Ghost Town (9 page)

Drew did know, which was why he had wanted Trevor to go away for a bit: to give Jenn the space she needed.

Esotericon's Exhibition Hall had been set up in the hotel's ballroom, a large, clean space, if a bit overdue for remodeling, with faded maroon carpet and tacky faux-crystal chandeliers overhead. Tables and booths lined the walls, with two more rows of exhibitor space running through the center of the room. Some booths featured sophisticated equipment that paranormal investigators could use to bring a scientific approach to their inquiries—full-spectrum camcorders and cameras, EMF detectors, night-vision scopes, infrared thermal scanners, air ion counters, motion detectors, and more. Other vendors took a more old-school approach, selling Ouija boards and tarot cards of various makes and designs, along with crystal balls and homemade charms. A number of regional ghost-hunting groups manned information booths, while several psychics sat at tables, ready to divine futures for twenty-five dollars.

An interesting mix of people wandered through the hall, inspecting the wares on display. Some wouldn't have been out of place at any professional academic conference—well groomed and nicely dressed but with a bookish air to them. Others were more casual in style, wearing jeans and T-shirts with slogans such as “Paranormal Investigators Do It with Spirit.” There was a contingent of pierced, tattooed, black-garbed Goths, along with a handful of costumed conference goers who looked more than ready for the night's big celebration. Ghosts, vampires, and zombies were the most popular outfits for this crowd, although there were some Ghostbusters with homemade proton packs and—for reasons Drew didn't pretend to understand—several
Harry Potter
characters.

Trevor and Carrington had been assigned a single long table, and Jenn went to work arranging Trevor's books first. She had several cardboard boxes of books sitting on the floor behind the tabletop. Amber pulled books out of the boxes and handed them to Jenn, who placed them on the table. She had already erected a sign on an easel announcing that Arthur Carrington and Trevor Ward would be signing books that morning. There was still a half-hour to go, but people carrying books kept walking past the table, looking at the sign, and glancing at their watches. Drew saw that most of the books they carried had been written by Carrington, but he was pleased to see a few of Trevor's represented, too.

“I was surprised to hear you express such strong disbelief in the supernatural back at the coffee shop,” Drew said to Jenn as she worked. “Trevor told us you originally contacted him to tell him about the increase in paranormal activity in town.”

“I might've fibbed a bit,” she admitted as she straightened a row of
Insidious Inns
. “Not about the incidents. Over the last few weeks, reports of strange encounters
have
increased. But then, they usually do this time of year. The tourist population surges, and everyone has Dead Days on the mind, you know? Imaginations start to kick into high gear, and soon people are seeing ghosts around every corner. But even so, this year, the reports have been . . . different. More bizarre. I thought Trevor would be interested in them and he might get another book out of it, or at least an article. I thought . . .” She trailed off as she placed a stack of
Taverns of Terror
on the tabletop and put a single display copy in front on a plastic stand.

“You thought maybe Trevor would come to visit,” Amber said.

Jenn nodded. “It had been a while since I'd seen him. I . . . missed him.”

Drew had been keeping a close eye on Jenn. Her hands trembled as she worked, and her voice quavered now and then, but overall, she seemed to be holding up remarkably well. He would
continue to watch her, though. Severe trauma like the kind she had experienced wasn't something you could get over in an hour or two.

Erin returned then, Carrington in tow.

“My apologies,” he said, sounding anything but apologetic. “I seem to have lost track of the time.”

“Lost track of how much you had to drink,” Erin muttered.

Carrington ignored her. “I see you haven't set up my books yet, Jenn. How much longer do you need? Another ten, fifteen minutes? Perhaps I'll wander around the hall for a bit until you—”

“No!” Erin said. She took hold of Carrington's arm, steered him around behind the table, and forced him to sit in one of the chairs. “You stay here until the signing starts. I intend to shoot footage of you interacting with fans, and I can't do that if you vanish again. Now, I'm going to call my crew and make sure they know what I want them to be filming today. I will be looking at you the entire time I'm on the phone, Arthur, so don't even try to lift your butt off the seat.”

