Black Diamond Ghost ©2009
Chapter 30: Jack and the Bossman
Gypsy sulked in the corner of Bossman’s office with saddened eyes, and a pale soggy face. She was covered in a first aid blanket.
Mr. Stephen’s offered the girl water, and coffee, and warm milk, but she did not respond.
Jack sat close to her on the floor. He pulled her dreadlocks out from the blanket away from her neck, and held a warm wet rag on her forehead. Trying to console her seemed futile. After watching Neelam get carried away by the black bird, the girl was entering a state of posttraumatic stress disorder. It was beginning to have an effect on Jack as well.
“What a mess…huh?” Bossman ran his fingers through his Santa beard. He leaned against the window, and watched a gentle snow shower come down on the slopes. His breath fogged the glass.
“A mess? Three of my friends are dead. Snooter is dead. Did you see what chased us into the lobby?” Jack replied. “This is an all out freak show!”
Bossman glanced over at the boy then dropped his head down with disappointment.
Jack stared up at the ceiling. “The strange thing is,” the boy sighed, “I knew this was going to happen. Or, at least, I was warned about something like this.”
“What do you mean by that kiddo?”
“I had premonitions.”
Bossman stepped away from the window and studied the kid. He took a moment to soak Jack in. Jack didn’t seem like one who had any extraordinary abilities. Bossman squinted with interest. “What kind of premonitions?”
“I don’t know. Like, dreams where people warn me about stuff…sometimes animals.”
“You don’t say?” Bossman was intrigued. The portly man walked over to his coffee corner, and poured a mug. “Want some?” he offered Jack.
“No thanks,” the boy answered disheveled.
“So you telling me you received some kind of warning about all this?”
“I guess so…but not enough to save my friends. Thing is…I never thought they could be that accurate. Just seemed like a coincidence…some of it.”
“Wanna talk about these premonitions?”
“You wouldn’t buy it anyway.” Jack said quietly.
“Well now…maybe we can help each other out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Boy, I’ve seen some pretty interesting things in my day, nothing as caustic as today’s events…but enough to take your words into consideration. Suppose I told you that I know a few things about the bird?”
“The eagle?” Jack became interested.
“That’s right. Goldie.”
“You mean…Hakan Iye?” Jack was in suspense.
“The Black Diamond Ghost.”
“So you know the story?”
“Know it?” Bossman paced over to one of his large mahogany cabinets. He opened one of the tall doors and revealed an assortment of wine and liquor bottles as well as a very organized stack of shot glasses and steins. He snatched up a bottle of Irish cream and poured a lethal dose into his coffee. The old man used his chubby fingers to cap up the bottle, and took a good swig of the steaming brew. The cream stayed in his mustache. After the warm potent alcohol made down his gullet, Bossman set the mug in the case and scratched his nose beneath his spectacles. He popped open the left door to the cabinet. It snapped away from the magnet that held it closed on the bottom. He hesitated to open it. After a deep breath, he swung the door away from himself. The inside was a series of shelves, all labeled and tagged with post-its and ripped up pieces of college ruled paper scripted with phone numbers and literature references. It seemed like some type of science exhibit, but looking closer, Jack could see that this was a personal forensic vault. On the inside of the door were photographs of the eagle. Some were faded polaroids, indicating that this investigation had been underway decades ago. Large thumbtacks pinned an assortment of dated eagle feathers across the top of the door. Some of the feathers were in Ziploc bags.
Jack stood up. He was mesmerized by the revelation. He approached the cabinet and studied the shelves- a treasure chest of physical history. Arrowheads and stones were placed about with special markings. An old photo of Walkara, the chief of the Utes, was on one shelf, next to a picture of Arapeen, the chief’s brother.
“This was Hakan Iye’s tribe. The Ute’s,” Bossman informed the boy. The man took his drink from the shelf. He plopped down in his diamond-knit leather desk chair, and put his boots on the desk.
Jack found something archaic and almost surreal on the bottom shelf. It was a small tomahawk, wrapped with a rainbow of beads, and decorated with owl feathers. The boy hypnotically picked up the weapon and studied it.
