I met Gwen at Parker’s Garage, where she was in the process of dropping off the Rockfield Gazette van for service. Based on Parker’s prices, it was looking as if my work for the paper would continue to be pro bono.
But I did receive a reward for my efforts. Gwen directed me to Dello’s, and let me order anything I wanted, on her. So of course, I went with my usual bacon double cheeseburger and a beer. Being a cheap date is one of my best qualities.
We took a seat at one of the outside tables. It was late afternoon, on another dry, summer-like day. She sent a cagey smile in my direction. “So have you found Thomas Archibald yet?”
I kept my focus on the burger. “Surprisingly no, but I have a few good leads. And I did have a good sit-down with Bette Hastings.”
A flash of surprise crossed her face. “I was under the impression that she was unable to communicate.”
“She can’t talk, whether she is able to communicate is still up for debate.”
“So you were able to get something out of her? About Archibald?”
“Not a thing—but just spending some time with her reminded me not to waste a minute of this life. It can be ripped away at a moment’s notice.”
“Then I would consider your visit a true success,” she said and we clanked bottles—my beer and her diet Snapple.
“Did you know that Doc Mac is in charge of her care? He has spent a couple of hours each afternoon with her, after he finishes up with his last patient … for decades.”
“I wasn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me, and she’s in good hands. I remember when I was around seven, and determined to help my dad on one of his jobs. I tried to hammer in a nail, which I was not very good at, but I was quite effective at hitting my thumb. Doc made it all better, because he always made it better.”
I squinted with suspicion. “So now that you’ve softened me up with greasy meat and tales of yesteryear, what do have on your mind?”
“I was just curious if you and Murray had given up your noble quest, and were willing to admit that what happened the other night was a teenage hoax, and not part of some grand conspiracy.”
“Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Are you sure I can’t get you to change your mind … what if I offer you some dessert?”
“By your cryptic grin, I’m guessing this dessert will feature some crow cake.”
“More like a big slice of humble pie.”
I matched her grin. “I’ve never had that before, but I’m always open to trying new things.”
Once I finished my dead cow and sudsy drink, Gwen had me drive her back to Gazette headquarters There were two cars in the parking lot—a BMW that I didn’t recognize, and a Toyota Land Cruiser that I did.
Murray’s old jalopy was gone, as was Allison’s Audi. So it would be just us and our visitors. The way Gwen had planned it.
The Gazette was located on the second floor of the weathered colonial on Main Street. We climbed the stairs and I noticed Gwen’s confident stride—it was clear that she wasn’t bluffing. We arrived at a door with Rockfield Gazette stenciled on its glass window. Through it, I saw exactly who I thought would be here—the five kids from the bridge incident.
“So these are your chirping birdies?”
“I know it’s shocking that a group of teenagers couldn’t keep a secret, but that’s what separates the great journalists from those who spent most of their career on cable news,” she said with a smile. She was really enjoying this.
“I’m not surprised they talked, but I am impressed they talked to you. Teenagers usually see old people as the enemy.”
“For the official record, I am, and will always be, younger than you. I put the story together, and then offered them a choice—tell me what happened that night, or I go to print with the story and put their names in bold.”
“Ah, that old journalistic tactic of blackmail.”
“More like freedom of choice—and they picked the one that benefited them most. It’s the American way.”
“So let me guess—there was no faceless ghost in a bathrobe looking for Archie?”
She opened the door. “How about we let them tell the story.”
Chapter 26
The band was back together—Shane, Mark, Katie, Luke, along with Callie Faust and her bandaged ear. They were seated at a table in the large room we call the bullpen, which doubles as our offices and conference room.
Mark DiNardo appeared to be the lead singer, and began, “I worked as a lifeguard at the pool this summer at Lefebvre Park. As I went to leave one night, I found a note stuck under the wiper blade of my Land Cruiser. It said if you want to make some easy money call this number. I thought it was a scam, so I chucked it.
“A few days later I received another note, but this time it was inside my vehicle. It said I thought I told you to call me? If you think I was making it up, here’s a start. And there was $500 in bills attached to it. It got my attention, so this time I called.”
“And who did you speak to?” I asked.
“A guy who said he represented Ghost Town, USA, the TV show. He told me that they were going to do an episode on some old ghost story from Rockfield, and he was looking for some publicity—get the hype going were his exact words.”
I’m normally not up on Reality TV shows, but after Byron mentioned that “ghost experts” had paid a visit to Mama Jasper’s, I did an Internet search, wondering if there really was such a thing, or if he was just messing with Carter. Not only is there such an industry, but I came across numerous listings for Ghost Town, USA. The basic gist of the show was, paranormal investigators set up camp at places known to be “haunted,” often using high-tech looking equipment to detect the spirits. As far as I could tell, Bill Murray and Dan Akroyd were not involved. It was also a big ratings hit, which meant they must be pretty good at getting that hype going.
“Did you look into the phone number?” I asked Gwen.
“Of course—and it went to a burner phone that originated out of New Jersey. It couldn’t be traced, which wasn’t much of a surprise.”
