CHAPTER NINE

            The weather cleared up the next days and the newscasters were predicting a few clear days ahead of us.  That would mean that the county snowplows would be able to get out and move the snow off the secondary roads.  Often in Indiana huge yellow road-graders were used to assist in plowing.  This had been one of those record-breaking years for snow accumulation.  For me, snow meant only inconvenience.  I was way passed the "gee, isn't it pretty" stage of my life.

            We traveled to the house of the people whose name I did not recognize, Connors.  We drove slowly on the gravel road; only one lane had been cleared.  I wasn't sure what we would be looking for, but was certain that this wasn't it.  There was no windmill on the property that we could see from our car; however, farmers' years ago were known to build these things in the middle of a field several acres away from their homes.  We continued to drive slowly down the road; still, we did not see a windmill.  "Are you sure this is the right place?"  Lena asked.

            "Well, it fits Dr. Currier's directions.  Maybe he hasn't been told that the thing was blown down or blown-up, or whatever.  When people lose their windmill they probably aren't aware that they should contact the local historian."  I gave my best sarcastic smile.

            "Asshole."  She returned the sarcastic smile. "You're afraid to admit that maybe this is the wrong place."

            "Why you little shit, I ought to just throw you in the backseat and make mad passionate love to you."

            "I dare you."

            "That was the wrong thing to say little one."  I kidded and made a gesture to grab her and she started laughing.  I then put the car in reverse and backed up to the house and read a small country-styled sign in their front yard that said, The Connors Welcome You.

"See?"

            "You're still an asshole."  She laughed.

            "Now, can we leave this winter wonderland and head for one of the other places?"  I asked.

            Our next stop was Uncle Ralph and Aunt Norma's old homestead.  It was mid-afternoon by the time we got there.  Near the barn stood an old windmill, wheel spinning smoothly and pushing the pump piston.  The house looked empty, but the barn and fences looked in tact.  My guess was that the house had become a rental home and a very hard to rent one at that, out in the middle of nowhere and probably a heating system dating back to the early 1900's.

            "Let's take a look."  Said Lena.

            "That's going to be tough with snow up to our necks and us without a snowplow." 

            "Well, what the heck did we come here for if we're not going check out the windmills?

            "Patience, dear, patience."  I tried to pull off the road, but the car began to slide toward a ditch.  I steered sharply to the left, which almost swung the tail end sidelong into the ditch.  Fortunately, the front-wheel drive found enough traction to pull us back onto the road.  "Me think we should wait a day or two."

            "Yeah, maybe you're right."  Lena reluctantly agreed.

            "What was that?  Did I hear the voice of admission?"

            "No, it was the voice of agreement."

            "I'll take that."  I laughed.  "We'll try the Ginger house tomorrow.  It's getting dark."

            He smelled them coming.  What a surprise they will have.  What Mr. Scott and his little slut didn't know was that he had already checked the old windmill only to find nothing...no money, no drugs, nothing.  Only his little whore Monique knew what was hidden and where it was hidden.  Windmills?  Maybe she didn't mean windmills.  Tommy Ginger, a.k.a. Tommy Ging only knew that for some reason he had to locate an item that would bring him back to life.  If he didn't find it within the next seven days, he would be in Hell with the rest of his old pals.

CHAPTER TEN

            The darkness gathered around me in the dream.  There was no light, nothing.  I couldn't see my hand in front of me; yet, I could see what was happening in the creature's mind.  I could see blood and gore spread panoramically across my mind.  I found myself frozen in my bed.  I could not move a muscle, not even an eyelash.  Of course, it was a dream and I could wake up anytime I wanted to, couldn't I?  The blood and gore turned into a fire, white hot and unstoppable, but I was chilled and shivering.  I had no control of what was happening before my eyes or with my body.  A voice spoke darkly and ominously, "I'll be waiting for you little Lincoln, you and your little tramp."

            I woke up perspiring; the sun had yet to rise.  Jerry was restless at the bottom of the bed and laid his silky soft head on my knees as though trying to comfort me.  He somehow knew I was afraid.  If he could talk he would tell me that he too was afraid of the future.  Instead he scooted close to my face and licked my cheeks.  I felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness; the tears trickled warmly from my eyes.  I soon drifted off to sleep with Jerry's nose snuggled into my neck.  A paradoxical thought came to me; a dog can make a man feel human, interesting.  I awakened to the sun and to the smell of coffee.

            "You're up early." I said.  Lena pointed to the kitchen clock, 10:00 a.m.  "I guess it isn't that early."  She had made pancakes and eggs and some excellent flavored coffee.  It was about the only coffee I enjoyed, French Vanilla.

            "You must have a big breakfast if we are going into the bowels of Hell."  She of course meant the Ginger homestead.  She obviously didn't have the same dream I experienced in the predawn of the day.

            "I think it would be a good idea to take Jerry with us."  I said.

            She saw the concerned look on my face.  "Sure...good idea."

