by Ani Gonzalez
The charts were trying to tell her something.
She could feel it in her bones.
What was it?
CHAPTER SIX
THE BLACK River Falls Bridge was always bad news, and tonight, it was downright deadly.
Sean looked down at the lifeless body on the wet grass. The crime scene was clean. Caine's staffers, Gus and Smithie, were both EMS technicians. They knew the basics of how to preserve a potential crime scene. The body was untouched.
Male, Caucasian, late middle-age, no wedding ring. Head wound. Gun in hand. Papers strewn about. Tan slacks and a pastel-colored golf shirt.
Pretty clear cut.
"We haven't had a suicide on this bridge in years," Caine said. "After that batch in the nineties, the county put in concrete barriers, extra lighting, and even a new bus stop. That made it an unfriendly spot for self-terminations."
"Someone was bound to try again," Gus, a heavyset bald man with a gray beard, said. "The place is just too famous. There are too many deaths associated with it."
"Yeah, well, I don't have to like it, do I?" Caine grumbled.
"Did you guys call Fairfax?" Sean asked. "This end of the bridge is under their jurisdiction."
Gus nodded. "Yeah, they're sending a squad."
Caine aimed a sorrowful glance at the body and shook his head. "I'll go wait for them."
Sean and Gus watched as Caine walked away.
"He's taking it pretty hard," Smithie said. "He won't let us investigate the bridge or even mention it on videos. He doesn't want to give anyone ideas. It's the only Banshee Creek spot that we haven't covered."
"How did you find the body?" Sean asked.
Gus looked sheepish. "We always ride slow on Black River Falls Bridge. It's an unlucky piece of road."
Smithie nodded. "We saw the shoes. The guys thought it was a pile of trash, but..."
"You two knew better."
"Yeah," Gus replied. "We stopped and checked, but it was clear that the man was dead. We called nine-one-one and Caine."
"And Caine brought you," Smithie added.
Sean nodded. "Look familiar to you?"
"Nope," Gus replied. "That looks like a Banshee Creek map under his arm. Probably a stranger looking for..."
"Yep," Smithie said. "Wish they'd do it somewhere else. We don't need this in our town."
They stood quietly, staring at the corpse. Sean tried to recall what he knew of the Black Falls River suicide attempts. As far as he could remember, the spot attracted mostly maudlin teenagers with clinical depression. This man did not fit the profile. His clothes were well-made and his shoes looked expensive. He looked like he was on his way to a country club.
The familiar sound of police sirens broke the silence.
"Fairfax is here," Sean said. "You guys should go and give your statements."
Gus and Smithie walked off obediently. Sean was left alone with the dead man.
This he hadn't expected. Poltergeist attacks, yes. Devil monkey sightings, sure. Alien abductions, why not?
But a corpse? No, he hadn't expected that.
"Good evening, Sheriff." The Fairfax County officer—Officer Lukas, by his nametag—greeted him courteously. "Looks like we have a suicide, eh?"
Sean nodded toward the body. "What do you think?"
Officer Lukas glanced down. "Looks fairly straightforward to me."
Sean nodded his head. "It does."
But it wasn't, not really. The gun position was wrong, as was the extension of the arm. An ordinary patrolman wouldn't necessarily notice that, but an NYPD detective would.
"At least it's not a kid," Officer Lukas noted.
"You got that right."
***
Several hours later, Sean drove to a low-slung, two-story building with stylish gray awnings. The brick facade was complemented with cedar siding and galvanized metal fixtures that gave it a hint of industrial flair. The place looked brand new, but, in fact, it was a recently remodeled 1950s-style motel. Like most buildings of its kind, it had a large parking lot in front, a pool in the back, and a reception area to the side. Unlike any other building in the world, it displayed a bright neon sign that read "Banshee Creek Monster Hunter Motel." He turned into the lot and parked the Mustang near the entrance.
Home sweet home. He needed a hot shower and a warm bed, in that order. He was a cop. He should be used to crime scenes, but the truth was you never got used to it.
