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?"
"I don't like this shit, man," Alton said, refusing to turn off his flashlight. "Something touched me. I think I'm gonna jet. Y'all can finish this without me."
"Whoa. Wait. You can't just go all chicken shit on me. Did it hurt you or something? Do you want me to check you out?"
"No," Alton said, and the light played over his face as he shifted. His eyes darted back and forth, and Sam was pretty certain he wasn't making anything up.
"So what's the matter, then?"
"It felt good," he said quietly.
"What?"
"The way it touched my neck," he snapped. "I liked it. It kinda turned me on, and that is freaking me out! I gotta get out of here."
Trying hard to keep from laughing, Sam did her best to persuade him to stay, "Wait, man. Don't go. It's just The Corner Bar, remember? We've eaten lunch here a hundred times and closed it down almost just as many. You have nothing to fear here; you're around friends."
"A little too friendly," Alton said, but at least he didn't look like he was going to run for the door any more.
"It seems there is a female presence here that likes you," Sam said.
"Better be female," Alton replied.
Shells snorted. "Oh yeah, there's a gay ghost haunting The Corner Bar, and it's coming onto Alton. That's friggen' perfect. I should be writing this shit down."
"Shut up, Michelle," Alton said, knowing she hated to be called that.
Shells couldn't keep from giggling, and Sam shot her a dirty look.
"Give us a sign of your presence. Let us know if you are really here."
Silence.
"Move something, make a noise, touch one of us," Sam said.
"Touch one of them," Alton said, and then there was again the soft sound of a mug moving.
"Did you hear that?"
"I didn't hear anything," Alton said, and then Sam was certain she heard a gulp and then the same sound again.
"Turn on the light," Sam said.
"Uh uh."
"Turn it on."
Relenting, Alton turned on the flashlight and pointed it at Sam and Shells. Shading her eyes, Sam stepped forward and grabbed it from his hands. "Give me that." Then she looked at the mugs, starting with the one closest to Alton, which, though empty, appeared to be sweating, the chalk ring wet and smeared. "Alton."
He just belched in response.
"No more beers during the investigation," she said. Shells surprised them both and kept her mouth shut for a change. "You all right?" Shells remained silent, and Sam moved closer. "Shells," she said softly. "You OK?"
"Something touched me," she said. "Real tender and sexy like. I have to admit, it's kinda freaking me out too."
"Great. I got felt up by a bi-sexual ghost. That's just great. Or wait-"
"Shut up, Alton," Sam said, never taking her eyes off of Shells, and holding the flashlight so they both could see each other.
Sam leaned forward, the neckline of her t-shirt dipping low. Shells' eyes dropped low for a moment before meeting Sam's eyes once again. Sam pretended not to notice, and she even stayed in that position long enough to afford Shells a second glance--it seemed she couldn't resist. For some reason Sam was very proud of herself when she handed the flashlight back to Alton, despite feeling guilty about messing with Shells. She ignored the fact that the mug near Alton now had a quarter-inch more beer in it than the last time she had looked, and she wondered how many refills he'd had.
"Can you tell us your name?" Sam asked the silence, trying to regain her focus.
The only response was a high-pitched squeal that ended with the crinkling sound of a foil bag.
"Did you really think I wasn't going to hear you open that?"
Alton's only response was another belch followed by the sound of him eating chips. From behind her, Sam caught the sound of a mug being placed back on the bar; it was soft and almost imperceptible, as if someone were trying to hide it. Before Sam could even ask, Shells belched.
"Dude, do you think they have any of their sausage links cooking overnight? Isn't that how they make 'em so good?"
"C'mon, guys," Sam said. "I really need this."
"Fifteen minute food break," Alton said with a mouth full of chips.
"I'm checking out the kitchen," Shells said, and Sam sighed. Using her smartphone as a flashlight, Shells navigated her way into the back of the building. Sam had stayed away from the other side of the bar for a reason, but then she heard Shells call out, "Jackpot!"
Leaving the camera on the bar, Alton made his way back to join her. Parting the translucent panes of the vapor barrier, Sam made her way into the kitchen.
"Friggen' jackpot, dude!" Shells stood with sauce-covered tongs in her hands.
"Aw, man. Let me have one of those," Alton said. "I thought you were a vegetarian."
"Did I ever tell you that I was a vegetarian?"
"No."
"Then stuff a sausage in it."
"No need to get testy about it," Alton said as he retreated to the bar. Sam had no doubt there would be a different amount of beer in his mug when she returned.
"Aw, man. Where are those pickled tomatoes and peppers and stuff that they always give you. I gotta have some of those. I've got the wicked munchies."
"Don't take too much," Sam said, despite the fact that she held a plate with a sausage link on it.
"Screw that, girlfriend. I'm throwin' down," Shells said, and she pulled a couple small plastic tubs from the cooler. Sam took one. "When people find out there's a bisexual ghost in this place that likes to get touchy feely, they'll be packing the joint every night. Straight up."
