Ghost Town (4 page)

Carrington frowned at Trevor, as if he didn't like anyone drawing attention away from him, even for a moment. But his smile returned. “Ah! Well, then, I assume you must be in town for the conference.” He nodded toward Trevor. “From what I overheard earlier, I take it that you're a writer. Might I have heard of anything you've done?”

On the surface, Carrington's question seemed innocent enough, but Amber detected a snide undercurrent, as if he expected to have never heard of Trevor. Carrington's attitude irritated her, and she found herself leaping to Trevor's defense.

“He's Trevor Ward. His books are really great, and today he's going to preview his latest one at the conference.”

Trevor gave her a thank-you smile, but Carrington's reaction took her by surprise.

“Trevor Ward! Of course! We've met before, haven't we? A few
years back, right here at Esotericon, if I remember right. You were dating that charming woman who runs the Forgotten Lore bookstore, Jenn . . . Rinaldi, I believe. Are you two still together?”

“Afraid not,” Trevor said.

“Pity. But then, the course of true love has never run smooth, has it? My three ex-wives can testify to that!” He laughed. “Well, Trevor, how about you introduce me to your friends?”

But before Trevor could say anything, they heard the front door bang open, and a woman's voice called out, “Arthur? Are you up yet?”

An African-American woman rushed into the dining room. She was in her late thirties, her red-dyed hair so short it was almost a buzz cut. She wore horn-rimmed glasses—what Amber thought of as hipster glasses—and a small diamond nose stud. She was tall and thin and wore an open jeans jacket over a T-shirt with the words “Ghost Town” on the front.

She fixed Carrington with a disapproving look. “Did you leave your cell turned off again? I've been trying to call you for the last fifteen minutes!”

Carrington gave her a thin smile. “This is Erin Gilman, a talented documentarian and, as you can see, a somewhat impatient woman. Erin, this is Trevor Ward, a fellow scribe, and his two friends . . . ?”

Amber and Drew said their names, but Erin didn't acknowledge them. She kept her attention focused on Carrington.

“Arthur, we need to go. There's been a—” She glanced at Amber and the others. “Something's come up that's altered our shooting schedule, and we need to, uh, get moving so we don't lose the morning light.”

“There's no need to play things so close to the vest, my dear. It's not as if we're doing an exposé revealing sensitive government secrets, now, is it? We're making a simple little film about a town that trades on its reputation for paranormal occurrences in order to
attract tourists. Surely, whatever has
come up
can wait until after I've finished my breakfast.”

And then, as if he were a child determined to make a point to his mother, he took a forkful of scrambled eggs, put them into his mouth, and began chewing.

Erin glared at Carrington, and from the way things had gone between them so far, Amber had the impression that she did that a lot. “There was a murder here in town last night. A weird one.”

Carrington swallowed his eggs and put his fork down. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then rose from the table.

“My apologies for rushing off like this, but it's unprofessional to keep one's director waiting.” Carrington gave them a parting smile before he turned and started to follow Erin out of the dining room.

A cold emptiness opened in the pit of Amber's stomach.

“Where?” she asked. And although she didn't say the word very loudly, something about her tone made both Carrington and Erin pause.

Carrington gave Erin a look, and then, almost grudgingly, she said, “The Forgotten Lore bookstore.”

She and Arthur hurried off, and the front door slammed.

“Jenn,” Trevor said in a stunned voice.

Drew gave Amber a thoughtful look. “Your dream.”

She nodded. Then the three of them leaped up from the table and rushed out of the dining room.

Mitch Sagers was
half-dozing in his car when the VW Bug screeched to a halt in front of the Eternal Sleep Bed and Breakfast. He watched the driver hop out and run inside. She was a black chick, not bad-looking, but he didn't like her fake red hair. He didn't know why she was in such a hurry, and truth was, he didn't much care. But he was glad that
something
had happened to wake him up. He had been sitting across the street in the driver's seat of
his Chevy Impala for more than—he glanced at his watch—twelve hours now, and the woman's arrival was the first interesting thing that had happened in all that time.

