 
### Lure

Brian Rathbone

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are a product of the author's imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Warning: This book contains sexual content, bad behavior, and mild profanity.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Brian Rathbone

White Wolf Press, LLC

Rutherfordton, NC 28139

Chapter 1

Looking good with a hangover wasn't something most could pull off, but Sam Flock did it with ease. Tight jeans and a white t-shirt, no bra, clung to her taut form. Blonde hair in loose curls fell haphazardly around her face, and a pair of cheap but dark shades obscured her bloodshot eyes.

Waking up on the kitchen floor was an all too familiar experience accompanied by the not unusual sight of Shells sleeping at the kitchen table, this time her pillow was made up of a pile of pretzels.

"C'mon, Shells. We've gotta get going," Sam said, her voice thick and rough. There came a grunt from the kitchen table but Shells made no other move.

Opening the door quietly, Sam walked outside to where a rusted and presumably historic bell hung. Her grandfather said it was how his mother had called them in from the fields for dinner. It hung a mere six feet from where Shells slept. With a wicked grin, Sam pulled the rope hard. Perhaps, if she had allowed herself more time to wake up, she would have realized that this might not have been the best idea. A long and awful clang knifed the air, and Sam thought it might split her forehead down the middle.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" came Shells' boyish voice. The heavy set girl now sat upright, her usually vertically spiked hair pointing to one side as if she were standing in a stiff wind. Her face was a maze of indentation marks left by the pretzels, and one persistent pretzel still clung to her forehead. Sam pointed to her own forehead and waited. It took Shells a moment to catch on, but then she reached up and pulled the pretzel from her forehead. After looking at it for a moment, she shrugged and popped it into her mouth.

"I need to cure this hangover fast," Sam said, her stomach churning.

"Seagraves or Hudocks?"

Normally she would have opted for Seagraves; it was closer and their cheesesteaks were legendary, but the LAC cops had been spending a lot of time in Tillbury and Sam just wasn't in the mood. "Hudocks."

Shells raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead she pointed her hair back in the right direction, gave Sam a wink, and walked into the sunlight. "Holy crap it's bright out here," she said, squinting and shading her eyes with a hand. "We taking the Jeep?"

"My hair's a sight as it is. Let's take my car."

Shells' Jeep was a spectacle. Lifted, painted matte black, and with chrome headers visible in the wheel wells, it was clearly not a chick vehicle, but Shells was clearly not into being a chick. Sam didn't care; she just walked to her '71 Camaro. It was a great looking car, as long as you didn't look too closely. Sam had always liked the split bumper and pointed hood. The black paint with white racing stripes suited Sam perfectly.

"When are you going to get this thing fixed, or maybe even break down and get a new car?" Shells asked as Sam pulled a huge screwdriver from under the driver's seat.

Sam didn't want a new car. This one was perfect; it was hers and no one was going to take it from her. "Just shut up and give it a little gas." Smiling, Sam looked down at the notches that had been burned into the length of the screwdriver, and she tried to find a spot that was still unmarred. After sliding it between the posts on the solenoid, she rotated the screwdriver until it made contact with both posts. Sparks flew and the 350 roared to life, sounding like it would suck her in and spit her out the tailpipes if she got too close; it probably would, Sam thought. Even with her headache, the throaty lop of the V8 was music to her ears. Shells gunned it from the passenger seat. She looked comical all scrunched down in her seat, trying to reach the accelerator and grinning all the while; Shells was not exactly lanky.

The South Jersey sun glared at them, promising scorching heat. The smell of marsh water laced the air, and a massive cooling tower could be seen in the distance. It was an odd juxtaposition of the Delaware River and wetlands, miles of farmland, and the presence of nuclear power that was almost unescapable. Sam didn't even notice; it was something she had grown accustomed to long before and was now simply part of the scenery.

"Let's go. I'm hungry," Shells said.

After slamming the hood closed, Sam tossed the screwdriver back under the driver's seat, next to her black, metal flashlight.

"You ever gonna fix that?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "I need to run out to Holadays and get another solenoid, and then I'll get Morton to make me a heat shield. I think it's just too close to the headers. "

Perhaps it wasn't normal for two girls to ride around talking about cars and engines, but both had left normal behind long ago. With the windows down and the wind tossing her hair, Sam turned up the music a little louder than was advisable, and Shells looked like she might shatter.

"I ain't cured yet." But even she couldn't help rocking out to _Man on the Silver Mountain_ by Dio. Playing air guitar on the wheel, Sam drove them straight across the intersection at a place the locals called 'Windy Corner', taking the back way to Hudocks. It meant they wouldn't have to drive through town, which was to their left. Given the exhaust leak, and just the fact that Sam's Camaro was one of the most recognized cars in the county, it was probably a wise move.

Still, she couldn't avoid taking Grieves Parkway, past the county fuel pumps. In accordance with Sam's current luck, there just happened to be one of Salem's finest waiting to make the turn out of the facility. The instant they past it, the squad car's gumballs lit up.

"Damn it. Really? This is getting ridiculous."

"Just pull over and be nice. They can't do anything to you if you're legal. You are legal, right?"

Sam never answered, she just left the car running and the music playing; Tom Petty's _I Won't Back Down_ all too fitting. A swaggering man in uniform approached. Peterson's look, as usual, was smug superiority.

"Shut off the car and turn off the radio," he said in way of greeting.

"Oh. Sorry," Sam said, and she gave him an innocent look. She turned off the radio but left the car running.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Because you're an asshole?"

"Your car is too loud," he said.

"How loud can I have it?"

"It's too loud."

"Do you have a decibel meter or something?"

"Get your exhaust fixed or I'm going to give you a ticket next time. And you can tell your boyfriend that I'm watching him."

"Thanks officer asshole. Have a nice day," Sam said, and at the same time exercised what could have been called 'excessive use of the accelerator', grabbing second gear before having to immediately stop at a STOP sign.

"How did you ever work with those jerks?" Shells asked. Sam just shrugged. "They don't have the right to treat you like that, and that bit about your boyfriend, wasn't that a threat?"

Again Sam shrugged. "There are bad eggs in any line of work; you just have to put up with them. You can't tell me that some of your fellow falafel slingers aren't idiots."

"Idiots yes, malicious people with guns, no. Are you gonna say anything to Greg?"

Sam didn't even bother to shrug. Ahead were white buildings with yellow roofs and shutters, and a big sign shaped like an ice cream cone. She parked on the right and scanned the two lines of people standing outside the building with the grills in it. A glance in the mirror showed another two lines waiting for ice cream.

Familiar faces, but none were on her 'avoid at all cost' list.

Shells watched her and shook her head. "You really need to get out of this town. You know too many people, and with all the crap that you've been through, there's just too much friggen' tension around here."

"Yeah. I know. Maybe. It's kinda hard to up and split when you're pretty much broke."

"The falafel business has been pretty good lately. I can spot you for a bit. I'm telling you, all you need to do is go over the bridge and it's like a different world. You could stay with me for a while if you want."

"Don't you live in a vegetarian colony?"

"It's a new age collective. We're ascending. And not everyone is a vegan or vegetarian."

"Should I order for you then?" Sam asked without looking at Shells.

"Uh. No. I'm just going to have some fries. They have the best fries."

"Fries it is then. C'mon, let's get in line. Maybe I'll get lucky and no one will talk to me."

"I got your back."

The lines had mostly cleared away, the people having gone back to their cars or to bright yellow picnic tables. Those who remained averted their eyes and no one said anything, even if it was obvious that Sam's presence made them uncomfortable. She had once been a pillar of the community, and now no one would even meet her eyes. How quickly things could change.

"What'll it be?"

"Cheese bigboy with sauce and extra fries."

"That it?"

"And some pickles," Shells added.

"How do you maintain your girlish figure on french fries and pickles?" Sam asked.

"Shut up."

When the food arrived, Sam led the way to the farthest picnic table from the buildings, as far from the other diners as possible. Facing the road, she sat with her back to a field of short grass, where the land was extremely flat and level. Before they even sat down, the sound of a loud engine filled the air. Moments later a bright yellow biplane rolled onto the grass and accelerated rapidly, taking to the skies seemingly just before clipping trees on a neighboring property.

Despite the noise, Sam smiled. She had always loved to watch Rudy fly, and seeing his plane take off brought nothing but good memories. "Isn't that cool?"

"Cool? He's going to spread poison on our food, and you think that's cool?"

"OK, so maybe crop dusting is not my favorite thing, but you've got to admit that yellow biplane is cool. And have you ever watched him fly that thing?"

Shells didn't respond, busy instead with fries and pickles.

Just north of the custard stand stood a large ice machine, which was a known hangout for hotrodders. Sam generally tried to avoid them, since they always wanted to race, and starting your car with a screwdriver didn't exactly gain you any street cred. Thus it came as little surprise when more loud engines approached. A deep blue Chevelle and a mid-50's Ford pickup, all in primer, pulled into the gravel parking area and onto the grass beyond. Another Chevelle, cream colored with a black top, approached from town and the driver, a longhaired redneck in a denim jacket, must have seen the other hotrods and floored it. The engine roared to life and the transmission downshifted, but when it up-shifted again the tires caught and there was a loud snap followed by a cloud of white smoke that rolled out from underneath the now coasting Chevelle. A roar of laughter rose from those who saw it, and Sam saw officer asshole flash by with his gumballs lit.

"I think now would be a good time for us to go," Shells said.

"I want a chocolate milkshake. You want one?"

"Sure, offer the fat chick a milkshake; real nice. I'll wait in the car. Gimme the keys, it's hot. Oh, wait, never mind, I'll just grab a screwdriver."

Sam just wandered over to the ice cream building and waited behind someone she didn't recognize. The line moved quickly, and Sam was soon faced with a smiling teenage girl. The smile faded, though, when she recognized Sam. In that instant Sam almost turned and left, the milkshake not being worth it. She could see in this girl's eyes that she wanted to ask her questions, and Sam was no better equipped to answer questions now than when the reporters had been asking. She often wondered why anyone would think that asking the same questions over and over again would eventually yield different answers.

"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?"

"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 became 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."

Sam decided to keep her mouth shut. When he loaded her into the back of his squad car as if she were a common criminal, it stung. He even did the hand on the back of the head thing; this embarrassed her more than anything up to that point. Shells and Alton followed in silence, and each shared Sam's shame as he loaded them into the back with no more ceremony.

"Idiots," was the only thing he said.

"Sorry, Greg," Shells said, subdued and forlorn.

"Yeah, sorry, Greg," Alton said.

"Nothing out of you?" Greg asked after an uncomfortable silence.

"You wouldn't hear me right now, and I don't blame you for that, but I'm not going to waste my breath trying to explain myself to you."

Alton and Shells went very quiet, and seemed to be trying to hide as the fight escalated.

"Alton started it," Shells said.

"Oh, thanks a lot," Alton said. "Just let me out here, dude. I'll walk."

Greg kept driving. "So Alton started it. Go on."

"And, uh. Then I, uh, I got thirsty, too. And then like, I found the food, and it was like, on from there." Shells seemed to realize that she'd gotten carried away in her storytelling, and it was not doing her any good.

Alton must not have noticed, "I think that's when Sam started toasting the ghosts with Crown Royal to see if that would get them to come out."

His foot growing heavier with every moment, Greg's squad car roared down Old Kings Highway. The old men fishing from the marsh bridge shook their fists as they left a cloud of dust flying in their wake. Eventually, Greg's sense caught up with his anger, and he rolled slowly to the stop sign at the pointers. It was a perfect metaphor for Sam's life. A choice. Left or right. No way to know what either choice would bring; only knowing that a choice must be made. Her life here was no longer livable, and she had to find a way out. Not for the first time she considered stuffing some clothes into a laundry sack and hitchhiking to Portland, or one of those places where you could live on the streets and make it through a winter.

The idea of leaving her hometown behind was heartbreaking at times, she had so much invested in this area, and the rest of the world was a mystery to her. Sure, she had spent time in other places, but nowhere else did she know every road, back road, dirt road, and shortcut. Nowhere else did she have someone she could call on for any kind of problem she might face. How would she survive in some strange place without any of that support system in place, but then she asked herself how much of that support system remained, and if maybe her presence wasn't just making it harder on those she loved? Greg was a silent and brooding reminder. He seethed with suppressed rage, and Sam wasn't sure what it was going to look like when it came out. Greg had never been anything but kind to her before, but she had never made him this angry before. He was right; her actions would absolutely affect his career. She was rude and thoughtless and could not find the words to express her remorse, so she just remained silent, knowing it was driving a wedge between them and not being able to do anything about it.

Though the ride seemed to take forever, the yellow flashing light in front of Sam's house came into view. Her car, and Shells' jeep, and Alton's truck all sat in the driveway.

"Aw, man. Did they have to tow the cars?" Shells said.

"They were considered abandoned," Greg said. "Just be glad I talked them into towing the cars here and not to the impound yard. Consider it my last favor to you as a cop."

"We're really sorry, Greg," Shells said.

As soon as the three were out of his car, Greg slammed it in reverse, floored it out of the driveway, and then he slammed it into drive, leaving a trail of smoke as he took out his frustration on the accelerator. Sam wasn't certain she'd ever see him again as she watched his car grow smaller in the distance.

"I, uh, I gotta go. Later," Alton said, and Sam wasn't certain she'd ever see him again either. She felt as if her life were rushing away from her.

"Oh, dude. That ain't right," Shells said, standing beside the kitchen door, which had a pink piece of paper taped to it. "That ain't right at all. It's gonna be all right," Shells looked deeply concerned as Sam approached.

It was an eviction notice. She had 48-hours to move out. The fact that her family had once owned this house made it sting even more.

"I told him I was going to be late with the rent again this month but that I would get it to him."

"I'm sorry, dude. C'mon, I'll help you pack up your stuff."

"Most of it can stay; it's not really mine anyway. The last people left all the furniture. All that I have are my clothes and an old TV." That statement settled heavily on Sam. Her entire life could fit in a few bags, and maybe one big box. That was it. What did she have to show for all the time and effort she had put into building a life for herself? With the exception of her car, she owned very little else, and she asked herself why. No answers came, and she worked in silence alongside Shells, tears falling on the carpet she sat on, and no comfort could be found.

"It'll be alright. You can come stay with me for a while. Seriously, it's not that bad. I promise not to try to turn you into a hummus-eating lesbian. Deal?"

"Deal," Sam said without much humor. What choice did she have? No one else wanted her around, now that she had pushed Greg away . . .

Shoving clothes into trash bags, Sam took out some of her frustration on them, and she stuffed too many into a bag, causing it to rupture. She didn't care; instead she just dumped them out and started slamming them into another bag. Stupid clothes. Her own childishness made her laugh, and so it was that she was laughing and crying when Greg walked in the door.

The silence was like a living thing, and it hung thick between them, the air thrumming with tension.

"Right," Shells said. "I got things I should probably go do."

Greg and Sam ignored her and neither said good-bye when she slipped out the kitchen door.

"So that's it," Greg said. "I'm off the force."

"Oh, Greg. I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen."

"I know," he said. "It's not your fault. This experience showed me that I wasn't on the right path, and neither were you. Now we're not on that path any more."

"You're not mad at me?"

"For what, being you?" he asked. "How could I be mad at you for that? You stop acting like an irresponsible idiot and then I'll worry. What's up with the bags?"

Snatching the pink slip from the dresser, Sam shoved it into his hands, unable to form the words to tell him.

"If I were still a cop, why I'd . . . " he trailed off, the weight of the words 'If I were still a cop' weighing in.

"So now what?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"You're not gonna believe this," came Shells voice from behind. Sam hadn't realized she was still standing at the kitchen door; both she and Greg turned accusatory glares at Shells. "Don't look at me like that. Y'all need a break, right? You want some time to clear your heads and figure out what's next? Well, have I got a deal for you."

"Out with it, Shells," Greg said.

Shells grinned back, "We're going to Lake Lure, North Carolina."

Chapter 3

"Spill it," Sam said to a grinning Shells.

"So you know that awesome website I created for us?"

"Yeah."

"We'll a guy in North Carolina was looking for a high-profile paranormal investigator to check out his Inn."

"And we're high profile?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"You saw that site, dude. It kicks ass. And so do the Twitter profile, and the Facebook page. We're on Flikr and YouTube, and that's just the half of it. That's right. You heard me."

Sam had difficulty keeping a straight face while Shells did a little dance, bit her bottom lip, and got down.

"OK," Sam said. "So let's say this guy really does want us to come down there, and we actually drag our asses to North Carolina, what are we going to investigate with? I don't think Surveiltech is going to rent us equipment again, even if we did have the money for it."

"Look at it this way, dude; you've got a chance to take a nice trip to a beautiful place and stay in a historic Inn . . . with a friggen' spa. I'm betting people have experiences while getting massages, and I need to investigate that shit. Got it?"

Looking up from rooting through the fridge, Greg shook his head. "Don't you eat? The only thing in here is beer."

"What were you looking for?"

Greg granted her the point, "A beer."

"Then shut up."

"So you have one more paycheck coming to you, right?" Shells asked Greg.

"And then what, I 'm out on the street? No way, Shells. I've got to figure out what I'm going to do next."

"Aw, c'mon. Your Uncle Bobby wouldn't let you land on the street and you know it," Shells said. Sam stayed quiet, since Shells was having the argument for her.

"I can't keep falling back on my Uncle's money. Getting thrown off the force isn't exactly going to make me look good. Besides, what does this guy want with a bunch of Yankees at his Inn?"

"That war's been over for a while now. I think it's cool. And he knows that ghosts are money. Straight up. If we capture evidence of ghosts there, and I work my Internet magic to make it go viral, they'll make a friggen' killing."

Greg took a moment to think about it, and Sam had to admit that Shells had a point. She really could use a vacation, and there weren't any other opportunities knocking on her door, only eviction notices.

"So he's not going to charge us for the rooms?" Sam asked, earning a surprised look from Greg.

Shells beamed, jumping and clapping excitedly with her fingers before answering. "Two rooms and meals are covered."

"Can I borrow $500," Sam asked, making sure he had a good view of her ass.

"You just got me fired and you want to borrow money?"

"Just for a little while," she said with a coy smile.

"Sorry, hon. Not this time," Greg said, looking uncomfortable. "Look, I've gotta get going. If you need a place to stay or put some stuff, just let me know."

Watching him go, Sam wondered if she had lost him without ever actually having had him. The sound of his diesel engine dwindled as he moved back toward town.

"Maybe if he didn't have the great big, shiny truck payment he wouldn't be so stingy," Shells said. "So I guess it's just you and me, toots. I can get us down there and back. Do you have anyone that could float you the cash for some equipment? I mean, we just need a camera and a recorder, right?"

"We really should have tri-field meters, and we need night vision."

"Yeah," Shells admitted. "You're right. But damn, girl, you're gonna need to make a grand quick. Maybe Franco will let you go back to work at the pizzeria."

"I doubt it. We didn't part on the greatest terms. I'm pretty sure I threatened to pull his head out of his ass and put my foot in its place."

Shells waved for her to be quiet; she had already dialed a call. "Yeah, are you guys hiring? Cool. Ask Franco if Sam Flock can come in for it." There was a brief silence, and Sam was tempted to make Shells hang up, but then she heard the tinny response through Shells' phone, "He says if she can keep her mouth shut and do the job, then she can come to work."

"Jerk," Sam said before Shells could end the call.

"There. See. Now you can go make some cash, and I'll go sling some veggies. Then it's off to beautiful North Carolina."

"I've always made a pretty good buck waiting tables down there," Sam said, her voice resigned. "I guess I can put up with Franco staring at my ass the whole time."

"They aren't hiring waitresses," Shells said with obvious reluctance. "They need a dishwasher. I'm pretty sure G Money got busted."

"No way, man. No freakin' way."

* * *

With her hair held back by a single scrunchy and spilling down her back, Sam rolled up the short-sleeves of her white t-shirt up onto her shoulders, knowing full well she might end up with a wet shirt. Sam didn't care as she threw her hands into the water; maybe it would get her a raise.

"Yo, what up, cop."

Sam turned to see G Money, she didn't even know his real name. His over-sized baseball cap was on sideways, and his pants hung down below his ass, the NC State football jersey he wore not long enough to cover it up. Sam bet his clothes and shoes cost as much as the rent she owed.

"See any ghosts lately, bitch?"

"I might be looking at one," Sam said, a soapy knife in her hands.

"You threatening me?"

"Just doin' dishes."

"What up G Money," Franco said from behind Sam, who stifled a laugh. She had always found Franco's attempts at being cool comical, his thick Italian accent and frequently poor word choices were hard to overlook.

"Cops try to lock me up _and_ take my job; ain't that some shit? Then this bitch threatened me with a knife."

"Just doin' dishes," Sam said.

"I thought you were gonna have time," Franco said.

"It's 'do time', yo, and I'm Teflon homey, those bitches can't make nothing stick to me."

"You want your job back?"

"Hell yeah, especially if that means you're gonna fire the cop."

"I'll pay you for tonight," Franco said. "But you have to finish up the night first. Sorry. He does a better job."

He didn't really look sorry, and G Money started dancing toward the door, "Later, cop." He said while giving her the finger.

Maybe she really did need to move, Sam admitted to herself. Still, she kept washing dishes even though the earnings wouldn't even make a dent in what she needed. By the time she put gas in her car and got something to eat, she'd be broke. Franco proved he wasn't completely heartless, though.

"You hungry?" he asked. "I overcooked a pie. You can have it. Hope you like ham and pineapple."

She didn't, but she was too hungry and broke to turn it down. After picking off the pineapple, the pizza wasn't bad. She could never understand why someone would put something sweet on a pizza; it seemed sacrilegious. The hand-made and hand-tossed dough formed a thin but strong and tasty crust when cooked in the brick oven.

Steam rose from the grill when Franco threw a scoop of ice on it, and Sam stepped back while he used a grill scraper and steel wool to clean it. Sam hated cleaning the grill; it was sweaty and painful. Franco looked as if he might ask her to finish the job, and Sam looked for some dishes that needed washing. At the same time, a cream colored Chevelle with a black top rolled to a stop in the fire zone. Out climbed a longhaired redneck with a finely cultivated mustache; he wore a denim jacket that was more faded than his jeans, and Sam grudgingly admitted that he looked good in them, though she would never have told him that.

"What's happening, ghost girl?" he said when he saw Sam. His eyes took her in. "Now that you ain't a cop no more, may I say: damn, girl, you make lookin' bad look good."

Sam wasn't certain what he meant by it, but he didn't seem to care as he cast her a leering grin on his way to the oven. Stacked on top of it waited a handful of deliveries. He looked at each of the yellow slips. "Damn, Franco, why you taking out of town deliveries at this time of night?"

"Just take that last one and then take off for the night," Franco said. "I'll square out with you tomorrow."

"It's 'square up', man, and I've got plans for tonight. The party's at my place. I got girls coming, and no one leaves until the keg floats."

"I'll take it," Sam said. "All the dishes are done."

"I was going to have you mop the floor," Franco said.

"I can do it fast, and then take it."

"Yeah, let her take that one. They never tip anyway," the redneck said on his way out, the in-town deliveries in his hands. Sam tried to remember his name, she thought it was Brian, she knew where he lived, since his neighbors had occasionally called to complain about his wild parties. The sound of a V8 with glass-packs thundering to life rattled the pictures on the wall, threatening to send the little league trophy plaques crashing to the tiled floor. Then the redneck dropped it in gear and the rear end of the car seemed to sink down as the tires broke loose and smoke filled the air. As the Chevelle turned onto Rt. 49, the only thing louder than the exhaust was the sound of AC/DC _Back in Black_. Franco tuned the stereo to 94.1 WYSP in Philadelphia, somehow knowing that was the station playing that song, and they rocked it out while finishing the cleaning. Sam played a mean air-mop, and Franco lip-synched from atop the counter.

* * *

Telephone poles and trees were all that Sam could see alongside the arrow-straight Jericho road. Occasional modular homes and trailers lined the roads, with small farms mixed in. _Lunatic Fringe_ by Red Rider came on the radio, and it set an eerie mood in this heavily wooded landscape. Only her headlights illuminated the roadway; if she had car trouble, she would be left in complete darkness. Ahead, a series of hills created an optical illusion, making the road look like the back of a sea serpent. Unable to resist, Sam stepped down harder on the accelerator. It felt almost like a roller-coaster ride, with a sense of weightlessness as she crested each hill.

Lives had been lost on this road, and Sam suddenly felt the hand of death on her shoulder. Amazed at how quickly she could go from exhilarated to terrified, Sam drew a sharp breath and turned the wheel with more force than advisable at high-speed and when cresting a hill. The darkest shadow, like a hole in the world, stood in the center of her lane, pointing at her. Sam would have screamed, but she was too busy driving. Her guts clenched, and her heart raced. The Camaro left the roadway and flew sideways for a brief moment, and then the tires reconnected with the blacktop. Jacking the wheel back hard to the right, Sam did what she could to control the spin. Lights shown into the driver side window, and Sam saw the pickup coming straight toward her. The Camaro slowly responded to her input and was sliding backward into her own lane at high speed when the truck flashed past, its tires squealing under heavy braking. With a flick of the wheel, Sam sent the Camaro into another 180-degree spin that righted her; she had come terrifyingly close to clipping the pickup in doing so.

Sucking in rapid and shallow breaths, Sam felt tears spring to her eyes and her hands trembled. Behind her, she saw the pick-up's brake lights. Without another thought, she put her foot to the floor. She knew it was a stupid thing to do, but something had triggered her fight or flight mechanism, and she had chosen flight--it was a humbling realization. So, too, was the realization that her hallucinations were continuing. That had to be what they were. She had kidded herself all along, claiming that it had been ghosts or spirits she had seen.

Insanity. Could anything be more terrifying than to no longer be able to tell what is real? A cluster of mailboxes marked the end of the dirt road that Sam had been looking for, and she was caught by surprise. Slamming on the brakes, she remembered the insulated pizza bag on the passenger seat an instant too late. It had somehow stayed in place during her spin, but slid forward out of her reach and slammed into the dash. After completing the turn, Sam pulled the pizza bag back onto the passenger seat.

The Camaro chattered over the ripples left in the dirt road by rainwater, and Sam had only a vague sensation of control. Her car shimmied along as if it was on ice, and she slid the car sideways when the narrow driveway she was looking for appeared. Sending a cloud of loose gravel into the air, she straightened out the car on the steep downhill driveway that gave her enough momentum to make it up the sandy uphill climb that led to the house. People who lived this far out generally liked to be left alone, and there was nothing welcoming about the place. The porch and downstairs were dark, and only a dull glow from an upstairs window gave any indication that someone was home. Sam left the car running and lights aimed at the side door.

When removing the pizza from the bag, she noticed that the box was heavier on one side than the other, so she held it at and angle and gave it a little shake. She felt the weight move back toward center. Walking toward the front door, she had an eerie feeling, like she was the idiot in a horror film. She could almost hear the people in the theater yelling, "Don't go in there!"

She didn't know what the place looked like in the daytime, but at night it looked like a haunted house. With those thoughts in her head, she heard growling in the darkness. Moving between her and her car, a dark silhouette that resembled a small horse blocked the light. Sam walked backward toward the house and caused an echoing racket when she backed into a pile of rusting sheet metal that sat alongside the walkway. The dog moved toward her, and Sam climbed the pile of metal, while yelling, "Hey! Get your dog! Hey!"

A moment later, the light beside the door came on, and Sam noted that it was about time. Anyone with the least bit of courtesy would have turned that light on when they ordered the pizza. And what about that dog, she asked herself. What kind of asshole leaves Cujo out to greet the pizza delivery person? None of the questions left her lips. The man that answered the door looked like an angry bear stuffed into a pair of overhauls. His bare chest was as big around as a barrel, and his beard looked like steel wool.

The rotweiller ran to the man's side, its cropped tail wiggling back and forth.

"She don't bite."

Without a great deal of relief, Sam climbed down slowly, trying to avoid the sharp edges. Unable to formulate a response, she just opened the pizza bag and pulled out the box.

"Twelve fifty."

The man handed her exact change, turned around, and after the rottweiler slid past him, closed the door.

Sam was walking back to her car when the door opened behind her and the dog charged back out, barking. "What the hell is this?" The man held the open pizza box. What was inside didn't really resemble a pizza; it was more like an inside-out calzone. "Gimme my money back. I ain't payin' for this."

* * *

Grease ran down the side of Sam's face as she tried to eat something that only vaguely resembled a piece of pizza, while driving a country road. She'd always wondered what Chicago style pizza would be like, and she figured this was pretty close, and it was too good for words. Heart's _Magic Man_ came on the radio, and the music carried her along, helping her to feel a little better and forget the shadows that remained just out of sight. She could feel them watching her, but she ignored them. While licking the grease from her fingers, another figure appeared, this one alongside the road and, as Sam was pleased to see, very alive.

The young man turned and put his thumb out while shading his eyes from her high beams. She stepped on the high beam switch and hit the brake. The young man started running and was at the door by the time Sam had moved the rest of the pizza to the back seat.

"Thanks for stopping," he said, his voice had the timber of fresh pubescence. He was lanky, but he looked like he'd fill out eventually. He climbed in.

"Where you headed?"

"Just up the road a bit. A guy's having a party. There's supposed to be a keg. You going?"

One beer couldn't hurt.

"Turn right just before that little church. It's on the left."

No directions were necessary. The place was lit up; cars filled the yard and most of the horseshoe drive. Sam pulled in and shut off the car, which had been running a little hot. It dieseled for a moment, before finally slamming to a halt with a gunshot-like backfire.

Grabbing the pizza box, Sam followed the young man up to the back steps of the small house. The church across the grass was not much larger.

Most of the people inside were crowded around a kitchen table large enough for maybe four people. A game involving dice and full cups of beer was in full swing.

"Three man!" someone yelled, and Sam watched redneck Brian chug a beer. He looked a little green, but then he saw Sam and became distracted. After a long belch that drew applause, he said, "What up, ghost girl?"

"I brought a seriously messed up pizza. Mind if I grab a beer?" Sam put the pizza box down and people descended on it like locusts. Within minutes the box was empty, and those who spoke all agreed that pizza ghost bitch rocked.

"No one leaves until the keg floats," Brian said, "and up next is naked stair diving."

After grabbing a beer, Sam sat on Brian's lap. "So, you gonna show me how to play this game?"

"Fresh meat is three man!"

Chapter 4

Wondering why there was duct tape over her nipples, Sam groaned and reached for her aching head. As soon as she moved, she began to feel the rug burn. What had she been thinking? What had any of them been thinking?

How she had gotten home, Sam had no idea, but she was at least on her bed. There were no sheets or pillows, as those had been packed away, but she had woken up in worse places.

There remained the problem of the duct tape. It appeared to have no intention of coming off on its own, and Sam again wondered how she had managed to end up with industrial strength duct tape over her breasts. Thinking of it like a band-aid that must be removed, she gave it a quick yank. "Oh... Ow... Son of a bitch!"

Shells charged into the room a moment later, and she found Sam sitting on her mattress, topless and with one breast covered with shiny silver tape. "Dude. What the hell happened to you last night? Three guys carried you in here wrapped in a blanket at four-o'clock this morning. And what the hell is up with the duct tape?"

"Naked stair diving," Sam said. "There was a keg that refused to float."

Shells nodded with a look of understanding, while Sam pulled on a t-shirt. "Happens to me all the time. Oh, and I landed a little graphic design gig for a hundred and fifty bucks. How are you doing?"

"I took a twelve dollar loss on a lopsided pizza, but I got it back in beer. Aw, man, my head."

"Hudocks or Seagraves?"

