Ghost Town (6 page)

She trailed off, and a lone tear trickled down her cheek.

“I think it would be better if we continued this conversation somewhere else,” Drew said. “Have the police already questioned you?” When she nodded, he said, “Good. I'll check and see if they need you to stay any longer.” Drew looked at Amber. Silent communication passed between then, and she nodded. She stepped close to Jenn as Drew walked over to speak to the officer. The reporters were still grilling him, but when they saw Drew coming, they wrapped up their questions and moved off. Trevor was certain they would return to interrogate the officer further once Drew left.

Amber gave Jenn a sympathetic smile. “Hi. I'm Amber Lozier, one of Trevor's friends.”

Jenn brushed away the tear on her cheek and gave Amber a weak smile. “Yes. You were with him in high school when . . .” She glanced at Carrington and Erin and fell silent.

“That's right. Is there a place where we could go sit down and have a cup of coffee?”

“There's Burial Grounds. It's just down the street.”

Trevor wished there was a place they could go that didn't have death as part of its theme, but in Exeter, businesses like that were hard to come by. Back when they had been dating, he had taken Jenn to Burial Grounds many times, and he hoped the coffee shop's familiarity would help calm her.

“Sounds good,” Amber said.

Drew returned. “At first, the chief was a little reluctant to let you leave, but when I told him it was my professional opinion that it would be best for you to get some distance from the store, he relented. He said he'd contact you if he needs to speak with you further.”

Jenn nodded, her gaze unfocused, and Trevor wondered if she had really heard Drew's words.

The four of them started walking down the street, Carrington and Erin tagging along behind. Trevor wasn't thrilled about that—especially since he feared they were only interested in exploiting Jenn for their film—but he didn't want to make an issue of it, given Jenn's fragile emotional state. The less conflict right now, the better.

As they walked, she leaned against him, and without thinking about it, he slipped an arm around her shoulder. Despite the circumstances, it felt good to be close to her again.

Mitch wasn't able
to find a parking space near the bookstore, so he parked the next block over, got out of his Impala, and walked to the store. Once there, he joined the crowd of rubberneckers, but unlike them, he didn't watch the reporters or try to catch a glimpse inside the building. He kept his gaze fastened on Amber. He didn't know what had happened—only that whatever it was had been important enough to draw the cops and the media like flies to rotting garbage—and he didn't really care. All that mattered to him was keeping Amber in sight.

He stayed toward the back of the crowd in case she looked in his direction, but he needn't have bothered. All of her attention was focused on the Asian bitch with the fake flower in her hair. She looked pretty damned upset, and Amber radiated concern for her, as did her precious Drew. But neither of them looked as concerned as their overweight friend, the guy who had driven them there in his candy-ass Prius. Mitch figured he had something going on with the Asian—or at least wanted to get something going. Mitch didn't blame him. She was hot. Maybe when he was finished with Amber, he might track her down, see if he couldn't get a little of that for himself.

After talking for a bit, the four of them were joined by the black woman and the old man who had left the bed-and-breakfast before them, and they all headed down the sidewalk—luckily, in the opposite direction from Mitch. He waited a moment to allow them to get enough of a head start before he followed. As Amber walked, she reached out to take Drew's hand, and the sight of them acting like a couple of lovesick teenagers turned Mitch's stomach. He was looking forward to getting her alone so he could remind her of what it was like to be touched by a real man.

From the corner of his eye, he had the impression of a black-garbed figure walking beside him, but he didn't turn to look. He sensed that it was the sort of thing you couldn't see if you altered your perspective too much. Like a funhouse mirror: change where you were standing, and the image altered. Or maybe this was more like looking at an eclipse: stare at it directly, and you risked damaging your vision. He remembered the woman he had imagined sitting next to him in his car back at the B&B. He especially remembered her eyes. They had been so black . . . so cold. He continued to believe that she had been nothing but a hallucination, though.
This
woman—and it was a woman, he knew that—walking next to him now was probably just one of the many costumed loonies
wandering around town this weekend, that's all. But he still didn't turn to look at her.

He thought he heard a whispering voice then, its words as soft as leaves rustling in the autumn breeze. He couldn't make out what the voice was saying, not clearly, but he somehow still understood its meaning.