He yawned and stretched, groaning as his muscles protested. His neck was especially stiff that morning, and he whipped his head from right to left to pop the vertebrae. He felt as much as heard the crack, and the stiffness eased. His tongue felt as dry and rough as sandpaper, and his breath was sour from all the coffee he'd had the night before. Empty drive-thru coffee cups, four in all, littered the passenger-side floor, along with several crumpled sacks from fast-food joints. Acid churned in his stomach, and a small burp rose up, bringing with it a burning sensation at the back of his throat.

At first, the idea of doing a stakeout had sounded kind of cool to Mitch, as if he were a character in a cop show or something, keeping an eye on a dangerous suspect. But the reality was anything but glamorous. Not only did his body ache and his stomach hurt, but he felt a headache coming on, and he had to take a piss so bad he thought his bladder might explode. He wished he had thought to bring along several empty liter bottles to pee into, like truckers did when they didn't want to take the time to pull into a rest stop. But then, he hadn't really planned out his trip to the freak show that was Exeter, Indiana. It had just kind of happened.

A few moments later, the black chick came back out, accompanied by an old guy in a gray suit. She ran to her car and started it up, but the old man took his time getting into the vehicle, almost as if he were moving slowly on purpose just to piss her off. Once he was inside, the woman put the car in gear and hit the gas, and the VW peeled away from the curb and roared off down the street.

Despite its name, the Eternal Sleep Bed and Breakfast looked normal enough from the outside—if you didn't count the sign in
the yard shaped like a small black coffin, the business's name painted on it in wavy white letters. Mitch figured the sign was supposed to look half-spooky and half-cute, but he thought it just looked all-stupid. The building was an older one, high and narrow, two stories, painted white, with green shutters, a black roof, and a couple of small spires that made it look a little like a castle. The attic had probably been made into extra rooms. At least, that's the way he would have done it. Not that he had ever stayed at a bed-and-breakfast before. Nicest place he had ever stayed at was a Motel 6. But then, he didn't make the kind of money Amber's new boyfriend did. A goddamned psychologist. It figured she would hook up with a shrink. She needed therapy bad enough—not that she could afford it. Maybe Doctor Love was taking his fee out in trade. Mitch could picture her underneath him, naked, sweaty, and writhing. They would screw like rabid weasels, and just before she came, the doc would glance at the clock on the nightstand, pull out of her, and say, “I'm sorry. Your hour is up.”

Mitch ground his teeth together at the thought of Amber having sex with that guy . . . what had she said his name was? Drew something. It wasn't so much that he wanted her as that he didn't want anyone else to have her, although in Mitch's mind, they amounted to the same thing.

He and Amber had “dated” for a couple of months last year. They had met in line at the BMV when they had gone to renew their driver's licenses. He hadn't been all that attracted to her—she had been too pale and skinny, and her hair needed washing—but he'd had nothing better to do, so he had turned on the charm and started chatting with her. He remembered what his daddy had always said: “You never know what you're going to catch when you cast your line. But if you don't put your hook in the water, you damn sure won't catch anything.” She had been reluctant to respond to him at first, but he had taken that as a challenge
and persisted. Once they had discovered that they had the same birthday, she had thawed a little, and by the time they were both done and leaving with their new licenses, she had agreed to have dinner with him.

He had decided that she was pretty enough, in a sickly sort of way, but what he liked most about her was the sense of vulnerability she projected. In some men, that would have triggered a protective instinct. But for Mitch, it triggered an instinct of a far different kind. It told him that Amber was prey.

“Never show weakness,” his daddy always said, and he had backed up his words with action. If Mitch had acted weak in even the slightest way, Daddy punished him, usually by delivering a good pounding with his fists. But sometimes Daddy's punishments had been more . . . creative. Mitch didn't mind, at least not anymore. Those punishments had made him the man he was today. Made him strong.

