by Jason Hawes
“The Dark Lady was waiting for you,” Amber said.
“Not exactly. But I could sense the town’s power ten miles out. It was so strong that I had trouble concentrating while I was driving, and I nearly ran off the road a couple of times. For a nonpsychically gifted human, it would have been the equivalent of trying to drive into the face of a hurricane while suffering a migraine. But I persevered and reached the town. Once I was there, the psychic pressure eased somewhat, and I parked in the main business district, got out of my car, and wandered around, scenting the spiritual air, so to speak. Now that I was in the midst of the town, I was better able to detect the nature of the power that dwelled there. As I said, it was strong—stronger than anything I had ever experienced before—and it was, if not sleeping, at least quiet. I was, as you might imagine, extremely excited by the prospect of gobbling down so much power, and I made my way to an alley between a pair of businesses, sat down with my back against a wall, closed my eyes, and reached out with my mind.”
“I bet I can guess what happened next,” Trevor said. “The town woke up.”
“That it did,” Greg said. “And it wasn’t happy. It attacked me, and the pain I felt was beyond anything I thought possible. Both my body and my spirit were in agony. I tried to fight back, but it was useless. I was overwhelmed and blacked out. When I came to, I was behind the wheel of my Lexus, driving on a highway a hundred miles from Exeter.”
“So it kicked your ass,” Trevor said, not without some measure of satisfaction.
“Thoroughly,” Greg said. He admitted this without hesitance or wounded pride.
“There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Amber said. “I can feel it.”
Greg turned around in his seat and scowled at her. “It’s one thing to explore the expanded range of your psychic abilities, dear heart, but it’s quite another to use them as an excuse to be nosy.”
“Greg . . .” she warned.
“Very well. I did plan to return to Exeter and try to absorb its energy again. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to do the job on my own.”
“You were going to take us with you,” Drew said. “Once you’d managed to infect us with your Darkness, you’d have three partners to help you.”
“Yes, although that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to turn you,” Greg said. “At the time, I truly believed I was offering you a great gift.” He paused and then added, “And I was lonely.”
“Spare us the sob story,” Trevor said. “It’s awfully convenient that you’ve returned to the land of the living to help us with a problem in the very town whose psychic energy you once coveted. Have you come back to find a way to capture that energy for yourself, maybe even use it to be reincarnated in a new physical form? Then you can pick right up where you left off, toying with people for your amusement and killing them when you get bored.”
Greg leaned across the seat until his face—or, rather, Connie’s face—was only inches from Trevor’s. When he spoke, his voice was tight with anger. “At my current strength, I couldn’t absorb the smallest iota of psychic energy if I wanted to. If I tried, the town would destroy me as easily as you would swat a fly. I’m here because I made a mess, and it’s my responsibility to help clean it up. And because my friends are in danger.”
He leaned back in his seat and turned to look out the passenger window. In a calmer voice, one tinged with sadness, he said, “I don’t expect any of you to trust me. Why should you, after all the things I did? But what I’ve told you is the truth, and you can take it or leave it as you wish.” He fell silent after that.
Trevor glanced over his shoulder at Drew and Amber. They looked just as confused as he felt. On one hand, Trevor couldn’t imagine ever trusting Greg. He had tormented the three of them with nightmarish illusory scenarios as part of his scheme to “convert” them. And he was a murderer; there was no getting around that. But on the other hand, Trevor couldn’t help feeling that Greg was being sincere. He caught Drew’s eye, but Drew only gave him a shrug in return. It appeared that their resident psychologist didn’t have any insight to offer. Trevor didn’t blame him. Greg wasn’t human anymore and probably hadn’t been for a very long time. How could any of them truly understand his motives?
Maybe you don’t need to understand. Maybe you just need to have a little faith in your friend.