"Seagraves. I need a cheesesteak. And it's been a while."

It was a short ride to Tillbury, and Sam pulled into the parking lot of Seagraves Sub Shop. Eddie and Carol worked behind a single, L-shaped counter; Eddie working freshly cut beef on the grill, and Carol wrapping up subs.

"Hey there, Sam," Eddie said when he turned and spotted her. "It's good to see you. You haven't been around for too long. What can I get you? Cure for a hangover, perhaps?"

Sam just nodded.

"I'll take one, too."

"Sure thing. Coming right up."

"We were really sorry to hear about everything that's happened to you," Carol said, her voice soft and kind. "We've been worried about you."

"I'll land on my feet," Sam said, pushing her sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose. "I always do."

"Two hangover cures," Eddie said, and he placed two long cylinders wrapped in paper on the top of the counter. "Ut oh."

Sam followed his gaze to look out the window into the parking lot where a LAC police car sat behind Sam's Camaro and Officer Winter waited, leaning against his car.

Carol handed Sam her change, and she grabbed their cheesesteaks. "Thanks. I'll see you soon."

"Good luck," Eddie said with a shake of his head. "Girl can't catch a break."

He may not have intended her to hear that last part, but the statement nearly brought a tear to her eye. For one brief instant she felt sorry for herself, but the sight of Officer Winter ignited her ire.

"Cure for a hangover?" Officer Winter asked.

Sam didn't answer.

"Did you know that you are often still drunk when you wake from an all night binge? I know where you were last night, and we saw them carry you into your house at 4:15 am. I could take you in right now and give you a breathalyzer."

"She didn't drive here," Shells blurted. "And I didn't drink anything last night."

"I see. And is this your car?"

"No, sir."

"And is your vehicle parked at Ms. Flock's residence?"

"Yes."

"So tell me, why did you drive Miss Flock's vehicle and not your own?" Officer Winter asked with a smile that made it clear that he expected to come out on the winning end of this conversation.

"Because her car is kickass!" Shells said. "Who wouldn't want to take it for a spin?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Are we free to go?" Shells asked.

Officer Winter said nothing for a long moment. "I suppose you are."

Sam handed Shells the keys, and Officer Winter glared at them.

"Sorry," Shells said once in the car. "I didn't want you to get a DUI."

"Thanks," Sam said. "You have to double clutch it to get it into gear, and then tach it up a bit so you don't stall it. The clutch is a little touchy-" Sam was cut off when Shells slammed the shifter into first. There was a grinding sound and Shells tached it up. The shifter slid into gear. Sam was thrown back into the seat and Shells took them out of the parking lot sideways, leaving a pair of black marks arching out of the parking lot.

It was only a short distance back to Sam's place, and Officer Winter tailed them. When Shells pulled into the grass, he followed. Rolling up beside them, he lowered his passenger window. "I'll be watching you. Both of you." Then he backed out and roared back toward Elsinboro.

Sam and Shells made their way inside, silent and knowing their cheesesteaks were getting cold. Not a word was spoken until well after the hangover cure had been administered.

"You need to make some more money, dude." Shells said.

"I know," Sam admitted.

"Maybe we should do some local investigations and try to make some money that way."

"So far, that route has only cost us money."

"Yeah. I know." Shells said.

"But it's a good idea. Maybe we could just get one of those little handheld night vision cameras; those were pretty cheap, right?"

"Yeah. I could get us one of those."

"And I've got an old tape recorder." Sam rooted through the disaster that was her belongings and came out with a tape recorder circa 1975; it may have once been white but it was now yellow and brown.

"Does that thing even work?"

"I think so."

"Seriously, dude. That would be some ghetto ghost hunting there. Can you even buy cassette tapes any more?" Shells asked.

"Yeah. They're right next to the incandescent bulbs and dodo bird cages."

"Ok. So let's say we go ghost hunting with a night vision camera and John Lennon's tape recorder, where are we gonna investigate? Seven Stars Inn?"

"No way."

"Why not?" Shells asked. "Everybody around here knows that story."

"Yeah, I know. If they don't keep a candle lit in the baby's room, they hear crying all night. I don't want my big discovery to be a baby crying because it needs a paranormal diaper change. I want something that I can communicate with. I want something that can give me answers."

"The Hancock House?"

"They'll never let us in there. That's a historic monument; though I agree that it probably is haunted."

"Fort Mott?"

"We could probably get in there again, but last time all you could hear was the rednecks drag racing."

"Yeah, but-" Shells stopped when Sam stood and smacked herself on the forehead, and then immediately seemed to seriously regret it.

"I have an idea," Sam said once she'd recovered. "We've gotta go see Morton."

* * *

A frame rested on a trailer with a tarp secured over it, an old gas pump lent to the charm with its patina of age, and the vintage signs completed the impression that entering the garage would somehow transport you back in time. That was how it felt to Sam, at least. Once inside, Sam saw a mostly restored Henry J that looked to be only hours from cruising down the roadway. Tools and parts adorned the shelves and walls and were interspersed with pictures of women with large breasts. Sam had never quite understood the attraction of girls holding tools, but it seemed to work every time. Whenever she was on a creeper working on her exhaust or changing the oil, a man would appear from nowhere. It wasn't such a bad thing.

Morton himself was probably best described as an old codger with a smile that made you feel like you were home, and an attitude that would keep an angry cat at bay. Sam had known him for most of her life, and memories of going to the drag races were some of her fondest. There was nothing quite like the raucous fun of getting the people in the stands to chant, "The other side sucks!" or "Show us your tits!" The latter was a favorite of the men, and Sam recalled that there were always some rather lovely ladies on hand who were more than happy to oblige. Ah, good times. Sam was pretty sure the one picture in his garage of a woman with small breasts was there just to make her feel better. It was perhaps the oddest compliment anyone had ever paid her, but she took it as the dirty old codger intended it. In the end, they were friends, and that was the best part.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked when Sam and Shells walked into his garage.

"We were in the neighborhood and just thought we'd stop by," Sam said with her most innocent look, and Morton coughed. "And I might have a couple little favors to ask of you."

"You finally gonna to fix that solenoid? The screwdriver trick is just supposed to get you to the shop so you can get it fixed. How long have you been starting her that way?"

"Too long," Sam admitted, "but that isn't actually the favor I was going to ask for. Didn't you just finish building a street rod for Bert Richmond?"

"Yeah. Son of a bitch still owes me money."

Sam smiled. "And wouldn't you say that you know exactly how fast that car can turn a quarter mile?"

"Yeah," Morton said, looking intrigued.

"And wouldn't you say there are parts in this garage right now that could make my Camaro sound worse but turn a quarter mile faster?"

"With the right driver," Morton said, his grin turning wicked. "So you wanna go out there with a sleeper and make a fool of Richmond and take his money?"

"Yup."

Morton laughed from his belly, and Sam flashed her best smile.

"I don't actually have any cash to put up though."

"So let me get this straight, you want me to put my stuff on your car and give you money so you can go humiliate someone who already owes me money?"

Sam just nodded.

"Your ass don't look _that_ good, girl."

After a quick shrug, Sam lifted her top and wiggled back and forth. Morton just stood there with his mouth hanging open for a minute.

"Yeah. Alright," he said. "But I have to ask, why's there duct tape over one of them?"

* * *

Salem County was not known for its nightlife; the locals had to find other ways of entertaining themselves, and as for the gear heads, drag racing was always a possibility, but you never really knew when or where races would occur. It wasn't like in Philly where people blocked off streets and ran semi-organized events; Salem County drag racing was spontaneous.

Shells ate organic, low-fat, low-sodium, gluten-free chips in the passenger seat.

"Want some?" she asked, her mouth still full.

"Uh, no thanks."

The night air had failed to cool down any, and Sam noticed the Camaro was running a little hot, not to mention sucking down the fuel. They had been riding around for two hours looking for the hotrodders, knowing there was a good chance Bert Richmond would be out showing off his new ride. They had been down by the dike, out to Alloway, and back through Muttontown Woods in Penton, a place said to be haunted by gypsies. Many times Sam had heard the tale of Muttontown woods, of how a pair of teenage lovers had broken down near the intersection, and how he had left her in the car alone while he went for help. The story said she spent a terrified night in the car, the sound of branches dragging across the roof scaring her, only to find in the morning that the gypsies had hung her boyfriend from the tree and it had been the toes of his shoes that had been dragging on the roof of the car.

Sam didn't believe the story, and yet she still felt that Muttontown Woods were creepy and quite possibly haunted. In a way, she was glad there were no hotrodders to be found there, and continued back into town. After cutting through the avenues, Sam rolled through town as quietly as she could, but the lopping of her exhaust echoed off the buildings that lined Main Street. Unoccupied buildings outnumbered those still occupied, and it was clear that this place had been hard hit and was still recovering. Many of the buildings had been recently restored, and there was a glimmer of hope amid the despair.

Rolling past what had once been a gas station and was now a detailing shop, Sam spotted their prey, and Shells wiped her fingers on her jeans. Sam donned her best dumb blonde look and pulled into the gas station. Bert Richmond leaned against the glassy surface of his '78 Z28. That style had never been her favorite, which was why she drove a '71 split bumper, her preferred style. Redneck Brian sat on the back of his Chevelle, and a deep blue Chevelle sat in front of a primered mid-50's Ford pickup.

"Fill 'er up," Sam said.

"Very funny," said redneck Brian. "Man, that thing sounds worse than usual."

Sam suppressed a smile. He was going to make this easy.

"She runs just fine. Faster than that shiny piece of shit," Shells said, aiming her thumb at Bert's car. "Sorry, Bandit." She said as Bert stood up straight.

"You must be kidding me," Bert said. "That thing is roached. I'll eat you alive."

"Tell it to Sally Fields," Shells said. Again, Sam suppressed a smile. She had planned on goading him herself, but Shells was doing an admirable job of it.

"That's some funny shit," redneck Brian said.

"Rodger that, Iceman," Sam finally said, and redneck Brian laughed a little too hard.

"I'd eat this thing alive," Bert said.

"You want to put some money behind that bullshit?"

"I ain't racing you," Bert said. "That thing'll probably spit chunks out the exhaust and scratch my paint."

"Told you that shiny piece of shit had nothing for you," Shells said.

"Oh, shit," redneck Brian said. "You gonna take that?"

Now Sam knew that redneck Brian would make sure her plan came together. He gave her a quick wink when Bert wasn't looking.

"If I tear something up, I actually have something to lose. That thing's already torn up. I don't need to prove anything to you. And I'm sure as hell not racing for pinks."

"How about twenty-five-hundred bucks," Sam said, flashing the cash, knowing that Bert was loaded, that was one of the reasons it annoyed her and Morton so much that he didn't pay his bills.

"You always ride around with that much cash?" Bert asked looking equal parts eager and suspicious.

"Only when we want to eat some shiny Smokey and the Bandit bullshit for lunch."

"I'm not talking to you, Stay Puff."

Shells took one step toward Bert, and Sam held her back. Using that nickname for Shells was a good way to get an ass kicking, and that wouldn't make them any money.

"If you've got any balls, throw 'em on the table, because I've got twenty-five hundred bucks that says my rust bucket will leave that shiny piece of shit in the dust. Put up or shut up."

Even redneck Brian couldn't seem to come up with something to say into that silence.

"I don't have that much cash."

"What's that thing worth? Two, three grand? How about my cash versus your pink slip?"

"Bitch, you're crazy. Wait here."

Bert couldn't resist and his Z28 let out a throaty growl as it smoked the tires out of the parking lot and onto Main. Only a moment later, Officer Asshole sped by, gumballs flashing.

"Wait here for Bert," Sam said to redneck Brian. "I'll meet you at the dike."

"No way," redneck Brian said. "There's a football game in Pennsville tonight, Muttontown Woods."

"I'll meet you there," Sam said.

"That's cool. I can't wait to see this shit!"

As quietly as she could, Sam crept out of town through the avenues. Once over Red Bridge, she opened the Camaro up a little bit and the wheel felt light in her hands, as if the front tires wanted to leave the road.

"Shit, dude. This thing is nasty."

"Morton knows what he's doing," Sam said. "I just need to take good care of the clutch and try not to abuse the rear end, and we should be fine."

"You sure about this, dude. I mean, I know the car is badass, but do you really want to take this risk?"

Sam thought about it for a moment. Following her gut, she said, "Yeah. I'm sure. Hold on. I'm gonna warm up the tires a bit and test the brakes."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Shells said, and then she sank back into her seat as Sam dropped the accelerator. Sam's face throbbed with the power and vibration, and when she snatched second gear, both were thrown back again, hard. The engine sang a glorious song, and the speedometer vibrated back and forth between eighty-five and a hundred-and-twenty. It felt like two hundred.

"Oh my God, oh my God," Shells repeated over and over even as Sam applied the brakes. The steering wheel vibrated and the tires complained, ululating. "Oh shit. Don't do that again."

"Sorry. I just wanted to check it out."

"Abort, dude. Abort. That was insane. I thought she was gonna come apart. Straight up. No bullshit."

"Don't worry, I'll let you out for the race."

"You can't be serious. This thing is not safe at those speeds."

"Just one run," Sam said. "That's all it's gonna take."

"That's all it'll take, all right. I think you're crazy. There's no shame in backing out, you know."

"This would be a hell of a time to start caring about my reputation," Sam said, a smell like burning oil grew stronger, and Shells was wrinkling her nose.

"That doesn't smell good."

"Just burning off some oil," Sam said. "It'll clear up. I usually don't heat her up that much, but she just needs to do one fast quarter mile, and I'll retire her from racing. I promise."

"I just hope she survives. For all her quirks, I like this car. If you ever sell her, you'll come to me first, right?"

Sam had already told Shells and dozens of others that she had no intention of ever selling her car, but nonetheless she said, "Sure." It just made things easier.

Ahead loomed an intersection, normal in most ways, but when Sam made the right onto Acton Station road, the lines of tire marks became visible. For a quarter mile, the road was straight, and the race would end at the intersection that stood at the heart of Muttontown woods. Sam kept driving in that direction, making the left at the intersection and going around the block so as not to draw attention. Not everyone appreciated the hotrodders use of Muttontown Woods for racing.

When they approached the next time, Bert and redneck Brian were waiting. Bert was lined up in the right lane, no chivalry there, and Brian was standing on the yellow lines. Sam could see headlights at the intersection where the rest waited to see the finish.

Pulling up slowly into the left lane, all the while watching for headlights, Sam second-guessed herself as Shells opened the door and climbed out.

"Good move leaving the Michelin man here," Bert said, and Shells gave him the finger.

Sam's knees trembled as the adrenaline began to flow. Brian stood on the yellow lines, arms in the air. Beside her, Bert revved his engine, and it sounded good. Down went Brian's arms, and Bert's Z28 jumped before the redneck's arm reached the bottom of its stroke. Sam hit the throttle and dumped the clutch; the Camaro leaped to life and then immediately began to slow, the exhaust making a too deep noise. The steering wheel shook as Sam slammed her fist down on it, and the car roared back to life, just before Bert's back bumper cleared her front.

Grabbing second gear, she heard the engine whine, and third gear hit almost just as hard. Ahead, Sam saw headlights, a pair on either side of the intersection, but another pair appeared over the hill, and they were coming straight at her. Winding out third gear, the intersection was approaching. People were jumping up and down and waving their arms in the grass alongside the road. The approaching headlights showed no sign of slowing. Mashing her foot down on the switch, Sam put on her high beams in hopes the other car would at least slow down. She could make it. She could finish the race and still have time to get back into her lane before the other car got there. It was a stupid thing to do, and she knew it. She could almost hear Shells yelling at her to stop, but something drove her foot farther down, and the Camaro responded.

Bert pounded his wheel and Sam could see him cussing as she edged ahead of him, just as they reached the intersection. Immediately, she jumped hard on the brakes, the front end vibrating and the tires squealing, the smell of smoke now pouring in through the vents. The speedometer still vibrated from one hundred to a hundred and twenty-five. Bert slowed alongside her, and Sam cursed him for the fool he was. All she wanted to do was get in front of him or behind him, and he seemed to be trying to block her, trying to kill her. When it seemed he would continue braking, Sam double clutched, down shifted, and dropped the accelerator. To her horror, Bert accelerated alongside her, looking at her instead of the approaching car. Sam swerved toward him, and he moved right to avoid her. The oncoming car blew its horn as it had two tires in the grass to avoid them.

Instantly, Bert dropped back under hard braking, and Sam moved back into the right-hand lane, her car taking longer to vibrate to a stop.

In her mirror she saw Bert turning around and the rest converging near the finish line. After spinning around, Sam was glad to see that the car she'd nearly hit was continuing on, even if the driver did blow the horn and shake his fist at those gathered at the intersection.

The Camaro's water temperature was creeping over 240 degrees, and Sam was glad to have the run over with; her knees were still trembling. As she rolled up to the finish line, Sam shut down the engine; it dieseled for a minute before shutting off, and then it backfired. The shouting reached her as she rolled to a stop.

" . . . bullshit. She beat you."

"She tried to run me off the road."

"That was after the finish, and it still doesn't matter. She beat you."

"I didn't get a good start," Sam heard Bert say. "I'm not paying her. She only beat me because she cheated."

"Really? I cheated? How exactly did I cheat? Do you consider getting out of the way of oncoming traffic cheating? You're a freakin' moron, and I ought to kick your ass. Get out of that car and I will."

"Race me again."

"Why? I already beat you," Sam said.

"You cheated. Race me again."

"Fine. If that's what it's gonna take to stop your whining, then line 'em up."

"I need to let my car cool down," Bert said, now a nervous note in his voice.

"Line 'em up or pay up," Sam said.

"Line 'em up or pay up, " the gathered crowd began to chant.

"Fine," Bert said, and Sam almost wished he hadn't. She was still trying to figure out why she had agreed to race him again. Sometimes her anger got the best of her. The Camaro was still running hot, and the smell of burning oil hadn't gone away. The engine lopped at low RPM and sounded as if it would stall, yet it kept running.

This time, Sam took the right lane, and Bert gave her a dirty look. Redneck Brian took his place on the yellow lines and raised his hands in the air.

"What the hell?" Sam heard Shells saying, but before she could shout a response, redneck Brian dropped his arms. This time there was no delay in Sam's reaction. Beside her she heard Bert's V8 roaring as he was waiting until a higher RPM to shift this time, getting every bit of power he could from his thumping power plant. Sam drove her car the same as she had the last time, which was all out, no holding back. The dash looked like it might vibrate to pieces, and when Sam grabbed second gear, it chirped into Bert's open window before she pulled ahead, and she had him cleared by the time they reached the finish line. He moved to the right and tucked in behind her almost immediately, his lights bright in her mirror and making her fear he would rear end her, but his shiny car was far too precious to him for that to happen. Again they turned around and met back at the finish line. Redneck Brian was just pulling up when she arrived, and Shells leaped out of the passenger side of the Chevelle.

"Dude, what the hell?" Shells said. "I thought you beat him the first time."

"I did," Sam said. "But he needed me to beat him again."

Bert flushed as laughter rang out from those assembled, and he threw an envelope at Sam's feet. "I hope you choke on it."

Sam didn't care. She bent down and picked up the cold, hard cash. Bert fired up his Z28 and roared away.

"That was badass," redneck Brian said, but then they heard the sound of other V8 engines sucking air and headed their way. "Time to go."

Shells climbed into Sam's car, and then they were off, turning right, while others went left or straight. Gumballs jumped to life, red and blue lights lighting up the scene. Sam drove as fast as she could to the stop sign, and Shells was slamming on the imaginary brake pedal. Sam was hard on the real one, but her brakes were overheated, adding to the other burning smells in the car. After a rolling stop and a right onto Quaker Neck, she turned left and then left again. Not much farther ahead she turned left onto a grassy lane that led to a steep incline and railroad tracks. Once over the tracks, she shut down the engine and killed the lights. The V8 continue to cough and sputter and then issued another backfire.

"Damn. Shit. Damn." Shells said from the passenger seat, and then they heard the passing roar of a State Police cruiser. It was a distinct sound that had Shells cringing, but it kept on going.

"Maybe we should camp out here for a while," Sam said.

"Yeah. I'm cool with that."

Chapter 5

"So you beat him good?" Morton asked.

"Yup. Twice," Sam said with a satisfied smile.

"Twice? Why'd you have to race him twice?"

"Because he's an idiot and an asshole," Sam said.

Morton didn't disagree with her.

"Either way, here's your money back, and here's half of the winnings," Sam said.

"You keep the winnings. I just want my parts back. Pull that thing in here and let's see how bad you cooked it."

Morton let out a slow whistle when he got the hood up. "You weren't easy on her, were you?"

"I didn't tear anything up, did I?" Sam asked, hoping she hadn't damaged any of the borrowed parts. She knew some of them had sentimental value from Morton's racing days.

"You warmed it all up pretty good, and you were pushing oil, but it doesn't look too bad. I rebuilt your carburetor and cleaned up the manifold. When we put it back together it should run good. Go get some valve cover gaskets and we'll fix that while we're at it. Oh, and I have a present for you." Morton said, and he held out in his shaking hand a solenoid with a hand-made heat shield attached to it. "That's made of the same stuff they use on the space shuttle."

"Thanks, Morton," Sam said. "I really do appreciate all of your help."

"You're gonna do most of the work. I'm just going to stand here and orchestrate. Got it?"

"Got it," Sam said, and Shells nodded firmly.

* * *

There was something about the feeling of grease under her nails, and the power of knowing that she could fix this roaring beast. She could have swapped the parts without Morton's guidance, but she always managed to learn something from him. Shells just soaked it all in, still a gearhead in training.

"So now what?" Morton asked after checking the exhaust for leaks. Sam noted how nice it was to see her car start with the key, though she planned to keep the screwdriver under her seat, just in case the heat shield wasn't enough to keep the solenoid from getting cooked by the headers.

Sam knew he was asking more than casually. Her future was a complete mystery; she had no idea where she would go after North Carolina, but she was fairly certain she wouldn't be coming back here. "Not sure," she admitted. "We're gonna go see Aunt Julie and drop off most of my stuff, and then it's off to North Carolina."

"And what about after that," Morton asked, not one to be put off. "What happens when your vacation is over and reality kicks back in with full force? What are you gonna do then?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do, you dummy. Now what are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna call you and say, 'Morton, I need your help?'"

"Damn straight. Now give me a hug, and go easy on that old girl; she's had a rough life."

"Yeah. I know. I haven't been easy on her," Sam said, rubbing the warm fender with fondness.

"Neither was the fool who had her before you," Morton said, and he slammed the hood shut.

"Thanks, Morton," Sam said, a tear threatening to come to her eye.

"Go on, now. Have a good time on your vacation. You deserve it."

It felt strange starting the car with the key, and the Camaro sounded odd to her ear without the ping of the exhaust leak. It felt good when she hit the accelerator though, even if she did keep it under 25mph in the terraces. Once out of town and headed toward Woodstown, though, she opened the Camaro up, and Shells rooted her on from the passenger seat.

"Five-O," she said, and Sam saw the State Trooper at the same time. Looking down at the speedometer, she saw that she was still doing 75mph. Slowing quickly, her front tires still vibrated, and Sam knew she needed to do more work on the car, but there was only so much money. A speeding ticket wouldn't help.

The trooper rushed by in a woosh, and Sam guessed that he was doing over 80mph. At least he was already engaged and not turning around, she thought.

"Turn right up here and go by the old Rathbone farm. That way we can hit the WaWa on the way in. I need to grab some cash and I'm thirsty."

It was out of the way and took her back to the scene of the crime, since the WaWa was directly across from The Corner Bar. Sam supposed it didn't matter since they were going to Cowtown to find her aunt, and that was directly across from the NJ State Police Barracks, Troop A. There was no getting around it.

As she turned, she looked up the hill to where fenced pastures led to solid looking barns surrounding a stately white house with green shutters. There were no horses in the fields, and no signs of the hive of activity it once was. Sam remembered baling hay and riding horses and motorcycles, and time spent in the hay maw. Sam even blushed a little thinking about it.

Rolling to the WaWa entrance, Sam dropped the Camaro into neutral and poked the throttle, waiting for the pops and backfires, but it remained quiet. After parking, she shut it down, and it immediately went silent.

"No way," Shells said. "Morton finally got the timing right on this thing? Bitchen."

Inside the convenience store was as busy as ever. Clean, well lit, and seemingly busy 24-hours a day, the staff always looked like well-wrung mops.

At the deli, touch-screen ordering stations allowed customers to order without ever talking to an associate, but Sam refused to use them. For her money, she wanted someone to say hello to her. In this case, she saw redneck Brian behind the counter looking almost clean cut, his long hair pulled back by a rubber band. The look on his face made Sam wonder if she really wanted him to make her a sandwich.

In line in front of her stood a large woman in a tube top and spandex shorts that looked like they were about to explode. Sam estimated they must be at least 100 psi. The look on redneck Brian's face as the woman approached the deli said it all.

"Can I help you?" redneck Brian asked, not even feigned enthusiasm in his voice.

"I want a dolla's werf of cheese."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Cheese comes by the pound. How much would you like?"

"I want a dolla's werf."

"Man. When I took this job they told me there wouldn't be any math," he said, laying slices of cheese onto a plastic sheet atop the scale, squinting, and obviously thinking hard. Then he pressed a button on the scale and a sticker rolled out of the printer. He picked it up and stuck it to the edge of the counter with a sigh, and then he bent one of the slices of cheese in half. After breaking the piece off, he promptly ate it.

"What are you doin?"

"I'm trying to make a dolla's werf."

He printed another ticket and cursed under his breath, and then he reached for the top piece of cheese again.

"Keep yo nasty ass hands off my cheese. Why you gotta touch my cheese?"

"Because it's a dollar and five cents werf."

"I only got a dolla."

Redneck Brian finally just wrapped up the cheese and handed it to her with a nickel. "Here. Just take it."

"Best not be touchin' my cheese with no nasty ass hands," the woman said as she walked away.

"What up, ghost girl?"

"I want a dolla's werf a cheese," she said.

"Shut up," he said, but a glance from his manager changed his attitude...a little. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

"I want a sandwich."

"Just punch it up on the PoS, and I'll make it with extra love," he said, no emotion in his voice.

"I don't want to use the Piece of Shit. I want you to make what I ask you for. Got it?"

"Yeah. What do you want?" he asked while turning one of the point-of-sale devices toward him. "Do you want a cold sandwich or a hot sandwich?"

"Both."

"Uh. It won't let me do that."

"I know. That's why I won't use that piece of shit."

"OK. Just tell me what it is you want then."

"Thank you," Sam said. "I want a 12-inch hoagie with hot bologna, melted provolone, hot dog cheese, raw onions, chili, and mustard."

"Damn. Are you pregnant or wasted?" redneck Brian asked, but then he glanced over at his manager, who was giving him a dark look. "I don't even know what to charge you for that. I mean the hotdog cheese is usually just for hotdogs, and we don't charge extra for it."

"Just make me the sandwich and charge me something. I don't care. And don't be touchin' my cheese with yo nasty ass hands." This earned her a quick one-finger salute.

"Did you order that crazy ass sandwich again?" Shells asked when she walked up from behind. "You are such a pain in the ass."

Redneck Brian looked like he wanted to agree, but his manager was now standing with a hand on her hips and the look on her face warned of a good tongue-lashing. "Here's your sandwich, ma'am."

Sam snatched the sandwich with one hand and gave him the finger with the other.

"Hey," he half whispered half yelled, "party at my place tonight. No one leaves until the keg floats."

A look of stern disapproval was on the manager's face as she rung up Sam's items. A line of people queued up behind Shells, and there was not even so much as a thank you for Sam when the woman handed back her change.

"Do you have any condoms?" Sam asked, as if suddenly remembering that she needed them. Shells snickered.

The woman just grimaced and threw a pack of Trojans on the counter.

"Do you have any of the really big ones?" she held up her hands and made a circle with her fingers.

"Yes, ma'am. We have Magnums."

"XLs?" Sam asked, straight-faced.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ribbed?"

Shells leaned into Sam's back as she tried unsuccessfully to contain her laughter. Those in line shifted in the uncomfortable silence.

"They don't make ribbed Magnums," the woman said, looking as if she might explode.

"Well, you would know. Thanks. I don't need any right now, but I might later," Sam said, and she moved to the side.

Shells stepped up, "Do you have any D batteries?" This time it was Sam and redneck Brian who had to try not to laugh. Shells spread her hands about 14 inches apart on the counter and then cut that space up with her hand into battery sized chunks. "I need six of them."

"Yes. We have them."

"Long lasting?" Shells asked. Redneck Brian could no longer contain himself and bent over laughing behind the counter.

"How about duct tape, wire ties, cigars, and Vaseline?" Shells continued. Redneck Brian was no longer even trying to hide his guffaws.

"Oh, God," he said. "You've gotta stop. You're killing me."

Ms. Haughty manager collected the requested items and slammed them onto the counter before Shells, who looked increasingly pleased with herself.

"Will there be anything else?"

"Oh, hey. I forgot whipped cream," Sam said.

"Now that's enough," said the woman behind the counter looking more indignant and judgmental than before. "I don't have to serve you. Now get out of here and don't come back."

"Your loss," Shells said, while backing to the door. "Those D batteries ain't cheap, and I might be needing more soon."

Once back in the car, Sam considered eating her sandwich in the parking lot, but given her recent run-in with the State Police, she felt it better to find somewhere else to sit. The Corner Bar parking lot was not an option for obvious reasons. She would just have to wait until they got to Cowtown.

"The whipped cream was a nice touch," Shells said, and she bumped knuckles with Sam.

If dropped from a plane into Cowtown and asked what state you were in, very few people would guess New Jersey. Sam would bet that most people didn't think there were any cows or cowboys in New Jersey, but Cowtown rose above the plain like a great monument to rodeos, horse racing, and of course, the world famous flea market; 'Often imitated, never equaled.' Just across from the State Trooper Barracks stood a two-story high statue of a cowboy, and a twice-life-sized red bull.

Rows of open sided pole barns surrounded fully enclosed barns, and the place had a sense of age that couldn't be manufactured. Though much of the wood sported a fresh coat of paint, all of it was worn and warped by time, each board with its own character and history to tell. Sam could remember coming to this place for as long as she had lived. And pretty much everyone in the county attended the rodeo at some point or another. Sam had always found it to be hearty, earthy fun.

Saturdays were busy days at Cowtown, as the flea market runs through the day, and the rodeo runs at night. Sam parked across the street, adjacent to the barracks, and next to the barn that had once been used as stalls during the New Jersey Sire Stakes races at Cowtown Raceway. The raceway was little more than a pasture, which currently housed a herd of cattle. It was not the classiest track on the circuit, but it had character to spare. It fit Salem County perfectly; it had been around a while and showed its age, but was unlike anything anywhere else.

After eating her sandwich, Sam wadded up the paper and threw it into the back seat.

"That's just wrong, man," Shells said. "You gotta quit trashing your car. Maybe we could get a little trash can for the back seat while we're here."

That was one of the great things about Cowtown, you could find just about anything and there were even things you'd never think to go looking for. People from all around set up tables and booths, ranging from a single card table to elaborate semi-permanent storefronts.

"Aw, man. Roasted peanuts. I've gotta get some, dude." Shells said.

"Really? Of all the good stuff here, you're turned on by peanuts?"

"They're friggen' awesome! And you can just throw the shells on the ground. This place is righteous." Shells had grown up in urban Delaware, and Sam could still remember the first time she brought Shells to Cowtown. It had been quite a spectacle.

