Lure (2 page)

"Large chocolate milkshake," she said, despite her better judgment, and the girl said nothing, she just turned to the stainless steel ice cream machine with its glass portal that showed the soft serve ice cream being churned within. When she took Sam's money, her courage appeared to be growing and when she returned with Sam's change, she said, "Did you really see that little girl?"

The same question, over and over. "Yes," Sam said almost reflexively, hoping no one ever asked her that again. After walking back to the car, she handed Shells her milkshake and grabbed her screwdriver. There were laughs and jeers from the ice machine. Slamming the hood, Sam was fuming by the time she yanked the door shut, backed up, and then jammed the car into first. Revving the engine and dumping the clutch, she left the parking lot sideways and went screeching back toward town. When she looked over at Shells, she got daggers in return.

"Oh yeah. Hand the fat chick a chocolate milkshake. Nice."

* * *

"Do you have to bring that thing in the house?" Shells asked Greg, who stood in Sam's kitchen.

"I'm on duty. I just stopped by to use the bathroom. It's disgusting in there, by the way."

Sam watched the two of them. Shells hated guns. Greg looked extra manly in his uniform, his accouterments polished, and the crosshatched grip of his pistol always in view. Sometimes it took a while for her to notice his face, with such a strong jaw line, or his sparkling blue eyes, but it was worth it when she got there. It took a moment for Sam to recall her current dilemma, and for her to remember to be angry with him. "You knew we had this investigation coming up. I told you to put in for the time off, and you said you would make sure you wouldn't have to be on duty."

"I know. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do about it. There's a bug going around, and half the force is sick. Maybe you could get Alton to do it."

Sam and Shells turned to each other, and both said, "No way."

"I guess it'll have to be just the two of you. Sorry," Greg said, his radio ending its silence. "I've got to go. Sorry. Bye."

"Not the most reliable fellow," Shells said. "And I do believe he smelled funny."

Sam stuck her tongue out in response, and then turned more serious. "I worked hard to get this investigation lined up, and I'm not going to lose the opportunity. I only need one, Shells; just one piece of evidence, that's all I need."

Shells didn't respond, and the look on her face was one of concern for her friend. Sam had tried to talk about it before and it hadn't worked, she couldn't find the words to express what she had experienced. She simply had no way to convey the movie that played over and over in her head to those who wished so dearly to know why she had swerved and struck an ambulance, when the road had appeared completely clear to them. Sam knew there was a reason. Again and again she saw those eyes in her mind, and each time she fled from the vision.

"Hey! No beers before an investigation!"

Sam hadn't even realized she was opening a beer. The act had become almost reflexive. It disgusted her that there was more beer in her house than food, and that there was more food scattered across her kitchen table and floor, in the form of pretzels, than there was in her fridge and pantry. Not so long ago she'd had a promising life, but now things seemed only to spiral deeper and deeper into an abyss of madness and despair. Somehow she had to find a way to reconcile what she had seen.

Putting the beer back in the fridge, Sam cleared her throat and flushed. "Right. Sorry. Habit."

"I guess I could run the camera tonight," Shells said.

"I prefer to have you in front of the camera and not behind it. Maybe we really should ask Alton."

"Really? I mean I know he can do it, but when have we ever managed to stay out of trouble around that guy?"

Sam let it drop for the moment.

"You really need to get Internet access here," Shells said. "How am I supposed to build our paranormal media empire without broadband? It's ludicrous, dude. Seriously. Here, look at the new website I set up for us. It's SJPS.com for South Jersey Paranormal Society. What do you think?"

Sam was constantly amazed by the things Shells came up with. She wasn't quite certain what a broadband was, but she assumed it had something to do with websites. The site that Shells displayed on her smartphone looked as if a team of professionals had designed it, and Sam had to admit that she was impressed. Smoke over a black background set the tone, and glossy buttons drew the eye.

 
"How did you do that?"

"I don't know. I just know how to do stuff."

"Well, you should be doing that instead of flinging falafel," Sam said.

* * *

Watching Alton setting up the rented gear, expensive rented gear, Sam worried. She'd spent the last of her money on it, and if they did not find some evidence or have some compelling footage to sell, then she would be sunk. She'd end up pumping gas, if she could even get the work doing that. Most of the employers she had approached shunned her. Her ordeal had simply been too public. Sam felt trapped and could find no way out. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and tried to have faith that everything would turn out all right. When Shells tripped over the cables Alton had not yet secured, Sam's heart leapt into her throat, but their luck held; no one was hurt and no equipment damaged.

"I still can't believe that your big investigation is in a bar," Alton said, his long, straight hair hanging down past his shoulders, making him look like a relic from the '70s, his overlarge and stubbly Adam's apple sticking out and making him look like he swallowed a golf ball. "It seems so appropriate. I mean, how many of the bars around here have you haunted."

"Too many," Shells answered for her.

Sam gave them both the finger.

Darkness was settling over downtown Woodstown, New Jersey, and The Corner Bar watched the sun sink below the peaks of the Delaware Memorial Bridge on the horizon.

"OK," Alton said. "We've got two IR illuminators covering the bar, one night vision camera covering the packaged goods section, and digital audio recorders on the bar and with the static camera. This place isn't all that big, so I think we should be all set. Oh, and I put some mugs on the bar. I think they should be full of beer, but Shells disagrees."

Sam couldn't fault his competence, but she had to agree with Shells on that one.

"So what are the claims?" Shells asked.

"The bartenders claim that mugs move on their own, sometimes leaping out of the overhead glass rack there," Sam replied. "They also say they see a dark shadow by the back door."