He heard the words in Jenn’s voice. She was a kind, forgiving person, very spiritual in her own way, even if she professed not to believe in any sort of unseen dimension of existence. It was exactly the sort of advice she would have given him if she had been there. Thinking of her made him wonder how she was doing. He hadn’t spoken to her since they had left to accompany Erin and Carrington to the college. She had no idea that there had been another appearance by the Dark Lady and that Ray had died during the attack. Part of him wanted to spare her the news as long as possible, but part of him wondered if it might be better just to get it over with. But the truth was, more than anything else, he just really wanted to hear her voice. He went as far as reaching for his cell phone, but then he decided against calling. He would talk to her when they got back to the hotel. It wouldn’t be much longer.
Despite the conversation they were going to have when he got back, he was looking forward to seeing Jenn. He wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about their relationship—or if they even had a relationship. How could anyone sort out their emotions with so many terrible things happening? But maybe, just maybe, something good would come out of all of this awfulness in the end.
Provided, of course, they both managed to survive it.
When they reached the hotel, Amber, Drew, and Greg decided to head up to Erin’s room, go over the research she had gathered on Exeter, and look at the footage she had shot so far. Trevor promised to join them once he checked on Jenn, and to his surprise, Carrington elected to accompany him. Trevor was irritated that Carrington was coming along—he would rather talk to Jenn alone—but before getting on the elevator, his friends gave him pointed looks that he figured were meant to remind him that Carrington might have some knowledge about Exeter that could prove useful. So Trevor gave Drew his laptop, which contained his own research on the town, told his friends he’d see them soon, and, as the elevator door slid shut, walked off in the direction of the Exhibition Hall, Carrington at his side.
He planned to pump Carrington for information as they walked, but as they made their way through the hotel, they were approached by numerous conference goers who wanted to ask the celebrity ghost hunter about the paranormal events rumored to have occurred at the college library. Trevor wasn’t sure how word of what had happened had spread so fast—probably via Facebook and Twitter, he supposed—but it seemed as if everyone at the conference knew about it. Trevor expected to see Arthur Carrington, TV host, bestselling author, and attention junkie, make an appearance then. But each time someone asked, he merely mumbled that he was sorry, but he had no idea what they were talking about, and the people moved off, disappointed and embarrassed.
When Trevor gave him a questioning look after he sent away an attractive young redhead whose eyes gleamed with hero worship, Carrington simply said, “It’s not a game anymore.”
Trevor, who had come to the same realization during the investigation of the Lowry House, understood all too well. And so he restrained himself from asking Carrington any questions as they continued to the Exhibition Hall. He wanted to give the man some time to come to terms with his newfound feelings toward his profession before interrogating him.
Eventually, people stopped approaching them, perhaps because word had gotten around that Carrington didn’t know anything about the library attack but more likely because the haunted—there was no better word for it—expression on the man’s face warned everyone away.
They made it to the Exhibition Hall without any further trouble, but as they approached Jenn’s table, they saw that she wasn’t there. Trevor asked the people tending the nearby booths if they had seen Jenn recently, but no one had. Un
fortunately, they couldn’t remember exactly when she had left. The hall was bustling with conference attendees, and Trevor understood that the dealers had been too busy hawking their wares to pay attention to anyone’s comings and goings. But it was clear that however long Jenn had been gone, it had been a while.
Trevor examined her table. There were still plenty of books displayed and available for sale, but there was no sign of her purse or jacket. Beneath her chair, he found a flat metal box. He pulled it out and placed it on the table.
“Her money box?” Carrington asked.
Trevor nodded. It wasn’t locked, so he opened it. It was full of bills, coins, checks, and credit and debit receipts.
“Jenn’s been a business owner too long to leave money lying around like this. If she had to take a break, she would have asked someone she knew and trusted to watch her table until she returned. If she couldn’t find anyone, she’d take the box with her. But she’d never just walk off and forget about it.”