The motel was a welcome refuge right now. He could have rented a house in town. Banshee Creek had plenty of real estate inventory. His new job, however, had included a paid stay at the local motel as part of his pay package. At first he'd thought that it was because they felt that, as a gun attack survivor, he wouldn't be comfortable in one of the town's many haunted properties. PTSD sufferers tend to react badly to things that go bump in the night.
But now he was starting to wonder. So far, the motel had hosted three ghost hunting conventions, a Virginia devil monkey expedition, and a folklore and mythology symposium. Each event was more raucous than the last, and three weeks ago he'd had to break up a brawl between Ivy League folklorists who couldn't agree on the origins of an Appalachian ballad. He strongly suspected that the presence of the town sheriff on the premises was meant to serve as a warning to the motel's guests.
He carried his bag into the motel. The lobby was as modern as the exterior. With a wood-wrapped counter, concrete floors and large screens on the walls, a visitor might mistake it for a trendy hipster coffee bar. After a second, though, the visitor might notice that the portraits on the walls belonged to famous cryptozoologists and UFOlogists, and that the screens featured old X-Files episodes, Bigfoot documentaries, and PRoVE panel presentations about the origin and artistry of the Ouija board.
"Hello, Sheriff." The night receptionist, a blonde girl with a Giorgio Tsoukalos t-shirt, greeted him with a smile. "Here's your mail."
He grabbed the pile of letters. She was surprisingly cheery for someone up at this ungodly hour. "That's a new t-shirt, Lisa. Is there something I should know?"
Lisa's smile turned into a sheepish grin. "We have an Alien Abduction Survivors Club meeting this weekend. I'm trying to fit the theme."
"Sounds exciting."
She pointed at his stack of letters. "The schedule is in there. These guys should be pretty peaceful, but you never know. We'll have a reception tomorrow in the dining area. You may want to drop in." Her eyes brightened. "Patricia from the Banshee Creek Bakery promised to make her Out-of-This-World Churros. They have dulce de leche icing and they're fantastic."
He glanced at the schedule. "I have a lot of work, but I'll think about it."
The churros were tempting, but no way was he spending a weekend evening discussing "Was Gold The Interstellar Travel Fuel And Did Aliens Help The Incans Mine It?" with Area 51 enthusiasts. Nope.
"Did you get the pyramid scheme flyer?" he asked.
Lisa nodded. "Yep, we're putting up copies on all our bulletin boards." She pointed to the screens on the walls. "We're also going to add the image to our video rotation. The guests will see it during every other commercial break."
He glanced at the screens and realized that the PRoVE panel was moderated by none other than Luanne LaRue. She was dressed in a bright green business suit, and her red curls were tied back in a professional-looking bun. The gold hoops around her ears were the only hint that she wasn't a stodgy professor fascinated by the history of the planchette.
Little Miss Fortune Teller looked entirely too appealing. He turned back to the receptionist, pushing the image of Luanne's glinting hoops out of his head. He was becoming too fascinated with the enticing gypsy.
"Great. Let me know if anyone talks to you about it."
"Sure will." The receptionist's cheerful expression never wavered. "I don't think our guys would fall for something like that."
"Really?" The comment surprised him. As far as he could tell, the scam was tailored for the Banshee Creek crowd. "Why do you
say that?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. There's just something off about it."
Strange, hadn't Luanne said something similar tonight? Maybe this was something he should follow-up on. "Well, keep me posted. Have a good night."
"Same."
He took the stairs to the second floor and headed for his room. All the rooms in the motel had gimmicky names like "Scully's Lab," "Kolchak's Lair," and "Agent Cooper's Den." He wasn't sure what most of the names meant—The adults-only "Mulder's Cave" seemed particularly ominous—so he'd chosen the innocuous-sounding "Winchesters' Cabin."