“I know what you want, and I can help you get it. But first, you'll have to help me.”

There
was
no voice, he knew that. It was all in his head, nothing more than a product of stress and sleep deprivation. Still, he whispered back.

“I'm listening.”

Drew was glad
to see that the interior of Burial Grounds looked like a typical coffee shop. More funky than corporate, a college hole-in-the-wall hangout instead of the anonymous ubiquity of a Starbucks. The items on the menu had spooky-cute names such as Mocha Monster, Hemlock Tea, and Java of the Living Dead, but otherwise the place had few visual associations with death—which was exactly what Jenn needed right then.

They had to push two tables together to accommodate them all, and Drew figured they were lucky to find anywhere to sit, considering the Dead Days celebration was in full swing. He assumed that word about Tonya's murder had spread quickly, and a number of Burial Grounds' patrons had left to go check out the scene, leaving the place only half full. Death was a powerful lure for many people—it both fascinated and repelled in equal measure. More so, he suspected, for those who were already attracted to Exeter because of its morbid reputation.

Amber asked Jenn what she would like to drink, but she didn't answer. She sat expressionless, staring at the tabletop. Trevor answered for her.

“Just coffee, with cream and two sugars.” He glanced at Amber and in a softer voice added, “Better make it decaf.”

Jenn didn't contradict him, so Amber nodded and turned to Carrington and Erin. “Would either of you like anything?”

Both demurred, so Amber went over to the counter to order. Instrumental guitar music played softly over the shop's speakers, a smooth jazz piece that was the audio equivalent of a tranquilizer. Drew approved. The most important thing was to try to keep Jenn calm.

No one spoke until Amber returned with four coffees. She put Jenn's down on the table in front of her and gave Drew and Trevor theirs before sitting down with hers and taking off the lid. She hated drinking anything too hot. They didn't need coffee, not after the amount they'd had at breakfast, but Drew guessed that Amber hadn't wanted Jenn to feel singled out. He might be a trained psychologist, but Amber had a deep sensitivity to people's needs and emotions that no amount of training in the world could provide.

The seven of them sat quietly for several moments, until Jenn reached out, picked up her coffee with both hands, and took a sip. She sat holding the cup, as if trying to draw on its warmth for strength.

“I suppose this is the part where I tell you what happened.”

“Only if you want to,” Drew said.

Erin opened her mouth as if she might protest. No doubt, she wanted to hear every gory detail and get it all down on film if she could, but Carrington put a hand on her arm to stop her. She gave him a frustrated look, but she didn't say anything. Drew was surprised. Carrington didn't strike him as the caring type. Maybe Drew had misjudged him. Or maybe Carrington simply didn't want his director's eagerness to keep Jenn from telling her story.

“I already told you most of it.” She took another sip of coffee. “When I went inside the store, I saw books scattered everywhere.
Not a single one was left on the shelves. My first thought was that we'd had an earthquake or something overnight. Ridiculous, right? This is hardly earthquake country. But I couldn't think of anything else that would've knocked the books around like that. Next I noticed the blood. I didn't realize that's what it was at first. Tonya had been dead for a while, and the blood had . . . had . . .”

She fought to control her shaking hands as she took another sip of coffee.

“Dried,” she finished. “It was brownish red, not bright red, like in the movies.” She gave them a weak smile. “Movie blood always stays red, doesn't it? No matter how much time has passed since it was spilled.” She turned to Erin. “I guess it looks better on the screen that way, huh?”

“I, uh, guess so.” Erin shot Drew a look, but he kept his attention focused on Jenn. He wasn't worried about her going off on a tangent. Unfocused thinking was a normal result of trauma.

“The blood covered dozens of books, but the majority of it was centered on a mound in the middle of the floor. I didn't know what it was, at least not consciously, but I began to feel nauseated as I made my way into the store. I stepped carefully through the scattered books as I made my way toward the mound. When I got there, I crouched down and reached out to start moving books—I guess I'd figured out there was something hidden beneath the mound—but before I touched any, I saw a patch of pink peeking through a space between two books. I didn't recognize what it was at first. Maybe I didn't want to. I stretched my index finger toward it, and when I touched it . . . You know how they always say that dead people are cold? Tonya's fingers weren't warm, but they weren't cold, either. They felt like uneaten chicken wings someone had tossed in the trash. Just meat and bone.”

