Ghost Trackers (23 page)

But Greg had spoken up. He’d pointed out that
while there was no denying the oddity of two relatively young men dying suddenly, the police had said nothing to them about the possibility of disease, and they’d be the first to urge the cancellation of the reunion if necessary. The fact that they hadn’t, while not proof, was a strong indication that whatever had caused the two men’s deaths wasn’t related, nor was it contagious. Besides, he’d said, what better way to memorialize their fallen classmates than by continuing with the reunion and dedicating the weekend to their memory?

Sherri had wanted to argue that it took time to perform autopsies and even more time to get test results back. There was no way the police would have any evidence one way or the other regarding the possibility of disease yet. But she hadn’t said anything. Greg had seemed so
sure
, and he had a quality about him that was hard to define, a self-assured strength that inspired confidence and trust. So, even though she’d known his argument was specious, she’d gone along with the other committee members when they’d decided to continue. She just hoped they wouldn’t end up regretting it.

Once the signs were hung to her satisfaction, she went over to the riser where the DJ was setting up to check on his progress. She double-checked to make sure he’d gotten the playlist she’d e-mailed him—songs that were all hits during their high-school years—and he assured her that he had and was ready to, quote, “Make this party happen!”

Sherri nodded and moved on to check the cash bar, thinking that while it was simpler to have booze ready and available legally at a dance, it took all the fun out of sneaking alcohol into the high-school gym. Everything looked good there, so she walked to the center of the room and stopped to take everything in. Half of the tables had been removed to make room to dance, and the rest had been moved off to the sides, tablecloths replaced with clean ones, and flower centerpieces, which she’d designed herself, placed in the middle, and tiny foil 1995s of various colors had been scattered on the tables. Nothing too fancy, but she figured it would do, considering that all people wanted was to dance, get drunk, hit on old flames, and, if all went well, get laid before the night was over.

She grinned.
My, aren’t we getting cynical in our old age?

Greg walked over to join her.

“Think we’re ready?” she asked him.

He had a faraway look in his eyes as he answered, and his voice sounded distracted, almost dreamy. “I’ve waited fifteen years for this moment, Sherri. I’m more than ready.”

Then he turned to her and smiled, and for a second, she saw him as bald, his face a ruined mass of scar tissue, his mouth an open slash bisecting the lower half of his face, gums sore and raw, with only a scattering of jagged, twisted teeth cutting through the flesh. But then she blinked, and he
looked normal again, his smile warm and reassuring, and the memory of what she saw—or thought she saw—faded from her mind before she could register it.

“Then let’s open the doors,” she said, “and get this party started.”

Greg’s smile widened into a grin, and a dark glint came into his eyes. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Drew, Amber, and
Trevor were among the first to enter the banquet-room-turned-dance-hall when the doors reopened. They’d visited the bar for a bit, mostly so Amber could have a glass of wine.

“Just need a little something to take the edge off,” she’d said.

Something else was going on with her, beyond a reaction to the general events they’d experienced so far. The way she’d reacted to Greg during the banquet when he’d approached their table . . . Drew wondered if Greg had spoken to her alone and, if so, what he’d said to her that might have upset her so. He wanted to ask her, but he also didn’t want to pry too much. The therapist in him told him to wait until she was ready to volunteer the information. But as her friend, he chafed with frustration. He wanted to be able to help her now. And if he were to be honest with himself, he wasn’t just frustrated. He was jealous, too. It was obvious that Greg was attracted to her, the slimy bastard, and that his attentions made her uncomfortable. He wanted to confront Greg and tell him to back
the hell off and leave her alone. And while he knew he was being an overprotective, possessive male, he couldn’t help himself. He’d just have to do the best he could to control his feelings and not let them get the better of him.

But he still intended to keep a close eye on Amber, especially when Greg was around.

So when the three of them entered the dance, the first thing he did was look around for Greg. He stood over by the riser where the DJ had set up, talking with Sherri Wackler. He saw them walk in and nodded in their direction, then went back to his conversation with Sherri. That suited Drew just fine. Intellectually, he wanted to finally talk with Greg and discover what, if anything, he knew about the night the Lowry House burned down, but emotionally, he didn’t mind waiting a bit longer.

