Lure (4 page)

The idea of leaving her hometown behind was heartbreaking at times, she had so much invested in this area, and the rest of the world was a mystery to her. Sure, she had spent time in other places, but nowhere else did she know every road, back road, dirt road, and shortcut. Nowhere else did she have someone she could call on for any kind of problem she might face. How would she survive in some strange place without any of that support system in place, but then she asked herself how much of that support system remained, and if maybe her presence wasn't just making it harder on those she loved? Greg was a silent and brooding reminder. He seethed with suppressed rage, and Sam wasn't sure what it was going to look like when it came out. Greg had never been anything but kind to her before, but she had never made him this angry before. He was right; her actions would absolutely affect his career. She was rude and thoughtless and could not find the words to express her remorse, so she just remained silent, knowing it was driving a wedge between them and not being able to do anything about it.

Though the ride seemed to take forever, the yellow flashing light in front of Sam's house came into view. Her car, and Shells' jeep, and Alton's truck all sat in the driveway.

"Aw, man. Did they have to tow the cars?" Shells said.

"They were considered abandoned," Greg said. "Just be glad I talked them into towing the cars here and not to the impound yard. Consider it my last favor to you as a cop."

"We're really sorry, Greg," Shells said.

As soon as the three were out of his car, Greg slammed it in reverse, floored it out of the driveway, and then he slammed it into drive, leaving a trail of smoke as he took out his frustration on the accelerator. Sam wasn't certain she'd ever see him again as she watched his car grow smaller in the distance.

"I, uh, I gotta go. Later," Alton said, and Sam wasn't certain she'd ever see him again either. She felt as if her life were rushing away from her.

"Oh, dude. That ain't right," Shells said, standing beside the kitchen door, which had a pink piece of paper taped to it. "That ain't right at all. It's gonna be all right," Shells looked deeply concerned as Sam approached.

It was an eviction notice. She had 48-hours to move out. The fact that her family had once owned this house made it sting even more.

"I told him I was going to be late with the rent again this month but that I would get it to him."

"I'm sorry, dude. C'mon, I'll help you pack up your stuff."

"Most of it can stay; it's not really mine anyway. The last people left all the furniture. All that I have are my clothes and an old TV." That statement settled heavily on Sam. Her entire life could fit in a few bags, and maybe one big box. That was it. What did she have to show for all the time and effort she had put into building a life for herself? With the exception of her car, she owned very little else, and she asked herself why. No answers came, and she worked in silence alongside Shells, tears falling on the carpet she sat on, and no comfort could be found.

"It'll be alright. You can come stay with me for a while. Seriously, it's not that bad. I promise not to try to turn you into a hummus-eating lesbian. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam said without much humor. What choice did she have? No one else wanted her around, now that she had pushed Greg away . . .

Shoving clothes into trash bags, Sam took out some of her frustration on them, and she stuffed too many into a bag, causing it to rupture. She didn't care; instead she just dumped them out and started slamming them into another bag. Stupid clothes. Her own childishness made her laugh, and so it was that she was laughing and crying when Greg walked in the door.

The silence was like a living thing, and it hung thick between them, the air thrumming with tension.

"Right," Shells said. "I got things I should probably go do."

Greg and Sam ignored her and neither said good-bye when she slipped out the kitchen door.

"So that's it," Greg said. "I'm off the force."

"Oh, Greg. I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen."

"I know," he said. "It's not your fault. This experience showed me that I wasn't on the right path, and neither were you. Now we're not on that path any more."

"You're not mad at me?"

"For what, being you?" he asked. "How could I be mad at you for that? You stop acting like an irresponsible idiot and then I'll worry. What's up with the bags?"

Snatching the pink slip from the dresser, Sam shoved it into his hands, unable to form the words to tell him.

"If I were still a cop, why I'd . . . " he trailed off, the weight of the words 'If I were still a cop' weighing in.

"So now what?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"You're not gonna believe this," came Shells voice from behind. Sam hadn't realized she was still standing at the kitchen door; both she and Greg turned accusatory glares at Shells. "Don't look at me like that. Y'all need a break, right? You want some time to clear your heads and figure out what's next? Well, have I got a deal for you."

"Out with it, Shells," Greg said.

Shells grinned back, "We're going to Lake Lure, North Carolina."

Chapter 3

"Spill it," Sam said to a grinning Shells.

"So you know that awesome website I created for us?"

"Yeah."

"We'll a guy in North Carolina was looking for a high-profile paranormal investigator to check out his Inn."

"And we're high profile?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"You saw that site, dude. It kicks ass. And so do the Twitter profile, and the Facebook page. We're on Flikr and YouTube, and that's just the half of it. That's right. You heard me."

Sam had difficulty keeping a straight face while Shells did a little dance, bit her bottom lip, and got down.

"OK," Sam said. "So let's say this guy really does want us to come down there, and we actually drag our asses to North Carolina, what are we going to investigate with? I don't think Surveiltech is going to rent us equipment again, even if we did have the money for it."

"Look at it this way, dude; you've got a chance to take a nice trip to a beautiful place and stay in a historic Inn . . . with a friggen' spa. I'm betting people have experiences while getting massages, and I need to investigate that shit. Got it?"

Looking up from rooting through the fridge, Greg shook his head. "Don't you eat? The only thing in here is beer."

"What were you looking for?"

Greg granted her the point, "A beer."

"Then shut up."

"So you have one more paycheck coming to you, right?" Shells asked Greg.

"And then what, I 'm out on the street? No way, Shells. I've got to figure out what I'm going to do next."