It had been a good choice. The other rooms, he'd found out later, had creepy carved logs and alien autopsy and werewolf anatomy posters. His room was downright pedestrian in comparison, with a Pendleton blanket over the bed and framed photos of vintage Chevy Impalas on the walls. The pentagram-like shape carved into the floor was the weirdest piece of decor, and that was easily ignored. Sure, it had a tower of kosher salt boxes in the closet and the mini fridge was stocked with single-serving apple pie packets, but at least he didn't have to stare at extraterrestrial intestines all night long.
Thank heaven for small mercies.
He showered and changed, grabbed his computer and got into bed. He turned on the television, which, thankfully, carried regular programming, and settled back to listen to the news. He'd check his e-mail, catch up on some work and then go to sleep.
And try not to think about Luanne LaRue.
Unfortunately, the first item in his electronic mailbox was an interview request from a New York tabloid regarding the Banshee Creek police blotter.
Great. Just great.
Usually, he avoided all interview requests—unlike the NYPD, his current employer didn't feel the need to cultivate a good relationship with the press—but the reporter was, perhaps not a friend, but something close to it. The guy had done a couple of good deeds on behalf of New York's Finest. The least Sean could do was give him some good quotes about a silly police blotter.
He sighed and pulled up the offending document. What had happened last week that had been interesting enough to trigger media attention?
The blotter catalogued every single call to the police and every departmental response. The Banshee Creek Sheriff's Department, he'd been told when he arrived, had one sacred rule. They answered every call, no matter how silly, or unlikely, or downright nuts.
And the police blotter documented them all.
At least reading the blotter and drafting a response would keep him from thinking about Luanne. That was a silver lining.
He started to read.
Monday, 7:45 p.m., An elderly woman who resided at 56 Mermaid Lane near the lake was concerned when she saw a strange three-toed foot print on her front porch.
Monday, 11:45 p.m., a clothes hanger found in the corner of Main Street and Elm caused suspicion.
Tuesday, 9:06 p.m., a tourist called about a distressingly bright patch of moonlight. It was deemed to be a natural phenomenon.
Wednesday, 6:45 a.m., Virginia Vintage Motors reported that a 1967 Ford carburetor had been stolen from the shop. Three callers reported seeing a large, furry creature with a bushy tail carrying some kind of mechanical part. The carburetor was later found in the dumpster behind the Banshee Creek Library. It was next to a large pile of hangers. The responding officer reported that the patch of moonlight next to the hangers seemed unusually bright.
And so on. The grand finale was the Sunday night note stating that a group of teenagers had reported seeing a pack of wild animals with long tails standing upright inside a moonlit circle. In the middle of the circle lay a bunch of auto parts and five neat piles of hangers.
The blog posts discussing the blotter called it the "Virginia Devil Monkey Moonlight Ritual." Sean cursed under his breath. He'd heard the calls come in, of course, but they'd come in sporadically. As a result, he hadn't noticed the pattern.
But the Internet certain had.
He stared at the computer screen for several minutes, then sent a reply to the reporter saying he was busy tomorrow but would be happy to chat with him later in the week. Then he forwarded the blog posts to Caine Magnusson at PRoVE and asked for his help.
There. He'd let the paranormies handle it.
He only had one last thing to do. He sent an email to Fairfax County Police requesting a meeting. Next he left a message for Olivia, asking her to collect everything they had on the Lucky Ghost scam and compile a list of organizations they could contact for help.
That paper under the body's arm hadn't been a Banshee Creek map.
It had been a Lucky Ghost flyer.
He closed the computer, turned off the light, and went to sleep. As he drifted off, his thoughts were not of media interviews or devil monkeys.
They were of a red-haired enchantress with golden hoops.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"HERE YOU go." Patricia O'Dare, owner of the Banshee Creek Bakery, set a large pink-and-orange thermos with the bakery's ghost logo on the counter. "Your end-of-month special: Black coffee with two espresso shots, a dash of condensed milk, and our trademark anise and hazelnut Psychic Arrow shot." She grinned. "I guess it's time to crank out some horoscopes."
"It sure is." Luanne grabbed her thermos with a rueful smile. Apparently, the whole town knew about her recurrent cramming sessions. She really had to get more organized. She knew her horoscopes had to be out on the first of the month. Why was she always rushing to get them done?