The lights in the room had been dimmed, and the DJ’s equipment was rigged with flashing lights, including a mini disco ball, to help foster a party atmosphere. Drew found the lights annoying and hoped none of his former classmates suffered from epilepsy. If so, they’d probably end up having a seizure after the first five minutes. There were about a dozen people in the room already, the alumni committee and a handful of others, and more continued to filter in as the DJ started his spiel.

“Hey, how’s everybody doin’ tonight?”

This elicited a few tepid cheers, a couple of woo-hoos, and a smattering of applause.

“Awesome!” the DJ shouted with false enthusiasm. He was a skinny guy in his forties, with wire-framed glasses, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a shaved head. He wore a brown suit jacket over a white T-shirt with jeans in an obvious attempt to look hip. But the jacket was the wrong style, fabric too thick and with pads in the shoulders, making him look like a little kid who’d stolen one of his father’s old jackets in a vain attempt to play grown-up. “Everyone ready to have a blast?”

A few more cheers, only a little louder this time. People were starting to get drinks from the cash bar, but the alcohol hadn’t had time yet to start hitting their systems and artificially bolster their enthusiasm.

The DJ soldiered on, undeterred. “Well, let’s get things hoppin’ with a little Dave Matthews!” He flipped a switch on his console and “Ants Marching” began to play. Even though it wasn’t the most danceable of tunes, a few adventurous souls headed for the middle of the room—drinks in hand, of course—and did their best to move to the music.

“Now, that’s just wrong,” Trevor said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Drew said. “If ants grew to human size and started dancing, it might look a little like that.”

Amber giggled.

They picked out one of the tables close to the door so they’d be as far away from the DJ’s speakers as possible and sat down.

“I’m going to get something to drink,” Trevor said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the music. “Can I bring back anything for the two of you?”

Drew resisted an urge to glance at Amber. “I think it might be a good idea for us to keep our heads clear tonight.”

Trevor did look at her before returning his attention to Drew. “Maybe you don’t want a drink, but I quit smoking a couple weeks ago. I still get cravings for cigarettes, and they hit worst right after meals and when I’m sitting at a bar.”

“This isn’t a bar,” he said.

“It’s
like
a bar,” Trevor said. “It’s got bad music, bad dancing, and overpriced booze. So, I’m going to go get a beer and hope it blunts the craving for a smoke. At the very least, it’ll give me something to do with my hands instead of imagining I’m holding a cigarette. Do you two want anything? My treat.”

“I didn’t realize haunted hotel books paid so well,” Drew said.

Trevor grinned. “They don’t. This is a basic bar survival skill. Buy the first round, and you won’t have to buy another the rest of the night.”

“I’ll take another glass of wine,” Amber said.

“I’ll take whatever you’re having,” Drew said to Trevor, who nodded and headed off toward the bar.

When Trevor was gone, Amber turned to Drew. “I know I shouldn’t have another, but I’m just so nervous. All of these people, gathered in the same place . . . if anything should happen . . .” She shivered.

“Do you feel that something bad is going to happen?” he asked.

She looked at him as if he’d grown a second head and it had begun singing opera. “Are you asking if I’m having a premonition?”

Drew smiled. “Don’t tell Trevor. He’d never let me hear the end of it. I’m not asking if you’ve had some kind of psychic warning that something bad is going to happen here tonight, but the subconscious mind is often more observant than our conscious minds are. The feelings of foreboding we sometimes experience are often the subconscious’s way of trying to get our attention and pass along a warning. So, if you want to call that a premonition, I’m fine with that.”

She thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I am. I feel like an animal that senses a natural disaster coming, like a tornado or an earthquake, hours before it happens.”

He noted the way her gaze fell on Greg. He was still hanging out by the DJ’s station, only now he was talking with Sam Knapp, who’d played goalie on the varsity soccer team in high school.

“You think Greg’s connected to your premonition somehow.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded. “There’s something not right with him. All three of us sense it. We’re just not sure what to make of it.”