Carrington smiled at her. “Yes, Mommy.”

She gave him a dirty look, pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, and made a call.

Jenn began setting up Carrington's books, and he started arguing with her about how they should be displayed. Jenn took it in stride, and Drew thought this might be a good time to speak with Amber alone. Something had happened at the coffee shop to disturb her, and he wanted to make sure she was all right.

He turned to Amber. “Trevor and Arthur could probably use some bottled water to sip while they sign.”

“Good idea. Why don't you go get some while I finish helping Jenn set up?”

Drew leaned closer to Amber and whispered, “Erin and Arthur are here. Jenn will be all right for a few minutes. I want to talk with you—alone.”

“I . . .” She glanced at Jenn.

Jenn smiled. “Go ahead. I'll be all right.”

Carrington reached out and patted Jenn's hand. “We'll take good care of her, dear. Rest assured.”

Amber looked doubtful, but she nodded, and she and Drew walked away from the signing table. Neither of them spoke as they headed for the Exhibition Hall's exit—there were too many people walking around and checking out the various booths—but as soon as they were out in the hall, Drew asked her how she was doing.

“What do you mean?”

He had the sense that she understood exactly what he meant, but she was stalling. Normally, he might drop the matter and allow her to tell him what was bothering her in her own time. But this was anything but a normal situation.

“About your dream paralleling Tonya's murder.”

She looked almost relieved, as if she had expected him to bring up something else. Something worse. But what could be worse than someone's murder?

“I'm doing all right. I mean, don't get me wrong. It's damned eerie to have a nightmare like that come true. Or at least, kind of come true. I doubt the books actually flew around the room, like in my dream.”

They kept walking until they reached the hotel's lobby. They continued past the check-in desk to the gift shop. Up front was a display featuring a variety of Exeter-themed souvenirs—refrigerator magnets, coffee mugs, T-shirts, hoodies, and ball caps—all tied to the town's reputation as a center of paranormal activity. Most of them featured a cartoonish ghost that evidently served as something of a mascot for the town. There was even a plush doll of the character, a smiling white blob of a thing that looked to Drew more like a friendly snowman than a fearsome creature from beyond the grave.

Amber picked up one of the toy ghosts and read its name off the tag.

“This is Hector the Specter . . .”

And at the same time, they both said, “From Exeter!” and laughed.

“I wonder who came up with such an awful name,” Amber said as she put the toy back on the display table.

“People throughout the world deal with death by minimizing it somehow, either by making it seem cute and harmless or by turning it into an object of ridicule,” Drew said. “A toy like this does both.”

The food and drink were toward the back of the gift shop, and they headed for it. Drew grabbed a couple of bottled waters out of the cooler, and they took them to the register. The clerk—a middle-aged woman dressed like a zombie in a torn blouse stained with fake blood—rang up their purchase with a bored detachment that perfectly suited her costume.

As they walked out of the gift shop, Drew carrying the water bottles in a plastic shopping bag, he said, “They might've. The books, I mean. Flown around the room.”

Amber gave him a suspicious look. “All right, who are you, and what have you done with Drew?”

He laughed. “I admit, my perspective on the world has shifted dramatically in the last couple of months. After what we experienced back home in Ash Creek, can you blame me?”

“No,” Amber said in a subdued voice, as if she were remembering. “I can't.” She paused, as if trying to decide whether to go on. Finally, she sighed and said, “At the coffee shop, when I went to the restroom with Jenn and Erin, I . . . saw Greg. In the mirror.”

Drew listened as she told him what she had experienced. Despite what he had said a moment ago, his first instinct was to dismiss Greg's appearance as a product of stress. This was the first time after what had happened at their high-school reunion that Amber had been exposed to images and ideas relating to the paranormal—add that to her dream's bizarre similarity to Tonya's murder, and you had a perfect recipe for a stress-induced hallucination.
But Drew had learned that there were “more things in heaven and earth,” to quote Hamlet, and he forced himself to keep an open mind. Besides, if there was anyone who could find a way to taunt the living from the Other Side, it would be Greg Daniels.

