Ghost Town (21 page)

He didn't answer right away. He took a sip of his Scotch, set the glass down on the counter gently, and continued staring ahead. Trevor thought he wasn't going to say anything, but then he began talking in a soft voice.

“What we saw today . . .” He trailed off, shook his head, and started over. “When I first began as a paranormal researcher, I hoped to open people's minds to the possibilities that there was more to existence than what our five senses could perceive. To help them see that there was magic and wonder in the world, that death wasn't an ending but rather a transition. That we are all caterpillars on a journey to becoming butterflies.” He let out a small, bitter laugh. “Sounds sickeningly naïve now, doesn't it? But what can I say? It was the sixties. As the years went by and my books began selling, I began making more and more personal appearances. Doing readings, signing books. People would come up to me and tell me how much they enjoyed reading my books. I soon realized that few of them were interested in the scientific or metaphysical aspects of my work. Instead, they read them to be scared. I remember how one woman put it to me: ‘I love it when I read your books and I get that deliciously creepy feeling like I have to keep looking over my shoulder.' That was the day I realized that despite my lofty ambitions, what I had become was nothing more than an entertainer.

“Perhaps I should have retired and sought out a new career, but my books were selling well, and then I got the offer to do the television show. The money was tempting, and I tried to rationalize it by telling myself that even if people tuned in only to be entertained, the subject matter would still stimulate their imaginations and broaden their minds. And if we didn't adhere to rigorous standards of scientific investigation . . . well, in the end, it
was
just entertainment, wasn't it? And now, here I am, a long way from the idealistic
young man who set out to change the world in his own small way. I've become an actor playing a parody of the man he used to be, interested only in getting a paycheck, which he'll spend as soon as possible at the nearest bar.”

Trevor wanted to say something to comfort Carrington, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Connie shook her head. Trevor remained silent, and after another sip of Scotch, Carrington continued.

“I thought the murders were nothing more than a coincidence that Erin intended to exploit for the benefit of her film. I was sorry those people lost their lives, but by suggesting that their murders had something to do with Exeter's reputation for paranormal activity, Erin would draw a lot of attention to the film—and to me. I could see myself giving numerous interviews, being booked for dozens of personal appearances, and of course, getting a contract to write a new book. Who knows? I might even get a new TV show out of it.”

“But then you went with us to the museum,” Trevor said.

“Yes. I've seen some things during my career that I'd be hard-pressed to explain. But I've never seen anything like
that
. The way those words appeared all at once . . .” He finished the rest of his Scotch in a single gulp. He started to signal the bartender for another, glanced at Trevor, and then waved the bartender away. “The weird thing is, there's something naggingly familiar about the event, as if I'd heard of something similar happening once, but I can't recall any details.” He gave Trevor a weary smile. “Perhaps I've had one too many, eh? At any rate, after today, I'm considerably less enthused about completing Erin's film. And it certainly doesn't help that we shot at both locations yesterday. To think I might have been standing in the same spot where someone later lost his or her life.” He sighed. “That cannot be good for my karma.”

“Wait a minute,” Trevor said. “You filmed at both locations yesterday? The bookstore
and
the museum?”

“Yes, and in that order.” He frowned. “Why?”

“Interesting that Erin failed to mention that little factoid to us,” Connie said.

“Isn't it?” Trevor turned his attention back to Carrington. “Did any of you experience anything strange at either location yesterday? Temperature variances, a feeling you were being watched, psychokinetic activity . . .”

“I may not be the most professional paranormal investigator who ever lived, but I know what signs to look for, Trevor. But to answer your question, no, there was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did you see the Dark Lady?” Connie asked. “You wouldn't have recognized her as such, of course, but she might have been present at either location, watching. She could've been on the sidewalk outside the bookstore or perhaps posing as merely another museumgoer. She might've appeared normal enough to you, but your subconscious would've sensed there was something wrong with her.”

Trevor had just been about to raise the issue of the Dark Lady when Connie beat him to it. Earlier, she had claimed to have no expertise with the paranormal, but once again, her actions belied those words. Maybe she was simply an intelligent person who picked up on things fast, and she
had
read Carrington's books when she was a teenager, or so she said. But his instincts told him that something else was going on. He didn't want to confront her about his suspicions, not now that they had finally got Carrington talking. And he wanted to wait until he had a chance to confer with Drew and Amber.

Carrington considered Connie's question for a moment. “If she was there, I didn't notice her. I suppose we could ask Erin to go through the footage we shot yesterday and see if it captured her image.”

“It's worth a try, I suppose,” Trevor said. “But remember what happened to the security video at the museum. If you did catch the Dark Lady on film, the footage is probably ruined.”

They fell into a silence for a few moments after that. Trevor sipped his beer while he thought, and Connie finished off her second whiskey and ordered a third. Carrington didn't order another drink. He just sat quietly, until at length he began speaking again.

“The story you told at your session today. It was the truth, wasn't it?”

“Every word,” Trevor said.

“Part of me is jealous of what you and your friends experienced. But another part of me—a much larger part, I think—is grateful that I've never gone through anything like that. I'm not sure I could've handled it.” He smiled. “My grip on reality is fragile enough as it is.”

“I hate to be the one to point this out,” Connie said, “but you're going through a similar experience right now.”

Carrington laughed. “I suppose I am—and I haven't lost my marbles yet, have I?”

Connie's smile had an edge to it. “The day's still young.”

“Indeed. And I, unfortunately, am not. So . . . what do we have so far? Erin films at two locations on Friday, and afterward murders occur at those same locations within the span of twenty-four hours. What's the connection?”

“I would think it's obvious,” Connie said.

“The filming itself,” Trevor said.