Shells walked alongside Sam utterly engrossed in her peanuts

The smells in the air also ran the gamut, from the smell of dust and old manure to the smell of roasting peanuts and chickens. Somehow it managed to be almost pleasant on all accounts. This place was a tactile, sensory, and cultural experience.

Walking past booths displaying jewelry, used books, and video games, they approached what had always been one of Sam's favorite booths; the one with rock and roll banners, black lights, posters and albums. She could see the dark backdrop over the heads of the crowd before her, and she moved in that direction. Her aunt's booth was not far from there.

As they passed the Amish food stand, which stood in a permanent structure built within the largest pole barn, stools lined either side, and women wearing sheer bonnets worked inside. The smells coming from within were enough to lure even those with full bellies, and Sam was tempted to get a roasted chicken for the ride. She'd been known to buy one and eat the whole thing before getting home. It was quite a feat, but she had skills.

The longhaired guy in the rock and roll booth was jamming out on air guitar to Boston's _Walk On_ , and Sam cast him a wave. He saw her and banged his head extra hard while she was walking past. Part of her wanted to go join him, and for a moment she stopped and jammed with him, holding up the crowd. Shells jumped in on the air drums, and everyone just had to wait for the moment to pass.

There were low grumbles, but no one actually said anything to Sam or Shells, and they just began moving along with the flow once again. When Aunt Julie saw Sam, she ran out from behind her table and into the crowd. "I wondered what the commotion was, and now I know. Excitement follows you two girls wherever you go. Now git over here and give your Aunt Julie a hug."

Sam embraced her aunt, who kissed her on the cheek before letting go. "And where have you been hiding, you rascal?" She asked before planting a kiss on Shells' cheek. Shells actually blushed. "It's been far too long since you've come to see me! I've been worried about you."

"I'm OK, Aunt Julie. Now I have the chance to do whatever I want with my life."

"And what is that, dear?"

"For the moment...uh... hunting ghosts I guess."

Aunt Julie looked doubtful. "I'm certain there are spirits out there that you can make contact with, but perhaps this is something best left alone. There can be a very dark side to things such as these, and I don't want you getting caught up in that, you understand me? Now come back here and let me smudge you."

Groaning, Sam followed her aunt behind the table. She hated getting smudged, but she knew it was best to just let her aunt do what it was she wanted to do; she would get what she wanted one way or another, so it was easiest to just not resist in the first place. After lighting some sage on fire, Aunt Julie waved the smoldering mass of sage sprigs and sent curling wisps of thick white smoke into the air. The smell was pungent and almost overpowering. Sam could hear people in the crowd complaining, but Aunt Julie ignored it as she always did. "I hear your stomach growling," she said, and Sam knew what was coming. "Let me get some peppermint essential oil to rub on your belly."

"Aunt Julie," Sam whined.

"Oh, hush and do what your aunt says."

For once, Sam did just that, and allowed her aunt to rub peppermint oil on her belly while vaguely familiar people walked by. It was an uncomfortable experience and was one of the reasons that Sam hadn't visited more often.

"How are your bowel movements?"

"They're fine, Aunt Julie. Just fine. I'm fine."

"No you're not. Just look at your aura. You look awful. Doesn't she look awful?"

Shells and a couple people from the crowd agreed that she looked like shit. Sam just raised her middle finger without looking to see who it was.

"Now you 'cancel, cancel, clear,' young lady."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said.

"Sniff this," Aunt Julie said. Sam wrinkled her nose and took a shallow inhalation. The pungent smell of oregano was overwhelming. Sam was glad when Aunt Julie finally turned her attention to Shells. "How are your bowel movements?"

Looking dumbstruck, Shells just stood, agape.

"Well?" Sam asked.

"Uh. Like. Uh. You see, I lead a mostly vegetarian lifestyle."

"Oh you must have the most magnificent poo!" Aunt Julie said, and the crowd drifted away from the booth.

"Uh. I suppose so. Yeah."

"I'm curious. You said mostly vegetarian."

She hadn't actually asked a question, but Sam beat Shells to the answer, "Sausage links don't count as strict vegetarian, do they?"

"Not most of them, no," Aunt Julie said, looking thoughtful.

"Shut up," Shells said.

"Here, both of you need to do an herbal flush and detoxify. I can see in your auras that you are very toxic, and a toxic body has toxic relationships. You hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam and Shells said.

"It's just some nice, gentle herbal teas."

Having past experience with Aunt Julie's 'gentle' teas, Sam knew that each one was like swallowing a hand grenade. The last time she had tried one of Aunt Julie's teas, she couldn't leave the house for days.

"I'm really worried about you, honey," Aunt Julie said, turning back to Sam. "I'm trying to read your aura, but there is just too much energy around, and with all that's happened to you, I can't cut through it. All I can see is darkness. When you get to North Carolina, you go straight to a psychic and get checked out. You hear me. No doctors or any of those quacks; you go see an honest to God psychic. Promise me."

"I promise, Aunt Julie. I promise."

"OK. I feel better then. But here, take this crystal with you, it'll protect you." The woman produced a piece of crystal the size of Sam's index finger. Notches had been carved on both sides of the thickest end, and a leather thong had been tied securely around it.

When Sam accepted the stone from her aunt; she could almost feel it vibrating, and it felt warm to the touch, warmer than she would have expected.

"Wear this around your neck and it will protect you," Aunt Julie said. "And don't forget to go see a psychic."

Sam nodded, always amazed by the things that were important to her aunt. "Yes, Aunt Julie." This landed her another kiss on the cheek.

"Here's the combination to the lock on the shed. It's dry in there. And you can keep your stuff there as long as you would like, though I do hope you come back soon."

"And you behave yourself, you rascal," she said to Shells, who waved from behind Sam.

"Damn, dude. Does she always have to get all up in your business?"

"Pretty much," Sam said.

Walking out of the barn into the sunlight blinded Sam for a moment. The sun was starting to sink low, and folks were setting up for the rodeo. "I wonder if Joey and Mark are over there," Sam said.

"Aw, man. I wonder if they have any french fries made up."

"You know they cook bacon and fish in that same oil," Sam said.

"Shut up," Shells responded almost automatically, and then she laughed, "That might be why they taste so darn good. Damn you carnivores and your tasty bits. If you would all just eat bean sprouts and avocados, I'd have no worries."

The smell from the concession stand was promising, and they walked up the grassy hill to the front windows.

"What's up, shiny happy people," Joey said from within, his reddish hair cut short, and his neatly trimmed beard was of the same color. His ears were pierced and he wore large black rings that made him look to Sam as if he were part LEGO.

"Can you make us some fries?"

"The oil's not hot enough yet," Joey said.

Mark walked over to the fryer. "One fifty."

"Yeah. That's too low."

"C'mon, dude," Shells said. "I'm jonesing for some fries."

"No can do," Joey said. "If I throw frozen fries in there now, I'll never get the oil up to temperature. Sorry."

"Bummer, dude," Shells said.

"I can make you a crab cake sandwich, or a hamburger or something. The grill's plenty hot."

"Nah," Shells said. "I'll pass."

"So I hear you got evicted," Joey said to Sam. "Heard you were having some trouble with the law too. That ain't right; turning on their own like that. You all right?"

"Yeah, you need us to kick somebody's ass?" Mark asked from behind Joey.

"I think I'll be all right, but if I'm ever looking for backup, you know you'll be the first I call."

"Second is cool," Joey said.

"Yeah. Like, I wouldn't be offended by second," Mark added.

"So are you really going to North Carolina to hunt ghosts?"

"Man, news travels fast as hell around here," Shells said.

"Tell me about it," Sam agreed. "Yeah, that's exactly what we're doing."

"Sweet! That kicks ass. Which way are you going? You're driving, right?"

Sam just shrugged. "I don't know. I was going to look at a map."

"I've got GPS, dude. We don't need no stinking maps." Shells said.

"I'm just saying that you ought to cut through Harpers Ferry, West Virginia to I-81, which means you avoid Baltimore and DC, and it's a much nicer ride."

"You sold me," Shells said. "Write that shit down."

Joey scribbled directions on an order ticket and handed it out to Shells. "I've got prep to do, so if you don't want anything, then beat it."

"Thanks," Sam said, and they turned to walk back to the barns.

"Hey Sam," Joey called out, and Sam turned. "I hope you kick some ghost ass!"

Sam just waved and kept walking.

"Man. I really want french fries now, and didn't somebody say something about a keg? I'm getting mighty thirsty."

"We can't drink if we're going to be on the road."

"No. _You_ can't drink if we're going to be on the road. I will be in the passenger seat, and a good buzz might just help the time pass by. It's a long ass ride."

"Maybe one or two beers won't hurt."

Chapter 6

"Dude. Wake up. You're drooling on me." Sam heard Shells say, but the fog in her brain prevented comprehension. Everything seemed to be moving. "Seriously. Aw, man. C'mon."

Just then Sam managed to pull herself up and wiped the drool from the side of her mouth and face. "Sorry," she managed to say. When she looked down and saw duct tape again, she just moaned. When would she ever learn?

Others slept on the floor, and it looked as if the sun was only just rising. Sam walked over the people who either slept soundly or were passed out on the floor. Shells moved more quickly and ducked into the bathroom. She emerged a moment later shaking her head. "There's someone passed out in the bath tub."

"Male or female?"

"No idea. Who can tell these days," Shells said.

Sam did what she could to freshen up in the poorly stocked bathroom, and tried to ignore the snoring figure in the bathtub. She couldn't tell if they were male or female either, and decided it really didn't matter.

Dew lay heavy on the cars in the horseshoe driveway, and Sam grimaced when she saw a car parked behind her, blocking her in. The parking arrangement was less than ideal, and Sam didn't relish the idea of waking up everyone in the house to see whose car it was.

"Is it locked?" Shells asked as they moved closer, and she peered into the windows. "Damn. Locked."

"You two are up early," came a deep voice from behind, and Sam turned to see a guy they called Oak, because he was as big around as a tree and tough as hardwood.

"We need to get on the road," Sam said. "Headed south today."

"I heard that. You hunting ghosts and all that?"

"Yeah," Sam said, never knowing who would laugh at her and who would wish they could join her. Oak turned out to be one of the latter. "That must be cool. I hope you find something. I've seen some shit." He said the last part as a whisper only for Sam's ears, and she could understand. It wasn't the kind of thing you wanted everyone to know about you, or they might start calling you things like ghost girl. "Looks like you're blocked in. You want me to move that car for you?"

"You know whose car it is?" Shells asked.

"No," Oak said. "But I can move it."

"Sweet." Shells said. "I'll help."

Sam watched in silent amazement as the two of them lifted the front of the car and moved it into the grass beside the driveway. Then they did the same for the rear end. Once more on the front and rear and there was enough room for Sam to squeak by.

"Thanks, Oak." Sam said after shutting her car door and rolling down the window.

"No problem. Peace... and good luck."

The Camaro's exhaust echoed off the side of the house and the neighboring house. It sounded healthy and there were no leaks, but she bet it had woken at least of few of those inside. Down back roads, some barely wide enough for two cars to pass side by side, and not another car to be seen, Sam soaked in the familiarity and the feeling of knowing exactly where she was and exactly how to get where ever she wanted to go. All that would be behind her soon.

"I need food," Shells complained. "What are we going to pass on the way?"

"Not much," Sam said. "I'm taking the scenic route, but we'll pass the truck stop before we get to the bridge."

"No way, man. I need something that's not gonna come flying back out of both ends."

Sam couldn't argue.

In the end, they stopped at another WaWa not far from the bridge.

"Condoms and whipped cream?" Shells asked.

"Don't forget the batteries and duct tape."

This stop was otherwise uneventful, though Sam really felt that both of them were stalling, not wanting to take that first step on a new journey. After they finished eating, Sam fired up the Camaro, and with The Steve Miller Band _Fly like an Eagle_ entirely too loud, she worked her way to the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Dual olive green spans crossed the Delaware River, and it stood like the gateway to the rest of the world. Whenever Sam crossed over the spans, she felt as if she were leaving the security of home. And, as she always did, she gave a silent nod in memory of Buddy, her friend who had died on that bridge. The thoughts were painful, and the memories evoked were often unpleasant; it grated against Sam's already raw feelings. For years she had wanted to communicate with those she'd lost and had no success, yet perfect strangers were reaching out to her from beyond the grave.

"You all right?" Shells asked after turning down the music.

Shaking herself from the melancholy she'd been feeling, Sam turned a somewhat sad smile to Shells. "Yeah. I'm all right."

"Some things never really stop hurting," Shells said. "I get that."

Uneasy silence hung between them for a moment until they approached the toll. "Three dollars? Unbelievable. Three friggen' dollars to cross a bridge. I mean, what the hell? Let's create a traffic jam and make people pay us to get out of it."

Sam had heard all this before and didn't bother to enter the conversation.

"I mean, it's not like they're not going to stop us in like five miles and ask for five more bucks, and then stop us again and ask for six more bucks. What the hell! That's like twelve bucks to drive twenty miles. I mean, shit, man. Do you know what that is in cheese? That's a friggen' fortune!"

Cracking a smile, Sam handed the toll taker a twenty and waited for her change.

"Have a nice day," he said when he handed it to her.

"Thanks. You too."

"What the hell?" Shells asked while Sam looked left and right to see if anyone was going to race her to the merger. She wanted to be in the left lane, and needed to move over a couple lanes; the way was clear. "Why do you thank the people who cause the traffic jam and ask for your money?"

"It's not that guy's fault," Sam said. "How would you like to stand in a box in the middle of a highway and have people blow exhaust in your face all day; and I doubt he's getting rich doing it."

"I remember when it cost seventy-five cents to cross that bridge and you could just throw some change in the bin and go. That rocked."

Sam remembered it as well; her first time through she had missed the bucket with the last of her change, and she'd had to get out and find the missing quarter. She remembered very clearly the man in the Corvette behind her giving her the finger. Ah, the good 'ol days.

"We're just a couple toll booths away from being in the south baby!" Shells said. "I'm gonna say y'all and howdy, and I'm gonna have me some biscuits and grits and shit. This is gonna rock, yo."

Sam had to agree. She had always wanted to explore the south more than just driving down I-95 on the way to Disney World. From Sam's memory the air was always warmer and things smelled different. There was an ethereal quality to the memory, as that had been a long time ago, and the memories of her childhood were hazy. She saw that all the magic and mystery of her childhood had only been a matter of perspective, and in her adult years she discovered how ordinary and uninteresting all of those memories really had been.

Each tollbooth brought a new litany from Shells, but manning the radio kept her busy most of the time. If she wasn't looking for tunes, she was rocking out to whatever it was she found. Soon the beltway gave way to smaller highways, and Shells became the navigator as they moved into unfamiliar territory, the road narrowing down to two lanes.

The road took them along a ravine and over a bridge that spanned a sprawling river with massive sections of rolling white water. The waves were not violent, but appeared to be enough to provide an enjoyable ride, as the water was filled with rafts, tubes, and kayaks. Smiling vacationers walked up paved walkways that lined the road, and Shells eyed the crowd. "Nice ass!" she yelled to a girl in a skimpy bikini, and Sam had to agree. The girl obviously didn't mind, since she gave it a little shake for their benefit. Shells gave a triumphant shout. "This trip rocks, girlfriend."

There was a festive feel in the air, and it raised Sam's spirits. Something about seeing people enjoying themselves and being stress free reminded Sam of easier times; times when she would never have believed that there would be darkness in her life, but darkness there had been. Unwilling to feel sorry for herself, Sam looked over to Shells. "What about some tunes, maestro?"

"As you command, my liege. I give up on the radio, though," Shells said. And, after popping a contraption into Sam's tape deck, she hooked the other end to her smartphone, and did some things that might as well have been magic to Sam. The end result was Whitesnake's _Here I Go Again_ cranked up loud. Mountain valleys gave way to rolling farmland and eventually dropped them onto I-81 southbound. It was a beautiful ride with mountain views in the distance. The setting sun cast the world in reds and blues, and the threat of rain cast a greenish hue as well. The sun still shown through gaps in back clouds and part of a rainbow could be seen springing from the menacing clouds, disappearing into a craggy but green-coated valley.

Shells danced in her seat, and Sam looked over with a smile, but then her attention was called back to the roadway. Smoke rolled off the tires of an eighteen-wheeler up ahead, and the moving truck along side it weaved back and forth; the two nearly touched, and Sam's heart leapt to her throat. One glance at the speedometer showed that they were still doing seventy miles per hour, and the front end shook as Sam slowed, all the while watching her rearview mirror and hoping the truck behind her would stop as quickly as she did. A terrible sound assaulted Sam's hearing; smoke and bits of debris filled the air. The moving van stopped far too abruptly; its back tires almost leaving the roadway as it was jacked into the air by the impact.

Jerking left and cutting off another tractor-trailer, whose driver was now laying on the horn, Sam looked for a clear route. The right lane was completely blocked and when her eyes returned to the center of the left lane, she panicked. Before her disbelieving eyes stood a little girl, no more than six or seven years old. She looked at Sam and her eyes begged for reassurance. Though she had no children, Sam felt a maternal pull. It all happened in a fraction of an instant, and her foot jumped hard on the brake. The ululating cry of her tires rose over the continued sound of twisting and grinding metal.

"What the hell are you doing?" Shells shrieked. "Go, dude, go. Now. Go, go, go!"

A glance at her mirror showed a chrome hammer heading straight for them, still at speed. The driver of the truck laid on the horn, and the bark of his tires was far deeper than the scream of hers had been. Grabbing a gear and dropping the clutch, Sam slammed Shells back into the seat and kept her there until they were clear of the wreck and could pull into the right lane and out of the way of the truck, which was just now starting to show signs of slowing. Sam could not blame the driver, there were flames pouring from his brakes. It takes a lot to slow down that much weight moving at that kind of speed.

"Oh, shit. Shit. What just happened back there?"

"Somebody just died."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"A little girl just died," Sam said, her eyes tearing. All of her life she had hated death. It was something that had been a problem for her in her years on the force. Sam had always wanted to save them all, to make everything OK, and she couldn't do that. The world, reality, wouldn't allow her to do that, and the rest of her life seemed like a quest to find a way to save others from the pain, to keep others from having to feel what she had felt.

Getting out of the car, Sam could hear the screams. Quicker than she would have imagined, sirens could be heard approaching from both directions. Sam kept moving toward a tractor-trailer that was now almost on its side, laying at an angle, partly propped up by the guardrail, and partly propped up by, Sam now saw, a silver minivan. Two canoes lay across the roadway, the trailer that had held them almost completely crushed under the tractor-trailer. Sam felt frozen, and Shells stood silent behind her, but training kicked in, and Sam looked for ways to help survivors and ways to stabilize the situation.

Soon though, EMS arrived and urged everyone else to go back to their cars. Feeling more than useless, Sam walked back to the car in a state of shock. What was happening to her, how could she continue to live like this? She had almost made it worse. She had almost added her name and Shells' to the list of those who died that day.

"Did you see what happened," a police officer asked when they got back to the car.

"No," Sam said. "It all happened in front of us, and we were just lucky to miss the tail end of it."

"Any damage or injuries?"

"No, sir."

"You may go. Drive carefully and buckle up."

"Yes, sir."

Not much was said for a while, and they had the highway to themselves.

"I'm here for you, dude," Shells said after a while. "I know you've got some serious shit going on, and I'm here for you."

Sam didn't say anything.

"Do you think, maybe, I should drive?" Shells asked, her voice betraying her hesitancy to ask the question.

"I'm not crazy," Sam said with too much conviction, as if it was herself that needed the most convincing, and she admitted that perhaps it was. What else was she supposed to think?

"I know," Shells said, her hands raised in a defensive posture. "I was just checking."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "Maybe we should call it an early night and just stop at the next hotel we see."

"Yeah, a good night sleep sounds like just the thing," Shells said, though Sam wasn't convinced.

Ahead the lights of a roadside hotel could be seen, and Sam put on her turn signal, hoping things would look better in the light of a new day.

* * *

Blue skies and a half-stale danish made for a cheerful morning, and Sam had to admit that she felt better than she had in weeks. Waking up without the taste of beer on her breath was refreshing, and she thought she might have to try it more often. The bright light still hurt her eyes, and she donned her shades. Jean shorts and a shirt that showed off her midriff, even made her feel like she was on vacation. The events of the day before seeming like a bad dream, and those thoughts were chased away by sunshine and rock and roll. The Eagle's sang _Seven Bridges Road_ , and Sam sang along, with Shells bringing the harmony. From beside her, Shells pulled out the newspaper that had been lying in front of their hotel room door, folded in half. The white lines whisked by in a constant procession, and Sam noticed that Shells had grown very quiet and had gone still.

"What's going on over there," she asked when her curiosity would no longer allow her to wait.

Shells stayed quiet for a couple moments longer, and when she did speak, her voice was low and conveyed an undercurrent of worry. "That little girl you saw yesterday," Shells said, and Sam stiffened. "What did she look like?"

Sam sniffed but kept her eyes straight ahead, watching the road, just as she had been when she saw the little girl. "She's just a tiny little thing," she said without actually intending to. "Brown hair cut short. Like a bowl cut. Glasses. Plastic. Thick rims." The details kept coming, and Shells looked like she might be sick. "What is it?"

"Maybe you should pull over first," Shells said.

"Seriously? What is it?"

Shells handed her the paper, despite that fact that Sam hadn't pulled over; the front page showed a picture of the wreckage she'd seen the day before. The caption read, 'Family on vacation loses daughter to highway accident.' Next to the wreckage was another picture; it looked like a school picture. The girl was smiling, and it felt like someone was stabbing Sam in the chest. It was so unfair. How could someone with so much light in their eyes be taken from this world too soon and in such a horrible way? Sam felt grief on behalf of the girl's family, unable to imagine how great their pain must be, but she also felt sorry for herself. Why would these spirits show themselves to her? She could do nothing for them. She was powerless, just an observer, and certainly in no way capable of reversing the course of events that ended their lives, so what then was the purpose for all of this? There were no easy answers, and Sam wiped the tears from her eyes after handing the paper back to Shells.

"I don't know what's going on, dude, but I'm going to do something I thought I'd never do; I'm going to agree with your Aunt Julie. You need to go see a psychic, and a good one at that. Damn, girl. What the hell is going on with you? This is some pretty twisted ass shit."

"I don't know what's going on, but I sure as hell plan to find out," Sam said. Shells made no response. Between them the silence held for some time, and Sam wondered if she would ever find the answers she sought.

* * *

At a construction site, Greg stood baking in the South Jersey sun, the humidity keeping him constantly coated in a glaze of sweat, which seemed to draw the dust so that he went home each night coated in black. The blisters on his hands were starting to harden into calluses, but nowhere near fast enough.

"Helms," came the voice of Greg's coworker Jim, who seemed to think his purpose was to make sure Greg did all of the work assigned to the two of them, while he stood around and ran his ugly flap about things that meant absolutely nothing to Greg. All he wanted was to be back on the force and back in his old routine. Being on the police force had required a great deal from him, and there were certainly parts of the job he didn't miss, but this construction job reminded him just how hard things could be, and he wanted out. Fast.

"What is it, Jim?"

"Boss says you're to carry those rolls of tarpaper to the front of the site and stack them near where the roofers will be staging."

"And what are you supposed to do? Watch?"

"How'd you guess?" Jim said, and he even lit a cigar and sat his lazy ass on one of the stacks of rolled tarpaper.

"How about you kiss my ass, Jim?"

It was the first time that Greg had spoken back, and he regretted it instantly. He'd known from the start that his existence on this job was tenuous. One bad word from Jim, and he'd be back in the unemployment line. Reminded of his circumstances, Greg assumed a more humble posture.

"You'd best get to carrying, boy. That tarpaper ain't gonna move itself. And before you even ask, no there aren't any trucks or lifts free. You either put some back into it or go home. Got it?"

"Got it." Greg said, wondering what Sam was doing.

Chapter 7

"We're friggen' lost," Shells said. The trees that lined the road were ubiquitous in their kudzu covering; it was a strange thing to see, and Sam felt bad for the trees, being slowly strangled and cut off from the sun.

"Any idea where we are?" Sam asked.

"RU-THER-FORD-TON," Shells said. A little green sign flashed by, and Sam saw that it said 'Small Town Friendly' underneath the long name of the town. "That's a friggen' mouthful."

They passed a convenience store with no gas pumps, and Sam kept going, the fuel gauge bouncing between empty and an eighth of a tank. Not much else lined the road except churches and gas stations, and it wasn't long before another gas station appeared over a hill. Next to the gas station stood a working lumber mill and a huge loader with curved teeth on the front as big around as a tanker truck. Across the street was a little white church.

"We have reached the Bible Belt," Shells said.

Sam just smiled and parked in front of the pay phone.

"Holy crap, is that an actual pay phone?" Shells asked. "I have to take a picture of that with my smartphone!" The irony of that statement seemed lost on her.

"You want anything?"

"I'm coming in too," Shells said. "I just needed to take that picture first. The south is a trip."

"I have a feeling we haven't seen anything yet."

An older gentleman dressed in farmer's clothes held the door for them as he left. Sam noted the sign on the door that read: Shoplifters will get a free ride in a shiny new Sheriff's car courtesy of Sheriff Carter.

"Now that's a switch," Shells said. Sam nodded. Inside, the store had character; no bland uniformity and specialized lighting to make everything look sterile and shiny. This place showed its age, and did so with grace and a sense of dignity. The well-worn interior was a familiar sight to some, and one that had endured for decades. To Sam, it was refreshing. It felt good to be around people who maybe weren't uptight in general.

Behind the counter stood a man whose face did not speak of an easy life, yet there was so much life in his eyes. "Well hey there, youngins," he said, his drawl thick, and his Sheriff's Patrol hat worn with pride.

"Hi," Sam said, and she noticed his gaze followed her and Shells as if they were the most interesting thing to walk in there all day, and she guessed that perhaps they were. The store was like a true mini grocery, and Sam browsed the shelves.

"What the heck is Sun Drop?" Shells asked, and the man behind the counter poked his head around so she could see him.

"You never heard of Sundrop?" he said, or at least she thought that was what he said. "That was Earnhardt's favorite."

"Who?" Shells asked, and Sam smacked her forehead.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

"No," Sam said. "But I know who Dale Earnhardt was, may he rest in peace."

The man behind the counter seemed to reappraise them, and Sam bought a couple extra things just so it didn't seem like they were stopping only for directions and not buying anything.

"You want a possum bag for that?"

"A _what_?" Shells asked.

"A possum bag. In case you get one on the way home. They're good eatin' you know."

"Uh. OK. Yeah. I'll take a bag."

"One possum bag coming right up young lady," he said.

"Can you tell me where Lake Lure is?" Sam asked once Shells had her possum bag well in hand.

"Sure. It's over yonder," he said, and he pointed out the door.

"Could you maybe be a little more specific?" Shells asked.

"Well, you go on outta here toward town and before you git to town, turn right onto 64, and after that it's just over yonder. You on vacation?"

"Sort of," Sam said.

"We're hunting ghosts," Shells said, Sam thought probably just to freak him out a little; she was just returning the favor after all.

"Oh," he said, and as they were walking out he said, "don't let those possums get you by the ears or you'll get gum disease for Christmas." Or at least that was what Sam thought he said.

"Did he just tell me to blow a possum?" Shells asked.

"I don't think so."

"Good thing. I don't want to have to kick that old man's ass," Shells said while doing her best kung fu hand moves.

Ten miles later . . .

"How the hell far is a yonder anyway? I mean, shit!"

"There's something up ahead," Sam said, and she turned onto highway 64, which was nothing more than a two-lane strip of blacktop. Accustomed to being able to see for long distances while driving, Sam felt the mountainous terrain they were driving into crowded and confined her. However, the feeling was overcome by the natural beauty of the verdant landscape. So much lush foliage and black rock, it became more and more breathtaking as they drove.

"I need something real to eat," Shells said, and Sam started looking for places to eat. The next place they came to was a small restaurant attached directly to the side of a gas station, a rather large gas station at that, which looked to be the local hangout. "I think we may have found the cultural hub of RU-THER-FORD-TON."

Pulling into a crowded parking lot, Sam noticed that every other vehicle in the lot was a pickup truck. This was her kind of place.

Eyes turned toward them when they walked into the small restaurant. They stood near the front door and waited.

"Just sit anywhere you like, honey," a little woman said from the doorway that led to the kitchen. Sam wasn't certain which of them she was addressing, but she supposed it didn't matter.

After running her gaze over the tables and booths that looked like they were from the 1970's, Sam settled on the one farthest from the other patrons, who were watching them with interest.

On the table were photocopied menus in plastic sleeves, the usual salt, pepper and ketchup, but also a bottle of what looked like chili peppers soaking in a mostly clear liquid. Sam was tempted to try some, except the bottle, too, looked like it had been around since the 1970's, and she decided to leave well enough alone.

"What the hell is livermush?" Shells asked, and Sam noticed the stares aimed her way. "Why would anyone name anything livermush? And can you imagine someone actually ordering it?"

"I'm sure people order it all the time, and it just sounds weird because we aren't used to it."

"I still think it's a stupid name," Shells said, and then in a louder voice she asked, "Fatback? What the hell is fatback?"

"Would you shut up?" Sam said in a low voice.

"Oh, sorry," Shells said. "Was I loud?"

"No louder than usual," Sam said, and Shells played a little air guitar.

"What can I get you," asked the waitress.

"Livermush and fatback," Sam said, and Shells gaped.

"No way, really?" Shells said. "I just want french fries. Oh, and pickles. Do you have any pickles?"

"We have pickles. What would you like to drink?"

"Coke," Sam said.

"Pepsi OK, hun?"

Sam nodded.

"I'll have iced tea," Shells said.

"Sweet tea?" the waitress asked.

"Uh, yeah," Shells said. "Sure."

"That'll be just a couple minutes, hun."

Sam couldn't escape the feeling that everyone knew everyone around here, just like in Salem. Some things, though they seemed different on the face, were the same here as they were at home.

The waitress brought their drinks, and then brought Shells a basket of fries and some pickles. Next she came with two small plates; one with what looked like a piece of scrapple on it, and another with what looked like two extra thick pieces of bacon.

"You're not really going to eat that, are you?" Shells asked.

Sam answered by picking up her fork and digging into the livermush.

"Aw, man. You're killing me."

"Mmm," Sam said. "It tastes like spicy scrapple."

"You have to be crazy to eat that stuff."

After trying the fatback, Sam didn't say anything; she just rolled her eyes and moaned.

"You like it?" the waitress asked when she returned to check on them.

"Yes. Thank you," Sam said.

Shells reached for her tea and took her first sip, which she almost instantly spit out. "Holy crap!" she said. "How much sugar did you put in that? It's like 12-ounces of diabetic shock."

"You two aren't from around here, are you?"

"You could say that," Sam admitted, and those who were still watching them nodded their heads knowingly.

"I guess we stick out a little, huh?" Shells asked.

"The only way you could stick out more would be if I set you on fire," Sam said.

"It ain't that bad," the woman said. "It's pretty easy to pick out folks from the north. Y'all just have a different way of talking is all."

"How far are we from Lake Lure?" Sam asked.

"It's just over yonder," the waitress said, and Shells groaned; a look from Sam kept her quiet for a change.

"Let's go yonder, youngin'" Shells said after they had finished their meal and left a generous tip for the waitress. Once back in the car, Shells brought up Dio's _The Last in Line_ and cranked the volume. The guitars were just hitting when Sam gunned it and roared back onto highway 64. Folks who had been chatting or rocking in the chairs outside of the store all watched as Sam and Shells sped away accompanied by heavy guitar. Sam could only imagine what they thought of the two of them. She didn't care.