“Let's assume for now that you did communicate with Greg.” Before she could protest, he added, “I mean, that it really was him and not something else
masquerading
as him.”

“I thought about that possibility, and I've been trying to forget it.”

“Sorry, but when you're dealing with the paranormal, you have to explore alternative explanations. But like I said, let's say it was Greg. You said it felt like his . . . well, I suppose ‘psychic presence' is as good a way as any to describe it, right?”

She nodded.

“So if it
was
him, it seems clear that he came to warn us. What do you think the ‘nasty things' are that he told you about? Do you have any sense of what they might be?”

Just as she had earlier, she looked uncomfortable, as if she knew something but was reluctant to share it with him. He was going to press her to talk, but before he could say anything, his attention was drawn by the clacking of high heels as someone approached. Drew turned to see Connie Flaxman coming toward them, a wide smile on her face and ice in her gaze. His reaction was as heartfelt as it was succinct.

“Shit.”

“Hello, Drew. Thought
I'd pop down here and see what this conference of yours is all about. You made it sound so
fascinating,
I just couldn't resist.”

Amber had heard Drew talk about his supervisor on numerous occasions, but at none of those times had he ever described her—and now she knew why. Connie Flaxman wasn't just pretty; she was
gorgeous
. Silky blond shoulder-length hair, startlingly blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and a porcelain-smooth complexion accentuated with precise but understated makeup. She was tall—almost as tall as Drew—and curvy in all the right places. Large breasts, narrow waist, flaring hips . . . and she affected an ice-queen persona that Amber knew drove some men crazy. She wore a long-sleeved white blouse, a gray skirt that was just a little too short, glossy black high heels that were just a little too high, and to top it all off, black-framed geek-chic glasses, the kind that drew attention to beauty by trying to conceal it. And then there was her voice. It was honey-smooth, strong and confident, containing a touch of mockery along with a velvet softness. It was the sort of voice that promised both reward and punishment in the same breath.

Before Drew could respond, Connie turned to Amber.

“And is this the special friend you've been telling everyone at work about?” She stuck out her hand with a sharp motion, almost as if she were thrusting a weapon at Amber. “I'm Dr. Flaxman, Drew's supervisor. But you can call me Connie.”

Amber didn't miss the subtle stress she put on the word
doctor,
as if she were pointing out the difference in their education levels. The last thing she wanted to do was touch the woman's hand, but she put on a smile that she hoped didn't look too false and shook.

“Amber Lozier. Nice to meet you,” she said. “Drew's told me a lot about you.”
Except that you look like you should be on the cover of
Cosmo
instead of
Psychology Today, she thought.

Connie let out a ringing laugh that drew the attention of everyone in the vicinity—everyone who wasn't already staring at her, that is.

“I hope he wasn't complaining that I'm too hard on him! I do my best to be a firm but fair boss.” She smiled at Drew, put a hand on his arm, and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go.

Amber knew what the woman was doing. She was trying to show that she had a prior claim on Drew, marking her territory as if she were an animal. It was a transparent ploy, but that didn't make it any less effective. Amber already feared that she wasn't a good enough partner for Drew, that she wasn't as smart as he was, didn't have anything even approaching a career, and hadn't accomplished anything in life worth speaking of. Normally, she was able to put aside these self-doubts, if not silence them altogether. But seeing Mitch had brought them back full force. Maybe she really wasn't the kind of woman Drew should be with, the kind of woman he deserved.

Drew looked from Amber to Connie and back again, his expression that of a small animal caught in the headlights of an onrushing semi.

“This is, uh, quite a surprise,” he said. “Especially given how you reacted when I first told you about Esotericon.”