I turned back to Mark DiNardo. “Okay, you’ve made contact—now what?”
“We had a couple of conversations back and forth. I finally agreed to it, but wouldn’t do it without my team—if one of us was getting paid, all of us were getting paid. We settled on five grand—one G for each of us.”
“We really needed the money. This is our last year of high school, and then it’s off to the real world,” Callie felt compelled to defend their choice.
When I mentioned that they were all on schedule to attend prestigious universities next fall, and as anyone who has ever been to college will tell you, it’s the furthest thing from the real world, she took exception, “Yeah right, we’re just months away from being stuck with student loans for the rest of our lives all for the privilege of spending ten hours a day in some cubicle for a job we hate, making money for some assholes who will lay us off right before Christmas without losing a wink of sleep. We need to get what we can before it’s too late.”
Gotta love that youthful idealism. I was glad to see the American dream was alive and well.
And just so they didn’t think they were working with a rank amateur, I dropped some knowledge, “The money was provided for you in a drop up by the pavilion, buried in a shoebox with a dead bird.”
“How’d you know that?” Shane asked.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a hoop earring.
Callie took hold of it, looking surprised, but also happy to see an old friend. “We were running in the dark, going to pick up our money Saturday night, and I tripped. It ripped out of my ear, but I had so much adrenaline going that I didn’t know I was bleeding until we got to the bridge. It was helpful for the story, but it hurt like a bitch.”
Mark DiNardo jumped back in, “The first drop was $500 with instructions. The second was two grand, right before we went live. And then we picked up the final $2,500 Sunday morning after we comple
ted the job.”
“These instructions—did you keep a copy?”
“No—it said to put them back in the shoebox, and re-bury them when we were done reading them. At our next pickup, they were gone, replaced by new instructions. It was just a typed Word doc, and was like a script for a play, telling us what to say and do. Callie is big into acting, so she took the lead.”
“One of the things it asked you to say was that the ghost was looking for an Archie—do you know who Thomas Archibald was?”
They all looked at each other—they had no idea. When I explained that he was a high school senior just like them, and described the circumstances of his disappearance, I thought it might hit home, but they just looked further bored with the proceedings. When I asked about Bette, they were equally clueless, shrugged, and reiterated that they were just following the script.
So in keeping with that script, after receiving their payment Saturday night—and unknowingly being spotted by Levi Campbell—they went to the bridge, got wet, called the police, and put on a performance worthy of Broadway. They returned to the dead bird box the next morning to receive their final payout for a job well done.
“Have you heard from anyone from Ghost Town, USA, since that night?” I asked.
They shook their heads.
“When I contacted Ghost Town, USA, they denied all claims and threatened a lawsuit if I printed the article. They also added a blanket statement, stating that all places considered to be hot spots of paranormal activity are under review for possible sites, but wouldn’t comment on specifics, including Rockfield,” Gwen said.
There was also the possibility that they were lying. Somebody was. But I did get the feeling that these kids were telling the truth, this time anyway, and were just pawns in this scheme. Whatever it might be.
I thought of Vivian’s words about the Samerauks, and specifically Poca, having others do their dirty work for them. Why all of a sudden did a Reality TV show pick little Rockfield for their next ghostly destination? Perhaps they got a call from Poca. The show would get the “hype” that would lead to ratings, the return of the curse would help scare some undecided voters into supporting the Samerauk’s casino, and the future college students would get some spending cash before they were sent off to the salt mines. It all seemed like a logical outcome, but there was something about the curse that didn’t fit, and this wrapped things up a little too neatly.
“We kept our part of the deal, now we expect you to keep yours,” Shane concluded, sounding like the son of a lawyer that he was.
“A reporter is as good as their sources, and will protect them at all cost. I now consider the five of you to be sources,” Gwen responded. “I will continue to investigate Ghost Town, USA, as I don’t believe this was an isolated incident, but I have no plans to publish this article.”
They let out a collective breath.
For some reason, I wasn’t feeling the same relief.
Chapter 27
Gwen and I remained behind, working on the morning edition until after dark.
My girlfriend, as always, was a good winner. She’d proven her point, made a couple of snarky comments, and moved on. I would have spent the rest of the evening rubbing in my victory, reminding her how right I was.
She craned her neck to see the clock on the wall. “I need to get home—Allison is cooking a ‘Back to School’ dinner.”
“The woman you hired me to kick to the curb?”
“No—I wanted her to be nudged gently to First Class, so it will be easier for me and my boyfriend to snuggle back in Coach.”
“I had my heart set on the Mile High Club, but I like the way you think,” I said with a playful grin, and then returned to the article I was working on.
“So are we going to do this, or are you too busy?” she interrupted my thoughts.
“I think you have to be on an airplane, but we could practice in the supply closet if you’d like.”
“I meant, are you going to drive me home? The van is in the shop, if you remember.”
I acted as if I hadn’t forgotten, grabbed my keys, and we headed out to the Jeep. We then drove off into the night.