Next month, she promised herself. Next month she'd do better.
Patricia leaned forward conspiratorially. "Did you hear about the body?"
Luanne almost dropped her thermos. "The what?"
Patricia grimaced. "Someone committed suicide at Black Falls Bridge. It's horribly sad. I mean, the bridge is known as a suicide spot, that's why they put in lights and filled up the riverbed." She sighed. "We hadn't had one in decades."
"That's terrible," Luanne said, remembering the odd feeling she'd experienced last night. Illusions, deceptions, greed, and death.
Did it have something to do with Black Falls Bridge? Sometimes her talent could be a real pain. It provided some information but not nearly enough.
Patricia nodded. "They're keeping it pretty quiet because they're afraid it will inspire copycats."
"Thanks." Luanne paid for her purchase, said goodbye, and headed to the library. The walk would give her plenty of time to finish her coffee. The pricey drink was her splurge for the week. Actually, it was less of a splurge than a necessity. She desperately needed the energy shot. She had a lot of things to do and not a lot of time to do them.
The Banshee Creek Library was a small brick-clad center hall colonial with lush ivy vines and period moldings. It was usually empty, except for a couple of tourists, which made it perfect for last-minute writing. Luanne's favorite spot was a small desk next to the occult section, which was quite extensive. As one would expect, Banshee Creek had one of the best occult and paranormal collections in the world. It was a quiet spot surrounded by plenty of inspiration. Okay, so maybe the Nostradamus picture on the wall was a bit of a stretch. Hey, whatever worked.
She entered the library, walked around the Civil War book display in the front, and headed for her favorite desk. Funny how that Civil War display never changed. The librarians tried really hard to give the tourists new stuff to look at, and so far, Luanne had seen Area 51 collections, a pirate ghosts display, wendigo research materials and monster films from the 1950's. Every week was different.
Except for the Civil War books. The Jeff Shaara display was sacrosanct.
She was about to turn into the occult section when she heard someone whisper her name.
"Luanne. Not that way."
It was Holly Hagen. The assistant librarian was a vivacious woman with curly black hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. She loved her work and was usually smiling cheerfully.
Not today, though. Today, she looked positively somber.
Luanne peered at
the stacks. "Did you guys move the desk?"
She could hear voices coming from the stacks. Maybe the library was doing some remodeling?
Holly shook her head, making her curls bounce. "No, we just had a bit of a rush."
She grimaced as the voices grew louder. Luanne tilted her head to listen. Someone was talking about moon phases and gravitational pulls. Someone else mentioned...spaceships? A loud voice exclaimed "The sheriff asked —"
"Shhh," Holly hissed. "This is a library."
The voices quieted, and Luanne let Holly lead her toward the spiral staircase behind the reference desk.
"Sorry. Caine is here with some of the PRoVE researchers and we also have an ancient astronaut group in town. The astrology and UFOlogy sections are next to each other and they've pretty much taken over that corner of the library."
"What are they looking for?"
Holly threw her hands up in the air. "Who knows? Something about the moon and the devil monkeys and whether gold is an interstellar fuel. It makes no sense to me." She led Luanne up the stairs. "The romance section is nice and quiet. You should be able to get your work done there."
Luanne stopped mid-stair. "Wait. The romance section? Isn't that..."
Her voice trailed off.
Holly raised a brow. "Dangerous? No, don't be silly. We haven't had a manifestation in months. The paranormies don't go there, so you'll be able to get your horoscopes done."
Luanne followed her up the stairs. She wasn't sure about this. She'd heard rumors about the romance section.
But the area looked innocent enough, with tall stacks full of paperback novels, a pair of armchairs in a flowery pattern and a bamboo desk with matching chair. A portrait of a woman with bright red hair in a pixie cut sat on top of the desk. The plaque under the frame announced "In Loving Tribute. From Her Fans."
Holly regarded the room with undisguised pleasure. "After our last incident, the local book club donated some furniture to make it more appealing. Hopefully, the new decor will counteract some of the...unpleasantness."