            We left home around eleven-thirty.  Jerry hovered between us.  I think he knew some kind of confrontation was about to take place.  I knew too.  After all, the devil himself told me, "I'll be waiting for you..." I felt the coldness of the Lock in my coat pocket.  I didn't feel comforted by it, knowing that Tommy Ging was unsinkable.  My stomach rolled with anxiety.  Tommy Gang was dead, wasn't he?  Did they not find his rotten corpse on the edge of our property?  Did he not appear to us as a skeleton with pieces of flesh hanging like stalagmites from his ghostly face?

            "You're quiet."  Said Lena.  "What are you thinking about?"

            "I am thinking about what we are going to find at this place."

            "What do you think we'll find?"

            "The face of evil."  The rest of the trip was silent.  I had alarmed Lena, but I was being honest with my feelings.  Tommy Gang was evil.

            We arrived at the farmhouse slightly after twelve.  The driveway was not as drifted over as the other places so we parked on the edge of the edge of the driveway near the road.  We put Jerry on a Leash so he would stay close.  I felt him shaking beneath my hand as I snapped his collar onto the leash.  "It's okay, boy."  I tried to reassure him, but I felt no comfort to offer.  We took out our flashlight and checked it.  It was in good working order.  I felt my coat for the gun.  I found it and checked the safety.  I kept in on for now.  We walked towards the front porch and the front door, which was opened a crack.  Someone was here.  Jerry and I walked in first; Lena hung on to my coat following behind.

            The door slammed behind us and the light in the room became dull, almost misty-like.  The air was frigid and I began to shiver.  I had a feeling we would die right there in the living room if we didn't keep moving.  We walked through an archway that led to a bedroom; the bed was still intact; someone had been or still was staying here.  Maybe Tommy Ging had stayed here while stalking our neighborhood.  This room was no warmer than the living room.  It was darker though.  The curtains and blinds had been pulled down completely.  I could make out the shape of a dresser with a mirror.  I snapped on my flashlight.

            What I saw sickened me.  On the bed next to the dresser were two skeletons.  I shined the light at the dresser and saw a figure standing there, just half of a figure.  I looked closer to the apparition and realized that no one was standing at the dresser, but someone was in the mirror.  A shadowy figure was somehow inside the figure; it looked like Tommy.  The mirrored figure spoke, "Lincoln you bastard I see you brought that fucking rodent of a dog with you and your little fucking tramp.  Not enough guts to come by yourself?"  I did not respond.  I couldn't.  Jerry was shaking and I noticed that he had let loose with his bladder.  "Ha ha ha, the little mutt pissed himself."  The figure looked at Lena, "Have you pissed yourself dear?"

            I turned the flashlight away from the mirror and onto the bed again.  The two skeletons still had hair.  One was clearly a man and the other, female.  I felt a gush of wind and then a voice shouted in my ear.  I jumped.  Tommy was standing next to me.  "Lincoln, meet my mother and father, Tom Senior and Janet.  They look rather cozy there don't they?"  I could smell the sweet odor of decomposition coming from Tommy Ging's body.  His skeletal face was almost touching mine and I could smell an earthy smell, a smell of worms, but I was afraid to look at him.  He spoke again and the worm-odor became more pungent.  "Lincoln baby you're not giving me much eye contact here; it's hard to talk with someone who's not looking at you, you know what I mean?"

            I stepped away from him then spoke, "What is it you want Tommy?"

            "I want what's in the windmills."  He replied.  "You see, whatever is in the windmill, or under it, or whatever, will bring me back to life.  I won't have to keep trying to piece my face together."  He began to laugh.  I felt Lena's hands tightening their grip on my coat.  Jerry had wrapped himself and his leash around my leg.  "We have a problem Houston."  Tommy spoke with his putrid breath.  "I have looked in every nook and cranny of all of these windmills and haven't found a fucking thing.  You know what that means don't you?"

            "Wrong windmills?"  I answered hesitantly.

            "Damn, Lincoln you must be some kind of fucking genius."  He said sarcastically.  "Tell you what, I'm going to give you seven, count them, seven days to come up with a solution to this problem.  If you don't, you're going to end up like mommy and daddy there."  He pointed to the bed.  "They been laying there for about ten years now.  Nice, huh?"  He laughed again and then looked at me with his hollow sockets and said flatly.  "I will kill you in seven days if you don't find the fucking windmills.  Now take your little fucking herd and get out of here.  He didn't have to tell us twice.  We moved quickly and left the bedroom.

            We gasped for air once outside.  The rank odor in the home had made us sick, even Jerry.  I threw up on a pile of snow next to the car and Lena was performing the same function on her side of the car.  Jerry just whined and shat a runny substance onto the snow-covered yard.  We finally found our stomachs and got back into the car.  I pulled away from the driveway and the homestead.  Neither of us said a word until we were well beyond visibility of the home.  In fact, we didn't say anything until we hit the city limits of Lincoln's City.  "What the hell could be in a windmill or windmills that would bring a fucking dead man back to life?"

            "I don't know, but I think when we get home we better do some serious thinking. 
Seven days is a short amount of time."

            "Tell that to God."  I said cynically.

            "Thought you didn't believe in God."

            "I don't.  I was thinking about that Genesis crap about seven days to create this one billion year old planet."

            "Damn, is nothing sacred to you?"