The road was no longer straight, and the curves became more frequent and tighter. Sam had to pump the brake pedal to get them slowed enough in some places, and Shells cast her worried glances when it appeared the mirror might vibrate itself straight off the windshield.

"I think maybe we should get some more work done on the car," Shells said, her voice shaking as if she were speaking through a fan. Along with the twists and turns came sheer drops, and the guardrail seemed like precious little protection from the surely fatal fall.

"Agreed," Sam said, now driving much more slowly and anticipating each turn. Her car had never struggled so hard on the flat roads of New Jersey, but here every downhill run was something of an adventure. Aqua green water could be seen through the gaps in the trees and in pools at the bottom of winding cliffs. Then the trees opened up and gave them their first good view of Lake Lure, it was breathtaking. Still waters reflected the clouds and mountains surrounding it. With the exception of a few bald spots, deep green forests covered mountains that were more compact and dense than the sweeping mountains she knew in Virginia. These mountains seemed almost random in their shape, and the way they overlapped each other created a three-dimensional landscape filled with texture and light play. Sam had to keep her eyes on the winding road, which was made even more difficult by Shells pointing out every thing Sam shouldn't be looking at.

Boats cut the glasslike waters, and a water-skier looked to be having the time of his life. Jet skis buzzed near floating docks and red soil beach. A covered pontoon boat moved at a more leisurely pace, every seat onboard appearing to be full.

After crossing a two-lane bridge that seemed only wide enough for one and a half lanes, a sandy beach came into view. Bright red lifeguard stands stood at regular intervals along the sizable but finite beach. Water slides could be seen at the far end of the beach, and the parking areas were packed with motorcycles and other vehicles. As they looked around, it became apparent that this was a popular destination for motorcyclists. Many motorcycles packed the lots along the beach and the larger lots across the street, which stood alongside a stately building of white, with a roof the color of burnt umber. The place had a sense of age; its very stature declaring that it was the product of another time. The partly bald mountains behind it dwarfed the structure, and yet it stood its ground proudly.

A nearby restaurant's parking lot contained only motorcycles. They filled the lot and it didn't look like there was room for even a single car. The Margarita Grill, the sign proclaimed.

"That's the place!" Shells said, pointing to the stately Inn. "Holy crap that place is big!"

Driving by slowly, Sam got a strange feeling in her gut, as if things inside the Inn were looking back out at her. She didn't turn into the lot.

"Aren't we going to check in?" Shells asked.

"Not yet," Sam said, not knowing why she wanted so badly to delay checking in. Perhaps it was just nerves over having to actually find some evidence of the paranormal or else find some other way of supporting herself. Either way, she coasted along until reaching the end of the beach area, and the road opened up for a short distance; soon, though, she slowed again. Signs for Hickory Nut Gorge and Chimney Rock Park made it unnecessary to ask where they were. At road level, there were quaint shops, small eateries, and a lively but relatively small crowd divided between them. A place called Arrowheads caught Shells' eye.

"Let's stop here for a bit. I want to check that place out," she said.

Sam didn't argue, since this would certainly delay check-in. Parking was tight and in short supply, but Sam squeezed the Camaro into a spot. One thing she noticed was that no one was in a hurry. This was a resort town, and those here basked in the natural glory of the place. Beyond the shops on the west side of the street ran a narrow river, whose bed was littered with enormous stones with edges rounded and worn by wind, water, and time. Teens in bikinis laid out on some of the larger rocks, and therefore teenage boys were not far away, playing frisbee and generally making fools of themselves.

When Sam finally looked up, following the terrain until she had to crane her neck and shade her eyes, she saw a formation of rock protruding from the mountain above them. Atop it was one of the largest United States flags she had seen since her last visit to Washington, DC.

"That must be Chimney Rock," Shells said. "Some guy cut a shaft up there through solid rock and then put in an elevator, so you can just ride up to the top."

"Recently?" Sam asked. "And how the hell do you know that?"

"No. In the 1920's," Shells said. "It's called the Internet, girlfriend, you should try it some time."

Dodging foot traffic coming from the other direction, Sam didn't respond. Computers just weren't her thing. No matter what she tried to do it didn't work; support technicians were always amazed at how badly she managed to botch even the simplest of tasks. She was glad that Shells understood it and could deal with it, but for Sam, it was completely foreign. Cell phones were the limit, and even those were pushing their luck by becoming more complicated every day. Shells swore by her smartphone, which she said could do just about anything, but Sam knew she would destroy one of those within a week. Even her old 'feature phone' as the techies called it, would be lucky to survive the year. Coddling technology was just not in Sam's DNA.

A carved wooden Indian stood in front of Arrowheads, and inside turned out to be a tribute to the tribes that had been native to North Carolina, including the Cherokee. Glass cases held folk art, and dream catchers hung from the rafters.

A carving of golden wood, richly grained and polished to a mirror finish in the shape of a wolf's face drew Shells in.

"Oh, man. Would you look at this," she said. "It's amazing. I have to have it."

"How much is it?" Sam asked and she watched as Shells turned over the paper tag.

Twenty-five hundred dollars.

"Ouch," Shells said. "Well I guess I don't _have_ to have it."

"I will give it to you if you will take it and go home immediately. Go back to wherever you came from."

"What the hell?" Shells said as she and Sam turned to find a man behind the counter staring at them; he looked to be of Native American descent, and he wore a heavy scowl.

"Are you carrying a concealed weapon?" the man asked Sam.

"No," Sam said.

"But you are in law enforcement, aren't you?"

Stunned, Sam wasn't certain what to say. "I was a cop," she said after a moment. "And now I'm not."

This took the man back a moment, and he looked at Sam differently, almost as if he did a double take.

"I have a gift for you," he said, his face expressionless, and he slid a small black stone across the counter.

This was a man that should play poker, Sam thought. "I don't have to get out of town if I accept this, do I?" she asked. The man just shook his head. Reaching out slowly, she grabbed the stone. Smooth and rounded yet with intricate texture, the black stone was cool to the touch and felt good in Sam's palm.

"It is an offering to the land," the man said. "Throw it into the lake along with your greatest intention."

"And then what?" Shells asked.

"I don't understand," the man said.

"After she throws the rock into the lake, then what happens?"

"It is an offering," the man said as if that answered the question, but the look on Shells' face made it clear that she didn't understand. "Hopefully, she will feel blessed afterward. The stone is a river stone from the valley beneath Lake Lure, which was once a flowing river. Offering this stone back to the valley is a way of honoring what was the land's natural form."

"Lake Lure is man made?" Sam asked, and Shells gave her a look that said, "Duh! The Internet, dude, use it!" The man just nodded his head. "Thank you. That's kind of you. Are you having some kind of trouble with the police?"

A tinkling bell rang as another customer entered the store. The man retreated into a room in the back.

"Aw, man. We should've asked him about the psychic," Shells said.

"Are you looking for a psychic?" the person next to Shells asked, and Sam turned to look at her. She was a slender woman in her middle years with a plain face and a pleasant smile. "I'm a little bit psychic myself, you know. Why I bet I was drawn down here today just to help you."

Shells did not look impressed and Sam chose not to say anything yet.

"I sense that you are looking for a professional psychic . . . the best even," the woman said, holding one hand to her forehead. "Am I right?"

"You're good," Shells said.

"Do you know of someone?"

"Yes, ma'am. You want to see the Woods Woman Psychic, that's who you need to see."

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," Shells said. "Do you have a Woods Woman to English dictionary?" she asked no one in particular.

The woman ignored Shells. "She's the best there is; even has her own radio show and everything. Here, I have her number. I'll write it down for you."

"Is it this number?" Shells asked, holding out her smartphone.

"Why, yes," the woman said, looking a bit crestfallen. "How did you do that?"

"I got the Interweb," Shells said, and then she moonwalked to the carving of an eagle. "Aw, man. I have to have that," Sam heard her say.

"Thank you," Sam said.

"You're welcome dear," the woman said with a warm smile. "I hope whatever brought you here is for your own good."

"You can't tell?" Sam asked.

"I'm only a little psychic. Bye now."

"Wait. That's it? Didn't you come in here for something?"

"I did, dear," she said while walking out the door. "I came to see you. Now I'm going home."

It was as strange a thing as anyone had ever said to her, with the noted exception of what the man behind the counter had said. He had yet to reappear.

"C'mon," Shells said. "Let's go."

Sam followed her back outside and they wandered back toward the car.

"I've got this woods woman's phone number," Shells said. "You want me to call her?"

"Uh. Sure."

"Yeah. Is this the woods woman psychic lady? Yeah, my friend is a wreck, a real mess, and she needs to see a professional psychic. We were told you were the person to see. When can we come see you? Now? Sweet!" Shells gave Sam the thumbs up, though Sam had another bad feeling in her gut. What was with her gut these days anyway? She had better not be pregnant, she told herself. But then she quickly did the math and realized there was no way. She shrugged it off.

"Oh yeah, she's totally screwed up," Shells said. "She's, like, seeing ghosts, lost her job and her man. She's all messed up. OK. We're coming now; we'll be there in . . . " she looked down at her phone and poked around for a moment. "We'll be there in a half an hour."

"Thanks," Sam said when Shells hung up the phone.

"Oh, you're welcome dude," Shells said, never looking up from her phone. "OK, these roads might get a little dicey; let's go a little easier on the go pedal, ya dig?"

The Camaro had always been a car that was impossible to drive the speed limit. It seemed to always creep a little faster and a little faster. With Shells navigating, Sam kept it slow, much for the purpose of safety, but sometimes waiting for Shells' smartphone to quit saying "connection lost."

"I thought that thing was supposed to keep us from getting lost and it appears to have done the exact opposite," Sam said.

"Ha!" Shells said. "Just keep going straight for another mile and then we're gonna make a right. Then we're just about there."

The Woods Woman Psychic's office was at her modest home in the hills outside of Lake Lure. Nothing on the outside gave any indication of anything but normalcy. When Shells knocked on the door, it made a dull wrapping sound that Sam didn't think anyone would hear; but the sound of a small dog barking and the click of claws across a hard floor, announced their presence just as well.

The woman who answered the door had a kind smile, short hair, and looked completely normal. which came as a disappointment to Shells, who looked crestfallen.

"Y'all the ones with an emergency?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said. "I suppose you could call it that. My Aunt made me promise to see a professional psychic."

"Good for your aunt! And come on in. Don't mind the dog; he won't bite."

The little white and brown dog continued to bark and growl at them as they came in, and when Sam met its eyes, it backed up and barked in short yips. Sam wondered what made such a little creature think itself ready to take her on. It was a silly, immature thought, but Sam was used to that. Growing up was a disease she had managed to never catch, and responsibilities were not currently on her list of things she needed.

"My name is Serena," she said as she led them down a short and narrow hall and into her office. Shells seemed to appreciate the Native American and other art that adorned the walls. "Whew! Can you feel the energy in here today?" she asked. "You'll have to forgive me if I start flying around the room. Don't be alarmed."

Sam looked at Shells, whose eyes had gone wide, but neither said anything.

"You have a choice to make. Choose well," the woman suddenly said, and Sam looked up to find Serena staring at her, or through her perhaps, since the woman's eyes didn't seem to exactly meet hers or show any recognition that Sam was looking back. "OK. So let's get started," she said a moment later. "Tell me about what brought you here."

"What about the choice?" Sam asked. "You said I have a choice to make. What do you mean by that?"

"I didn't say anything about a choice. Did I?" Serena asked. "I'm sorry dear, sometimes I do that. I must have been out of my body. I'll try to stay more grounded around you. Ok?"

"Yeah. OK," Sam said. "So, uh, I keep, like, seeing people right after they die."

"Ah, so you are a medium."

"No," Sam said.

"Ah, so you are a reluctant medium."

"No. It's not like that," Sam argued.

"It never is, dear," Serena said. "You must accept the fact that the world is changing and so are you. You feel it and yet you deny it. Perhaps you do have a choice to make. Will you accept your gift or will you reject it? Neither road is easy, I'm afraid; it's not something we get to choose. I say it is a gift, others would tell you that it's a curse; it's what _you_ make of it."

Sam could find no words to respond. She couldn't really be psychic; that was her aunt's role in the family. Sam had seen what that had gotten her: more than her fair share of sideways glances.

"I'm seeing water around you and a big trip."

"Well those things are kind of obvious, aren't they?" Shells said. Serena ignored her.

"I see danger and I see solace. You must be very careful."

"That's kind of vague. Can you be more specific?" Shells asked. Sam gave her a dirty look, which had absolutely no effect.

"Beware the darkness and embrace the light."

"Words to live by," Shells said. "So what about me? Do I need to beware the darkness? What does my future hold?"

Serena stared at Shells for a moment as if seeing her for the first time.

"Nothing," Serena said.

Shells gaped, speechless.

"Just kidding," Serena said. "You should probably beware the darkness too."

And that was it. With a nod, the session was ended, and Serena seemed to come back to her body. "Are you heading back to Lake Lure?"

"Yes," Sam said.

"Here. Let me write you down directions on how to get out of here. Even if you have GPS, the mountains sometimes block it."

"Ha. See?" Shells said. "It wasn't my smartphone's fault." She looked very satisfied with herself.

"Here you go. Just make sure you can read my handwriting. I find when I come back to my body, I have the hardest time getting my hands to do things."

Looking over the directions, Sam noticed that if she looked at it the right way, she could clearly see the number 313, large and diagonally through the text. It seemed impossible, but it was so perfect that she now had trouble reading the directions because all she could see was the number 313.

"Shells, look at this piece of paper and tell me what you see. Don't just read it, look at it." Sam handed the paper to Shells, and Serena watched with what seemed amused interest. Shells looked at it, read the words, turned it this way and that, and turned to hand it back to Sam; just as she did, though, she stopped, her jaw hanging open. "Holy crap. How did you do that? That's incredible!"

"What is it?" Serena asked.

"You really don't know?" Shells asked. "Oh, man. That's freaking me out." She said, handing the paper to Serena.

"I don't see it," she said after looking at it for a few moments. Shells reached over and turned the paper so that the number was straight across, and Serena gasped. "I didn't write that. I mean. I didn't mean to write that, at least not consciously, I guess. Wow. Three Thirteen. I wonder what that means?"

" _You_ wonder?" Shells said. "How do you think _we_ feel? That's freaky, man. Either you're really good and you're messing with us, or that is just plain freaky."

Chapter 8

Behind a desk stood a man with a shiny bald head and a goatee with more gray than black in it, but there was a warmth in his eyes that drew Sam to him. "Welcome to the Lake Lure Inn, my name is Michael. How can I help you today?"

"Hi, Mike," Shells said. "We're with SJPS. We're here to see about your ghosts."

Michael didn't look particularly pleased with being called Mike, but he did brighten when he heard who they were.

"I'm so glad you're here," he said. "We were starting to worry about you."

"We were slightly delayed," Shells said.

"I believe lost is the correct word," Sam added.

"It happens to the best of us," Michael said, and he handed each of them a key; not some electronic key card, but an actual key. "We're going to put you up on the third floor. That should keep you isolated from the other guests. We don't want them to disturb you, and we don't want you to disturb them." Shells gave Sam a glance at that point, which Sam thought took some nerve. "Many of the claims here take place in the spa area, but the maids don't like to go up on the third floor, and we've had a number of people check out early."

Sam looked past the registration desk, and not far away sat a bar. For a moment she wondered if a quick drink might be in order.

"There are a number of different stories that people tell," Michael said. "Soldiers rested here during World War II, and there is said to be the spirit of a woman here. Mostly I think people are just telling tales, but if you can come up with some hard evidence, then people will come just for the haunting. And if you don't find anything, then I can tell the staff that the place isn't haunted. Either way, I win."

Sam could see his point, and from the stale smell in the air on the third floor, it appeared these rooms didn't get much use anyway, so he wasn't losing out on room fees. That just left the meals they had been promised, and the two of them couldn't eat all that much. It seemed like a pretty good deal for everyone involved. Despite the lack of use, the rooms were well appointed and comfortable. Once the air conditioner had brought in some fresh and cool air, the room began to feel a great deal better.

"So people have experiences in the spa, right?" Sam heard Shells asking Michael, who waited in the hall, and she smiled. She loved that girl.

"I suppose I could comp you each a massage. Just stop by the spa and schedule something. Keep in mind the therapists are independent contractors, and I'm sure they would appreciate any tips you feel are appropriate."

"That's a fair deal," Shells said. "Thanks."

Looking out of her still open door, Sam saw Shells moonwalk, grab her crotch, and spin around with a "He he!" She shook her head.

With guests to attend to, Michael didn't stay any longer, and Sam and Shells were left to settle into their rooms. A king size bed dominated the room, but a small desk and chair provided a work space, and an easy chair and ottoman filled the remainder of the main space. Aside from that, there was a nice sized bathroom, with relatively modern fixtures. Someone had done a great deal of work to keep this hotel up with the times. A small closet was the only other space, its open door facing the bed.

Ready for the real adventure to begin, Sam grabbed her key, never looking at the white paper tag attached to it by a bit of string. When she stepped outside and slid the key into the lock, she turned it to the right and there was a satisfying thunk of the deadbolt. At that moment her eyes came to rest on the dull brass-rimmed number plate that adorned the door.

313.

Her room was number 313. It couldn't be a coincidence, and Sam felt a lump rise in her throat. What did this mean? What was she supposed to do with this? Without realizing it, she was pounding on the door to Shells' room, and it didn't take long for her friend to respond.

"What the hell?" she said when she opened the door, but then she saw the look on Sam's face. "Dude. What's up?"

"Look at my room number," Sam said.

"Holy crap!" Shells said when she saw the number. "Oh, man. You're not going to believe this. I mean you're _really_ not going to believe this."

"What?" Sam asked, not really wanting any more surprises, but unable to resist asking.

"The guys from Survieltech called, and they weren't all that mad about picking up the equipment, and they know the only reason the equipment was abandoned was because we got arrested, which they actually thought was pretty funny. So anyway, on to the really friggen' interesting part. Rather than just trash our evidence, my buddy Ron decided to check it out and see if we actually caught anything. And guess what?"

"What?"

"We friggen' caught some stuff, dude! And he emailed a couple clips to me. We caught two EVPs. Here, listen to the first one. Just tap the play button."

Shells handed Sam her smartphone and after figuring out what the play button was, she tapped it. A sound played, but Sam couldn't pick any words out of it.

"I know what Ron thought that said, but I'm not going to say it. Did you make anything out?" Shells asked.

"No," Sam said.

"OK. Hold onto your panties, and listen to the second one. You might want to sit down, dude. For real."

Sam took the smartphone and with a certain amount of trepidation tapped the play button. What she heard was a deep and garbled voice issue three very clear syllables: three thirteen.

"Is that not freaky as hell?" Shells asked. "What is going on here, dude? I'm starting to freak out."

"I don't know Shells, but we're going to find out. This just tells me that we are heading in the right direction. When will the equipment arrive?"

"It should get here tomorrow," Shells said. "I didn't want to pay for overnight shipping, so I tried to time it. It may take a couple days, but it saved us some bucks."

"That sounds good," Sam said, knowing Michael had said they could stay for as long as they needed to, within reason, and a couple extra days seemed well within reason. "Let's go see about scheduling those massages. I doubt they would let us record those anyway, so we can just relax and get in tune with the Inn."

"Yeah. That's the ticket," Shells said. "I'll bet getting yourself into a super relaxed state is a great way to bring out the spirits."

Sam shook her head.

"I've told you before that getting a massage is an art," Shells said. "If you don't do the right things when receiving a massage, there's not much the therapist can do for you."

"As you say, master massage receiver."

"I used to sleep with someone in massage therapy school, and I was her homework for like a year. Now I'm a friggen' pro," Shells said.

Taking the stairs across from the registration desk, the girls descended to the spa level and made their way to where a pleasant looking woman sat at an antique yet modest desk. "How y'all doing?" She asked with one of the most appealing drawls Sam had heard. Coupled with a warm smile and laughing eyes, Sam instantly knew she liked the woman. "My name is Lori," she said. "What can I do for you ladies today?"

"Hi, I'm Sam and this is my friend Shells, and we would like to schedule massages for tomorrow if possible."

"Ouch. Tomorrow, huh?" Lori said. "We stay pretty well booked. Let me have a look at the schedule."

"The later the better," Sam added.

"Well. You might just be in luck. I've got an opening and a cancellation at 2:30 tomorrow. Will that work for you?"

"Deal," Shells said, trying to move her way a little closer to Lori. Sam stepped to the side, barely able to suppress her smirk. "You ever have anything weird happen to you down here? Oh. Wait. That came out wrong."

Lori laughed. "You're the ghost busters, aren't you?"

"We prefer ghost detectives," Shells said. "It makes us sound badass, don't you think?"

"If you say so."

Sam could see this wasn't going anywhere. "So what would you recommend doing around here?"

"Oh, well there's Chimney Rock, which is a must see; the view is amazing. You can take an elevator up through the mountain to the chimney. And then I would have to say the boat tour of Lake Lure is quite a treat."

"Thanks," Sam said. "Come on Romeo. Let's go."

"Bye, Lori," Shells said, undeterred. "It was nice meeting you."

"Oh, do come on," Sam said, surprised by the bit of jealousy that threatened to redden her face. "Which do you want to do first?"

"I gotta see this elevator," Shells said. "I dig elevators."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Elevators?"

"Hey, everybody has their quirks, and I've got a thing for elevators. And I ain't talking empty elevators either; I'm not that freaky. Close but not quite."

After paying their way into the park, Sam drove slowly up the winding incline. One mistake here could be deadly, and Sam wasn't taking too many chances, though she chided herself for not going straight to a garage instead of sight seeing. The ride back down the mountain could prove interesting. Sam lost count of the switchbacks when they passed a small house that stood cradled by the tightest of turns. Its maroon painted wood siding with dark green roof and trim looked almost magical in that spot, surrounded by pristine forest with a quaint bit of blacktop running through it. Movement caught Sam's eye, and she thought she saw a flash of light. She craned her neck and tried to look back as they passed, but a pickup was coming from the other direction and Sam needed to keep her attention on the narrow roadway.

Finally, a parking lot appeared around the next curve, and Sam parked in a spot with an empty spot on either side, as she always tried to do. She could have parked far closer, but the risk of door dings kept her from taking those spots.

"Couldn't just park up front, could you," Shells said. "Now I have to drag my wide ass up the side of this mountain. This should be fun Kimosabe." Locking the car, Sam just started walking and Shells fell in beside her. "Oh, man. No way. Are those wild raspberries? They are! I gotta have some of them."

"I don't think you're supposed to go up there," Sam said as Shells began to climb the rocky incline on the other side of a rusty guardrail that stood between the parking lot and the vertical face of the mountain. For someone who hadn't wanted to walk up the parking lot, Shells was doing a pretty good job of scaling the side of a mountain. "Be careful."

"Oh, man, these things are friggen' delicious!" Shells said, but then her toe slipped and she slid down a foot and a half. "I'm OK," she said, and people were pointing at her as they passed.

"Please come down from there," Sam said with a sigh, and Shells made her way back down much more slowly.

"You want some?" Shells said when she reached the bottom, and that was when Sam realized her front pocket was overflowing with raspberries.

"No thanks," Sam said.

Shells just shrugged, "Your loss. These things are friggen' good, man."

The walk to the highest point of the parking lot had Shells breathing hard by the time they reached an entranceway that had been carved into the rock. It was rough and angular, and looked all the more imposing due to its primal nature. Just outside stood a single table where a woman sold walking sticks and a variety of colorful toys and stones.

"Maybe I should get one of these walking staves," Shells said, and she pulled one from the cylinder that held them. This one had the face of a wizard carved into it; the rest of the staff had been stripped of protrusions and had many areas that had been sanded, but parts of it retained natural bark. "Aw, man. I've gotta have one of these." Shells said, twirling the staff as if she were about to take it into battle. "Waaaaaaa. Pff. Pff. Pow. You're done, sister."

Though tempted to show Shells some of what she'd learned in her police training, Sam just smiled instead. "I yield to your mastery of the staff, Oh Great One."

"How much is this?" Shells asked.

The price was shown on the container Shells had taken the staff from, but the woman was unperturbed. "Twenty dollars."

"Twenty?" Shells said. "I might have to pick that up on the way out."

The woman just smiled and nodded as Shells put the staff back. Inside the tunnel were framed images from the time of construction. "Can you imagine someone spending all that money to blast a shaft up through a thousand feet of rock?"

"For real," Shells said. "Even back in the day that had to have cost some serious bucks. Why not just build a stair? I can see preserving the view and all, but damn, that seems like a lot of work."

The air grew cooler as they moved farther into the tunnel, and soon they came up behind a family of four, who stood waiting for the elevator doors to open. It didn't look like Sam had imagined. She had expected something that looked like the elevator in a hotel or office building, but even just looking at the door, this was a different creature. It was painted a dark chocolate, almost black, and had a finish that reminded Sam of a locomotive; glossy, yet textured.

"Are you going to see the chimbly?" the youngest daughter asked, her older sister rolled her eyes.

"It's chimney, and it's just a rock," her older sister said. "It's not a real chimney; people just call it that."

The girls' parents didn't even seem to hear the conversation, and the youngest girl looked at Sam, undaunted, and waited for an answer.

Little kids freaked Sam out. "Uh. Yeah," she said. "We're going up, too."

"Oh." The little girl said, and then she turned back to the elevator door.

Children are strange creatures, Sam thought. A low rumble and whine announced the return of the elevator car. The door slid open, not in a smooth mechanical way, but in a slightly jerky manual motion. Within the elevator stood a tall and stern-looking man; his khaki trousers and deep green Chimney Rock Park shirt marked him as an employee. The family of four piled into the larger than expected elevator. There was just enough room for Sam and Shells.

"We can wait for the next one." Shells said.

"Plenty of room ladies. Please step in," the man said, his voice deep and commanding.

Shells made an annoyed sound with her tongue, but she followed Sam into the elevator, which was now quite tightly packed. Sam had expected some monologue from the elevator operator, but he remained silent and refused to make eye contact. "So. When was this thing built again?"

It took a moment for the man to respond. "In the 1920's."

"Why did they build it?" Sam asked.

The man looked annoyed by her questions but seemed to be trying to hide his annoyance. He wasn't very good at it. "Dr. Morse wanted to create a resort in this valley, and he wanted good folks, like you, to be able to come up to the top of the chimney and see the lake he planned to build cradled by the mountains he loved." There was no emotion in the man's voice, only the stale recitation of a memorized speech.

"How big is the chimbly?"

It didn't appear the man had a canned answer for that question, and he stumbled for a moment before responding, "It's big."

"Oh." The little girl said.

The awkward silence was broken as the whine of the rising elevator lowered in pitch, and Sam could feel their ascent slowing. With a slight bump, the elevator stopped, and the man yanked on the release handle for the door, which only moved a few inches. After another yank, and an annoyed look from the stern-faced man, the door opened enough to allow one person through at a time. The older girl was no longer content to wait, and made her way into the waiting gift shop. The younger girl didn't want to be left behind. The big man was about to give a third yank, when the little girl tripped and fell, almost hurting herself on the exposed edge of the metal grate. Almost instinctively, the big man reached down and helped the girl up.

The girl's tears lasted only a moment, and the big man apologized before yanking the grate the rest of the way open. Sam kept her eyes on the gift shop, not wanting to show any reaction to what she had seen. After stepping into the gift shop, she asked herself why someone working in an elevator at a state park would need to wear a concealed radio. When the big man bent down, she had seen the almost clear plastic coil that went from behind the man's ear before disappearing beneath his shirt collar.

Shells stepped out before Sam, and she could feel the man's stare until the elevator door closed.

"That guy was just a ball of fun, wasn't he?" Shells asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, looking around, no longer in civilian mode, her cop instincts jumped to full alert as she scanned the premises. Cameras, four of them, and a sharp-eyed woman scooping ice cream who also constantly scanned the shop. A set of double doors opened out onto the natural rock formation, and flanking it was an oversized hulk of a man in too-dark jeans and a finely pressed, button down, short sleeve shirt; he held a Chimney Rock Park brochure in one hand. On the other side was a younger man in black jeans, a plain grey t-shirt, and a red and white baseball cap with no logo on it. Dark sunglasses with large oblong lenses hid his eyes and part of his face. He held one of the gift shop branded bags in his right hand, and it appeared to hold a t-shirt.

Sam didn't see any weapons, but she could almost sense that they were not far away, and that at any given moment these men were but a breath away from taking her life. It was a feeling she had grown accustomed to when working on the force, but it seemed out of place here, and Sam's curiosity grew.

Shells was watching a video loop on a small monitor mounted in a corner. "Did you know they shot The Last of the Mohicans here? And Dirty Dancing?"

"I did not know that," Sam said, noticing that she had caught the ice cream woman's eye. "Want some ice cream?"

"Hell yeah," Shells said. "I'm down with ice cream. We cool like that."

"So you're not gonna give me a dirty look for offering the fat chick an ice cream cone?" Sam asked

"I was on a diet at the time," Shells said. "And now I'm not. Deal with it."

Sam didn't say any more.

The two of them moved to the ice cream counter, and the woman seemed annoyed that they were blocking her view. She didn't say anything, and very little in her posture would give away such a thing; but Sam found herself perceiving things about this woman based on her overall stance, her energy almost threatening. Sam shuddered at the thought; she was starting to sound like Aunt Julie. Still, through some combination of her training and what she was feeling, Sam knew she annoyed this woman deeply.

"What can I get for you two lovely young ladies today?" she said, a fake smile plastered to her face.

Shells nudged Sam to one side, "I'd like two scoops of blueberry cheesecake ice cream on a sugar cone, with jimmies."

"I'm sorry. What are jimmies?"

"Those things," Shells said, pointing at the containers of small candies.

"Oh, you mean sprinkles," the woman said, her annoyance almost showing through the mask she wore.

"Those are jimmies," Shells insisted, "but you can call them sprinkles if you want. That's cool."

The woman handed her the cone, which seemed to have structural issues, and spent a moment figuring out how to ring it up correctly. "Four thirty-five," she said.

It looked to Sam as if Shells would lose her ice cream if she tried to pay for it, so Sam handed the woman a twenty.

"Thanks, dude," Shells said, holding up one of the scoops with her tongue.

"What would you like?" the woman asked, looking over Sam's shoulder as the elevator door opened once again in multiple stages.

"I'll take a scoop of black cherry on a regular cone, please."

The woman wasn't listening. A moment later, she turned back to Sam. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

"A scoop of black cherry on a regular cone."

"Wise choice," Shells said, still trying to attach the top scoop of ice cream by pressing down on it with her tongue. The big man by the door was watching her a little too closely.

"Four thirty-five," the woman said. Sam handed her a five.

"Wait a minute," Shells said. "Mine was four thirty-five, and I had two scoops and jimmies. Are you ripping my girl off?" Shells probably would have said more, but her ice cream had begun to slide.

"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. Two dollars. Here is your change."

Sam just accepted the change and her cone and walked away. When walking through the doorway, she risked a quick glance back at the price board above the woman's head. There she found a single scoop cone was $2.50, and a double scoop was $3.00. Toppings were free. Sam just turned back so she wouldn't catch the woman's eye.

The view beyond was difficult to describe. Weather worn stone loomed for a short distance, and a set of stairs had been erected, leading to the point where the rock extended out and away from the mountain. They were not all the way at the top of the mountain, which rose to greater heights behind them, but the view to the east had to cover thirty to forty miles. Nestled within the lush greenery was an aquamarine jewel that filled the valley floor. Not wide and round like lakes in the flatlands, this lake was narrower and followed the contour of the valley, at one point meeting up with a perpendicular valley that formed what almost looked like a cross-piece, as if the lake were a mighty sword, or even a cross. More mountains pierced hazy air in the distance. In many ways it looked like a different planet to Sam, since her world had always been mostly flat, this was foreign to her.