Another sip of coffee. Her hands didn't shake as much this time, which Drew took as a good sign.

“I didn't scream, didn't jerk my hand away from Tonya's fingers. I kept touching them for several minutes—at least, it seemed that long—not really thinking or feeling anything. And then I heard myself speak. I said, ‘You shouldn't be touching anything.' I stood up, picked my way back through the books to the door, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and called the police on my cell.”

She took another long sip of her coffee and finished it off. Drew, Amber, and Trevor hadn't touched theirs.

“It only took a couple of minutes for the police to arrive. Chief Hoffman came himself. I went to high school with his daughter. Small-town life, you know? Some paramedics showed up, too, although I don't know why, since there was nothing they could do for Tonya. Standard procedure, I guess. The county coroner arrived not long after that. The chief started to question me outside the store, but when those two reporters showed up, he pulled me inside and shut the door. He was just trying to protect me, but I couldn't stand being in there while the police and the coroner examined Tonya's body. So he took me outside again, and that's when I saw you.” She paused. “I still don't believe it. I mean, I just spoke with Tonya yesterday. And to die in such a horrible way . . .”

Jenn seemed calmer now that she'd told her story. Not relaxed, by any means, but she had taken the first steps toward dealing with the trauma: allowing herself to begin processing the emotions she'd experienced. She seemed like a strong person, and although at this stage it was difficult to make any predictions, Drew thought that with time and counseling, she would be fine.

Erin had remained silent while Jenn spoke, but she couldn't hold back any longer. “How did she die?”

Both Trevor and Amber gave her a dirty look for asking such a blunt question, but Erin ignored them. Her attention remained firmly fixed on Jenn.

“Chief Hoffman said it looked like she'd been hit by books. A lot of them.”

Drew looked at Amber. She had gone pale upon hearing Jenn's words, and he put his hand on her leg and squeezed gently. She smiled at him to show she was grateful for the gesture, but he could tell by her expression that she hadn't been reassured. He didn't blame her. If he found it eerie that the circumstances of Tonya's death so closely echoed Amber's nightmare, how much worse would it be for her? Not so long ago, he would have thought the similarity to be nothing more than coincidence. And while he supposed that remained a possibility, he doubted it. He might not understand the nature of Amber's psychic gifts, let alone the extent of them, but he had seen them in action too many times to discount them.

Trevor gave Drew an “I told you so” smile, and Drew nodded back.

“I don't suppose you have security cameras in your store,” Erin said, not bothering to hide the eagerness in her voice. Drew imagined she hoped to get her hands on footage of the murder to use in her film.

“No,” Jenn said. “It's just a small-town bookstore, you know? Unless you're an occult bibliophile, there's nothing worth stealing, and I don't keep a lot of cash on the premises.”

Carrington jumped in then. “Do the police have any idea who's responsible?”

“No,” Jenn said. “Chief Hoffman said Tonya had been texting with some of her friends before . . . before it happened. She was supposed to go home after she closed, but when she didn't show up, they didn't worry about it. Tonya had an on-again, off-again relationship with an ex-boyfriend, and they figured she'd changed her plans and gone out with him. And before you ask, the chief checked, and the boyfriend's got a solid alibi. The chief then asked me if Tonya had any enemies. Isn't that ridiculous? A
young girl going to community college in a small Indiana town. What kind of ‘enemies' would she have? It's not like she's some kind of criminal mastermind. The chief didn't say anything, but I had the impression that he thinks some nutjob who came to town for Dead Days is responsible. Most of the people who visit Exeter are normal enough, and they come here to enjoy a bit of harmless, spooky fun. Some are more serious about the paranormal, but even the most ardent true believers still have a majority of their marbles.” She glanced at Trevor and gave him a small smile. “Although some have more than others. But every once in a while, a person comes into the store and gives off an ‘I'm a little more crazy than the average bear' vibe. I figure Tonya was killed by someone like that.”