"That it?" Shells asked.

"Some of the patrons claim to have been touched in the bathrooms, but I'm not certain I'd put any stock in that."

"Maybe I should grab a six pack and head for the men's room," Alton said, the portable camera resting on his shoulder.

"No drinking during an investigation," Shells said, exasperated, and Alton rolled his eyes; Sam pretended not to hear. "And you're supposed to run the handheld."

"So you want me to start all this stuff recording?" Alton asked.

"We're not recording?" Shells asked. "C'mon, dude! Did you think that stuff about the claims was just for our benefit? We're shooting a show here man!"

"Oh. Right. Sorry. I thought you were gonna tell me or something-" Alton stopped when they all heard a subtle but quiet sound.

"Did you hear that? One of those mugs moved!"

"Which one?" Shells asked.

"I don't know," Sam said, realizing that she should have marked the mugs' locations in some way. Not having done so, she had no way to prove any of them had moved. "We need to mark where these mugs are, and I want a picture of the bar as it is currently arranged. Take it from a place where you can easily recreate your angle." For the first time in a long time, Sam felt as if she were in control. She was a trained investigator, and if only she would put her mind and attention to it, she would find answers. She reminded herself that nothing mattered more than answers backed up by physical evidence. Nothing else would do, nothing else would stitch her life back together. In that moment, she wished Greg were there. His strength bolstered her and helped her to believe. So many others had given up on her, turned their backs and pretended she no longer existed, or thought she was the lowest of the low.

The fact that Greg had removed her from the scene of the accident and hadn't administered a Breathalyzer was now becoming a serious issue for him as well. He hadn't said anything to her yet, but she knew Internal Affairs would be all over that. Chances were that his working that night had nothing to do with a bug going around the force. He could be sitting on the wrong end of an interrogation table, and Sam knew how terrible that felt. It had been chaos at the scene of the accident, and people had simply reacted as best as they could, given the scale of the disaster. The sight of it was burned into Sam's memory.

"So what are the claims of activity?" Shells asked after confirming that all of the equipment was now up and running, and that the mugs had all been circled with bright pink chalk they had found by the specials board.

Sam repeated the claims twice, since Alton sneezed in the middle of the first take. "I gotta take a leak," he said as soon as Sam paused to take a breath. He put down the camera and walked toward the makeshift hallway that led to the bathrooms. One wall was nothing more than a wooden latticework partition with bags of chips and doodles clipped to it, not to mention a life sized St. Pauly's girl cutout, which did its best to remind Sam how small her breasts were.

The spring loaded door squealed in protest before slamming shut as Alton entered the men's room. Moments later it did the same when Sam entered right behind him.

"What the hell?" Alton said, already in mid-piss.

"Grow up. You don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"You wanna make sure?" he asked while shaking it off.

"I'm good," Sam said. "I just always wondered what it was like in here."

"A piece of heaven," Alton said, as he pushed through the lighter but also spring-loaded half-door that had afforded him some privacy at the urinal. The door, like everything else in there, was painted dark brown and pitted with layers of graffiti that had been carved into the multiple layers of paint.

"Why do men feel the need to carve stuff into bathroom walls?"

Alton just shrugged and pushed his way to the sink, "I don't know, why do women urinate in pairs?"

"It gives us time to laugh at whatever stupid things the men are doing."

"Uh huh." Alton let the door slam behind him as he left.

For a minute longer Sam remained in the men's room, staring at the mirror. It was an old mirror, the backing chipped and distorted in places. Almost imperceptible flaws in the glass warped the image, and a hazy film coated it, adding texture until what Sam saw seemed distorted and alien. Lines crept outward from the corners of her liquid blue eyes, and the cold air blowing from the register above made her nipples stand out against her t-shirt. No doubt about it, even with a distorted reflection, she was hot. She knew it pissed off Alton and Shells, mostly because Shells didn't look as good and because Alton knew he wasn't getting any. Maybe they were both pissed about that last part; Sam wasn't really sure. Either way she made sure her ass looked good in her jeans before walking back out to the bar.
 
Smiling confidently, she made sure to give it a good shake as she passed by the St. Pauly's girl.

Chapter 2

With the infrared illuminators only allowing the night vision cameras to see, the group sat in darkness, the LCD panel on Alton's camera the only source of visible light. The mugs were where they had left them; Alton had gone around and checked them all while Sam and Shells used an audio recorder to try to capture ghost voices.

"We know you are here," Sam said. "Come closer to the device I'm holding in my hand and speak into it; then I'll be able to hear you and I'll know for certain that you are here."

"Don't you have to pause every once in a while and let the ghosts talk?" Alton said. "Typical woman. You talk too much."

Sam just glared at him. "Ignore the oaf with the camera. Isn't there anything you want to tell us, anything you want the world to know? Can you see the future? Do you even know you are dead?" Somehow Sam knew that Alton was opening and closing his fingers in a rapid motion, his imitation of what he called birds chirping. "I know you're doing that, Alton."

"How did . . . " he started to ask, but then he stopped mid-sentence. "What the-"

A sudden light blazed, forcing Sam to avert her eyes, "Hey."

"Which one of you did that?" Alton asked, his voice betraying fear.

"Did what?" Shells asked.

"C'mon. Which one of you touched my neck? It was you, wasn't it," Alton accused, pointing his flashlight at Sam.

"Get that light out of my face," Sam said. "Neither of us moved. You saw yourself when you turned on your light. We were both sitting right here, weren't we?"