He took out his cell and called Jenn’s number. Her phone rang ten times before going to voice mail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Jenn Rinaldi, owner of Forgotten Lore Books. Business or personal, it’s all good. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
Trevor waited for the beep and then started speaking. “Jenn, it’s Trevor. We’re back from the college, and I’m standing at your table in the Exhibition Hall. It looks like you’ve been gone for a while. When you get this, give me a call, and let me know what’s up.” He paused. “Hope you’re OK.” He said good-bye and disconnected.
“You sounded worried,” Carrington said.
Trevor put his cell away, closed the money box, picked it up, and tucked it beneath his arm. He then came around from behind the table and joined Carrington.
“I am. Like I said, Jenn wouldn’t run off and leave money lying around where anyone could steal it.”
“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Carrington said. “But this day has been anything but normal.”
“True.” Trevor thought for a moment. “Maybe she’s in her room.”
They went to the front desk. A clerk rang her room for them, but there was no answer. The two men moved away from the desk so they could speak in private.
“Maybe she unplugged the room phone so she could get some sleep?” Carrington ventured. “That could be why she didn’t answer her cell, either.”
“I suppose.” Trevor was beginning to get worried. The longer they went without knowing what had happened to Jenn, the more his mind conjured all manner of dire possibilities. Normally, he might have chalked up his fears to his writer’s imagination, but the Dark Lady was real, and so were all of the people she had killed.
Trevor continued. “She told me she’s planning on staying with a cousin who lives in Evansville. I thought she wasn’t supposed to get here until tomorrow, but maybe she arrived early and Jenn left with her. That doesn’t explain why she didn’t call or text me, though. Or why she didn’t bother to check out of the hotel.” He didn’t want to admit it to Carrington, but the idea that she might have left without telling him hurt.
“As I said before, it’s not a normal day. The poor girl suffered a great deal of trauma. We all have. There could be any number of reasons she might forget to contact you. She might be talking with her cousin as they drive, telling her everything that happened. Or she might have been so emotionally exhausted that she fell asleep as soon as she got into the car. And with everything else, checking out might’ve simply slipped her mind. She might have just wanted to get the hell out of this town as fast as she could. Can’t say as I blame her for that.”
Trevor had to admit that Carrington made some valid points, but they didn’t make him feel any better.
They got into the elevator, disembarked on Jenn’s floor, and went to her room. Trevor knocked several times and called her name, but she didn’t answer.
He turned to Carrington. “We need to go back down to the front desk and get security to let us in.”
“Trevor—”
“I agree that this is about as far away from an ordinary day as you can get. The Dark Lady has killed seven people so far. I hope to God that Jenn isn’t the eighth, but I have to know. If she’s in there . . .” Trevor trailed off, unable to complete the thought.
“All right. Let’s go back to the desk.”
As they headed toward the elevator, Trevor said, “And on the way, you can start telling me what you know about Exeter—and especially about the Dark Lady.” He could feel his panic starting to build, and he hoped that listening to Carrington talk might help distract him from his fears. He told himself that he should hope for the best, but unfortunately, he knew better than to expect it.
FIFTEEN
Jenn was a book person. That’s why she had started her business in the first place. But even after spending all day and a good portion of each evening surrounded by books, when she locked the door, turned over the closed sign, and headed upstairs for the night, what did she do to relax? She read. She was omnivorous and voracious, reading fiction and nonfiction, as much of it as she could get her hands on. She enjoyed movies well enough, although she didn’t watch more than a half-dozen in a month. Even so, she recognized that she was living a scene from a suspense film, one so common as to be a cliché: the victim of a kidnapping, tied to a chair and left alone while her captor was out running some kind of nefarious errand, giving her a golden opportunity to escape.
If she remembered right, in those films, the captive never got away. Whoever it was, man or woman, struggled to get out of their bonds, and finally, after a great deal of effort, they managed to untie a knot, cut the rope, or break the chair, winning their freedom at last. They would make a run for it then, only to be stopped at the last second by their captor, who had just returned, dashing their hopes for escape.