"Aw, c'mon. Your Uncle Bobby wouldn't let you land on the street and you know it," Shells said. Sam stayed quiet, since Shells was having the argument for her.

"I can't keep falling back on my Uncle's money. Getting thrown off the force isn't exactly going to make me look good. Besides, what does this guy want with a bunch of Yankees at his Inn?"

"That war's been over for a while now. I think it's cool. And he knows that ghosts are money. Straight up. If we capture evidence of ghosts there, and I work my Internet magic to make it go viral, they'll make a friggen' killing."

Greg took a moment to think about it, and Sam had to admit that Shells had a point. She really could use a vacation, and there weren't any other opportunities knocking on her door, only eviction notices.

"So he's not going to charge us for the rooms?" Sam asked, earning a surprised look from Greg.

Shells beamed, jumping and clapping excitedly with her fingers before answering. "Two rooms and meals are covered."

"Can I borrow $500," Sam asked, making sure he had a good view of her ass.

"You just got me fired and you want to borrow money?"

"Just for a little while," she said with a coy smile.

"Sorry, hon. Not this time," Greg said, looking uncomfortable. "Look, I've gotta get going. If you need a place to stay or put some stuff, just let me know."

Watching him go, Sam wondered if she had lost him without ever actually having had him. The sound of his diesel engine dwindled as he moved back toward town.

"Maybe if he didn't have the great big, shiny truck payment he wouldn't be so stingy," Shells said. "So I guess it's just you and me, toots. I can get us down there and back. Do you have anyone that could float you the cash for some equipment? I mean, we just need a camera and a recorder, right?"

"We really should have tri-field meters, and we need night vision."

"Yeah," Shells admitted. "You're right. But damn, girl, you're gonna need to make a grand quick. Maybe Franco will let you go back to work at the pizzeria."

"I doubt it. We didn't part on the greatest terms. I'm pretty sure I threatened to pull his head out of his ass and put my foot in its place."

Shells waved for her to be quiet; she had already dialed a call. "Yeah, are you guys hiring? Cool. Ask Franco if Sam Flock can come in for it." There was a brief silence, and Sam was tempted to make Shells hang up, but then she heard the tinny response through Shells' phone, "He says if she can keep her mouth shut and do the job, then she can come to work."

"Jerk," Sam said before Shells could end the call.

"There. See. Now you can go make some cash, and I'll go sling some veggies. Then it's off to beautiful North Carolina."

"I've always made a pretty good buck waiting tables down there," Sam said, her voice resigned. "I guess I can put up with Franco staring at my ass the whole time."

"They aren't hiring waitresses," Shells said with obvious reluctance. "They need a dishwasher. I'm pretty sure G Money got busted."

"No way, man. No freakin' way."

* * *

With her hair held back by a single scrunchy and spilling down her back, Sam rolled up the short-sleeves of her white t-shirt up onto her shoulders, knowing full well she might end up with a wet shirt. Sam didn't care as she threw her hands into the water; maybe it would get her a raise.

"Yo, what up, cop."

Sam turned to see G Money, she didn't even know his real name. His over-sized baseball cap was on sideways, and his pants hung down below his ass, the NC State football jersey he wore not long enough to cover it up. Sam bet his clothes and shoes cost as much as the rent she owed.

"See any ghosts lately, bitch?"

"I might be looking at one," Sam said, a soapy knife in her hands.

"You threatening me?"

"Just doin' dishes."

"What up G Money," Franco said from behind Sam, who stifled a laugh. She had always found Franco's attempts at being cool comical, his thick Italian accent and frequently poor word choices were hard to overlook.

"Cops try to lock me up
and
take my job; ain't that some shit? Then this bitch threatened me with a knife."

"Just doin' dishes," Sam said.

"I thought you were gonna have time," Franco said.

"It's 'do time', yo, and I'm Teflon homey, those bitches can't make nothing stick to me."

"You want your job back?"

"Hell yeah, especially if that means you're gonna fire the cop."

"I'll pay you for tonight," Franco said. "But you have to finish up the night first. Sorry. He does a better job."

He didn't really look sorry, and G Money started dancing toward the door, "Later, cop." He said while giving her the finger.

Maybe she really did need to move, Sam admitted to herself. Still, she kept washing dishes even though the earnings wouldn't even make a dent in what she needed. By the time she put gas in her car and got something to eat, she'd be broke. Franco proved he wasn't completely heartless, though.

"You hungry?" he asked. "I overcooked a pie. You can have it. Hope you like ham and pineapple."

She didn't, but she was too hungry and broke to turn it down. After picking off the pineapple, the pizza wasn't bad. She could never understand why someone would put something sweet on a pizza; it seemed sacrilegious. The hand-made and hand-tossed dough formed a thin but strong and tasty crust when cooked in the brick oven.

Steam rose from the grill when Franco threw a scoop of ice on it, and Sam stepped back while he used a grill scraper and steel wool to clean it. Sam hated cleaning the grill; it was sweaty and painful. Franco looked as if he might ask her to finish the job, and Sam looked for some dishes that needed washing. At the same time, a cream colored Chevelle with a black top rolled to a stop in the fire zone. Out climbed a longhaired redneck with a finely cultivated mustache; he wore a denim jacket that was more faded than his jeans, and Sam grudgingly admitted that he looked good in them, though she would never have told him that.

"What's happening, ghost girl?" he said when he saw Sam. His eyes took her in. "Now that you ain't a cop no more, may I say: damn, girl, you make lookin' bad look good."