As we turned onto Zycko Hill, there was a dense fog hovering above the ground that had a certain horror-film spookiness to it. But we didn’t have much further to go—Gwen’s father lived on River Road, which was the first turnoff right before the bridge. When her parents got divorced Gwen went to live with her mother, in a house on Brook Lane, while her father built this house near the river. The area was built up now, but back then it was like a cabin in the woods.
I was about to make the turn off Zycko onto River, when a flash of light sliced through the fog, momentarily blinding me. I felt disorientated, and slammed on the brakes.
I heard a pounding of hooves against the blacktop. They got louder, and louder, until my eyes locked on the horse as it passed us by. The rider was wearing just a bathrobe and had a mask on, which made him appear faceless. At least, I hoped that was the case. He was also carrying a large spotlight with him, which confirmed that the bright light was more Home Depot than paranormal.
I hit the gas pedal. “No—JP!” Gwen called out, but I was determined to get to the bottom of this.
“I’m just driving you home, like you asked,” I said, as I watched the horse turn down Gwen’s road.
The wheels screeched as I took off after him. But as I made my way down River Road, there appeared to be no sign of the horse. I slowed to a stop about three houses away from Gwen’s place.
I cut the lights and we sat still in the dead silence. We waited … and waited. Nothing.
Gwen grew impatient, and was about to get out and walk the rest of the way, when we were jolted to attention. The horse dashed out of the woods and was running like it was on the final stretch of the Derby, heading in the direction that we’d just come from.
I hit the lights, and spun the Jeep around. By the time I located the horse in the fog, it was turning off River, back onto Zycko.
I sped faster, and again Gwen cautioned, “It’s not worth it, JP!”
I wasn’t listening. I saw the horse ahead, racing over the bridge. He had a head start, but the Jeep had two hundred horsepower, and he had just one. I made up ground quickly, but he turned off the first street following the bridge—Blueberry Bush Road.
Perhaps he was returning home. The mental hospital was no longer there, but Lefebvre Park was, and that’s exactly where the horse was headed.
I peeled into the parking lot, just in time to see him gallop across the baseball fields, and up by the pavilion, before disappearing into the woods. It would be impossible to continue the chase in the Jeep. And there was no way we’d be able to stay close by foot.
I thought to call the police, but then I visualized how that conversation might go. And on top of it, I’m not really sure the man on the horse broke any laws.
I looked to Gwen. “Ghost Town, USA?”
“I’m starting to think that’s exactly what this place is,” she replied.
Part Three —
Casino Royals
Chapter 28
Friday—September 12
They say there are always two sides to a story. I tend to disagree—I’ve found that there are numerous sides, and they normally include so much contradiction and diversion that by the end, most people have forgotten what the story was about in the first place. So with that in mind, I headed over to the town meeting being held in Samerauk Nation about the impending casino.
Carter had no interest in attending, until he was struck by something. “Is that hot Indian babe going to be there?”
“The meeting is being put on by the Samerauk Tribe, and she is their chief, so I would imagine so.”
“I love a powerful woman,” was his way of saying he’d reconsidered, and now would be joining me.
“Since your last girlfriend was a dominatrix, I think that’s understood,” I tested the waters.
His glare informed me th
at any plans I had of getting to the bottom of what happened between him and Mistress Kate had hit a brick wall. But since he prepared for the town meeting by dousing his shaved scalp in cologne, and choosing to wear his best sleeveless denim jacket, it appeared that he had moved on to his next opponent.
The third member of the group, Byron, would not be joining us. His bromance with my brother had picked up steam since the Labor Day picnic. The former NFL running back was going to be a guest at Rockfield High’s football practice today, and would give a motivational speech to the team. I could only wish that someone would give Byron a speech, encouraging him to return to Tonya and Charleston with apology in hand, before he really screwed up a good thing.
We drove into Samerauk Nation, which borders on the northern end of Rockfield. The way folks had been talking about the federal recognition decision, I was expecting to be met by armed border guards demanding my passport. But it seemed no different than any previous time I’d been there. It had always been considered a section of Rockfield, since we went to school together, played Little League together, and even shared the same police and fire departments.
And while the term “nation” gives the impression of a large and highly populated landmass, Samerauk Nation was anything but. It was made up of just six hundred acres, which was dictated by the 1930 agreement between the tribe and the town of Rockfield. One must be a tribal member to seek residence, or own a business within the boundaries, and at last check, about half of the tribe’s 150 living members resided there.
I found a parking spot near Vayo Square, named after the former chief. The parking area was as crowded as I’d ever seen it. This made sense, as the casino would truly change the ecosystem of Rockfield and the surrounding towns. The question was: would it be for the better?
As we filed into the small square, I estimated that the pro-casino crowd had a slight majority, but I got the sense that their vote could be swayed. Rows of chairs had been set up facing the stage. Carter and I took a seat about halfway back. I waved to Murray, who was in the front row, covering it for the Gazette. I had been here many times for events during my childhood—the Samerauks often put on cultural ceremonies and shows during the year, which my father would attend as part of his first selectman duties. He would bring my brothers and me, with hopes of expanding our horizons. But the festive atmosphere I recall from those events was gone, and the tension was palpable.
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