What looked like a schoolyard fence surrounded the edge of the chimney, but it seemed like precious little between them and a lethal drop. A tingling sensation in Sam's gut grew more intense when she neared the fence. She was normally not afraid of heights, but this view almost forced one to envision what it would be like to fall from such a precipice. Directly below them they could see the tops of ancient trees and the winding blacktop that would take them back into the valley below. Beyond that, the Broad River cut through rock and soil, and the huge boulders looked like pebbles from this vantage point.

"Holy crap," Shells said between licks of her ice cream. Sam had almost finished her cone, and she barely tasted it. Too many strange things weren't adding up. She wondered how Shells could be so oblivious, but she remembered that she herself had been that way once, and only training and practice had raised her awareness and level of observation. Shells seemed content to just coast past all the clues and hope nothing bit her in the ass, but Sam had learned that things that don't look right usually aren't, and amidst all this beauty, something was seriously not right. The scale of it worried her greatly.

"This place is awesome, man," Shells said. "I could totally move here."

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's awesome."

"That's Rumbling Bald over there," A man said to the woman standing beside him. "They say the mountain itself moves and makes noises, and that it's actually alive. I think it must be sitting on its own mini fault line."

Sam stood and listened, intrigued.

"Over there," the man said pointing, "is Brown Mountain. That's where they see the Brown Mountain lights. They say there is a race of little people that was here before the Native Americans, and that these little people guard this area, including Brown Mountain and Lake Lure."

"Oh, man. Brain freeze," Shells said after finishing off her cone. After holding her head in both hands for a moment, she looked for a trashcan, her hand full of sticky napkins. "Hey, buddy!" she said, and Sam turned to see a raccoon sitting atop a nearby trashcan, looking for food.

"I wouldn't go too close to him," Sam said. Shells wadded up the napkins and tossed them at the can as if it were the last free throw in the NBA championships. The raccoon reached out and tried to catch it, and gave her a disappointed look when the napkin dropped into the can.

"Swoosh," Shells said. "Nothing but net!"

The men flanking the doors took notice but did not make eye contact.

"C'mon, Shells," Sam said. "Let's go see about that boat ride."

"Cool," she said. She did what looked like a victory walk back through the gift shop, the t-shirts and nick-knacks not even drawing her eye.

The ride back down the elevator proved no more comforting than the ride up.

"How far down does this thing go?" Shells asked, and Sam wished she hadn't. It was clear this question alarmed the man, who now looked at the two of them with suspicion. How could Shells not see these things?

"It only goes between the tunnel and the gift shop, ma'am."

"Bullshit," Shells said, and Sam suddenly wished they were not alone in the elevator with this man. If this elevator did go anywhere else, Sam feared the two of them might disappear forever. Instead, they reached the bottom without incident, and the man said no more. "That dude is friggen' creepy," Shells said as soon as they stepped out of the elevator, and Sam was certain he heard her. It didn't help that she turned around and pointed at the gap between the tunnel and the elevator. "And I bet that elevator goes down, too. I mean, why would someone go to all that effort and not go down as well."

"Let's go," Sam said, and she gave Shells a look.

"What?" Shells asked, trying to keep up with Sam. "What did I miss? Damn. I missed something. Shit. Wait up."

Sam slowed when she neared the sunlight. Standing next to the little table where the woman had been, was another stern looking man with short-cropped hair and mirrored sunglasses. When he saw Sam and Shells, he touched his ear, and Sam's skin crawled. They were indeed being watched.

"I want to get one of those sticks," Shells said.

"Not now, Shells. Let's just get out of here. OK?"

"Damn. I really did miss something, didn't I?"

Sam didn't answer; she just did her best to avoid making eye contact with the man at the table. She knew it was one of the worst things to do when trying to remain unnoticed, but she also knew her feelings would show if he saw the look in her eyes, so she kept walking.

"What's going on, dude? Seriously."

"Is there anyone following us?" Sam asked, and Shells turned for a quick look. "The guy by the table is walking this way, but he's not looking at us."

"I bet he isn't," Sam said. "On my word, run."

"What?"

"Now. Run," Sam said, and she took off toward the car. It took Shells a minute to realize she was serious, and she had trouble keeping up.

"Wait. Dude. Wait. What the hell is going on?" Shells asked as she half jogged, half ran. Sam wanted to tell her that yelling while she was running was not the best way to get more speed, but she knew the words would do no good. When she got to the car she fumbled with the keys, seeing the reflection of the man trotting toward them in the car window.

"C'mon, Shells!"

With trembling hands, Sam jammed the key in and wiggled it until the door unlocked. She had the car fired up, in reverse and was reaching to unlock the passenger door when Shells finally made it to the car.

"Dude. What the hell?" Shells asked as she got in the car, but Sam didn't answer, instead, she revved the engine and dropped the clutch. Smoke poured from the tires as the Camaro roared out of the parking spot. After slamming the car into first gear, Sam jumped hard on the throttle and smoked the tires again, heading toward the first of the hairpin turns. In the mirror, through the smoke, Sam could see the man trying to write down her license plate number, but she was pretty sure the smoke would make it difficult for him.

"Brake, brake, brake!" Shells screamed while stomping on the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side. Sam did hit the brakes and pitched the car sideways, just as she had learned to do when driving on dirt, only she had to keep her foot harder on the throttle to keep the tires from hooking up.

"Holy crap. Holy friggen' crap. Dude, chill! I'll take you to see another psychic. I swear. Whatever you want. Just slow down!"

When Sam reached the little house on the switchback, she saw movement inside, and she pitched the car sideways again and slid around the turn.

"Oh crap. I think I'm gonna pee!"

If not for the dark forms she saw following their every movement, Sam would have laughed, but something big was going on here, and she could feel herself being drawn into it. Nearing the bottom, she slowed, and Shells' breathing became less rapid.

"There's something going on here Shells, and it's big. I'm not sure what it is yet, but I'm absolutely certain it's bigger than anything I've ever seen before."

"OK. OK. But can we try not to die."

"Deal," Sam said. "I need to see how deep this goes before word gets around that we're on to them."

"Who are they?" Shells asked.

"I have no idea," Sam admitted.

Chapter 9

At the boat dock, Sam scanned the crowd, and especially the staff for signs of police or military training. Once ingrained, certain things were difficult to hide, and Sam realized that she was exhibiting some of the traits herself. Shells paid the fare, as one of the covered pontoon boats was easing back into her slip. Those aboard disembarked quickly, and Sam saw nothing but smiling faces.

"We'll be ready for you folks in just a minute or two," the only man left aboard the boat said, and he went about wiping down seats and emptying small trash containers that hung alongside each of the bench seats.

Three other couples kept mostly to themselves, and it looked like there would be plenty of room on this trip.

The man aboard the boat waved over the girl who had sold Shells their tickets, and after a brief conversation, he motioned for them to come over, "Y'all can board now. Welcome aboard."

"You're just being paranoid," Shells said when Sam opened her mouth. "It's just a friggen' boat ride, don't go all titanic on me. Although if you want to stand up front and do that king of the world thing, I could be up for that. Dig?"

"Dig."

All those aboard looked like normal vacationers to Sam, and as the boat eased away from the dock, she left most of her tension behind. Trying her best to just enjoy the ride, Sam sat back and let the wind caress her face. The sparkling water was clean, clear, and looked tropical.

"My name is Captain Pete, and don't hesitate to ask any questions you may have. Lake Lure came into being after the construction of Turner's dam in 1925. This lake was once a river valley with homes and stores and everything you would expect to have found in a small town at the turn of the twentieth century."

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Shells looked at Sam. "It's nothing," she said. "You're just being paranoid."

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Sam wasn't so sure, and the skin on the back of her neck crawled. The thumping grew louder and a flat black helicopter appeared from behind a ridgeline, looking like a giant insect as it followed the contour of the valley. Hanging from it by long cables that looked perilously thin, was something that resembled an oversized canvas.

"Don't be alarmed," Captain Pete said. "There are some fires on the other side of that ridge, and the helicopters take water from the lake to douse the flames. As long as the wind doesn't shift this way, we should be all right. I don't want to be the one to spoil anyone's vacation, but I've heard rumors that they are considering evacuating this area until the fires are brought under control. I don't think there will be any problem, mind you. But I can understand their concerns about the mountain roads making for trouble evacuating so many people in the event of an emergency."

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The helicopter grew louder as it drew closer.

"It seems they are going to put on a show for you," Captain Pete said.

Lowering the tarp-like contraption into the water slowly and not far from where Captain Pete now brought their boat to rest, the pilot kept them hovering in place for a few moments before lifting off with a full load of water. In that time, Sam locked eyes with the passenger, who had been pointing a camera with a long zoom lens at them.

"Did that guy have a camera?" Shells asked. "Was he taking pictures of us?"

Sam was glad Shells saw it too.

"That may be one of the guys from the newspaper taking pictures of the wildfires. Every once in a while they send us pictures they've taken from the air so we can use them as publicity photos and such. I wouldn't worry about it."

Sam couldn't help but worry.

"OK. Maybe you weren't just being paranoid. That was creepy."

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The noise of the helicopter faded after it made the turn and disappeared behind the ridgeline.

"When the lake waters rose," Captain Pete continued, "it drove snakes onto the increasingly sparse and small bits of exposed land, and so it was that the islands were uninhabitable at first. The man who designed the lake had purchased a rather choice piece of land that is now an island. He put an ad in the paper that he would pay a $100 reward to anyone who could get rid of the snakes on his island."

Sam got lost in his words and the soft breeze.

"A local farmer responded to the ad and offered to put some hogs on the island," Captain Pete said, and he gave everyone a moment to ask: "Why Hogs?"

"Hogs, it seems, love to eat snakes," Captain Pete said. "And they say the hogs have thick skin with few nerves and capillaries, and even the venomous snakes don't bother them. It's said that by spring they had to build a bridge to the island in order to get the hogs off, which cost most of the hundred dollar reward."

Though still listening, Sam had to wonder why the lake had been created in the first place, and Captain Pete's next words only served to reinforce her curiosity.

"Now keep in mind that Dr. Morse bought out an entire town to construct this lake, and folks, it's still down there. That's right. There was no real need to demolish the town; all they had to do was finish the dam and the water would make the town disappear. But this lake is as deep as 110 feet in places, and the water is cold. That town has been mostly preserved; so much so that a group of divers went down and found the old fire truck still in the firehouse. With the exception of a couple flat tires, it was in pretty good shape, so they raised it up, restored it, and now they drive it around in parades."

Closing her eyes, Sam drifted on her thoughts. Captain Pete's words just background noise that didn't register with her consciousness. The power of the water called to her; in itself it was magical and it had a cool aura that beckoned to her, begged her to dive in and immerse herself in its coolness. It was a strange feeling, something Sam had never experienced before, and in a way, she liked it. To want something was to be alive, and to want something badly was to be very alive. Captain Pete had slowed the boat again, and Sam reached her hand out to the water, barely able to touch. It was then that she remembered the stone the man at Arrowheads had given her; an offering to the lake.

Pulling it from her pocket, Sam looked over the river stone one more time, taking in the significance of this offering. It was supposed to be in respect of what the land had once been, despite the fact that Sam was quite happy with its current form. She felt almost hypocritical to apologize for something she enjoyed, but she decided to honor the strange man's wishes and tossed the stone into the still water of the lake. Nothing happened, except an annoyed sound from Captain Pete.

"That wasn't litter, was it?" he asked, with a hand on his hip.

"No. It was a river stone," Sam said. "An offering to the valley."

Captain Pete didn't look convinced. "Littering here is illegal and carries with it a heavy fine. If you have anything you think you need to throw from the ship," he paused and looked at Sam, "then put it in the trash receptacle on the inside of every row."

The rest of the trip was less pleasant, and Sam was glad to get off of the boat. Captain Pete looked down his nose at her, and she gave him the finger, which left those at the dock speechless. Everyone moved out of Sam's way as she strutted back down the dock, and Shells came in her wake.

"I need a drink," Sam said.

"I second that emotion," Shells said, and they were soon on their way back to the Inn and the waiting bar.

A casual buzz filled the Inn, and a small crowd had gathered at the bar. Sam and Shells slid to the end of the bar and immediately drew attention. At least three men were eyeing them, or at least they were eyeing Sam.

"Don't worry. I got your back," Shells said, but then a skinny, strawberry blonde at the other end of the bar smiled at her. "Scratch that. You're on your own."

Sam just shook her head and tried to get the bartender's attention. It was a man, so she put her elbows on the bar and leaned over a little too far. It wasn't long before she caught his eye. "Sorry if I kept you waiting," he said. "What can I get you?"

"Absolut lemon drop with a bud draft chaser."

"That sounds horrible," the man said with a wink.

"It is," Sam said. "We call it a redneck lobotomy. If you're feeling pain, it'll cure what ails ya."

"Until morning," said the bartender as he slid her a shot and a dish with a sliced lemon and some sugar on it.

Sam slammed the shot down and didn't even look at the lemon. "Where's that chaser?" she asked, and the bartender slid her bud draft down the bar. "Thanks," she said after a long pull. "You're all right. What's your name, cowboy?"

"Derek."

"Looking sharp, Derek. As you were," Sam said, and after he turned around, he turned his head to see if she was checking out his ass; she, of course, was. Derek and Sam became fast friends, and the bar tab seemed more like a score sheet; Sam was winning.

Later that evening, as she lay in bed trying to will the world to be still, all she could hear was the squeaking of a mattress, and occasional moans. Eventually it became clear that the strawberry blonde was a screamer, and that Shells must be some kind of magician. Either way, Sam's thoughts drifted to Greg for the first time in a while. She wondered how he was doing, and with the orgasmic ensemble going on next door, who he was doing.

* * *

When Shells met Sam in the lobby the next morning, she couldn't seem to wipe the grin from her face. "Good morning!"

"You would say that," Sam griped, her head still throbbing. "Have fun last night?"

"Damn straight," she said with a grin. "That's the first time I ever did a psychic, and I'm telling you, she totally saw it coming."

Even hung over, Sam had to laugh.

"I thought you and Derek might hook up," Shells said.

"Nah. He said he'd lose his job, and apparently I don't look _that_ good."

"Close, though."

"Yeah. Close," Sam said.

"We should get the equipment today," Shells said, "and we've got massages scheduled for two-thirty, so it looks like we've got a morning to kill. Do you want to go hang out at the beach?"

"No beach," Sam said.

"Are you being paranoid again?"

"Something is going on around here, Shells. Trust me. I want to go back to Arrowheads. I want to know what that guy was on about when he wanted us to leave so badly."

"That's cool," Shells said. "I'm hungry, and there should be something good to be had around there."

Michael stood at the reception desk as they walked by, and his eyes followed Sam. One disadvantage of looking good was not knowing why men were watching you. She had a damn good walk, but there seemed to be something else there as well. What it was, she couldn't decipher, but it bothered her deeply.

"Any deliveries for us?" Shells asked Michael, but the man just shook his head in response. She turned to Sam and said, "You look like you've been sucking on a lemon. What's up?

"Nothing," Sam said. "I was just thinking."

"That's bullshit, but I'll let it slide this time. But if this keeps up, we're gonna have to go back to that woods woman psychic chick and see if we can get her to actually fly around the room. For real. No bullshit."

Beams of bright light streamed through the glass in the double doors; Sam put on her dark shades and still squinted as they entered the bright daylight. The roar of motorcycles mixed with the sounds of playing children from the beach across the street. Blue skies harbored fluffy white clouds and gave no indication that anything could be wrong in the world. There was not even the slightest hint of smoke, which Sam found odd. She continued to hear about these fires across the ridge, and yet she hadn't seen or smelled any evidence whatsoever. She was starting to think the fires were nothing but a ruse to explain the helicopter doing surveillance on the entire valley.

Everywhere Sam looked, she saw people that could be plants, spies, militants; she wasn't certain how to classify these people without them taking any action. So far, all she had seen was evidence of a military or police presence. Yet she could find no way to explain it. As if just to remind her, the black helicopter emerged from the valley beyond the nearest ridge and soared over the lake, taking in a view of the beach and roadways before lowering the tarp. It looked as if they were putting on a show for those gathered, and Sam thought that was exactly what they were doing.

Looking over her shoulder more than once on the way to her car, Sam caught her friend watching her.

Shells coughed. "You're freaking me out, dude. Chill."

Sam tried, but her senses were on high alert; all of her training had kicked in, and she knew something was terribly wrong. All the events leading up to this could not be coincidences, could they? Sam once again marveled at the ease of starting her car with the key. Guns and Roses belted out _Welcome to the Jungle_ , and Sam cranked the volume, not ready for any of Shells' questions. It worked, and Shells was soon jamming to air guitar, and Sam did her best Axel Rose dance impression from the driver's seat. A man in a passing truck watched her as he drove by, and nearly wrecked his truck in the process. Sam just smiled.

Mixed in with the obviously civilian vehicles were unmarked Crown Victorias with blacked out windows. Why don't they just put up billboards announcing their presence, Sam asked herself. The vehicles lacked the driver side spotlight, but the cars were still easily recognized as standard issue, unmarked cars. Sam kept the music cranked and did her best to look like a vacationer. The two of them in the classic Camaro drew looks, and their head banging left them less than conspicuous, but Sam figured if they were being watched, then they had already been seen. There was only the one main road through this valley and they couldn't exactly hide. Better to make it appear that they were only there to enjoy themselves. Shells wasn't having any trouble pulling this off, and Sam did her best to mirror her friend's enthusiasm for their pseudo-vacation.

Using catcalls that would make a construction worker blush, Shells called out to the girls in bikinis. Some waved and some gave her the finger, but she clearly didn't care. She just liked to make sure the hot ones knew she was watching, even if it did make them uncomfortable, or perhaps that was the reason she did it. As often happened, Shells baffled her. As baffling and embarrassing it was, it also made Sam laugh.

Traffic ahead came to a stop, and a pair of tanned bodies in bikinis trotted across the crosswalk. Sam had to admit that she couldn't really blame men for being pigs, when it took her a minute before she looked at the girls' faces. Shells looked as if she was about to leap from the car, her upper torso sliding out, and then she sat on the top of the door. The girls kept walking and as they passed in front of Shells, she said, using her deepest voice, "Do ow ow . . . _oh yeah_ . . . do ow ow . . . _beautiful_ . . . do ow ow."

In the meantime, Sam put the car out of gear and slid out to sit on her window. The girls looked back at her, one raised an eyebrow. Sam couldn't help herself, all she could say was "Chick . . . chicka chicka."

"That's right," Shells said. "Home girl is down with the Yello reference."

The girls kept walking, but Sam was certain there was a little extra shake in their asses as they left. "Mmm. Mmm," Shells said. "Like cool, cool water."

Traffic rolled ahead, and Sam caught a man with short hair and mirrored sunglasses watching them and then touching his ear. He did it in a way that made it less obvious, but Sam saw nonetheless, and she watched him in the mirror without turning her head. The hairs on her neck stood, and she knew Shells was oblivious to the threat, but perhaps that was for the best.

Slowly they rolled past vacationers and motorcyclists until they passed the entrance to Chimney Rock Park. It gave Sam the chills driving by, and she looked for a parking spot that would be easy to get out of should they need to move fast. The last thing she wanted to do was get herself boxed in. Always have a route of escape.

"There's a spot," Shells said, but Sam didn't like that spot one bit. It was next to a long SUV that would give her no way to see what was coming when she backed out.

"I'm going to park in that lot up ahead."

"Yeah. I know. Make the fat chick walk," Shells said, almost automatically.

Sam was actually glad for the walk for a number of reasons. Her current vantage gave her a good view of the congested valley. Towering rock and the broad river crowded all the structures onto a narrow strip of land divided by the two-lane blacktop. If she craned her neck she could see the enormous American flag that flew atop Chimney Rock. It felt as if the rock were looking down at her, or at least those who were atop the rock. She could almost feel the eyes upon her as she walked, like the feeling of walking through cobwebs. Shells walked beside her in part walk part dance, her head and neck moving to some unheard beat. Sometimes Sam envied Shells; she seemed to have no real cares in the world. Life to her was just a smorgasbord of girls and the idea of being a vegetarian. Sam had yet to see her pull off the vegetarian thing for anything more than short periods of time. Sam didn't care. Shells was the lighter side of her, and she kept Sam feeling young, and lord knew she was good for a laugh.

"Hau," Shells said to the wooden indian with a bow, and Sam just shook her head. The two of them entered the shop, which felt crowded with just the two of them in there. Most of the space was used for shelving that held an eclectic collection of Indian, mountain, and generally country items. Some of the finest pieces were artworks featuring nature and the animal kingdom.

Immediately upon entry, Sam felt a sort of magic in the air, and she couldn't quite nail down what it was. It had some of the same feeling that she'd felt at the boardwalk at the Jersey shore. Perhaps there was a certain magic in places where people vacationed and enjoyed themselves, since all the positive energy they brought with them would surely leave a mark over time. In addition to that, though, there was something more, and it seemed as if some of the objects in the shop were in and of themselves magical. The shopkeeper was again absent from the store, which Sam felt extremely odd. Surely he knew there were customers in the store. Closing her eyes, Sam let the feeling guide her, and only opening her eyes enough to see the floor in front of her, she moved until the feeling was so strong she no longer feared she would lose it. Opening her eyes, she saw a case filled with crystal formations, some mounted in jewelry, others integrated into works of art, and some clusters were works of art in and of themselves. It was to these that Sam was drawn. She reached and wrapped her hand around the crystal that hung around her neck. Again, it felt as if it were vibrating.

"I'm starting to feel like my Aunt Julie," Sam mumbled, not meaning for anyone else to hear, but Shells' hearing was sharp.

"Oh, man. Now you're starting to scare me. You're not gonna start talking about poo, are you?"

Sam laughed. "No. I promise. You're safe."

Just then Sam saw the mysterious man who ran the shop out of the corner of her vision. He stood behind the counter silently watching them, and Sam couldn't quite figure out how he had gotten there. Her hearing was not bad, and she had been listening for any signs of his return, yet there he stood, his face a mask with no emotion showing. Sam was glad they weren't playing poker, yet she recognized that perhaps in a way they were. He knew something and Sam wanted to know what it was.

"How much is this crystal?" Sam asked, and Shells jumped, obviously not having realized the man had returned, and she jumped again when he moved toward them.

"Geez, dude. Don't sneak up on me like that. I know jujitsu and you might accidentally get caught up in my mortal weapons." Shells spoke while striking poses and moving her hands in a hypnotic fashion. It was almost convincing. The man's face registered no reaction.

"How much is this one?" Sam asked again, pointing as best as she could through the glass. The man said nothing and instead just reached his hand inside the case and grabbed the crystal artwork next to the natural cluster Sam had been pointing to. "Not that one. This one." Again the man's hand moved right past the one that Sam wanted. "Back up." Sam said, and the man looked at her. Slowly his hand moved back to the natural cluster and he pointed to it, while raising his eyebrow in question. "Yes. That one." Sam said.

"Not for sale."

Looking again at the crystal structure, which resembled the bottom jaw of some ages dead monster that had had purple teeth. Sam thought it might be amethyst, but she couldn't be certain. She tried to remember some of the things her Aunt Julie had said about amethyst and other stones, but it was just a big jumble in her head. Perhaps she should have paid more attention and less time thinking of ways to look bored.

"If it's not for sale, why is it in the display case?" Shells asked.

"Good luck," the man said, and Shells snorted. "And magic," the man said, as if driven by anger, Shells' attitude clearly annoying him.

Laughing, Shells slapped her knee, "Magic! That's a good one."

"Shut up, Shells," Sam said, and Shells gave her one of those looks as if she had been completely unaware that she was being annoying. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and clamped her jaw shut. Sam knew from experience that she'd be lucky to get another word out of Shells for at least fifteen minutes. It was a good trick, if you knew the buttons to push, and Sam tried not to use it too often, but it did come in handy on occasion. "Why did you want us to leave the first time we came here?" Sam asked before the opportunity was gone.

The man withdrew his hand from the display and started to turn away.

"Wait," Sam said. "Don't go. I just want to understand what is going on around here. You know as well as I do that something is going on. Now what is it?" Putting her hand on her hip, Sam's stance made it clear that she wasn't going to leave without answers. It was a skill she had picked up during her time as a cop. Most men did it naturally, but for Sam it was a learned trait. Still, once perfected, she doubted anyone would guess.

The man kept walking and disappeared through the door leading to the back room.

"I'm tempted to go in there after him," Sam said. "But I'm not a cop any more. I can't get away with stuff like that now."

A moment later, she realized she wouldn't have to. The man returned without saying anything, but Sam could see that he cradled something in his hands. He placed a piece of smooth, colored stone on the glass countertop. It looked like no gemstone Sam could identify, and it lacked the symmetry of crystal, this was more like molten rock, only it was translucent. And instead of being a single color, it looked as if the entire rainbow hid within the folds of clear stone.

"What do you see?" the man asked.

Looking into the stone, Sam could sense that this was no ordinary stone, though she could find no way to put that feeling into words. "I see a clear stone that looks like it has been melted, and I see colors inside of it."

"Yeah. That's what I see, too," Shells said, though she made it clear she was speaking to the man and not to Sam.

The man just looked at them both as if they were not worthy of his time, and after making what Sam thought was a rude noise in his throat, he reached for the stone. Despite her annoyance, Sam's breath caught in her throat. Just as the man's hands closed over the stone, Sam said. "It moved!"

The man stopped dead, as if her words had turned him to stone. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet Sam's.

"There's something in there. Isn't there?"

"It's a soul," the man said, his voice distant and reverent.

"Oh. That's rich," Shells said, and both Sam and the shopkeeper turned their glares on her. "Fine. Fine. It's a soulstone. How very Diablo II."

The man looked confused by Shells' remark, but Sam waved it off. "Why have you shown me this? What does the soul have to do with all of this?"

The man seemed hesitant to answer, but after a moment he said, "It is a warning. This is what happened last time to those who were not lucky enough to get through. There is danger here and you should acknowledge that."

"Last time? What do you mean by 'last time'?"

The man looked as if he would answer, but the then the bells on the entrance door made a tinkling sound. A man with tight-cropped hair and dark glasses entered the shop.

"Not for sale," the man said, and he moved quickly to put the stone back where he had gotten it.

Even Shells picked up on the cold energy the newcomer wore like body armor.

"Geez. Is it cold in here, or is it just me?" Shells asked.

The newcomer pretended to ignore Shells, all the while watching their every move.

"C'mon," Sam said. "Let's go get some food."

Shells followed but cast the man a dirty look before leaving. The man tried to appear interested in a piece of Native American artwork, but Sam knew he was watching them leave.

"You can have it if you'll leave and go back where you came from," she heard the shopkeeper say as the door slid shut behind them.

Chapter 10

"I think I saw a bakery down the street. Let's go see if they've got anything good. I could eat a horse right now, especially if it had icing on it!"

Sam walked alongside Shells scanning the street. Someone was watching her and didn't want her getting information from the locals. It seemed as if Shells had a good point and maybe she was more than a little paranoid. Even after telling herself that a dozen times, the feeling persisted, and Sam chose to remain alert until she could figure out more.

Shells bounded ahead, seemingly drawn by the smell of baked goods. The smell soon had Sam's stomach growling as well. Inside waited a quaint counter displaying pastries, cakes, pies, and other alluring bits, all of which seemed far too pretty to eat. That was one of the things that always amazed Sam about bakeries; the artistry of food. For a while she just looked at what these people created and wondered at how they did it. Cooking was, to her, something of a foreign concept.

"What can I get y'all," said a pretty brunette from behind the counter. The woman's big brown eyes and low neckline were probably popular with the male customers and perhaps some of the female as well. Shells quickly gravitated in her direction.

"What kind of cake is this?" Shells asked.

"Butter cream with vanilla icing."

"Aw, man. I gotta have some of that. Yeah, I'd like a piece," Shells said. "In fact a piece is sounding really good."

The woman beamed back, and Sam was fairly certain that she hadn't picked up on what Shells was saying. Sam just smiled and ordered a cheese danish. In the front of the bakery, near the front windows sat three tables; just enough seating for a few customers. Three ladies sat at one of the tables, and Sam couldn't help but stare for a moment. One woman looked like a middle-aged housewife, the next was younger and had tattoos covering both arms and up her neck. Her brown hair was pulled up to show as much of her body art as possible; the affect was alluring. Sam caught herself staring a little too long and averted her eyes; she never got a good look at the third woman. When she looked back, the women were staring at her and talking in low voices. Shells grabbed her cake and Sam's danish and moved to the table next to the three ladies. Shells stared a little too long as well.

Not long after they sat, the woman with the tattoos turned to Sam. "I just have to ask you," she said. "Are either of you psychic?"

"No," Shells answered for Sam, and it was probably best that she did. Sam was starting to wonder if some of her aunt's abilities had been passed down to her and it had just taken her this long to figure it out. One of the reasons she'd been good as a cop was that her instincts were very often right. Now she wondered if those instincts weren't truly outside the norm.

"Oh," the woman said, seeming disappointed.

"Are you in desperate need of a psychic? 'Cause I know this woods woman psychic chick, and she's scary good."

"No," the tattooed woman said. "It's not that at all. It's just that I'm a psychic, and these two are the fourth and fifth psychics I've run into today, and I thought that maybe you were as well. I get a vibe from you. Especially from _you_ ," she said pointing at Sam.

"OK. That's weird," Shells said. "Is there like a psychic convention going on or something? Maybe one that's not advertised and maybe all of you are just supposed to know to show up." Shells' smile made it very clear that she thought she was being clever.

The tattooed woman ignored the comment. "You have a strange look on your face," she said to Sam. "You know something don't you?"

"I think you're right," Sam said, and Shells turned to look at her, a somewhat shocked expression on her face. "There does seem to be something going on, but I don't know what it is."

"I told you," the tattooed woman said to her companions, and they returned to conversation amongst themselves.

"This is getting trippy," Shells said. "What the hell is going on around here? Everyone is either a psychic or a jarhead."

"You noticed," Sam said.

"How could I not notice? I'll admit that I thought you were crazy at first, but this is getting out of control," Shells said, looking more serious than Sam had seen her in a long time. "Do you think maybe we should bail?"

"No," Sam said. "We came here to do an investigation, and once the equipment arrives, we're gonna do just that. And we're going to find something, something that explains all of this; that I promise you. And I'm not sure who it is that doesn't want us to do that yet, but we're gonna find that out, too."

"Man, I didn't sign up for any G.I. Joe bullshit," Shells said. "I'm a lover, baby."

"I know," Sam said. "Let's get back to the Inn and see if the equipment has arrived yet. I want to make sure we are ready to investigate tonight."

"Alright, but let me get a slice of that cake to go," Shells strolled up to the counter and leaned in. "Pardon me, beautiful, but could I get another slice of that cake. I do believe it tastes about as good as you look."

Sam shook her head.

When they returned to the Inn, Shells said, "I am ready for that massage now."

Sam was glad that she remembered. Time had flown past, and she would have missed the appointment completely. "Let's go."

Shells walked a brisk pace, and Sam took a couple faster steps to catch up.

"There is nothing better than a good massage," Shells said.

Sam wasn't as certain about the whole thing. Spas and beauty parlors had never been her thing. She was more likely to go hang out in a bar or at the shooting range or riding motorcycles.