What they'd had couldn't be called a relationship. Mitch would show up at her place whenever he didn't have anything better to do. He figured he had a good thing going, but then, one day, she said something to piss him off—he couldn't remember what—and he had hit her. Not hard, just enough to let her know he meant it. He thought maybe she would cry or maybe even apologize. A lot of women said “I'm sorry” after you gave them a good smack.

But Amber hadn't said anything. The next night, Mitch had pounded on her door until his fist ached, but she hadn't answered. He knew she was home—she only went out when she had to. So he had continued pounding on the door for a solid five minutes before finally giving up. He had called and texted her numerous times after that but still with no reply. He had decided to try showing up on her doorstep again, but this time, there had been an envelope with his name written on it taped to the door. The message inside was simple, clear, and direct: “Mitch, I don't want to
see you anymore. Don't come back. Don't call me. If you try to contact me in any way again, I'll call the police.”

She hadn't signed it. Mitch had taken that as a personal affront. He'd kicked in the door and rushed inside Amber's apartment, but to his surprise, she wasn't there. She didn't have a lot of stuff, but he knocked over what little furniture she did have, broke her bathroom mirror, and threw a few framed pictures to the floor. It made him feel a little better, but not much.

He had considered staying there and waiting for her to come home.
Then
he would show her what he thought about her goddamned unsigned letter. And he might have, too. But he remembered something else his daddy used to say: “A man's got to control his temper if he doesn't want his temper to control him.”

He had told himself that Amber wasn't worth getting upset about. Getting too worked up over anything was a sign of weakness, and Mitch was determined to stay strong. So he had swallowed his anger, left Amber's apartment, and done his best to put her out of his mind.

But then, a couple of weeks ago, he had gone to Target to pick up a new pair of work boots, and he saw Amber working in the women's department. He almost hadn't recognized her. She had been wearing a red shirt, a name tag, and tan pants, just like the other workers, but more than that, she looked different. Healthier. She had put on some weight, and she wasn't as pale as he remembered. But more than that, she exuded a calm confidence unlike the Amber he had known.

He almost hadn't gone over to talk to her, but he figured, what the hell? Might as well cast his line.

At first, Amber had been startled to see him, but she had quickly recovered and chatted with him for several minutes. She hadn't treated him like a friend, exactly, but she hadn't acted as if he was a monster, either. She told him she was working at Target part-time—she had started only a few weeks before—and that she
was dating a great guy, a psychologist named Drew Pearson. Mitch hadn't known what to say. He mumbled that he was still working for the same landscaping company and that he was there to buy new boots. Amber told him where the work boots were located in the store, and he thanked her. She gave him a parting smile and returned her attention to straightening a row of blouses hanging on a display.

Not knowing what else to do, he had headed off in search of boots. But halfway there, he had turned around and left the store, making sure to avoid the section where Amber was working.

Seeing Amber had disturbed him on a deep level, but it took him a couple of days to figure out why. He eventually realized that it was because she hadn't been afraid of him. What was worse, she had seemed
strong
. Much stronger than she had been before. Maybe even stronger than he was. He should have asserted his dominance in the store, should have put her in her place. But he hadn't. He had just listened to her talk and had done nothing. He had been
weak
. If Daddy had still been alive, he would have beaten Mitch bloody for being that weak, and in front of a woman he used to screw, for godsakes!

Mitch had wanted to rush over to Amber's apartment, kick down the door again, and show her just how goddamned strong he could be. But he had told himself to control his temper. He needed to play this cool. Revenge as a cold dish and all that. So he had started watching Amber, parking at Target and outside the building where she lived. He hadn't been sure what he was waiting for, but he figured he would know it when he saw it. And then, the day before, it had happened. Amber had left her building and headed to her car, carrying a couple of suitcases. And when she had driven away, Mitch had followed her.

Three hours later, he had passed a sign welcoming him to Exeter, Indiana, the Most Haunted Town in America. Not long after that,
he had parked across the street from the Eternal Sleep Bed and Breakfast, and—with the exception of a few quick runs to pick up coffee and fast food—that's where he had been ever since.