“We don’t actually know.” Bossman stated.
Jack slowly put the tomahawk down, and studied the photos on the door. There were twenty-two photos of skiers and Snowbird employees that were marked missing. Finster and Motorhead were at the bottom. “Know what?” the boy asked.
“What pissed him off.” Bossman took another sip of the brew, “Some say he was pushed into a rock slide by Aaron Johnson, an old mayor who chased him up the canyon. Others say he was tied to a tree by white settlers, and burned alive for stealing cattle.”
Jack inspected the feathers.
“All we really do know… is that he was killed at the top of that hill.”
“Which hill?” Jack inquired, stoned with attention deficit.
Bossman burped in his fist and answered, “Mount Baldy.”
“So Finster and Motorhead…my friends were killed by Hakan Iye after all?” Jack turned and looked Mr. Stephens in the eye.
The naturally cheerful face of Bossman became sullen, “I’m sorry son.”
“What have you guys done to get rid of him?”
Bossman sat up and put his elbows on the desk. He rested his chin on his knuckles. The question was a patronizing one. Mr. Stephen’s had been trying to exterminate the ghost since 1972. “Everything we can think of.”
“So how can you stop him?”
Bossman looked at Jack with mild agitation. It was a question that haunted Stephens for years. “We’re not the goddamned Ghostbusters kid.”
Jack was confused. “There must be a way!”
Bossman sat back again, and put his hands on his potbelly. “Alright…pay attention. I hired a Lakota chief two years ago to come in here. He brought in some tribesmen and they did a ritual that apparently weakens the demons they claim Hakan Iye is possessed with.”
“Yes?” Jack was now like a child at a campfire.
“According to this chief, if we burn the nest, it could send him back to the spirit world.”
“So why haven’t you?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Bossman became sarcastic as the alcohol went to his head, “probably because we can’t find the damn thing. I’ve had crews comb that mountain peak a hundred times. My powder-birds have surveyed that hill over and over, and it’s just not there.”
“Maybe it’s not up there. Maybe it’s on another peak somewhere.”
“According to the Lakota chief, the wraith has to live close to where he was killed. We suspected that his death occurred somewhere close to a rock slide off the brink of Jaws, but there’s just nothing there, other than the rock slide…that you can see.”
“So that’s it? We have to burn the nest?”
“There is no nest.”
“There has to be.” Jack insisted.
“How would you know?”
“Because, I saw it in my dream!”
Bossman sat up and reached into Jack’s authentication.
“A premonition?”
“This one I saw clearly.” Jack stated.
“Was it in a tree?”
“No, it was in some kind of cave.”
Bossman tapped his finger, “I’ll be damned.”
“Is that the only way to get rid of this thing?” Jack sat on the corner of the desk.
“Well…there was one other suggestion the chief made.”
“What is it?”
“If we pour water into the eyes of the eagle,” Bossman smiled through his beard, perhaps he was amused by this theory, “that would finish the bastard.”
“Have you tried?” Jack hoped for a proactive response.
Bossman pushed his chair back, reached under his desk, and pulled out a jumbo-sized plastic super-soaker water gun. “Here’s the problem…we’ve only come across that son-of-a-bitch twice on our watch. Thing is…you take a shot at him, and he turns to dust…ashes…just sort of floats away with the breeze.”
“Your joking.”
“That’s no joke. Wanna see something really weird?” Bossman’s eyes opened up with a crazed glare.
Jack was almost reluctant. It was beginning to get creepy in Bossman’s lair, especially being so close to Hakan Iye’s personal items. They had a bad ambience about them. Jack was not excited, but he felt the need to gather as much information as he could.
“O.K.” Jack nodded, “What is it?”
Bossman stood up and smiled. He pulled his pants up by the belt, and reached in one of the pockets, pulling out a small silver zippo lighter. “Look out.” He pushed Jack away from the cabinet. Mr. Stephen’s snatched one of the eagle feathers from a tack. He grabbed another in a Ziploc bag. He snapped open the lid to the zippo and proceeded to light the tip of the open feather. The small flame singed the feather easily, sending a pungent odor of burnt hair into the office, but that was all.