And the characters in those films didn’t have to deal with the fact that one of their captors was a ghost who could, presumably, reappear at any moment and who might be watching her right then, invisible and unseen. And even if the Dark Lady wasn’t present, would she somehow know if Jenn tried to get free? Did ghosts have some sort of psychic alarm system? She tried to remember what she had learned about ghostly powers from all the books on the paranormal she had read over the years, but nothing came to her. Maybe it was because she was too frightened to think straight, but she had the feeling that she couldn’t remember because no one had ever written about such things. Who knew enough about ghosts to write a field guide to them? Maybe Trevor could do the first. Spooks, Specters, and Spirits: How to Identify, Classify, and Nullify the Predatory Dead by Trevor Sloan. Not bad. She would be sure to suggest it to him the next time—
She broke off the thought. She was scared, and her mind was running wild. She needed to regain control of herself if she was to have any hope of getting away. And getting away was what she desired more than anything in the world. She remembered what the Dark Lady had told Mitch just before they left. “When this is all over, if you still want her, you can have her, too.”
She had to escape. Now, while she had the chance, movie cliché or not.
She had no idea where her cell phone was. She had brought it with her in her purse when Mitch had tricked her into leaving the hotel, but she hadn’t seen it since. Maybe it was still in his car. She had a land line though, and that phone was in the kitchen. If she couldn’t get loose from the ropes, it might as well be on the moon. But if she could reach it, she could call 911 and Peter or one of his people would haul ass over there to help her. Better yet, she could hightail it out of there and make the call from somewhere, anywhere, else. Somewhere she would be safe. That was a plan she could get behind. A damned fine plan. But it all depended on whether she could get loose.
She tugged at the ropes that encircled her wrists and bound her to the chair back, strained at the ones binding her legs to those of the chair. But the knots were too tight, and Mitch had left her no slack. No escape that way. Mitch h
ad gagged her before leaving, using strips of cloth torn from one of her favorite sheets, a cozy blue flannel one she loved to sleep under in wintertime. Bastard. The fabric was moist and gummy in her mouth, the taste faintly musty, as if it had been stored in the linen closet too long. If she could wiggle enough to get her mouth free of the gag, she could yell for help, scream at the top of her lungs. Sure, she was upstairs, but someone out on the street might . . .
Forget it. It was Dead Days. Even if someone outside did hear her scream, they would probably chalk it up to a sound effect on a spooky album or something similar. They wouldn’t kick down the door, rush upstairs, find her tied up, free her, and help her get to safety before Mitch and the Dark Lady returned. So even if she could get the gag out—which was doubtful; Mitch had tied it pretty damned tight—it wouldn’t help.
What did that leave her? Besides just sitting there and giving in to despair, that is.
Could she somehow break the chair? This wasn’t Hollywood. Chairs weren’t made to fall apart at the first blow. But then again, she wasn’t tied to a chair made of cast iron, either. It was just wood, held together with screws and glue. How hard could it be to break?
Just tipping over wouldn’t do it, she was sure about that. She’d knocked over chairs before, and they hadn’t broken. When she was a child, she’d had a habit of leaning back in her chair, especially at dinnertime. It had driven her mother crazy. She had always worried that Jenn would fall backward while she was eating and the impact would cause whatever food she was chewing to lodge in her windpipe, choking her. Jenn had indeed fallen a couple of times, but despite her mother’s fears, she had never choked. But she had never broken a chair, either. Of course, she had been smaller then, but she didn’t think she massed enough now simply to break a chair by pushing herself backward. And with her legs tied, she would have to rock back and forth until she built up enough momentum to tip over backward. She wouldn’t be able to fling herself backward with any significant force, though. And her hands were tied behind the chair. If she did manage to tip herself over, she would land on her arms, which would not only be painful but would cushion the impact on the wood. She might break a wrist before she broke the chair.