"Once you're naked," Shells said without looking back, "just get under the sheets and then close your eyes and relax. Don't think about stressful stuff, just go to a happy place and let your body relax. I'm telling you, dude. I'm a pro at this and you won't regret it."

Remaining silent, Sam walked beside her, wondering if she would have a male or female massage therapist, and trying to decide if it mattered or if she had a preference, when they entered the lobby. Standing at the reception desk and talking to Michael was the tattooed woman, and she waved when she saw them. Sam and Shells waved back, and Sam guessed it would not be the last time they crossed paths.

Lori waited in the spa area, and Shells strutted up to her. "Hey good looking," she said.

"I hope y'all are good today," Lori said. "I'll just need you to fill out these forms since it is your first time here."

Sam looked at the form with suspicion at first, but the questions would be mostly useless to anyone but a doctor or massage therapist. Her address wasn't really her address any more, so what did it matter?

"Your therapists will be right with you," Lori said when Shells handed her the completed form. Sam glanced up to see Shells reviewing the menu of services provided by the spa, and she wondered how Shells would manage to convince Michael to comp whatever it was she wanted next.

"I don't like the sound of that," Shells said.

"What's that, dear?" Lori asked.

Shells perked up at being called 'dear', but she still sounded concerned when she said, "Coffee enema."

"Very cleansing and stimulating," Lori said.

"Man, that's gotta make the coffee taste like shit."

Nearly falling on the floor with laughter, Sam stifled her chuckling when she saw that Lori did not find the humor in it. Fortunately, two women emerged from doors on opposite sides of the hallway and made their way to the front desk. One was petite and slender with a shy and alluring smile. The other was a voluptuous woman with liquid brown eyes and curly brown hair. Shells looked as if her eyes would pop out of her head, and Sam hoped she would behave herself, yet she highly doubted it. If there was anything that Shells had proven incapable of, it was behaving herself. Sam thought that was probably why they got along so well. Behaving meant relinquishing control of your life to the will of others, and that was the thing that frightened Sam most; giving someone else control. Thus it was somewhat difficult to think about getting naked in a strange place and letting someone she didn't know touch her. For a moment she considered backing out.

"Hi, I'm Stephanie," the petite woman said, and she reached her hand out to Sam. Shaking it more firmly than perhaps was called for, Sam found herself instantly at ease with Stephanie. "What kind of massage are you looking for?"

"Um. I don't know," Sam admitted. "This is my first massage."

"A mixture of Swedish with some deep tissue worked in as needed, and maybe finish with some heat," Shells said, and both therapists gave her knowing nods.

"Yeah. What she said," Sam said.

"Right this way," Stephanie said, and Sam did as she was told.

"I'm going to start you face down. Just go ahead and get yourself ready and I'll be back in a couple minutes," Stephanie said before walking out and closing the door. Soft music played from speakers that Sam couldn't find, and a light mist rolled from a babbling fountain. Still, Sam felt exposed as she undressed and stashed her clothes under the chair that sat next to the fountain. Sliding beneath the sheet and light blanket, Sam did her best to follow Shells' instructions. With a deep breath, she tried to relax.

A moment later came a light tap at the door.

"I'm ready," Sam said, and her voice seemed far too loud in the quiet peacefulness the therapists obviously worked hard to create.

"If the pressure is too much or if you need anything, you just let me know. What's important is that you feel comfortable. This is your space."

The words sounded strange to Sam. No one had ever told her before that this was her space, and she found it comforting and liberating. When Stephanie's soft touch ran up her now exposed back, Sam nearly moaned. Stephanie's touch felt wonderful, sensual without being sexual; however, Sam found she had to redirect her wandering thoughts a number of times. The fact that her thoughts could wander was a freeing experience. The massage released stress from muscles that Sam hadn't even realized were sore. When Stephanie found a knot, Sam learned the difference between Swedish massage and deep tissue. With a surprising amount of strength, Stephanie pressed down hard on the knot and Sam felt as if she were being stabbed.

"Take a deep breath and let it relax," Stephanie said. "Imagine it gradually dissolving into nothing."

Under most other circumstances, Sam would have laughed at those instructions, but all she could do at that moment was draw a shuddering breath and try her best to imagine it dissolving. After what seemed an agonizingly long time, Sam's arm began to move of its own volition, jumping and twitching, and then her shoulder felt as if it were unfolding itself. The pain was nearly gone, and Stephanie just said, "Good," before smoothing out the muscles with long strokes and moving on to other knotted parts of Sam's body.

"You're a mess," Stephanie said after the sixth knot. "You should consider getting a massage more regularly."

Sam just groaned in response, and added regular massage to the list of things to set aside money for. First, she would have to find a way to make more money.

"Relax," Stephanie said. "You just stiffened up like a board. Try to let it go."

With Stephanie's warm hands gently shaking her torso back and forth, Sam did what she could to let the tension and anxiety go. It was more difficult than she would have imagined, but it was worth it in the end. The latter part of the massage seemed more like a dream, and when Stephanie used long strokes with some sort of hot stones, Sam thought she might be in heaven. Shells had a point. This was magical. It was as if she was more in touch with herself and more in touch with the world around her in the silence of her mind. Perhaps it was the Native American drums and chant that played from the hidden speakers or maybe it was the nurturing of human contact for no other purpose than to make her feel good, but she felt more whole than she had in years. With a deep breath, she tried in earnest to let everything go.

"Good." Stephanie said, and Sam felt her body relax even further. She thought she even felt bones sliding back into place.

It was then, when she had reached absolute bliss that something began to pull at her. It started softly at first, but then it became almost a physical tug. In the silence it was like an insistent whisper. Something else had changed as well and it took Sam a minute to figure out what it was. Stephanie's hands had stopped moving for the first time since the beginning of the massage; not even her breathing could be heard. It seemed like it lasted for minutes.

"Is everything alright?" Sam asked, partly to find out what was wrong with Stephanie, and part to drown out the yearning call that insisted she should get up and follow this urging.

"Oh," Stephanie said, sounding flustered. "I'm sorry. That's been happening to me lately."

The pulling eased, gradually fading in a way that made Sam wonder if it had ever really existed or if it was just her imagination playing games with her. She'd always had a very active imagination, which had somehow managed to damage her credibility at times in her life, and she did what she could to keep reality and imagination very separate.

"You're here to investigate the ghosts, right?" Stephanie asked.

Surprised by the question, Sam reluctantly shook some of the dopamine-induced fog from her mind. "Yeah," she finally said.

"I'm sorry. I should just let you enjoy your massage, but I just have to ask you: Before you asked if I was alright, did you . . . sense any thing? I mean, did you feel anything strange? Oh . . . never mind. I shouldn't have asked you that."

"It's OK," Sam said, never taking her face out of the cradle, her voice was muffled so she spoke a little louder. "And I did feel something." Stephanie's sharp intake of breath interrupted her for a moment. "It was like something was pulling me, like there was a thread attached to the skin on my forehead and someone was tugging on it, trying to get me to go . . . that way." Sam pointed without raising her head. Stephanie was silent, so Sam picked up her seemingly heavy head and turned to look. With blurred eyes, she saw Stephanie leaning against the wall with her hand over her mouth.

When she saw Sam looking she pulled her hand away. "What else did you feel?"

"That was pretty much it," Sam said. "But it was pretty strong. I felt like I needed to go that way." This time she pointed and tried to orient herself. "What is that way?"

"Beyond that wall is a parking lot, then the beach, and then . . . the lake."

The lake. Something about the way Stephanie said it and the way her body reacted when she heard it, Sam knew: this had something to do with the lake.

"It's been happening to me for weeks," Stephanie said after a long silence. "I was starting to think I was going crazy. Ok, crazier...but you felt it too. And you felt the exact same thing I did. And I didn't tell you about it either. Right?"

"Right," Sam said. "Is that it for the massage then?"

"Oh. Right. I'm sorry. I'll run you a little long. You're my last client for the day. Let's have you turn over."

Feeling somewhat rude, Sam tried to get back into that place of complete bliss, but Stephanie couldn't stop talking. Perhaps she was talking to Sam, but when Sam made no responses, she kept talking, so Sam supposed she was talking to herself. It seemed like no time at all had gone by when Stephanie placed her hands on Sam's forehead and said, "Thank you, Sam."

Not knowing exactly what to do, Sam just waited while Stephanie left the room and closed the door behind her. Again feeling exposed, yet far more relaxed, Sam dressed, feeling only loosely connected to her body. Her fingers fumbled and made dressing difficult, but she managed. Her hair was a wreck, so she pulled it back into a ponytail. Despite being inside, she put on her sunglasses, an old habit.

Shells waited in the reception area, looking like someone had poured her into one of the comfortable chairs that lined the walls. "And you say I'm a schemer. How'd you manage an extra fifteen minutes of massage?"

"She helped me with something," Stephanie said in Sam's defense, and both Shells and Lori raised eyebrows.

Sam tried to give Stephanie a tip, but the woman refused. "You've done more for me than you can imagine. Thank you," she said in little more than a whisper, obviously not wanting Lori to hear.

"Thank you," Sam said to Lori as they left, and Lori smiled warmly in return and waved.

Shells stretched her neck far to each side, which resulted in loud cracks, pops, and grunts of pleasure. "Man, I needed that," she said.

A pair of older women approached from the lobby and smiled when they saw the relaxed looks on Sam and Shells faces. "Did you girls just get massages?"

"Damn straight," Shells said.

This took the women back a moment, but then the first one just smiled and asked, "Did you enjoy the massages? We were heading there to make appointments. Any tips?"

"Great massage," Sam said. "Stephanie is highly recommended."

"And Carol rubs a mean ass," Shells said, ignoring the looks she got from the women. "But don't drink the coffee. Straight up, yo. That shit is whack like crack."

The women just nodded with open mouths and started back toward the spa. Sam could see them whispering to each other, and she could only imagine what they had made of her and Shells. Let them think what they would, Sam thought with a smile. Shells was never dull to hang around with, that was for certain.

Chapter 11

Heading for the front doors without a word, Sam followed her instinct, followed her gut, and followed her 'psychic' abilities. She wasn't so sure about that last one yet. For some reason the thought terrified her. It didn't seem much different from having good instincts; it just sounded a whole lot more frightening.

For the moment she chose not to put a name on it and let it take her where it would, just this once; just to satisfy the nagging curiosity that would gnaw at her if she didn't at least see it through. This one's for you, Aunt Julie, she thought. What shocked Sam the most was that Shells followed without saying anything, as if she too were in a trance.

When Sam stopped at the crosswalk, Shells finally spoke up. "I thought you didn't want to go to the beach."

"I changed my mind," Sam said.

"Uh huh."

In one of those rare moments only seen in college towns and vacation destinations, the traffic in both directions stopped to let them cross. Sam strutted to make it worth their while. A whistle came from one of the trucks in line, and Sam waved. It brought a smile to her face. After paying for beach passes, Sam and Shells took off their shoes, which were actually boots in both cases; cowboy boots for Sam and engineer boots for Shells. The reddish sand was different from the Jersey shore and reminded her more of the shores of the Delaware River, and the lake barely moved against it in comparison to either of them. Truly, this was a placid lake unlike anything Sam or Shells had ever experienced before. Shells walked into Sam twice, her eyes wandering everywhere but where she was going. A volleyball game showed off some hard bodies in action, and even Sam caught herself looking in that direction more than she needed to. There was something about taut, tan flesh jumping around in skimpy outfits. Volleyball was a good-looking sport indeed.

Again Shells walked into Sam when she stopped. Closing her eyes, Sam tried to see if she could still feel the sensation that had interrupted her massage. "Spin me around three times and face me in a random direction."

"What the hell for?"

"Just do it, please," Sam said. Shells did as Sam asked, and after what seemed like more than three spins, Sam was left feeling a little dizzy and not knowing what direction she was facing. Then she tried to find it, tried to get back that sense of pulling, that sense of direction. In a way it had brought her comfort, in that it told her what to do. Though she did not want any person or group of persons telling her what to do or how to live her life, she still searched for a sense of purpose; and there were times she just wished someone or something would tell her what it was that she was supposed to do. It was a strange contradiction, one that Sam struggled with every day of her life.

As her mind wandered, the storm of her thoughts calmed, and with her eyes clamped shut, she felt herself achieving the serene quiet she needed.

"What the hell are you doing? People are staring," Shells said.

"I don't care," Sam snapped, her eyes still squeezed shut. "Just give me a couple minutes, OK? And then I promise I'll explain over pizza."

"I guess if you put it that way," Shells said, and even with her eyes shut, Sam knew that Shells had her arms crossed over her chest and her face probably looked like she'd been sucking on a lemon.

Blocking the sounds that surrounded her, Sam once again searched for that inner silence, that tranquility she had never before known existed. She would have to get a massage more often, she said to herself, remembering Stephanie's comment to the same effect. Again her mind wandered from thought to thought before growing calm and quiet. She had no control over how quickly it happened, and she did her best to wait patiently, hoping that Shells would do the same. When that thought passed, she found the quiet, and within it a singular impulse, insistent and specific. Sam turned herself and pointed. Then she opened her eyes. Her finger pointed to the exact same spot underneath a very recognizable bald; not on the mountain, but pointing to a spot in the water below that point on the mountain.

"That would seem to be the spot," came an almost familiar voice that was not Shells. "Somehow I knew I would find you here."

"Well, you are psychic after all," Shells said to the tattooed woman they had met earlier. "Either that or you are stalking me." The last was said with a wink, and the woman laughed.

"I didn't get your name," Sam said, realizing afterward that her tone was less than warm.

"Madeline Vanderbright," the woman said as she presented herself and took a bow. "My friends call me Maddie. Please, call me Maddie."

"It's nice to meet you, Maddie," Sam said.

"Who's your daddy, Maddie," Shells said as she reached out, took Maddie's hand and kissed her knuckles.

"Ah, she's a frisky one, now isn't she?"

"We usually don't let her out of the attic at this time of year," Sam said, and Shells elbowed her in the ribs.

"I'm sorry," Shells said. "I just sometimes forget myself in the presence of beautiful women."

"And a charmer, too."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Sam said, ignoring the look from Shells. "What did you mean when you said that seems to be the spot?"

"Just that. Every psychic I've run into since I've been here, whether they know it or not, are being drawn to that spot. I don't have even the foggiest notion as to why, but I know it for certain nonetheless. You proved it nicely without my asking."

Sam thought about that a moment, and then said, "We need to get out there."

"I took the boat tour," Maddie said, "and while interesting, it was of limited benefit. There were too many energies around us in the boat and I couldn't seem to get past everyone else's issues so that I could see my own. Is it any wonder I like to live like a hermit; at least I can hear myself think."

"Yeah," Sam said, only half listening. "We need a private charter. Let's go down to the marina and see what turns up."

"C'mon. I'll drive," Maddie said.

"Good thinking," Shells said. "Just because we can see it doesn't mean we have to walk there." She gave Sam an accusing look.

After crossing back over the crosswalk at highway 64, Maddie took them to a forest green 68 GTO.

"No friggen' way!" Shells said. "This is your ride?"

"If you've gotta go somewhere, then I say ride in style," Maddie said.

"Bitchen'," Shells agreed, and then she opened the passenger door and leaned the seat forward. "There's no way I'm getting in there and back out without butter and a winch, so it's all you, girlfriend."

Bending down and squeezing herself into the back seat, Sam felt a hand smack her on the ass.

"You've had that coming for a while," Shells said, and Sam didn't bother to argue. "This is a sweet ride, girlfriend."

"Thanks," Maddie said.

"The only thing missing are your footprints on the headliner," Shells said, and Sam dropped her head into her hands. She had known something was coming, just not what. You never knew what Shells was going to say.

The GTO rumbled to life and issued a low growl as Maddie eased them out onto highway 64. Her hand clutched the pistol-grip shifter like an old friend, and her shifts were smooth and flawless.

"That shifter's hot," Shells said. "I gotta get me one of those. This whole car is hot. You're hot. Damn it's getting hot in here."

"Charmer," Maddie said again.

When Maddie turned into the marina, Shells pointed. "No friggen' way. Get the hell out of here. No bullshit? Aw, man."

"What?" Sam and Maddie asked at the same time.

"Greg's here."

That statement brought silence. Maddie looked at Sam in the mirror, waiting for a response.

"Park next to that silver Ram pickup over there."

"The one towing a cigarette boat?" Maddie asked, and Sam peeked over the front seat, trying to catch a glimpse. "Damn, what is this, Miami Vice or something?"

When Sam got out of the car, all she could do was laugh. The boat was ridiculous. She would have called something out to Greg, but he was busy talking to a man in uniform who did not seem to approve of Greg's boat.

" . . . no size limit . . . "

" . . . within reason . . ."

The snippets of conversation made it pretty clear what was going on.

"I'll keep it slow," Greg said, crossing his heart.

The man in uniform nodded and seemed reluctant as he handed Greg a slip of paper. "Don't make me come get you. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Welcoming committee?" Sam asked when the man in uniform walked away.

"Hey! You found me! That was fast."

"How long have you been here?" Shells asked.

"Just long enough to tick off the locals. I guess they don't like my boat. My Uncle's boat, that is."

"Man, that thing should come with a white suit and some pastel tank tops, bro." Shells said, and Maddie laughed.

"Shut up, Michelle," Greg said earning a glare. "My Uncle's been rich a long time, and he bought one of these in the '80s. He hadn't pulled it out in years, and since I had some free time on my hands, he said I could bring it down here and blow the dust off of it."

"I bet half of that dust is cocaine, dude. Straight up. I watched TV in the '80s, I know what's up. There's probably blow in every seat crevice."

Shells was convincing enough to actually make Greg look worried for an instant. "I think we're good," he said. "I mean I made it through a spot check on my way in here, although it took me a while to explain the boat. Thought they were gonna send me back there for a couple minutes, but they let me through. They were gonna have a serious mess if they didn't, since there wasn't exactly enough room for me to turn around."

"Can you get this thing in the water?" Maddie asked, looking impatient.

"Yeah. Guide me back to the ramp, will ya?" Greg said after climbing up and pulling bumpers out over the sides.

"I got your back, brother," Shells said, and Sam had to laugh at the serious look on Shells' face as she used hand signals to guide Greg back. Her favorite was the closed fist she used to tell him to stop. It was done with authority, and that alone cracked Sam up.

After pumping up his parking brake, Greg hopped out as if afraid his truck might end up in the lake.

"It's not going anywhere," Shells said, and she gave the truck a good shake. The tires slid the slightest bit on the slick ramp. Greg grew pale and quickly went for the winch release. Once the boat was in the water, his truck would be a good bit safer.

Greg then handed Sam a rope and said, "Don't lose it."

Though not much of a boat person, Sam didn't think she had to worry about losing it; until the boat began to drift. "Damn. Shells, grab one of the ropes on the other end."

"Can't," Shells said, as the boat moved out too far for her to reach.

Slowly the boat turned, and by the time Greg got back, it was perpendicular to the dock. "Uh. What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"It didn't get away," Sam said, "But it's not exactly where I wanted it either." Then after a moment longer she said. "Help?"

Greg laughed. "Now that's a first." Without hesitating, Greg just walked into the water, his rubber-soled sandals giving him good grip. "The water's cold," he said, and he let out a whoop when the water reached his waste. "Man, that's cold."

"What's the matter, Gregory?" Shells said. "The little sailor afraid of the cold?"

"He's gone below decks," Greg said in a strained voice, but then he reached the back of the stern and pushed it back toward the dock.

Shells caught the boat with her foot and grabbed one of the stern ropes. "Got it."

Greg waded back to the ramp and joined the girls on the dock. "It'll just take me a few minutes to get her going. Life jackets are under the seats." No one moved to put on a lifejacket, and Greg noticed the eyes of the men in uniform, and some of those who were not. "What's with all the undercovers?"

"Ah. You noticed," Sam said.

"How could I miss it?"

"I don't know what's going on yet, but this boat trip will help."

"Either that or it'll get us locked up. I think this thing might be a little loud," Greg said, after pushing some buttons that made noises but had no visible effect.

"Ya think?" Shells asked.

"Well, it's got dual 427s bored out and supercharged. If memory serves, this thing will get out of its own way."

Everyone in the marina looked when Greg turned the key. Just the whine of the starters and the superchargers drowned out the other boats nearby and attracted unfriendly glares. When the engines fired, one before the other, there was a loud backfire and flames shot from the pipes.

"No worries," Greg said, as the crowd reacted in surprise. The second engine fired and all 16 cylinders sang a deep-noted tune, rumbling like a coming storm. "Hold on everybody!" Greg shouted. The uniformed men and a few others made as if to move, and everyone watched to see what Greg would do. He moved the throttle forward and the sleek cigarette boat eased away from the dock with a _blub blub blub blub_. "What?" Greg asked to all those watching. "Too much? Wait. How about this?"

He must have had it planned since he cranked up the stereo and out came the theme song from Miami Vice. Those on the docks laughed and clapped their hands, and Shells was jamming on the air drums as they coasted out to deeper water at a snails pace.

"I think you can go a little faster," Shells said.

"Let me at least get out of the no wake zone before I piss off the locals again."

Sam had to admit it was a really nice boat.

"Twelve speaker sound system," Greg shouted over the music, which was echoing off the valley walls, but no one seemed to care. Other boaters waved and cheered them on, so Greg held a steady course. "We've got a couple hours of daylight," Greg said. "Where to?"

"Just keep going straight for now," Sam said. "There is a specific spot I need you to take me to, and we are headed straight for it."

"What's at this spot?" Greg asked.

"I have no idea," Sam said. "I just have a feeling."

"You and your feelings," Greg said with a dismissive wave. Shells and Maddie gave him dirty looks. "Nothing I've ever _felt_ has overridden my ability to use reason. It's like you feel something and then all common sense goes out the window."

"It's nice to see you, too."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really am glad to see you."

"So tell me, what exactly happened to land you down here? I thought you were working construction."

"Yeah," he said. "That didn't work out."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"I quit."

Sam raised both eyebrows.

"Ok. I got fired. Satisfied?"

Sam nodded, a small smile playing across her face. "I'm happy to see you too."

"Aw. That's so cute!" Shells said, and Maddie laughed for a moment, but then her face looked distant.

"Slow down," Sam said. "Wait, turn around, go back just a little."

"Yes," Maddie said, not opening her eyes.

This was the spot. It felt now as if she were being pulled straight down.

"Can we go swimming?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "I can drop anchor here for a while."

"You wore a swimsuit?" Shells asked.

Looking coy, Sam just took off her boots and socks, dropped her jeans and jumped into the water in nothing but panties and a white t-shirt.

"You never were afraid to show your ass, were you?" Greg asked. Sam just dove into the water so her butt stuck up for a moment before dipping below the greenish-blue waters that were cleaner than Sam would have imagined. She could easily see her feet and for quite a distance beyond. This would be perfect for diving. If only she had diving gear and knew how to use it.

When she reached the surface, she saw Maddie standing with her back to her. Shells sat across from her, an expectant look on her face. Then Maddie raised her hands over her head and removed her top. Shells looked as if her eyes might pop out, and Greg looked much the same. Then Maddie dropped her jeans and jumped into the water. Sam couldn't resist the unspoken challenge and threw her soaking wet top at Greg; it hit him with a wet splat, but he didn't seem to mind much.

It seemed like good fun until she heard the cheer from a nearby boat where a pair of young men held binoculars.

Maddie laughed and waved to them. "Let them have their fun," she said.

Still feeling the insistent tug, Sam smiled and then dived below the lightly rippled surface. Though she dived until her ears hurt and her chest felt like it would explode, Sam could not see the bottom; below her only deeper green and then darkness. The need for air drove her back to the surface with urgency, and she broke into the open air with a desperate gasp.

Maddie was there and put her arms around Sam. "Are you OK? You were down there a long time."

Sam nodded, it was the only thing she could do at the moment besides breathe. Her mind noted that the feeling of Maddie's breasts pressed up against her was far from unpleasant.

"Did you find anything?" Maddie asked a moment later when Sam's breathing started to slow.

This time Sam shook her head.

"Damn. I was really hoping you would. I can't dive, inner ear problems."

Together, they swam back to the boat. Shells waited with towels and in no way averted eyes. Greg wasn't exactly turning away either and Sam flushed when the boys on the nearby boat erupted again. Maddie left the water first and seemed less embarrassed than Sam, but then, Sam thought, she was definitely better endowed. The woman's tattoos were nicely done and accentuated her natural beauty.

Shells just stared when Sam left the water and seemed to have forgotten the towel she held in her hand. More cheers echoed through the valley, and Maddie put her arm around Sam. The two took a bow, then turned toward the other boat and took another bow. The sight of a black boat with a silver star painted on the side and coming straight for them convinced Shells to give up the towels. The police boat approached slowly.

"Please remain calm and stay where you are," came a voice over a far-too-loud speaker. "We are going to board your vessel."

Using oversized bumpers and what looked like a padded gaff, the police brought the two boats together and two men boarded Greg's Uncle's boat. "We had a report that y'all were creating a disturbance."

"A disturbance?" Shells asked. "I'm pretty sure those boys over there were anything but disturbed."

Greg shot Shells a look that clearly told her to shut up.

"Any alcohol or drugs on this vessel?" the man asked ignoring Shells.

"No, sir," Greg said. This was the same man who had been giving him a hard time when he had arrived, and it was clear Greg knew he was not in a good position.

"This is a family friendly town," the officer said. His partner couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Sam and Maddie. "Maybe you should take your boat to Vegas."

"I'm sorry, sir. It seems a couple of my passengers lost their shirts. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

"It seems your partner wouldn't mind if we disturbed his peace a bit, now would you sweetie?" Maddie said, leaning forward toward the younger officer.

"Corporal," the older officer said, but as soon as he made to turn his head the younger man saw both Maddie and Sam lean forward and grab their towels as if they would take them off. "Corporal!"

"Oh. Uh. Yes, sir," the young man said, his face crimson.

"Disembark!"

"Yes, sir," the young man said, but he sneaked one last glance, and despite the other officer watching, Sam and Maddie both gave him a little show.

"Sweet dreams, officer cutie!" Maddie said.

The young man looked like he wanted to say something, but one glance from his superior stifled the notion, instead he just looked back at Maddie and Sam with forlorn eyes. Before the older officer disembarked, the boat that had been lingering nearby drew closer.

"What's up, Bill?" came a shout from one of the young men aboard. "These folks aren't bothering anyone. Why are you giving them a hard time? Don't you know we need tourists around here?"

"Just because your father is the Mayor doesn't give you the authority to interfere with police operations," the older officer responded.

"Oh. I'm sorry. It looked to me like you were all done being a pain in the ass."

The older man did not respond. Instead, he just climbed back onto the police boat.

"Ahoy there lovely ladies, and to you, good sir," the young man said. "We were hoping to do some knee-boarding, but this hunk of junk will barely pull itself through the water. You ever pull anyone with that thing?"

The older officer looked like he would have something to say, but a glance at the young man seemed to change his mind. Greg looked to the officer, a question in his eyes.

"Keep it to the deep water, and if another boats needs to pass, you _shut it down_. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Greg said. The young men on the other boat just grinned and pulled a pair of kneeboards from the back of the boat. A coil of white and blue rope got tossed to Greg, and Sam noticed that it had two handles attached to it. Each handle had its own length of rope that joined with the other some twenty feet away. It took Greg no time at all to hook the rope to the cleats on the back of the boat, which had been made for just such a purpose.

"Are you any good with those things?" Greg asked the young men. In answer, they donned their foam rubber life jackets, pulled their boards to their chests, and leaped from the side of their boat, flipping in air, and both were soon paddling toward the floating handles.

Greg eased the boat over next to the young men's smaller boat and, showing some skill, he got close enough to offer the young lady remaining in the boat his hand. She looked to be in her mid twenties and didn't have an ounce of fat on her. Her tanned skin glowed, and her eyes shone with excitement. Greg flexed and pulled her aboard in a single motion. She seemed in no hurry to get out of his arms, but then she looked over her shoulder to Sam, Shells and Maddie.

"Hi y'all. I'm Kim."

This girl reminded Sam of everything she used to be and what she was no more.

"Can I join you?"

"It'll cost you," Shells said. Before anyone else could say anything, the girl just nodded, smiled, and reached up behind her back. Both Shells' eyebrows shot up, as the girl's bikini top fell to the floor of the boat.

After giving Greg a good view and a shake for good measure, the girl turned to Sam, Shells and Maddie. "How's that?" she asked, her arms raised in the air, pissing off Sam again since gravity seemed to affect this girl in no way. How could anyone look that good and ever get out of the house, Sam wondered, but then she slid closer to Maddie and held out the corner of the towel. Kim then smiled mischievously. "Eat your hearts out, boys!" she shouted, giving them a good show. Both boys cheered with hearty enthusiasm. Sam guessed this was not an every day event, and she smiled even as Kim pressed herself in close.

Shells walked to the front of the boat and leaned in to talk to Greg, "It's like they're trying to kill me," she said, and Greg chuckled.

"You and me both, sister."

The two young men now floated with the handles in hand and were giving the thumbs up.

"Everyone good and secure?" Greg asked, and the girls huddled closer to Sam, who was doing her best not to get aroused and failing miserably. "OK. Here we go."

Sliding forward only a little at first, Greg slowly pulled away from the slack rope until it was taut. Both boys now had their elbows on the boards, both hands on the handles and looked ready. The canyon roared to life as the boat responded to Greg's request. Sam thought at first that he might send the boys flying with such an abrupt start, but both were shouting in delight as they quickly were able to push down with their arms and bring their knees to their chests, which allowed them to kneel on the boards. Each pulled a velcro strap across their legs and that's when the show began.

"Faster!" one of the young men shouted, his muscular body glistening in the late afternoon light. Sam looked at the other who was smoother, but no less fun to look at. This day was turning out far better than she had expected. Maybe this vacationing thing wasn't so bad.

Greg squeezed the throttle forward and the twin V8's sang a glorious song that was amplified by the mountains. A curling wake sped away from the hull and became a playground for the boys. At first they moved one at a time, curling out wide and then racing back toward the wake. Like a moving ramp, the wake sent the young man into the air, and he did a full flip before landing back in the water. He nearly missed the landing, but it drew applause from those onboard, and a more distant roar from a crowd of boats that had gathered to watch the spectacle. The other young man did his best to outdo whatever trick the first threw down, and after a mid-air 360 degree turn, he landed sideways, the side of his board digging into water and sending him face first in to the turbulent wash. The rope snapped from his hands and went flying through the air, but a moment later he was bobbing and waving in the waters behind them. His friend bailed out moments later.

Water seemed to rush up behind them as they slowed, and Sam saw the black helicopter as it made the turn to enter the main valley. Greg made a slow sweeping turn to pick the boys up. Both looked ready to go again and Greg skillfully brought the ropes back to them. The boys grabbed on, and Greg wasted no time in bringing them back up to speed. The pair seemed to spring from the water and were on their knees faster than the last time. Sam wasn't sure if Greg had seen the helicopter, but when it came in for a close pass, a man with a camera and zoom lens hanging out the side and the massive weighted tarp hanging below it, Greg couldn't help but notice. Making an almost complete circle around the boat, which was racing through a canyon pulling two knee-boarders who were now both flipping in the air at the same time, it made for a memorable experience.

"Are we in their way?" Greg asked after slowing.

"You're fine," one of the young men shouted, and Sam was pretty certain it was the Mayor's son. "They've been filling up over there for days. I think they were just having some fun with us or taking some pictures for T and T."

"What the hell is T and T?" Shells asked. "That's not like T and A is it?"

"Uh, no. Sorry. I've been hanging around local government for too long. It's Travel and Tourism."