“That’s awful.” Jack plugged his nose. “What’s the point? One stinks more like Hakan Iye than the other?”
Bossman waved the flame of the feather out, and set it on the desk. “Watch this.” he said in a taunting pitch. He retrieved the feather from the Ziploc and set the flame at the base of the quill. The feather erupted before their eyes as if it were doused in butane. Bossman let go of the small inferno, and let it drop to the floor. Before it hit the carpet, it had disintegrated, and turned to ash.
Jack choked a little on the smoke. “That was weird.” Jack agreed with the man’s experiment.
“Wait.” Bossman insisted. “Give it a second.”
Jack watched patiently. For a moment there was no activity whatsoever, but then something strange started to happen. The ashes began to swirl up from the floor close to their ankles.
Jack was now frightened. He did not know how to respond to the phenomenon.
It only took a moment for the funnel to reach a high speed, and just like that, the feather that Bossman had incinerated twirled up into the air, and fluttered to the floor.
“Is that…?” Jack was mystified.
“That’s the same feather.” Bossman chuckled. “You can’t make it go away. I’ve tried chemicals, I’ve chopped it into powder, I’ve put it in the coffee grinder, run over it with my car. It’s useless.”
“We have to find that nest!” Jack insisted.
“Kid, you don’t get it.” Bossman showed signs of becoming tipsy. “I’ve been working on this since 1972…way before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye. We can’t find it. Our best bet is to water the eyes.”
“But how? Especially when he can turn to ashes, or whatever he does!”
“He’s upstairs junior. We might be able to sneak up on him somehow.” Bossman hiccupped.
Jack looked down at Gypsy. His girlfriend was now curled up in the corner asleep. After dwelling on her safety, and getting his friends home, the answer was simple.
“O.K.” Jack said boldly. “Give me the gun.”
“Want a shot of liquid courage before we go?” Bossman offered.
“Sure…why not?” Jack replied.
Gypsy sulked in the corner of Bossman’s office with saddened eyes, and a pale soggy face. She was covered in a first aid blanket.
Mr. Stephen’s offered the girl water, and coffee, and warm milk, but she did not respond.
Jack sat close to her on the floor. He pulled her dreadlocks out from the blanket away from her neck, and held a warm wet rag on her forehead. Trying to console her seemed futile. After watching Neelam get carried away by the black bird, the girl was entering a state of posttraumatic stress disorder. It was beginning to have an effect on Jack as well.
“What a mess…huh?” Bossman ran his fingers through his Santa beard. He leaned against the window, and watched a gentle snow shower come down on the slopes. His breath fogged the glass.
“A mess? Three of my friends are dead. Snooter is dead. Did you see what chased us into the lobby?” Jack replied. “This is an all out freak show!”
Bossman glanced over at the boy then dropped his head down with disappointment.
Jack stared up at the ceiling. “The strange thing is,” the boy sighed, “I knew this was going to happen. Or, at least, I was warned about something like this.”
“What do you mean by that kiddo?”
“I had premonitions.”
Bossman stepped away from the window and studied the kid. He took a moment to soak Jack in. Jack didn’t seem like one who had any extraordinary abilities. Bossman squinted with interest. “What kind of premonitions?”
“I don’t know. Like, dreams where people warn me about stuff…sometimes animals.”
“You don’t say?” Bossman was intrigued. The portly man walked over to his coffee corner, and poured a mug. “Want some?” he offered Jack.
“No thanks,” the boy answered disheveled.
“So you telling me you received some kind of warning about all this?”
“I guess so…but not enough to save my friends. Thing is…I never thought they could be that accurate. Just seemed like a coincidence…some of it.”
“Wanna talk about these premonitions?”
“You wouldn’t buy it anyway.” Jack said quietly.
“Well now…maybe we can help each other out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Boy, I’ve seen some pretty interesting things in my day, nothing as caustic as today’s events…but enough to take your words into consideration. Suppose I told you that I know a few things about the bird?”
