    Again the scent of Passion drifted past his nose.
    He said, “They never really forgot what happened here in 1954. I mean, that’s before my time.”
    “Mine, too,” she said quickly.
    “But my dad told me plenty about it. That Bradley-Bartlett pair were really brutal killers. Some people say they ripped the hearts out of their victims.”
    “Now, Steve.”
    “Well, that’s what my dad said.”
    “You know what? Skip what your dad says, unless he’s giving advice on how to broil a five-pounder. This Hughes guy who died yesterday is being buried today. Call the coroner’s office and get some usable quotes. Get me detailed medical background. Find me a doctor who will go on record saying what killed Hughes.”
    “Okay,” Bayliss agreed. At least he wasn’t being fired.
    “Get quotes from the sheriff’s office. And please, get rid of all those references to Death as a person.”
    “Sure thing, Magda,” he said. “I’ll get right on top of it.”
    “That’s exactly what I want to hear,” she replied.
    Seen at any time when it wasn’t night or pouring rain, Fairwater was a small but pretty town, nestled in a wooded valley where the Manasseh River flowed into Fairwater Bay. For the most part, houses were perched on the slopes of the hills that ringed the harbor, reachable only through a complex series of steep and winding roads.
    The business district sat on the flat plain surrounding the harbor. Roads paralleled the series of docks, some of them dating back to the seventeenth century, when Fairwater was a stopover point in the coastal shipping trade that ran from Plymouth Colony and Salem through New Brunswick, Nova Scotia. Later in its history, Fairwater served as a whaling town second in importance only to Portsmouth. In the twentieth century, the harbor became a lobstering and yachting center. Most recently, tourism took hold in Fairwater, with restaurants, inns, and summer condos rising to cater to the same New York and Boston residents who made L. L. Bean shirts and slacks fashionable. To allow them better access, several on- and off-ramps connected the coastal highway with the business district and the harbor.
    The funeral of Chuck Hughes was not on any of the tourist agendas, however. Only a handful of mourners surrounded the coffin as it sat on the electronic lift that soon would carry Hughes on the final six feet of his life’s journey. Fairwater Cemetery was an old burial ground, situated halfway up the steep hill above town and itself including a number of gently rolling hills. Standing by its entrance, on a clear day the twice-weekly ferry to Plum Island could be seen chugging its way across the bay.
    On that day only one thing made the funeral unique—the presence of Frank Bannister. A handsome man in his late thirties, he was in the process