He had no reason to agree with what she had said—no rational reason, that is. But he couldn’t deny that he sensed the very thing she was talking about. And hadn’t he been the one who’d said that the subconscious mind sometimes knew more than the conscious one?

The DJ had switched to “Better Man” by Pearl Jam by the time Trevor returned with their drinks.

“Great song,” he said as he set their drinks down on the table, “but it’s not any easier to dance to than the last one.”

As if to illustrate his words, people cleared the dance floor as swiftly as if someone had lobbed a grenade into their midst. Some went off in search of drinks, some found tables to sit at, while others formed conversation groups and stood around talking, presumably waiting for the DJ to put on a more danceable song. Greg finished gabbing with Sam Knapp, and, although Drew managed to catch his eye, he didn’t head over to their table. Instead, he joined a group of four people whom Drew recognized as having been in the Drama Club in high school.

He had the sense that Greg was toying with them, that he knew they were waiting to see him and was delaying doing so just to mess with them. Part of him was getting fed up with Greg’s petty
games and wanted to go over there, take hold of his arm, and drag him back to the table. But he knew better than to give in to his frustration. It might make him feel good to force Greg to talk to them, but he doubted that it would put him in the most cooperative frame of mind. Better to be patient and wait a little longer. Besides, it wasn’t as if they would lose track of him. They were sitting by the door, and Greg couldn’t attempt to leave without them seeing him. One way or another, they’d get to talk to him before the night was over.

They sat for a bit, working on their drinks, listening to the music, and watching the people around them. And while part of their scrutiny derived from simple curiosity to see how their former classmates would act as adults, Drew knew that they were, in fact, standing guard, keeping a close eye on the crowd, alert for any sign that something bad—something like what happened to Sean and Jerry—might occur here tonight. His professional radar was operating at full strength, and he picked up on the crowd’s mood.

During the banquet, people had seemed subdued, but now, the festive atmosphere—aided by the liberal ingestion of alcohol—appeared to be raising everyone’s spirits. People hadn’t completely shed their emotional reactions to Sean’s and Jerry’s deaths, but they were well on their way. Drew recognized that a natural process was taking place, that his former classmates sought to release their
negative emotions and were going to use the party atmosphere to purge them. That meant they’d drink too much and get a little rowdy, maybe a lot rowdy—all in the name of catharsis.

Everything seemed normal enough, given the circumstances, but he glanced at Amber and Trevor to see if either of them had picked up on anything he’d missed. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, and both shook their heads to indicate that so far, they hadn’t detected anything wrong. He nodded, thinking that it was a wonderful thing to have friends so close that even after not having been together for the last fifteen years, they could communicate through simple body language.

He noticed that Trevor was paying close attention to Sherri Wackler, who was over at the cash bar.

Amber noticed, too, for she said, “Thinking about doing a little one-on-one investigating, Trevor?”

At first, he looked embarrassed at having been caught staring at Sherri, but then he grinned. “Why not?” He downed the rest of his beer in a gulp, as if looking for a last boost of courage, and then he got up and headed for the bar.

Drew figured that Trevor needed a little catharsis himself. Considering what the three of them had experienced since returning to town, Drew didn’t blame him.

Pearl Jam ended, and the DJ leaned in close to his mic. “All right, looks like we got this party off to a good start, people. So, what say we slow things down a bit and give you a chance to get up close and personal? Any old boyfriends or girlfriends out there you’d like to hook up with again or maybe an old crush you never had the courage to ask out? Now’s your chance to get ’em out on the dance floor.”

The DJ flipped a switch on his console and the dreamlike tones of “Fade into You” by Mazzy Star started playing.

“I love this song!” Amber said. Before Drew could react, she stood, reached over and grabbed his hand, and pulled him out of his seat. The next thing he knew, they were in the middle of the dance floor, and she had her hands on his shoulders. He hesitated only a moment before placing his hands on her waist. He’d never touched her before, not like this, anyway, and he was surprised by how natural it felt, as if his hands belonged there. They began swaying in time to the music, and when she stepped closer and rested her head on his shoulder, that felt natural, too.