            "You."  I looked at her and smiled.  I meant it.  In the last few days I had become more and more stricken with her.  Was I in love?  I needed to think about windmills, not love.

            We pulled into the driveway at about four in the afternoon.  I couldn't believe it.  We must have been visiting with little Tommy Ging for at least two hours.  Time goes by when you're having fun.  We went into the house and sit at the kitchen table.  "How about a frozen pizza?" I asked.

            "Sure, I'm game."  Lena agreed.  "How about a joint?"  She asked.

            "Sure, why not."  I was not accustom to smoking marijuana so two hits brought me into a mellow condition and I nearly let the pizza burn.  "Damn, I hope you don't mind your mushrooms a little black."

            "It's the only way to eat them."  Lena kidded.  "Now let's think about windmills."

            "Windmills it is."  I said.  "We have struck-out on the possibility that the windmills are of the conventional style.  We must now go through every scrap of paper and every picture in this house to see if we can find one clue...just one mind you."  I was becoming entirely too dramatic.  "However, let's eat first.  First food then windmills." I was beginning to giggle too much. 

            We ate the pizza and began our search of the house.  We took a six-pack of beer into the bedroom and began to search through the prolific collection of pictures I had stored in the closet.  Lena and I stayed up way into the early morning looking at the pictures.  Lena did not seem to be bothered by the pictures in which Laura and I were arm-in-arm. We ran across pictures of Sherri and Laura together, pictures of Monique, and a picture of all of us playing miniature golf.  There was one picture of Monique. She could have been no more than three-years-old standing by the small windmill at a putt-putt golf course.  I couldn't believe my eyes, "That's it!"  I exclaimed.  The miniature golf windmill had to be the windmill we were searching for and if I remember correctly there were two windmills at this course.

            Lena was excited, but I wasn't.  "What's wrong?"  She asked.

            "I don't remember where this golf course is."  I answered.  "There are no miniature golf courses in Lincoln City."

            "Family vacation maybe?" 

            "Probably, but where?  That had to be over thirty years ago."

            "What's the lifespan of miniature golf courses?"  She asked trying to find perspective.

            I looked at her and frowned, slamming the picture on the floor.  "Damn!"  I shouted.  "No one's alive...no one.  The people that could help me answer this question were all dead.

            "What about Laura?  Could she help?" 

            I thought for a moment about the question.  "I'll call her?"  I picked up the phone and called Laura at her pottery shop.

            "Dust to Dust."  It was Laura's voice, thank God.  "How can I help you?"  She asked her best business voice.

            "Laura," I said, "I need your help really bad."

            "Lincoln?"

            "Sure is," replied, "I need your memory."  I then told her the situation and the story about the windmills; I mentioned the picture of Monique at the miniature golf course.

            "That was a long time ago partner, but if I remember right you guys used to take a lot of trips to Chicago."

            "That's right."  I was excited.  Chicago, we thought it was an exciting weekend getaway.  "Thank you so much Laura; I think you figured out the puzzle."

            "Lincoln," she paused, "you be careful, okay?"

            "Okay," I said reassuringly, "I will be."  I hung up the phone and looked at Lena.  "Chicago, how many miniature golf courses are in Chicago?"

            She cynically counted on her fingers and said, "About a thousand."

            "That narrows it down.  We should be able to locate all of them in five years."  The possibility of the same miniature golf course being opened after thirty years was quite slim.  "Let's find a Chicago phone book."

            "No, let's sleep.  Lena replied.

            "Okay, but only a power nap."  We slept until noon, which didn't give us time to go to the library for a Chicago phonebook. 

            "Internet."  Said Lena.

            "You're a genius."  I kissed her.

            "I know it."  She said smugly.

            According to the Chicago phonebook there were approximately sixty miniature golf courses.  I read through the listings.  A thought of the obvious ran through my mind, miniature golf courses weren't open this time of year.  I looked at Lena and she returned a quizzical look.  I said, "Miniature golf courses aren't open in the winter."  Her shoulders visibly sagged with the statement.  Her disappointment was obvious.

            "Damn, I thought we were on to something."  She said.

            "Me too."

            "Wait a minute."  She said with excitement.  "Aren't some of those really nice hotels equipped with miniature golf courses?"

            "Maybe, but I can guarantee you that we stayed at no fancy hotels in those days.  We camped."

            "Shit."  She said with disillusionment.  "What are we going to do?"

            A memory came to me, a flash.  Why hadn't I thought of it?  I spoke animatedly, "We'll look for windmills in Chicago.  Seems to me that I remember a restaurant we always went to on the outskirts of the city when we would go to a Cub game, and back then I was a Cub fanatic."

            "Well, take me out to the ballgame lover."  Lena said gleefully.  I looked through the restaurant section of the business section of the phonebook.  Sure enough, there it was, "The Windmill (family operated since 1925).

            "Bingo."  I said.  "Tomorrow my dear we are going to have lunch at the famous Windmill Restaurant in East Chicago, Indiana."

            "But how shall I dress?"

            I motioned to the bedroom.  "Let's try some different things on, shall we?"  I picked her up off the floor and carried her giggling to the bedroom.