“That hadn't occurred to me.” Carrington frowned. “But if that's the case, then the message we received at the museum, the word
Stop
 . . .”

“Could mean the Dark Lady wants Erin to stop filming,” Trevor said.

“Or it could mean she intends to stop Erin herself,” Connie said. “By whatever means necessary.”

Carrington's eyes widened. “If that's true, I wonder if Alex's death is part of this, too. We all thought it was an accident, but now . . .”

“Who's Alex?” Trevor said.

“Erin's production assistant. He died last week while scouting a location for the film.”

Trevor and Connie exchanged glances.

“Tell us about it,” Trevor said.

“I appreciate your
coming here to meet us, Chief,” Drew said.

Amber thought Chief Hoffman looked as if he had been awake for days. His eyes seemed to have receded into their sockets since she had last seen him, and the flesh beneath was puffy and discolored. He radiated a deep weariness that was as much mental as physical.

“I'd have met you outside the gates of hell if it meant getting away from those reporters for a while. I'm used to media types asking me questions about Dead Days every year, and Ms. Gilman interviewed me for her movie the other day. But standing in front of cameras and trying to sound like I know what I'm doing as reporters grill me about murder investigations that are just starting . . . I'm just a small-time police chief of a tourist town, you know? I don't exactly have a lot of experience in that kind of thing.”

The three of them sat in a conversation pit off to the side of the front lobby, Amber and Drew on a couch, the chief in a well-padded armchair next to them. A steady stream of people walked by, mostly attendees of Esotericon, but no one paid them any attention. Normally, the chief's uniform might have drawn at least a few glances, but given that half the conference goers wore costumes of one sort or another, a law-enforcement uniform looked unremarkable by comparison.

“How's Jenn doing?” the chief asked. “I know she's taking Tonya's death hard.”

“She's resting right now,” Drew said. “Later, she plans to go back to selling books in the Exhibition Hall.”

“On the phone, you said you were a psychologist. Do you think it's a good idea for Jenn to try to work today?” the chief asked.

“If it helps her cope, then yes. Sometimes keeping busy is the best way to work through the initial shock of a trauma. But of course, it depends on the person.”

“Jenn's a hard worker, no doubt about that. She's always in that shop of hers, day and night. She's a good person, too. Gave me someone to talk to after my wife passed. If it wasn't for her . . .” He trailed off. “I hope she'll be OK, that's all.”

“I think she will,” Drew said. “In time.”

The chief nodded. “So, you said you wanted to tell me what you learned at the museum. I'm willing to listen, but despite what Jenn may have told you about my, uh, personal reading habits, I'm skeptical when it comes to ghosts and psychic stuff. Just so you know.”

“We did experience something strange at the museum,” Drew said, “but that's not the main reason we wanted to talk to you.” He glanced at Amber.

Amber knew it was important to tell the chief about Mitch. Not that she believed he had strangled that man in the museum, but she didn't disbelieve it, either. The fact that she thought it was even possible that Mitch could have done it was reason enough to tell the chief. But now that the time had come, she was hesitant. It had been hard enough telling Drew and Trevor, but to tell a stranger . . . She imagined the way he might look at her afterward as he tried to picture the things Mitch had done to her. She didn't know if she could stand to have anyone look at her like that. But if there was even a chance that Mitch was connected to these murders, she had to tell the chief. She couldn't stand by and remain silent while more people died.

She told her story as succinctly as possible, Drew holding her hand the entire time. When she was finished, Drew gave her hand a squeeze to tell her she had done a good job, and she smiled a thank you to him.

The chief took a small notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket and asked Amber to tell him everything she could about Mitch: his full name, physical details, place of residence, make and model of his vehicle, place of employment, and anything else she could remember. She did her best, and when she could remember no more, the chief asked them to excuse him a minute while he called the information in to his office. He pulled out his cell phone, called the station, and read information off his notepad to one of his deputies. When he was finished, he disconnected and tucked his phone back into his pants pocket.

“Thanks for the information. We'll check to see if there's any kind of record on him, and we'll bring him in for questioning.”

“If you can find him,” Drew said. “With the Dead Days festival in full swing, you've got hundreds more people in town than usual.”

“Thousands, actually,” the chief said. “And most of them are in costume, which makes it a little hard to track down a specific individual. But my entire department will be working throughout the day, and a lot of the local businesses hire extra security. My people will spread the word, and with any luck, I'll be having a heart-to-heart chat with Mr. Sagers before the night's over. You have anything else for me? If not, I've got a pair of murder investigations to oversee.”

“As Drew said, we experienced something out of the ordinary at the museum.” Amber told the chief how she had recognized the painting of the Dark Lady and about the bizarre appearance of the word
Stop
in the floor, walls, and ceiling that followed. When she was finished, she said, “I understand you might be skeptical, but is there anything you can tell us about the Dark Lady?”

“I don't really see how this will help, but I guess I can spare a couple more minutes. I've lived in Exeter all my life, and the Dark Lady is a town fixture. Kind of an unofficial mascot in some ways, I suppose, though not as family-friendly as Hector the Specter. All the kids in town grow up hearing stories about the Dark Lady—how
she likes to creep into the rooms of naughty children at night and scare them, how she eats the souls of kids who are especially bad. Nothing special, really. Just our version of the bogeyman, you know?”

“The information about her at the museum said that witnesses have seen her apparition numerous times since the flood,” Drew said.

“I've never seen her myself, but the police department gets reports from time to time. I don't know what people expect us to do about it. Track her down, arrest her, and toss her into a cell with ghost-proof bars?” He paused and frowned. “Now that I think of it, we
have
received more sighting reports than usual recently.”