“The eagle?” Jack became interested.
“That’s right. Goldie.”
“You mean…Hakan Iye?” Jack was in suspense.
“The Black Diamond Ghost.”
“So you know the story?”
“Know it?” Bossman paced over to one of his large mahogany cabinets. He opened one of the tall doors and revealed an assortment of wine and liquor bottles as well as a very organized stack of shot glasses and steins. He snatched up a bottle of Irish cream and poured a lethal dose into his coffee. The old man used his chubby fingers to cap up the bottle, and took a good swig of the steaming brew. The cream stayed in his mustache. After the warm potent alcohol made down his gullet, Bossman set the mug in the case and scratched his nose beneath his spectacles. He popped open the left door to the cabinet. It snapped away from the magnet that held it closed on the bottom. He hesitated to open it. After a deep breath, he swung the door away from himself. The inside was a series of shelves, all labeled and tagged with post-its and ripped up pieces of college ruled paper scripted with phone numbers and literature references. It seemed like some type of science exhibit, but looking closer, Jack could see that this was a personal forensic vault. On the inside of the door were photographs of the eagle. Some were faded polaroids, indicating that this investigation had been underway decades ago. Large thumbtacks pinned an assortment of dated eagle feathers across the top of the door. Some of the feathers were in Ziploc bags.
Jack stood up. He was mesmerized by the revelation. He approached the cabinet and studied the shelves- a treasure chest of physical history. Arrowheads and stones were placed about with special markings. An old photo of Walkara, the chief of the Utes, was on one shelf, next to a picture of Arapeen, the chief’s brother.
“This was Hakan Iye’s tribe. The Ute’s,” Bossman informed the boy. The man took his drink from the shelf. He plopped down in his diamond-knit leather desk chair, and put his boots on the desk.
Jack found something archaic and almost surreal on the bottom shelf. It was a small tomahawk, wrapped with a rainbow of beads, and decorated with owl feathers. The boy hypnotically picked up the weapon and studied it.
“We don’t actually know.” Bossman stated.
Jack slowly put the tomahawk down, and studied the photos on the door. There were twenty-two photos of skiers and Snowbird employees that were marked missing. Finster and Motorhead were at the bottom. “Know what?” the boy asked.
“What pissed him off.” Bossman took another sip of the brew, “Some say he was pushed into a rock slide by Aaron Johnson, an old mayor who chased him up the canyon. Others say he was tied to a tree by white settlers, and burned alive for stealing cattle.”
Jack inspected the feathers.
“All we really do know… is that he was killed at the top of that hill.”
“Which hill?” Jack inquired, stoned with attention deficit.
Bossman burped in his fist and answered, “Mount Baldy.”
“So Finster and Motorhead…my friends were killed by Hakan Iye after all?” Jack turned and looked Mr. Stephens in the eye.
The naturally cheerful face of Bossman became sullen, “I’m sorry son.”
“What have you guys done to get rid of him?”
Bossman sat up and put his elbows on the desk. He rested his chin on his knuckles. The question was a patronizing one. Mr. Stephen’s had been trying to exterminate the ghost since 1972. “Everything we can think of.”
“So how can you stop him?”
Bossman looked at Jack with mild agitation. It was a question that haunted Stephens for years. “We’re not the goddamned Ghostbusters kid.”
Jack was confused. “There must be a way!”
Bossman sat back again, and put his hands on his potbelly. “Alright…pay attention. I hired a Lakota chief two years ago to come in here. He brought in some tribesmen and they did a ritual that apparently weakens the demons they claim Hakan Iye is possessed with.”
“Yes?” Jack was now like a child at a campfire.
“According to this chief, if we burn the nest, it could send him back to the spirit world.”
“So why haven’t you?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Bossman became sarcastic as the alcohol went to his head, “probably because we can’t find the damn thing. I’ve had crews comb that mountain peak a hundred times. My powder-birds have surveyed that hill over and over, and it’s just not there.”
“Maybe it’s not up there. Maybe it’s on another peak somewhere.”