"Ah, right. I dig it," Shells said. "Still, it seems to me that T and T might be looking for some T and A."

"Looks like they found it," Greg said with a sideways glance at the topless girls, who, though covered by an expansive beach towel, managed to still look naked. The cool air was also having an effect, and Sam was certain the little sailor was no longer below decks.

A pair of wave runners roared toward them, and a number of the gathered boats drifted closer.

"Can we have a go?" asked the younger boys on the wave runners.

"Sure thing," the Mayor's son said with a grin. "Mind if we watch from the wave runners?"

"Deal," the first boy said, and within minutes, the younger boys were on the kneeboards and the older on wave runners.

"You ever do this before?" Greg asked, and the younger boys gave him the thumbs up. "Alrighty then. Hold on!" Despite the thumbs up, Greg took off a bit more slowly than he had been, and it took the boys longer to get up on their boards, but they did an admirable job; soon they were slicing through the water. Though there were less acrobatics, the boys still showed some skill. One raced out wide, away from the boat's wake and glided along smooth water that looked like glass. With a heave, he pulled the handle to his chest and then spun around three times, his hands deftly passing the handle from front to back each time.

The older boys, not to be outdone, raced alongside, albeit a little farther back than the knee-boarders. After a few experimental passes across the wake, they began jumping it, and it wasn't long before the smoother of the two caught enough air to throw the wave runner into a barrel roll. The landing was awkward, but he managed to stay on. The boys on the kneeboards saw this and cheered them on.

Greg swung the boat into a wide turn that would give them a long, straight path back through the canyon. A fiberglass fishing boat, all glitter and engine pulled up alongside and the passenger shot footage from a handheld camcorder. Soon both boats, the wave runners, and the knee-boarders were rushing through the valley in a spectacle unlike any that had been seen there before. The black helicopter joined the chase, and Sam was quite certain this footage would end up on the news.

The sun cast deepening hues of orange and blue across the rippling waters, and Greg eased the boat back to where the Mayor's son's boat was anchored.

"I wish we could do this all night," Greg said, "but I should probably get this beast out of the water. Thanks for helping me blow the cobwebs off of her though."

"How dare you talk about Sam that way!" Shells said with a sly grin. "Oh. Wait. You meant the boat. Sorry."

Sam just threw a life vest at her.

"Thanks for the fun, y'all," Kim said, and when she bent down to retrieve her top, she put her ass on display. Even Maddie cocked her head to the side and gave it a once over. "Not bad at all," the look on her face said.

Chapter 12

Shadows deepened as Sam, Shells, Greg, and Maddie pulled into the parking lot of a sizable restaurant perched on a hillside that overlooked the beach and much of the lake. The Mayor's son, Nick, and his friend Wayne had suggested the place, and they pulled in moments later.

Kim jumped out first and trotted over to where the group stood. "Let's get a table out on the balcony," she said with a broad and irresistible smile. Sam wasn't certain if she was dating Nick or Wayne, but by the way they both watched her, she guessed it was neither; yet. She wondered if the friendship would survive competing for the same girl. Kim didn't seem to mind the looks that followed her, but also didn't give any indication that she felt any attraction in return.

Walking past the bar, they made their way to the balcony and pushed two tables together. "Hi y'all," a cute waitress with curly red hair and just enough freckles said after they seated themselves, "my name's Trish, and I'll be serving you this evening." Greg, Nick and Wayne tried to hide the fact that they were undressing her with their eyes, but none of the girls were fooled for an instant. Kim looked as if she would kick one of them under the table, but that would mean revealing that she cared; for the moment she resisted, but it was clear that she would have preferred a waiter, or at least someone warted and homely. This girl looked like she could bring cold food and still get tips.

The view pulled Sam's attention back to the lake. The water now seemed almost purple, and the towering presence of Rumbling Bald stood out from the wooded ridgeline with burnt umber rays bathing it. Now that Sam had been to the spot, she could feel its pull even more keenly. Watching Maddie, she noticed the other woman's eyes repeatedly drifting to that same spot. The rest seemed oblivious to the call, and Sam said nothing about it. When Trish returned with their drinks, she stepped between Wayne and Nick and leaned over to place the sweet teas that the girls had ordered around the table. Gravity seemed to draw their eyes to her, and again, Kim looked as if she would bite one of them.

"What can I get you to eat?" she said when she straightened.

"How's the pizza?" Greg asked.

"It's the best around," she responded with a twinkle in her eye.

"You sure?" he asked. "I heard you couldn't get a decent pizza south of the Mason Dixon line."

"Where y'all from?"

"I'm from New Jersey," Greg said, and Trish wrinkled her nose. "Damn, it's not all that bad. And we have some of the best food around; especially pizza."

"I thought New York and Chicago had the best pizza," Trish said, clearly looking to get a rise out of Greg. Sam was pretty sure she'd already succeeded.

"Say what you will, but Jersey has the best pizza and cheesesteaks. New York, Philly, and Chicago can chew on that for a while," he said, his grin annoying Sam for some reason.

"Well, I'll let you take that up with them," she said, "but you are in luck; our pizza guy is from New Jersey."

"That settles it then," Greg said. "How about a large pie with sausage and pepperoni; we can split it."

"Did you think of asking us what we want?" Shells said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," Kim said. "I don't eat meat."

"See?" Shells said. "I'm with home girl. Save the fuzzies, yo!"

Sam shook her head. Shells was ever the vegetarian of convenience.

"How about add another large cheese pizza with green peppers and mushrooms?" Sam asked. "Does that sound good?"

Kim nodded.

"Hell yeah. I'm down with that," Shells said. "All the hot girls say 'Ho!'"

"Ho!" echoed Kim, Trish, and Maddie, and a few of the girls at nearby tables. Already their group was drawing looks, but none of them seemed to care; rather it seemed to please them quite a bit. Sam had spent so much time trying to stay out of the center of attention, that she was momentarily uncomfortable.

"What did you all just call me?" Shells asked, and most of those within earshot laughed. "That's right, bitches."

Despite the levity, Sam couldn't help but be drawn back into silence and wondering. Too many things weren't adding up. "What do you think about the fire?" she asked Nick, who gave her a quizzical glance.

"That's an odd question," he said. "I suppose I think it sucks. This is my home, and I love the trees and wilderness. The thought of it burning is something I try not to think about."

"I understand," Sam said, "but doesn't it strike you as odd that you can't smell it or see any smoke from anywhere?"

"Not really," he said. "Many of the valleys and gorges around here are remote and even have their own weather patterns. Just because the wind is blowing in one direction here, doesn't mean it is blowing the same direction on the other side of a ridgeline. Jersey's flat, right?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "It's pretty flat for the most part."

"Well there you have it. You're just not used to being in the mountains. Here we grow the men tough and strong-"

"And the women are barefoot and frightened?" Shells asked.

"Don't let him fool y'all," Kim said. "Southern Bells maybe sweet and nice to look at, but we can hold our own. You want me to show 'em?"

"No. No," Nick said. "Not that. Please!"

Trying to act as if she weren't suspicious, Sam said, "How about all the military and under cover police we've been seeing?"

Nick just laughed, "Honey, this is the south. We support troops and law enforcement around here. They're all just here vacationing. It's either that or they're all part of a top secret plot to keep that spaceship that crashed here last year a secret."

Shells raised an eyebrow, but Kim spoke first, "Stop it, Nick. Now you're just tellin' tales. There's nothing unusual going on around here, y'all. This is just late summer in Lake Lure, that's all."

Though unconvinced, Sam let it drop.

The thumping of the helicopter returned slowly to the valley and then grew louder as the chopper cleared the ridge, its lights scanning the surface of the lake. All eyes in the restaurant turned to watch the spectacle of the refilling of the water vessel. Sam had to admit that it was an impressive sight that still amazed her despite seeing it several times and up close. The sight did nothing to quell her suspicions, but the arrival of the pizza removed much of the sense of urgency. The smell alone was enough to distract her.

Kim grabbed a piece of the mushroom and green pepper pizza and started to cut it with a knife and fork.

"Seriously?" Shells said, her mouth hanging open. "That's sacrilege, girlfriend. You can't eat pizza with a knife and fork, for real." Shells grabbed a piece and folded it in half. The tip drooped a bit, but Shells got her mouth under it and caught the dripping grease before it hit the plate. "You gotta take small bites at first when it's hot," she said while chewing. "Damn, this shit ain't bad!"

"Told you," the waitress said as she refilled the drinks.

"That girl's tip just keeps getting bigger and bigger," Shells said.

"Mine, too," Nick said, and this time Kim did kick him under the table.

Shells ignored them and watched Trish walk away, her head moving in time with the sway of Trish's rear end. "Work it, work it," Shells said, and she was pretty sure Trish's ass wiggled just a little extra. "Mmm, mmm, mmm. I gotta get me some of that."

"Horn dog," Sam said with a sideways grin, and Shells did nothing to correct her.

"The girl's got good taste," Nick said. "You gotta give her that."

Kim cast a look over her shoulder and shrugged, "Not bad."

Nick nearly choked on his pizza, but most of the talking faded as the pizza cooled to the perfect temperature. Trish kept their drinks filled, and Sam heard dangerous words from Shells, "How about bringing us a pitcher of beer."

"How can you go wrong with pizza and beer?" Nick asked.

Sam questioned the wisdom but couldn't resist a cold beer, especially considering the fact that Trish brought them each a frosted mug.

"Damn," Shells said. "This girl is gonna run me broke, and I think I like it."

Trish had the decency to blush before strutting away.

"So, are y'all going to go boating again tomorrow?" Nick asked, his look expectant. "That was some serious fun out there today, and I've got a few buds who'd love to come out and join in. What do you think?"

Greg was silent for a moment and cast a sideways glance at Sam, who shrugged. "I don't suppose a couple hours would be out of the question. That boat gets mighty thirsty, though. Any chance your buds would be willing to pitch in some gas money?"

"Consider it done," Nick said with a huge grin, "and the next pitcher is on me. Hey, Trish, any chance we can get another pitcher and some fresh frosted mugs?"

"Sure thing, honey."

Nick smiled, though Kim looked as if she wanted to heart punch Trish, who leaned over even farther when she returned with the mugs. "I'll be right back with that pitcher, y'all."

"You gonna join us for a drink?" Shells asked, an innocent look on her face.

"Can't while I'm working, hon."

"So what time do you get off?" Shells asked, and Sam had trouble keeping a straight face.

"Usually about an hour or two after I get done working," Trish said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Ah, man, I like this girl. Seriously, yo. That's some shit right there. So what time you get done working, toots?"

Trish seemed to take a moment to try 'toots' on, but then she just smiled. "My shift is over in about an hour."

"Aw, yeah. That's right," Shells said. "I'm pretty sure we can hold down some of those bar stools until then."

Trish winked and walked away, her strut undiminished.

When the pizza and beer were gone, which was surprisingly soon, Nick leaned back in his chair and patted his belly. Even stuffed as he was, he looked like he'd been carved in marble, and Kim couldn't help but run her eyes over his taught form. "That beer was good, but all it did was make me thirsty. How about we see what kind of damage we can do at the bar?"

For a moment, Sam considered excusing herself and heading back to the Inn. Eventually they were going to have to do what they came here for, and tying one on was probably not the best idea. "I'm not sure I should drink any more," she said eventually.

Greg looked stunned, "Now you adopt restraint?"

"Seriously, girlfriend," Shells said. "Besides, how am I supposed to land that waitress if we don't at least stay until she gets done working?"

"You never stop, do you, Michelle?" Greg said, all the while making certain he was far enough away from Shells to avoid her right hook. Shells didn't answer, and he grinned. "C'mon, the first round of shots is on me."

That was all it took. Sam was caught up in a wave of enthusiasm as their group descended on an unsuspecting bartender. A couple other tables that had been nearby were finishing up their meal as well, and as they were standing, one young lady asked, "Mind if we join you? We might even buy the next round."

"Come sit on my lap," Shells said. "And we can feel things out."

Even Sam had a hard time not spitting out the last of her beer. And so it was that the drinking commenced in earnest. The waitresses began seating diners as far from the bar as they could, as the noise level became almost unbearable, but no restaurant owner in their right mind would turn away a thirsty bunch from the bar—they stood to make way more money on alcohol than food. Sam did notice a few thick-necks with buzz cuts watching with cold eyes from the other side of the room; but the mellow buzz that was setting in made it easier for her to ignore them, as well as the nagging feelings that were only growing stronger as time passed.

"Slippery nipples!" someone yelled, and a shot glass found its way into Sam's hand. The drink consisted of a creamy layer on top of a transparent layer of liquid that made Sam's stomach turn a little just thinking about what it might taste like and how it would settle in her gut. She considered handing it back, but resistance to peer pressure had never been one of Sam's strong points. Slamming the drink back in one smooth motion, she tasted licorice and chocolate, which wasn't as bad as she had expected. Still, she wouldn't have ordered another for herself.

"Hey, nipples come in pairs!" Shells shouted, and another round soon appeared. "Damn," Shells said. "Are my nipples slippery yet?"

No one answered, and she seemed content to check for herself at the moment. So it was that she was inspecting her own nipples when a couple walked into the restaurant. A beaming young brunette clung to the arm of an arrogant looking young man who seemed to know full well that he looked like a modern day Adonis. The girl's lips shone bright red, and her flowery dress clung to her in a most alluring way, the material cradling her breasts and accentuating their full perkiness.

"Damn," Shells said, not even trying to disguise her stare as they walked by. "That looks like a strawberry sundae with a cherry on top. Yummy."

Sam thought for a moment that the young man would let it pass, but the girl turned and smiled at Shells. The young man then stopped and turned, glaring, "What the hell are you looking at?"

"Hey man," Shells said, standing up on less than steady legs. "Don't dress her up like a lollipop if you don't want anyone to lick her."

The girl giggled and the young man's face flushed.

"Don't mind my friend, here," Greg said. "She's had a little too much to drink."

After looking Greg up and down, the young man seemed to realize he was overmatched and turned to walk away.

"C'mon back, baby," Shells said before anyone could stop her. "The more I drink the better I look."

"Shut up, Michelle," Greg said.

She just gave him the finger. Trish walked by with a wry smile on her face. "Hey, Trish, am I looking good yet?"

The waitress just shook her head with a twinkle in her eyes and kept walking.

"Damn," Shells said. "OK," she yelled after Trish. "One more drink; but if that doesn't work, then you're gonna have to start drinking!"

An older, heavyset man moved to stand beside the bar and cast them a disapproving glance. Sam assumed this was the manager.

"I think perhaps the young lady has had enough to drink," he said, confirming Sam's suspicion. She couldn't argue with his assessment.

"No way, man!" Shells said as she made her way to the man's side, further confirming his assessment with her less than straight path. "I'll tell you what. I'll flip you for it. Heads I win, tails you lose. Deal?"

The man just raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

"Ah, a tough one. OK. Heads I stop drinking, tails you do a shot with me."

Despite his somber expression, the man showed he had a sense of humor and nodded.

"Hell yeah," Shells said, and she did a little happy dance before somehow finding a quarter in her pocket. After showing it to the manager to prove it had both heads and tails, proof the man did not actually seem to require, Shells tossed the coin into the air. Showing a surprising amount of dexterity considering her current blood alcohol level, Shells snatched the coin from the air and slammed it onto her forearm. "Tails! Booyah! That's right, bitches. Pour this man a drink! What'll it be, my new friend? Blowjob? Body shot? Sex on the Beach? Ooh, wait, how about a Flaming Anus? OK. I made that last one up."

"Shot of crown," the man said to the bartender, who looked more than a little surprised. He handed the man the shot, and without hesitation he slammed it back, though he did wince a bit after placing the glass back on the bar.

"Double or nothin'?" Shells said, and the man nodded. Sam had to give the man credit, since this was probably the quickest way to get Shells to quit drinking and leave. Again, Shells proved surprisingly capable of flipping a coin while drunk and slammed the coin on her forearm. "Tails!" she said after a quick peek, but the manager pulled her hand back for a better look. "Damn. OK. You got me. Heads. Sorry y'all, I guess the party's over." Shells took a bow that earned her a raucous round of applause. "I bid you all a good night. Now where is that waitress? Maybe she could help me to the car."

"I think Trish is still working, hon," Greg said. "C'mon. It's time for us to go. You'll have to score the waitress another night."

"Damn," Shells said. "I wanted me some of that."

"I know," Greg said. "Another time."

"OK."

"We'll see you tomorrow, right?" Nick asked as they were leaving.

"In the afternoon," Greg said.

"Late afternoon," Sam added, and the crowd at the bar waived as they left. Maddie joined them as they made their way out the back door.

"Yeah, it might be real late," Greg said. "I trust you, and since I know who your daddy is, I'll let you take her out as long as you promise to treat her like gold. Deal?"

"Really?" Nick asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. "I'll take real good care of her. I promise."

"OK," Greg said. "If you reach up under my front bumper on the driver's side, there is a magnetic hide-a-key. There's a spare key for the truck and the boat in there. If anything happens to either of them, I'll hunt you down and then lock you in a room with Shells. Got it?"

"Got it," Nick said.

"Are you sure that was a good idea?" Sam asked after Nick was out of earshot.

"No," Greg said. "But good ideas were never my specialty, and I have a feeling I'm going to want to sleep in tomorrow."

Sam and Maddie just shook their heads but didn't try to talk him out of it.

"Who's driving?" Sam asked.

"Not me," Greg said.

"Don't look at me," Maddie said. "I'm schnookered. I told the manager we were going to leave our cars here. He said that was fine as long as we got her out of there."

"I'm not drunk!" Shells said.

"We know, dear," Greg said. "But we're going to take a nice stroll back to the Inn."

"Did you just call me dear? Damn, dude. Don't be trying to get me to switch teams now. I might have to put the woopin' on you."

"Yes, dear."

The cool night air did wonders for Sam, and she felt the miasma clear a tad from her mind; she could almost walk straight. Perhaps walking back to the Inn was for the best. Certainly none of them were fit to drive and it wasn't a terribly long walk.

Greg put one of Shells' arms over his shoulder and Sam took the other. Together, they cut a meandering course through the parking lot.

"I'm not drunk," Shells kept insisting, and Greg continued to call her dear. Sam wasn't sure that was the wisest thing to do, but let it pass since the more Shells jerked them back and forth the harder time she was having keeping her pizza and slippery nipples down.

"Let me go," Shells kept saying. "I'm a world class sprinter."

In all the time Sam had known Shells, she'd never seen her friend move at more than a light jog.

"Seriously, yo. Let me go. I'm a world class sprinter."

This continued until they had left the parking lot and were walking along highway 64. Telephone poles lined the road and lights on every third one cast pools of light onto the roadway. In the distance, more lights lit up the parking lot of the Inn and the windows beyond. Shells then made a retching sound that stopped them dead.

"I think I'm gonna hurl."

Sam and Greg both let go at the same time, and within a single breath, Shells was gone like she'd been shot out of a cannon, all the while yelling, "I'm a world class sprinter!" She made it perhaps fifty strides before she ran, face first into a telephone pole. There was a sickening thud, followed by another when Shells fell backward and lay supine and unmoving. Sam and Greg ran to her with Maddie close on their heels. None could quite believe their eyes when they found Shells giggling.

"I have to pee," was all that she said. As only the drunk could manage, Shells didn't have a scratch on her and seemed completely unscathed. As Greg and Sam helped her from the ground, a Lake Lure police car passed them very slowly, and Sam gave them a half wave as if to say, "We have everything under control." The policeman did not stop, and Shells let them guide her back to the Inn.

Michael watched from the reception desk as they half carried Shells up the stairs; he just shook his head and laughed. Maddie bid them a good night once they had safely deposited Shells in her room. Sam and Greg then made their way to Sam's room.

"Did you have your wheaties today?" she asked.

"I suppose so," Greg said. "Why do you ask?"

"Shells had a little redhead up here the other night and did her best to keep me up all night. I was kind of hoping to return the favor."

Greg just smiled, picked Sam up, and carried her to the bed. Shells could eat her heart out, Sam thought.

* * *

When Sam woke, her legs were still trembling and her head swimming. Greg had acquitted himself well. When she opened her eyes, she drew a sharp breath after finding a dark figure standing at the foot of the bed and looking down at her.

"What are you doing up?" she asked after a moment, unsure why Greg would be watching her sleep. In fact, she wondered how he could be upright. The combination of alcohol, exertion and dopamine had sent her into a deep sleep; that is until some instinct had caused her to wake.

"Well?" she asked when no response came. A moment later she nearly levitated when a loud snore came from her right. Quickly looking over, she saw Greg sleeping soundly and clutching his pillow. Beyond him, the dull red glow of the digital alarm clock. At first it was little more than a blur, but she concentrated hard and convinced her eyes to focus.

3:13 AM.

Her blood running cold, Sam forced herself to look back to the foot of the bed. Now the dark figure stood with one appendage pointing toward the window; Sam guessed it was an arm, but the shape was a mere approximation.

"Go away," she said, but it had no effect; if anything, the dark figure seemed to grow more imposing and forceful in its silent demand. "Shoo! Git! I'm not investigating now. Come back tomorrow. Go on! Git!"

Seeming to grow larger, the dark figure absorbed the darkness around it and became even more substantial. It was then that Sam realized that the room itself was getting lighter. A greenish blue glow emanated from the window at which the dark apparition pointed.

"Fine," Sam said finally. "If that will make you happy, I'll look out the window."

"Yes, dear," Greg mumbled, still clutching the pillow, his eyes still closed.

Feeling dizzy and disoriented, Sam slid her legs over the side of the bed and her feet touched the floor. When she looked up, the dark figure was nowhere to be seen; yet she distinctly felt its presence remaining. Part of her wanted to lie back down and go back to sleep, but now her curiosity was fully engaged and she knew it would nag her until she got up and at least looked to see what was generating that unnatural light. Naked, she felt self-conscious at first, uncomfortable showing her bare form to the dark entity, but she supposed it could have been watching all along, and she must have already given it quite a show.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself," she said with an accusatory tone, yet she felt silly for doing so. Chastising ghosts for watching her seemed a less than sane thing to do.

Greg continued to talk in his sleep, and Sam considered waking him, but she was drawn in silent fascination to the window, where the glow had begun to pulse, as if in time with her beating heart. The time on the clock couldn't have been a coincidence, and she looked out the window with an impending sense of dread. What she saw brought no real answers, only more questions. The lake itself was glowing from within, at the exact spot to which she and Maddie had been drawn. In the air above 'the spot' hovered a helicopter, yet this was not the same one they had seen gathering water for the fire she doubted really existed. This one seemed to drink in the light, and even after opening the window, she could hear nothing. Knowing the thump of its blades should easily be audible, Sam became convinced this was a military helicopter.

"Greg," she said, but he just mumbled and rolled over, pulling the pillow over his ears. Somehow Sam knew that there would be no getting through to him in his current state, and she quickly put on a robe that had been hanging in the bathroom. After grabbing the room key from the nightstand, Sam moved into the hallway, locking the door behind her; fearing the unknown. Quietly, she descended the stairs and moved through the dimly lit reception area. No one could be seen, and she suddenly felt as if she were the only person left alive in the world. It was silly, she knew, yet the feeling persisted, and she made her way outside. Fog obscured her lower legs, hovering above the ground and seeming to spring from the lake itself.

There, across the water, which moved in concentric rings away from the wash of the helicopter, was the glow she had seen from her room. Still pulsing in time with the beat of her heart, it seemed as foreign as anything she had ever encountered, and yet she felt as if she were somehow tied to it. Again the faint pulling sensation drew her across the road and onto the beach. Without even realizing it, she walked into the water itself, and only when the water reached her ankles did she recognize how far she had come.

"Fancy meeting you here," Maddie said from behind her, and Sam thought her heart might stop. So strong the sensation of being alone had been, the sound of another living voice came as a severe shock.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, but I don't think you should be out here. I don't think either of us should be."

Sam turned to see the concern in Maddie's eyes, and she couldn't argue with her sentiment. The feeling of impending danger was now growing ever greater as the pulsing light dimmed. With one last glance at the glowing waters, Sam took Maddie's hand and the two started back toward the Inn.

"I don't know what's going on here," Maddie said. "But something tells me that when the people in that helicopter are done looking at the lake, they will probably want to know if anyone else saw what they saw."

Sam agreed and nodded, words seemed hard to form, and she let Maddie lead her away. Only moments later, light washed over the beach as the helicopter turned and simultaneously gained altitude. At first Sam thought they would be caught, but then the light stabilized on one spot: a rock outcropping along the shoreline. There stood a man in nothing but a loincloth. Sam recognized him. He was the man from Arrowheads, and he stood with his arms raised in silent defiance. Ropes dropped from the helicopter and dark forms moved to the open doors. Sam and Maddie both turned to make their escape, driven by primal fear. These were not the actions of friendly forces. As they ran, Sam risked one more glance in the direction of the rock outcropping, but the man from Arrowheads was gone. Only dark forms in helmets and body armor stood on the rocks.

Chapter 13

"Why the hell is there sand in the bed?"

The sound of Greg's voice cut through Sam's brain like a chainsaw, and her only response was a groan. Light poured through the window and, like a blowtorch, tried to burn through her eyelids. The sound of pipes creaking was like enormous gongs ringing in the room with her, and Sam tried to burrow her way under the pillow. Her tongue was thick and tasted like a dirty sock, a realization that made her stomach churn. Why had she let Shells convince her to start drinking last night, she asked herself.

Cold air rushed over her exposed legs, as Greg lifted up the blankets. "Look at your feet! What the hell were you doing last night?"

"The ghost told me to go to the lake," Sam said, realizing just how crazy that sounded. "Now could you please speak more softly?"

"I am speaking softly," Greg shouted.

"Then whisper."

For a moment, a beautiful silence hung between them, but then someone took a battering ram to the door. Greg stomped across the floor, and it sounded as if he tore the door from its hinges.

"Morning, sunshine," Greg said.

"What's up, O'Greg?" Shells said. "That is your name now, right? I'm not sure why someone had to scream your new name for hours last night while I was trying to sleep, but from now on, I'm calling you O'Greg. Where is the little screamer hiding? That wouldn't be her hiding under that pillow, would it? O'Greg! O'Greg! O'Greg! There. How do you like it, ya' filthy little bitch."

"Please stop," Sam said. "I'll give you whatever you want. Just stop yelling."

"C'mon. Get up," Shells said. "O'Greg is gonna take us out for breakfast. Anyone with that much stamina ought to be able to carry us both down there and whip us up an eight course meal without breaking a sweat."

"Shut up, Michelle."

After a shower in which Sam spent much of the time leaning against the shower wall, she hid behind her darkest shades, her hair pulled up into a ponytail. Somehow Shells managed to avoid having a hangover. Sam was pretty sure she was still drunk.

"Hey, Mikey," Shells said far louder than was required. "Where can we get some good food? And I'm not talking about those barely thawed muffins you have over there. That shit should be illegal. I mean where can we get some real food?"

"What kind of food are you looking for?" Michael asked.

"Something hot, and salty, and that will cure this hangover," Sam said.

"It's a bit of a drive, but you need to go to Green Hill."

"Where the hell is that?" Shells asked.

"Just take 64 east until you come to a big gas station with rocking chairs sitting out front."

"You're sending us to a gas station?" Sam asked, her glare somehow visible from behind her shades.

"Trust me," Michael said. "There's a restaurant on one side. It's just the kind of place you're looking for."

"Oh wait!" Shells said. "That's the place we ate at on the way in, remember. LIVERMUSH and FATBACK!"

Though the names themselves might turn a weak stomach, the memory told Sam it was exactly the kind of thing she needed.

"Let's go," she said.

"Bring me back a livermush, egg, and cheese biscuit, will ya?" Michael asked.

"You're one sick dude," Shells said, but she took the ones Michael handed her. "It's your funeral," she said as they left.

Sam, Shells and Greg started the walk back to La Strada, where Sam's car waited. The walk seemed far longer on the way back, and seemed to be uphill the whole way.

"Why don't you just run up there and get the car for us, Michelle?" Greg asked. "You're a world class sprinter."

"Shut up, O'Greg. My nose hurts just thinking about it."

Sam smiled. The mountain air worked wonders on her headache. Her grumbling stomach was another matter.

As they walked up the drive that led to the parking lot in the rear of the restaurant, they found Maddie waiting for them.

"I thought you would end up here eventually," Maddie said.

"We're on a quest for hangover food," Shells said. "Care to join us?"

"Don't mind if I do."

No one spoke on the ride to Green Hill, and it wasn't until the ride back that Sam began to feel human again.

When she returned to New Jersey, she vowed to extol the virtues of livermush and fatback. Truly the Yankees didn't know what they were missing. Maybe when she retired, she could open up a little greasy spoon, selling southern favorites to relocated rebels and unsuspecting northerners. It seemed as good a goal as any.

Back at the Inn, Michael waited at the front desk; next to the desk a cardboard box that looked to have been through a war zone. Only vaguely rectangular in shape, flaps stuck up at odd angles, bits of tape clinging to them.

"I have a delivery for you," Michael said.

"Cripes, Mikey, what the hell happened to it?"

"Not sure," he said. "I considered not signing for it, but I knew that would mean putting you up for another week with no investigation going on. You were going to investigate at some point, weren't you? And I'm not talking about investigating what all the girls are hiding under their skirts."

"A girl's gotta start somewhere," Shells said, unfazed by the accusation. "Let's see what's in the box." Opening the box didn't take much effort, since it was really only closed in spirit. "What the hell! Only half of the stuff is in here! Where the hell are my IR illuminators?"

"Maybe there's a second box coming?" Michael suggested with a hopeful note in his voice.

"Nope," Shells said, holding a packing slip in her hand; on it Sam saw the words: package 1 of 1, and Shells was pointing to line items on the list. "Says here that my friggen' illuminators are supposed to be in here."

"Sorry," Michael said, seeming almost as annoyed as Shells. "The UPS guy is usually as reliable as they come. I'm gonna say that someone else must've gotten to your box before it got to him. I could call them if you want."

Shells just dismissed his offer with a wave of her hand, "I'll call the company I ordered them from and start a claim. Maybe they'll ship us some new ones, but it's gonna take a few days at least. You gonna put us up until then?"

"Don't see where I have much choice," Michael said, but Sam noticed that he didn't really seem as upset about putting them up as he was about the missing illuminators. Something niggled at the back of her mind. Old police training came to the fore, and though she tried to ignore it, she couldn't help feeling that something wasn't as it should be.

"We'll do what investigation we can without the night vision," Sam said.

"You ever try hunting ghosts with the lights on?" Shells asked, and a few people in the lobby turned to watch the scene as it unfolded. Michael didn't seem to care.

"We'll just have to do some audio work," Sam said, and Shells made an annoyed sound but didn't argue with her any further. Instead, she dialed a number on her phone and paced the floor while working up a good attitude. By the time someone answered her call, Sam wondered if they would ever get their illuminators, since Shells had worked herself into a frenzy. It seemed nothing irked Shells more than missing items and hold music. Sam made a note of that for future reference.

The digital audio recorder and flash cards were in good order, and the handheld camcorders were all working properly, which was progress at least. Sam laughed at herself while checking out the new equipment. For years, she'd resisted new technology, but this new quest for evidence of the paranormal had required her to become familiar with the tools of the trade. Now she found she actually enjoyed tinkering with gadgets; something she wouldn't admit to Shells, since she would never hear the end of it. Still, she couldn't help smiling as the tri-field meter registered trace amounts of electromagnetic energy around the reception desk.

"You ever get creeped out when working the desk?" Sam asked Michael.

"All the time," he said. "Especially when Shells is around."