"There really does seem to be something going on here, though, doesn't there? I mean, something really did touch you, right?"
The look on Shells face turned in an instant from happy to subdued. "It was totally freaky, dude. Straight up. No bullshit. And something sure got Alton wound up."
Nothing had touched Sam. Vague noises and second hand tales of personal experiences were all she had. It was nothing. It was worse than nothing. Perhaps never growing up had its consequences. "C'mon. Let's go get some evidence."
"Rock it, soul sister."
Back at the bar, Alton had his rear in one stool and his feet in another. The camera still rested on the bar, just next to a paper plate and napkin covered in tomato sauce.
"You gonna clean that up?" Sam asked.
Alton just snored in response.
"He's friggen' useless. Drunk as shit. I got it." Shells said.
The sound of Alton snoring was momentarily drowned out by the sound of tractor-trailers turning the corner. More were coming, and every one that came by meant contaminated audio. With a shrug, Sam resigned herself to failure and took a bite of pickled tomato with a Crown Royal chaser. It was followed by more; how many she could not say, but when she found herself back in the men's room, looking into that mirror, she wished that she had exercised a bit more self-control. Actions have consequences. Immediately following that thought a flicker of movement caught her eye. In the mirror she saw the shape of a man standing behind her, hovering, lurking. Her breath caught in her throat, and she tried to scream, but then there was a loud sound from the bar and alternating blue and red lights flickering through the gap along the bottom of the door. When she looked to the mirror again, the man was gone.
* * *
The flicker and hum of a fluorescent light threatened to relieve Sam of her sanity, even the light it produced was segmented and it throbbed along with her head. What had she been thinking? What had the three of them been thinking?
When the State Trooper who had arrested them and brought them to good 'ol Barracks A walked into the room, Sam braced herself. Trooper Marsh looked like most troopers looked: like a pile of meat stacked on top a massive superiority complex…it was kinda hot. "Ms. Flock," he said without looking her in the eye. Instead, he looked at her record, as if it defined her. One moment spent looking in her eyes and he could have learned more than her record would ever show. He cleared his throat. "You've had a colorful past, Ms. Flock. And while I respect the time you spent in service of your community, that service in no way gives you the right to disregard the law. Am I clear, Ms. Flock?"
"Yes, sir," Sam said, despite her deepest desire. She doubted her time in the Salem Police Department had any positive impact on his opinion of her. The angle of his nose hadn't really changed all that much, as he looked down at her.
"You are being charged with unlawful trespassing, misdemeanor theft, and disturbing the peace."
"We weren't trespassing, and how is three people passed out in a bar disturbing the peace?"
"I had to turn my lights on at o-four hundred hours, and I'm sure that disturbed someone."
Sam shut her mouth.
"Your friends face the same charges. If you will just tell me about how this robbery was all your idea, then I might just be inclined to let them go."
Before the sarcastic remark could even leave Sam's lips, Greg walked into the barracks followed by Johnny from The Corner Bar. Both wore a look of disbelief overshadowed by disappointment. Sam hated that look; it made her feel like a teenager again. But she wasn't a teenager any more.
Another trooper escorted Greg and Johnny to Trooper Marsh's office. "This is the property owner and someone to vouch for the alleged trespassers. Somehow their looks be
came amplified when aimed at Sam, and she shrunk beneath them. "The rental company listed on the equipment has been called. Since the alleged trespassers abandoned it, they have come and reclaimed the equipment. They will send the alleged trespassers a bill." He seemed to take great pleasure in describing Sam as the alleged trespasser, and she wanted to kick him in the shins.
"I don't want to press any charges," Johnny said.
"You sure about that? This guy hasn't been trying to persuade you, has he?"
It looked as if Greg had turned into stone; no emotion showed on his face, and Sam marveled at his control. She did not possess its equal and cast Trooper Marsh a dirty look. He ignored her.
"I'm certain I don't want to press charges, Trooper Marsh," Johnny said. "I'll add it to her tab. I'm sure she'll be around to pay it real soon. Won't you, Sam?"
"Yes, Johnny. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. Things just got out of hand."
Johnny didn't say anything; he just gave her a single silent nod. It hurt. She deserved it, but it still hurt.
"So you want custody of this one and the other two?"
"Yes, sir, Trooper Marsh, sir," Greg said.
"At ease Officer Helms."
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose I can release them into your custody provided we have an understanding that this won't happen again, and that if I even hear about anything like this happening again, I'll come after all four of you. You understand me?"
Greg nodded firmly, "Yes, sir." He wore no expression on his face; no emotion crept through the rigid mask.
"Just as well," Trooper Marsh said. "Saves me the paperwork. Get them out of here and don't let me see them again."
Escorting Sam by her arm, Greg led her to his squad car, while leaning over and practically growling at her, "What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how this looks on me? I can't believe you."
Lure Page 2