“According to the Lakota chief, the wraith has to live close to where he was killed. We suspected that his death occurred somewhere close to a rock slide off the brink of Jaws, but there’s just nothing there, other than the rock slide…that you can see.”
“So that’s it? We have to burn the nest?”
“There is no nest.”
“There has to be.” Jack insisted.
“How would you know?”
“Because, I saw it in my dream!”
Bossman sat up and reached into Jack’s authentication.
“A premonition?”
“This one I saw clearly.” Jack stated.
“Was it in a tree?”
“No, it was in some kind of cave.”
Bossman tapped his finger, “I’ll be damned.”
“Is that the only way to get rid of this thing?” Jack sat on the corner of the desk.
“Well…there was one other suggestion the chief made.”
“What is it?”
“If we pour water into the eyes of the eagle,” Bossman smiled through his beard, perhaps he was amused by this theory, “that would finish the bastard.”
“Have you tried?” Jack hoped for a proactive response.
Bossman pushed his chair back, reached under his desk, and pulled out a jumbo-sized plastic super-soaker water gun. “Here’s the problem…we’ve only come across that son-of-a-bitch twice on our watch. Thing is…you take a shot at him, and he turns to dust…ashes…just sort of floats away with the breeze.”
“Your joking.”
“That’s no joke. Wanna see something really weird?” Bossman’s eyes opened up with a crazed glare.
Jack was almost reluctant. It was beginning to get creepy in Bossman’s lair, especially being so close to Hakan Iye’s personal items. They had a bad ambience about them. Jack was not excited, but he felt the need to gather as much information as he could.
“O.K.” Jack nodded, “What is it?”
Bossman stood up and smiled. He pulled his pants up by the belt, and reached in one of the pockets, pulling out a small silver zippo lighter. “Look out.” He pushed Jack away from the cabinet. Mr. Stephen’s snatched one of the eagle feathers from a tack. He grabbed another in a Ziploc bag. He snapped open the lid to the zippo and proceeded to light the tip of the open feather. The small flame singed the feather easily, sending a pungent odor of burnt hair into the office, but that was all.
“That’s awful.” Jack plugged his nose. “What’s the point? One stinks more like Hakan Iye than the other?”
Bossman waved the flame of the feather out, and set it on the desk. “Watch this.” he said in a taunting pitch. He retrieved the feather from the Ziploc and set the flame at the base of the quill. The feather erupted before their eyes as if it were doused in butane. Bossman let go of the small inferno, and let it drop to the floor. Before it hit the carpet, it had disintegrated, and turned to ash.
Jack choked a little on the smoke. “That was weird.” Jack agreed with the man’s experiment.
“Wait.” Bossman insisted. “Give it a second.”
Jack watched patiently. For a moment there was no activity whatsoever, but then something strange started to happen. The ashes began to swirl up from the floor close to their ankles.
Jack was now frightened. He did not know how to respond to the phenomenon.
It only took a moment for the funnel to reach a high speed, and just like that, the feather that Bossman had incinerated twirled up into the air, and fluttered to the floor.
“Is that…?” Jack was mystified.
“That’s the same feather.” Bossman chuckled. “You can’t make it go away. I’ve tried chemicals, I’ve chopped it into powder, I’ve put it in the coffee grinder, run over it with my car. It’s useless.”
“We have to find that nest!” Jack insisted.
“Kid, you don’t get it.” Bossman showed signs of becoming tipsy. “I’ve been working on this since 1972…way before you were a twinkle in your daddy’s eye. We can’t find it. Our best bet is to water the eyes.”
“But how? Especially when he can turn to ashes, or whatever he does!”
“He’s upstairs junior. We might be able to sneak up on him somehow.” Bossman hiccupped.
Jack looked down at Gypsy. His girlfriend was now curled up in the corner asleep. After dwelling on her safety, and getting his friends home, the answer was simple.
“O.K.” Jack said boldly. “Give me the gun.”
“Want a shot of liquid courage before we go?” Bossman offered.
“Sure…why not?” Jack replied.
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