Sam laughed, and Shells gave him the finger without ever pausing in her ranting tirade against the customer service person.

"Listen here, _Bob_ , or whatever the hell your name is. I don't know what the custom is in your country, but in the US of A, the customer is always right. Now which one of us is the customer? That's right, _Bob_. I am. Now that we have that cleared up, how soon can you send my four new IR illuminators?"

Sam laughed and Michael shook his head. "You know, you could take all this back to your rooms and handle this in privacy instead of involving all of my customers."

"You signed for it, Mikey," Shells said. "You're just gonna have to deal with it."

Michael just held his hands up in front of him in surrender. "Whatever you say, Michelle."

Greg had been taking a drink of soda, and Michael's comment sent brownish foam shooting from his nose.

Shells paused long enough to cast them both a scathing look, "Bite me, O'Greg. And that goes for you, too, Mikey Mike."

Sam just loaded the equipment back into the mangled box, while Michael and Greg simultaneously gave Shells the finger. It seemed a bit inappropriate, but a few of the other customers seemed to find it amusing while Shells just shook her ass for them while she walked and talked.

Not long after, the group convened in Sam's room. The cleaning crew was just leaving and cast them strange glances as they past.

"Sorry about the sheets," Greg said. "She's a filthy little bitch."

The cleaning ladies practically ran down the hall to get away from them.

"Good one," Shells said, and Maddie smiled in agreement.

"I guess I'm going to have to leave them a tip," Sam said, slightly embarrassed.

"I got a tip for ya, right here," Shells said with her best New Jersey, Italian accent.

"Shut up, Shells," Sam said.

* * *

In near complete darkness, Sam sat with her legs crossed, only the LED on the audio recorder providing any light. The video recorders were tucked away, useless in the darkness without the infrared illuminators.

"Can you give us a sign of your presence?" Sam asked the darkness around her, knowing full well that there were spirits in this hotel; even if they had thus far remained illusive, except times when Sam wasn't prepared to capture evidence of their presence.

"We just want to understand who you are and what you are doing here. Speak into this device I'm holding and we should be able to hear you, but please speak loudly." Silence greeted her requests, and only the occasional creak of the Inn broke the silence.

"I know you're here. Please do something to let us know you are here. Move something. Make a noise. Anything."

For a moment, there was no response, but then Sam heard a low popping sound followed by what sounded like a hiss.

"Was that you?" Sam asked. "Did you guys hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything," Shells said.

"I heard something," Greg said. "It sounded like-oh, damn! Aw, man. What the hell is that?"

Shells giggled.

"Oh, man," Greg said. "It smells like a falafel crawled up your ass and died!"

"Falafel doesn't crawl," Shells said.

"Well something sure as hell did."

"C'mon," Sam said. "If you make a noise, you have to tag it; otherwise you're just corrupting the audio."

"Oh she's corrupting more than that," Greg said. "We've now got a serious air quality issue in this joint."

"This is Maddie's first investigation, and I don't want her to think this is all just a joke. Sorry, Maddie. This really is serious business; it's just that sometimes the rest of the crew has a hard time keeping their immaturity in check."

"I understand," Maddie said. "Though I think it might not be a bad idea to open a window. It really does smell like someone ate a dog with gas."

"Seriously, y'all are gonna hurt my feelings," Shells said. "It ain't all that bad. Oh, wait, damn; open a window, y'all, that's pretty foul."

"OK. We can air the room out, but then it's back to serious investigation," Sam said. "There really is something going on here, and I want to find out what it is. I saw an apparition in this very room, and that's just not something that happens every day."

"You were drunk," Shells said.

"Maybe we should have a few drinks," Maddie said.

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," Sam said.

"Sorry," Maddie said. "I was just thinking maybe we should recreate the situation."

"I'm not so sure that's such a good idea," Shells said. "Even if Greg has had his wheaties today, I'm not so sure I can listen to the O'Greg song again all night."

Greg didn't say anything, but a moment later Shells said, "Ow. Hey. Watch that!" And then she started giggling uncontrollably.

Sam flipped on the lights and saw Greg tickling Shells. Maddie shaded her eyes, "A little warning would've been nice."

"Sorry," Sam said as she opened the window and set the thermostat to high fan. A glance at the clock showed that it was approaching 1am. "What time was last call at the bar?"

"One," Shells said.

"Alright," Sam said. "We haven't found anything the old fashioned way, so maybe we should see if this apparition only appears to those who are slightly inebriated."

"You have to admit," Shells said, "that story would be a lot more fun to tell, and Mikey'll make a fortune at the bar."

"You know he really doesn't like to be called that, right?" Maddie asked.

"Yeah, I know," Shells said. "That's why I do it. It keeps him off balance. He's easier to manipulate that way. Don't you know anything about men?"

"A thing or two," Maddie said. "But I see your point. If you are mean to them most of the time, it makes them giddy whenever you're nice to them."

"You _ladies_ realize I'm sitting here, right?" Greg asked.

"No worries," Shells said. "Knowing won't help you. It works anyway. If Maddie were to show you her goodies right now, you'd still start panting like a lap dog."

Maddie just nodded knowingly.

"Prove it," Greg said.

Obliging, Maddie lifted her shirt, and Greg's eyes opened wide.

"Told you," Shells said.

Greg just smiled. "Think what you will. I may have lost that argument, but I'm pretty sure I still won."

Shells ignored him. "If we're gonna get a good buzz on, then we'd better get to the bar. And try not to make any sudden turns there, O'Greg, you're liable to take out the good china."

"Yeah," Maddie said. "And if that thing lasts more than four hours, call a doctor."

"If that thing lasts more than four hours," Sam said. "Call _me_ a doctor."

Only a few intrepid souls still sat at the bar, and the bartender saw them coming. "Only fifteen minutes until last call," he said.

"In that case," Shells said. "Make it a quadruple. I'm hunting a ghost that only appears to drunk people, and I'm aiming to catch that sucker."

"It doesn't look like a pink elephant does it?" a man at the bar asked. "I'm pretty sure I've seen that one."

"No," Sam said. "This one is more tall, dark, and gruesome."

"I'll stick with the pink elephants," the man said, though he did buy the next round.

"And I'm pretty sure this one can only be seen when laying down and panting," Shells added.

"That doesn't sound quite as bad," the man admitted.

"Here's to voyeur apparitions that like drunk people!" Maddie said. "Far be it from us to disappoint."

"Hmm. Perhaps you and I should investigate from my room," Shells said as she slid a little closer to Maddie.

"Hmm. Perhaps we should."

"Aw, yeah. That's right," Shells said, doing a little dance and sliding even closer to Maddie. "Maybe I'll have to get my O'Shells on."

Sam didn't say anything, though she was amazed by exactly how much alcohol the group was able to put away before last call; they had ordered more than most would drink in a night. If this ghost did require a blood alcohol level of 1.0, they were sure to meet the requirement.

* * *

"So did the ghost perv make an appearance last night?" Shells asked when the group gathered near the reception desk in the late morning.

"No," Sam said, wishing her shades were darker as the bright sunlight streamed through nearby windows.

"He must've been watching quietly," Shells said.

"Hey," Greg said. "If I were stuck here as a ghost, I can think of worse ways to spend my time."

"I'm surprised you could sleep at all up there," Michael said from behind the reception desk. "From all the noise complaints I got from the second floor, and people saying it sounded like the ceiling was going to cave in, I thought y'all were having to wrestle the ghosts during your _investigation_ last night."

"Don't look at me. I'm smooth like creamery butter," Shells said. "That's right; once you've had butta you don't want no otha! You might want to check with the hammer over there; I'm pretty sure he was testing the build quality of your headboards last night."

"They are indeed of fine quality," Greg said.

"Well. I'm glad we have that mystery cleared up," Michael said, trying to keep from smiling, but Sam could see the mirth in his eyes.

"OK, Mikey. We need a different option for food today. I don't think fatback and livermush are going to do the trick this time. We need some heavy-duty hangover cure. What do you suggest?"

"Barbecue."

"You mean like barbecue chicken?" Shells asked. Michael just looked back with one eyebrow raised. "Or maybe you mean like Sloppy Joes, like barbecue beef or something? Burgers on the grill? What you talkin' 'bout, Willis? You know I'm a strict vegan, right?"

"Strict might not be the term I would use," Greg said under his breath. Sam and Maddie both snickered but Shells pretended not to hear them.

"Just go back into Chimney Rock and look for a place called Duncan's. If you're looking for a vegetarian option, maybe you could try the hushpuppies."

"Hushpuppies, eh?" Shells said. "Sounds like they're made of meat and the tears of little kids. That ain't cool. Do they have a salad bar?"

"I think so," Michael said.

"Alright," Shells said. "Y'all can get some hot dogs off the barbecue and I'll get some of those non-vegan sounding hushpuppies. Let's go."

Michael shook his head but didn't say anything else.

After piling into Sam's car, the group made their way into Chimney Rock. Looking up, Sam recalled their flight from the park and reconsidered the wisdom of coming in her car. As they passed Arrowheads, she had to wonder again about the man who worked there. She assumed he was the owner, but she really had no evidence to back up her hunch. Too many of the things going on here could not be corroborated, and there was no real evidence that anything unusual was going on. Her training as a cop told her that she had nothing, but there was a feeling in her gut that wouldn't be denied. And though a lot of cops acted on feelings in their guts, it was a practice that was often frowned upon and rarely did anyone admit to it. For Sam, too much had changed in her life to rely on her old training, but it felt strange to keep acting on feelings alone. It was like walking in the dark and somehow knowing she was about to stub her toe. It wasn't just the hangover that left a sour feeling in her stomach.

An eclectic collection of tourists crowded the narrow valley floor that was lined with shops, cafes and restaurants. Bikers walked alongside yuppies and rednecks, and Sam thought this might be one of the strangest places she'd ever visited. It was a friendly place, no doubt, but its identity seemed to shift and change like the fluffy clouds that hung overhead. Like some strange cross between a beach town, ski resort, and Sturgis, Chimney Rock and Lake Lure were destinations like nowhere else Sam had ever been. The place was really starting to grow on her. The thought of returning to the flatlands of New Jersey was sounding less and less appealing, despite the fact that she would kill for a good cheesesteak, calzone, or sausage sandwich—things she had yet to find. The thoughts of food made her stomach growl.

"Easy girl," Shells said. "We'll get you some food right quick. Maybe I'll even let you have some of my silenced canines. I wonder how they shut 'em up?"

Duncan's turned out to be an earthy sort of joint that was just Sam's kind of place. With firewood piled alongside the building and wood smoke pouring from a chimney, it smelled better than it looked and seemed not to think too much of itself.

"Can I get y'all some sweet tea and hushpuppies?"

"Sounds good," Shells said. "Say, how do you shut them puppies up, anyway?" The waitress cast her a puzzled glance, and Shells waved her off. "Never mind," she said. "Forget I asked."

Sam flipped through the menu and quickly honed in on shredded pork with red sauce. Unsure what other kind of sauce there could be, she put down the menu; her decision already made.

When the waitress returned, she brought oversized glasses filled with the high-octane stuff the southerners called sweet tea. Sam had to admit that the stuff did have a way of jumpstarting the day.

"What'll y'all have?"

"What do you recommend?" Sam asked.

"Barbecue, ribs, and chicken are all good. And the cole slaw."

"How about bringing us a some of each of those and we can all share?"

The rest nodded in agreement.

"Y'all oughta go sit out back," the waitress said. "I'll bring your food out in a few minutes."

"I have a rule in life," Greg said. "Whenever a waitress tells me I ought to do something. I do it."

"Maybe she should tell you to leave a big fat tip," Shells said. Greg ignored her and moved toward the back door. The scene that waited outside proved that Greg and the waitress were right. Towering walls of granite soared toward the heights of Chimney Rock, and at their base was a murmuring river filled with giant stones the size of elephants. On many of these stones were girls in bikinis and shirtless young men trying to get the attention of the aforementioned young women. The dark water swirled around the stones forming eddies and waves that sparkled in the noontime light. Birds sang from the trees, and it seemed that nothing could possibly be wrong in the world. The scene was so idyllic that Sam wondered why anyone would ever leave such a place.

"You know," Shells said after they settled around an aging but nonetheless comfortable picnic table. "They say water can be a source for paranormal activity, and this place has an abundance of it. Do you think that's part of why there seems to be many strange things going on around here?"

"It certainly doesn't hurt," Sam said. "And there does seem to be a lot of history here as well. Early Europeans and Native Americans alike seem to have recognized the natural beauty and resources of this place, and surely this place has been considered sacred for as long as humans have known about it. I can think of no better place to find paranormal activity. There certainly seems to be a lot of stories and legends about this area, and historians will tell you that even the most fantastic oral traditions usually have some grain of truth to them. With so much energy funneled into a single area and trapped here by the very rock itself, I have to admit that I can almost feel the power of this place. It's like its calling to me and trying to tell me something, but I don't have a clue as to what it's trying to say."

"Me either," Shells said.

Sam's ruminations were cut short when the waitress arrived with plates piled high with food. The smell alone was enough to drive any other thoughts from her mind, and her stomach grumbled again. Sam found herself reaching for food before the plates ever hit the table. She probably would have been embarrassed if she had been the only one, but the others couldn't seem to wait either. By the look on the waitresses face, she feared she might lose an appendage.

"Y'all like the view?" she asked.

The answers she received were grunts and mumbles of approval from the people who were already stuffing their faces.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said. "Can I get y'all anything else?"

"S'more mapkins," Shells said, her mouth full. The waitress interpreted it properly and returned moments later with more napkins and a pitcher of sweet tea to refill their glasses. The thumping of a helicopter cut through the stillness and disturbed the otherwise pristine day; it also reminded Sam that she could not be fooled by the beauty of this place, and she could not let the serenity of it lull her into a false sense of security. Strange things were afoot, and she needed to find out what they were; partly for Michael, but mostly for herself.

For much of her life she had been rooted in the down to earth absolutes of life. Her job had been to deal in facts and that which could be proven; but all that had changed the day she saw the spirit of that little girl who'd just lost her life. From that moment on, she'd had to accept that there were things in life that she could not prove. In truth, she hadn't accepted it. She'd fought that realization with every fiber of her being, but more and more life proved to her that there was more than met the eye. There were things the scientists didn't know; things the doctors and the priests didn't know; things the police and the military didn't know. Though, given the current circumstances, she wondered just how much the military actually did know. Just how many of the conspiracy theories and stories of cover-ups she had once considered fairy tales actually contained some grain of truth? Were they truly any different from the oral traditions the historians talked about?

"You OK?" Shells asked after a long silence. The others had been quiet while consuming large amounts of food, but Sam realized that she had just been sitting there, lost in her thoughts. The food she had piled onto her plate was getting cold.

"I'm OK," she said. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Maddie just nodded, a look of understanding on her face.

"What's good?" Sam asked, trying to decide where to start, but one look at the plates should have answered that question; everything.

"Michelle seems to be enjoying the vegan spare ribs," Greg said with a grin. "What kind of tree do those things grow on anyway?"

"Shut up, Greg," Shells said, while licking her fingers with a most guilty look on her face. "It's just wrong that those things taste that friggen' good. And how the hell was I supposed to sit here and eat coleslaw and hushpuppies while y'all stuff your faces on ribs and chicken? It ain't even fair I tell you. If God didn't want us to eat the fuzzies, why'd he have to make 'em taste so damn good?"

"If God didn't want us to eat the animals," Greg said, "he wouldn't have made them out of meat."

"Shut up, Greg. You're an asshole."

"Well, you know what they say about assholes don't ya?"

"No. What?"

"Everyone needs at least one."

"Yeah. That may be true and all, but I'm betting if I sewed your mouth shut, I could prove that you're not the one I need."

Chapter 14

As Sam made the right-hand turn into the parking lot at the Lake Lure Inn, she was greeted with an odd sight. To the left of the main building stood what might have once been a carriage house but now looked more like an oversized garage. With his head poking out of the side door of this building was Michael, and he was waving at her to come to him. His manner conveyed a sense of urgency and secrecy, and Sam drove toward the garage with increasing anxiety; this was definitely not what she had been expecting. When she was within ten feet of one of the larger garage doors, Michael raised the door and waved her inside.

"What the hell is going on?" Shells asked before they were even inside.

"Beats me," Sam said. "But I'm betting we're about to find out."

As soon as the back bumper of Sam's Camaro cleared the threshold, Michael pulled the door down. To Sam's surprise, they were not alone in the garage. Toward the back wall waited a group of people, some of whom Sam recognized; including the Woods Woman Psychic, the strawberry blonde screamer, and a few other faces she'd encountered in their travels around the area.

"What's this all about?" Sam asked as she stepped from her car. Michael just waved her to the back of the garage where the rest waited.

"I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting," Michael said, "but now that most of you are here, there are some things I need to tell you.

"This had better be good, Mikey," Shells said. "You're starting to freak me out." A number of others gathered there nodded in agreement but no one else chose to speak.

"That's fair," Michael said. "But you're going to have to bear with me. There's a lot going on here, and this will not be easily explained. I'll start by asking how many of you here feel that you've been drawn to the lake in recent days?"

Many of those assembled raised their hands, and Sam was surprised to see Greg raise his hand, though Maddie came as no shock at all. Shells didn't raise her hand and looked extremely confused.

"Now, how many of you consider yourselves to be psychic?"

A smaller group raised their hands this time. Sam and Greg both kept their hands down, and Michael laughed.

"For those of you who raised your hands the first time and not the second, I hate to break it to you, but you've just been outed. Whether you know it or not, or whether you choose to believe it or not, chances are that you have some psychic abilities."

Mumbles rolled through the crowd and Greg looked at Sam. She just shrugged, uncertain what to believe.

"I'm sure you have all noticed the helicopters flying in and out of the valley-"

"I've only seen one helicopter," Shells interrupted.

"There have been more," Michael said, "but you were only supposed to see one of them; so it's not surprising that you haven't seen the others. I'm betting at least one of your companions, on the other hand," he said with a look at Sam, "have seen at least one more. Am I correct?"

Sam nodded silently, and Shells' jaw dropped open, an accusatory look on her face.

"The truth is that there is no forest fire. The helicopter that most of you have seen is being used for surveillance and the fire is but a ruse. All of us are being watched."

"OK, now you're really freaking me out," Shells said. "Spill it, Mikey. What the hell is going on here?"

"I can't be certain, but I'll tell you what I know and what I think is going on. First, let me ask how many of you have noticed the excessive number of military and police personnel in the area?"

About half of those assembled raised their hands.

"It's not by accident or coincidence," Michael continued, "that much I can guarantee you. Something is going to happen here, but I don't know what. I think all the military types are here to cover up whatever it is. Mark my words; they are going to evacuate Lake Lure and soon."

Again his words caused a murmur to rise from those assembled.

"If you want to see what they are trying to hide, you are going to need my help. Before I tell you any more, is there anyone here who does not want to know? Is there anyone here who wants to leave now or when the evacuation order comes?"

Silence hung in the garage, and no one raised their hands at first; but then the strawberry blonde stepped forward and raised a trembling hand. It took her a moment to find her voice.

"I'm scared," she said finally. "I did feel like I was drawn here, but I don't know if I want to stay."

"Don't worry, baby," Shells said, "I got your back."

The young woman flushed deep crimson and didn't immediately speak. After a few minutes and some reassurances from those around her she said, "I don't know if I could live with myself if I didn't stay to see what drew me here. Thank you all for your support. I'm still scared, but with all of you willing to help keep me safe, I suppose I could stay."

"This could be dangerous," Michael said, and the young woman looked as if she might reconsider. "But I don't think the military types are here to keep us from seeing what is to come; I think their purposes are quite different."

"What do you think is going to happen," Shells asked, and the rest seemed grateful that she asked the question that waited on their own tongues.

"I honestly don't know," Michael said, and he pushed on despite Shell's exasperated sigh. "Most believe Lake Lure was built to create a place where people with breathing disorders could come to breathe the fresh mountain air and to create a resort town; but I think it was created for a very different reason. I think it was created to hide something; something so important and powerful that it could affect the course of human history. There are many things around here that are not what they seem, and I think there is more truth to local legends than anyone would ever admit. I've talked to people who worked at Chimney Rock Park, and they have told me stories about a network of tunnels that run through the mountains themselves, and these are far more elaborate than what the moonshiners could ever have created. I've climbed Rumbling Bald and have been to the place where cold air always rushes from a mighty gash in the stone. I've seen the Brown Mountain lights. No one could convince me that these things are not real, especially since I am privy to some of the secrets of the Lake Lure Inn; one of which I will share with you now."

This statement silenced everyone in the garage, and even Shells waited in tense anticipation without saying a word. Michael walked to the back of the building and pulled an old workbench away from the wall; it groaned and made a grinding noise as it moved. The wall behind where it had stood was dirty and covered in cobwebs and the grime of many years. At a place where two boards came together, there was a small gap that was wider at the bottom, as if part of the wood had been broken away ages before. Michael slid his fingers into the gap, and Sam had visions of something waiting in the darkness to bite his fingers. It was a silly thing to imagine, but she couldn't help herself. She'd always had a fear of old, dark places.

With a couple yanks, Michael managed to pull the panel away from the wall, and unlike any secret passage she'd ever seen in the movies, the panel opened in a clumsy fashion that spoke of shoddy, hurried workmanship. The darkness that waited beyond could have held anything, and Sam's imagination was already in overdrive.

"I don't think I want to go in there," Shells said in a whisper. "Mikey seems like a nice guy and all, but that looks like the place where you hide the bodies, don't you think?"

Sam didn't answer.

"There is a tunnel that runs between this room and the basement of the Inn," Michael said. "It hasn't been used much in recent history, but it was used during World War II when there were soldiers stationed here. Most say that men were sent here to recover from their wounds, but I think the military was here for an entirely different reason. How many of you know that Hitler was extremely interested in the occult and had entire divisions dedicated to finding ancient artifacts of power as well as locations of power?"

A few people raised their hands without a great deal of enthusiasm. Sam wondered if Michael knew how much he was scaring these people, but the man continued as if he hadn't noticed.

"There are many things that indicate this is a place of power; some more credible than others. There are lay lines that intersect here, strange magnetic fields that have been measured here, precious metals and gemstones that have been mined here for many generations. Some of those gemstones are found nowhere else in the world. I think the men stationed here during World War II were here to make sure the Third Reich never got their hands on the secrets this place so successfully hides. There is perhaps alien technology hidden within Rumbling Bald, and perhaps even vessels that have brought extraterrestrials here from distant planets."

Shells made a skeptical sound, and Sam couldn't help but think that Michael may have gone a bit overboard.

"You may think I'm crazy," Michael said, obviously sensing the disbelief in the room, "but I'm not asking you to believe me now. In the next few days, you will come to know the truth. For now, though, I am asking you all to follow me through this tunnel. It took hours to sneak all of you in here, and it would be far easier to have you gradually disperse from the Inn itself, rather than raise suspicions of anyone that might be watching. This will also allow you to know the way, should you need to escape the Inn without being seen."

Shells moved to where the strawberry blonde was standing and looking less and less confident about her decision to stay. Sam wasn't certain Shells was making her feel any better. Whenever the girl looked at Shells, she turned a deeper shade of red.

"For those of you who wish to stay, all I ask is that you work with me to get your vehicles into the garage after dark. It would be better if we don't have a full parking lot after the evacuation."

"If there is an evacuation," Shells said, her skepticism seeming to reach new heights.

Michael heard her and just shrugged. "If there is no evacuation, then what have you lost?" he asked. "You will have just humored a crazy old man for a period of time, and I will offer my most sincere apologies for startling you if that turns out to be the case. Fair enough?"

Sam couldn't argue with that. If he turned out to be right, then it would be better to be prepared. She had no intention of leaving; she was far too close to getting some real answers, and nothing was more important at this point in her life.

"I would be most grateful if you all would follow me," Michael said, "and please, no matter what happens, keep the existence of these tunnels a secret. I don't want any more people knowing about them than is absolutely necessary."

Maddie walked up beside Sam and took her hand, giving it a soft squeeze for reassurance. The two of them walked into the tunnel together, though Maddie had to squeeze in first, since the opening in the doorway was not all that wide. Once Sam was inside, the smell of damp and moldy soil became almost overwhelming. It reminded her of the smell in her grandfather's root cellar, and old memories flooded her consciousness. Above her ran a string of old electrical wire, the kind wrapped in a cloth mesh rather than corrugated metal, and at irregular intervals metal mesh baskets hung, protecting aging light bulbs inside what looked like mason jars that were threaded into aging fixtures. The whole thing conjured images of an old mine.

"Damn, it smells like butt and ass in here," came Shells' voice from behind, and Sam couldn't help but smile. Shells was about as eloquent as a sledgehammer. "I swear, if we run into the skeleton of one of Mikey's victims down here, I'm gonna get all Kung Fu on somebody. Don't make me drain the blood out of anybody. These hands are registered."

Sam turned to see Shells doing her best ninja pose, and she shook her head.

"Quiet, Michelle," Greg said a moment later. "You're scaring people." The sarcasm was heavy on his words, but Shells just kept walking with her hands curled into fight poses.

More people packed into the tunnel, and Sam soon began to feel the walls closing in around her. She was not normally claustrophobic, but it felt as if all the air was being used up and the temperature was rising. With her head ducked, trying to keep from hitting any of the dangling lights, Sam did her best to move quickly through the tunnel, which was longer than it initially appeared or she would have guessed. When she finally stepped into the massive cellar that waited, it seemed like a palace compared to the cramped and crudely cut tunnel. This part of the Inn showed more age than anything else she had seen. Massive oak racks held wooden casks that looked like relics from a previous age.

"Is there anything in those?" Sam couldn't help asking.

"Some of them still have whiskey in them," Michael said. "But most of them have long since been emptied."

"Nice thing to have for a rainy day," Sam said.

"I think they are calling for rain," Maddie said, eyeing the casks with an envious eye. "Maybe we should tap one of those for good measure."

"I'll tell you what," Michael said with a crooked smile. "If I'm right about what's coming, then we'll drain one of those before this is all over. Deal?"

"I'm going to hold you to that," Shells said, having only just emerged from the tunnel.

Sam looked back to see that this end of the tunnel was much better concealed and the entranceway constructed with greater care. What looked like an immovable wine rack, filled with dusty bottles stood at a forty-five degree angle to the rest of the racks that lined one wall. The wine collection at this Inn appeared to be massive and aging nicely. Along another wall were more modern stores of metal kegs and bottles of liquor. The floor was made of massive cobbled stones that had been polished by ages of staff members walking over them, all the edges made rounded and smooth over time. The mighty beams that supported the ceiling were held by what looked like entire tree trunks, which had also been polished to a smooth but natural surface over time. Sam ran her hands over the old trees and could still feel the life in them, as if they were still growing, yet she knew they had been cut down close to a hundred years before.

Michael was ushering small groups of people up a massive and heavily reinforced staircase, making sure not to send everyone up at once. Sam, Maddie, Shells, and Greg stood to one side, not yet ready to leave this place. For some reason Sam felt like she was more likely to get answers here in the cellar than upstairs in the light of day. In between sending folks up the stairs, Michael pointed to a cardboard box sitting off to one side. "This came for you today. I hope you don't mind, but I took a peak. Good job. I wasn't sure you were going to be able to get any night vision stuff in here with as closely as the thicknecks are watching this place."

"I didn't trust any of the delivery companies this time," Shells said. "So I found a guy in Asheville who said he would deliver them himself. He thought I was a nutcase for asking him to hide them in his van when he brought them, but it looks like he followed my instructions nonetheless. I suppose the extra hundred bucks I paid humored him."

Sam opened the box and saw a few things she recognized along with a few things she didn't. "What the hell are those?"

"Military surplus night vision goggles that can record everything they see," Shells said. "My guy wasn't sure he could come up with the IR illuminators, but it looks like he managed to scrounge up both. The illuminators will work with our existing gear, and the goggles were just too cool to pass up. I call dibs on that shit."

"You're going to look like an idiot wearing those things," Greg said, and Maddie chuckled.

"Shut up, Gregory Prick."

"So I suppose there isn't much sense in us investigating, since it would appear that wasn't really why you got us down here?" Sam asked Michael.

"You might as well," Michael replied. "I really do think there's something haunting this Inn."

"I won't argue that," Sam said.

"And it wouldn't hurt for ya'll to get comfortable with your new equipment. Besides, no matter what happens, footage of a ghost in the Inn can only be good for business."

"I'm on it," Shells said as she hauled the box up the stairs.

Sam followed Shells and they emerged into a large professional kitchen. The kitchen staff cast them curious glances, but at the sight of Michael, they all got back to the tasks at hand. Through a set of double doors, they emerged into the main dining room.

"How about a little help," Shells said to Greg. "This shit is heavier than it looks, and maybe the girls will be impressed if you flex those muscles of yours, big boy."

Greg took the box from her and walked toward the main stairs that led back to their rooms.

"Oh, yeah," Shells said. "Work it. Work it. That's right. Looking juicy."

"Shut up, Michelle."

* * *

"This is bullshit," Shells said. "Nothing's happening."

"Just be quiet and still, Shells," Sam said. "We need to just let things happen."

"I'm starting to think Mikey has lost his marbles, and there are no ghosts in this Inn; nothing is going to happen here, and I'm hungry. Does that pizza joint deliver? Do we have any beer?"

"Are you sure you all have done this before?" Maddie asked with a slight grin that looked somewhat sadistic through the night vision goggles Sam was wearing. Despite the fact that Shells had said she would wear them, it hadn't taken long before she declared them to be 'uncomfortable as shit' and had shoved them into Sam's lap. After a bit of time, Sam couldn't argue with her assessment, but she persevered for the sake of learning how the things worked. There were dials and buttons that she had no idea exactly what they did, though they did change the digital readout that was overlaid on the greenish images she saw through the goggles.

"I have some crackers," Maddie said.

"That's some sad ass bullshit when you want pizza and someone offers you crackers. Damn girlfriend, what's up with that? Next time you ask me for a glass of water, I'll offer you some condensation from the side of my beer bottle. Seriously, y'all, we need to get some food. Anyone up for a trip to the pizza joint?"

"Since when do you use the word y'all?" Greg asked.

"I kind of like it," Shells said. "I'm thinking of becoming a southern bell. What do y'all think?"

"God help us all," Sam said.

The night had been wholly uneventful, but Sam knew that there were forces at work here that were just waiting to be discovered and documented if only Shells would shut her trap.

"Maybe you should go get us some food before places start to close for the night; and then after you've stuffed your face, we can investigate like we mean it."

"I'm cool with that," Shells said. "Not that I expect we'll find anything. Mikey has gone all fruit loops on us, and I'm starting to think this is all just a delusion. I mean seriously, y'all."

"We'll know soon enough," Sam said. "And if it turns out to be nothing, we'll at least have gotten a good vacation out of the deal."

"I hear ya," Shells said. "You wanna come Maddie? I need some arm candy."

Sam saw Maddie smile through the night vision goggles, and even in that pale green light, Maddie looked good. As she stood, she rubbed up against Shells, who leaned into her and Sam caught her smelling Maddie's hair.

"Damn, y'all," Shells said. "We might be a while. Don't wait up or nothin'."

"Behave," Sam said. "And be sure to bring something back for us, ya hear?"

Shells didn't acknowledge that last statement, and instead put her arm around Maddie, with her hand a little lower than was perhaps proper. Maddie jumped when Shells goosed her, and they closed the door behind them.

"That girl is seriously messed up," Greg said, and Sam made no response. "It looks like we have a little time to ourselves. I had my wheaties today."

Sam cast him a sidelong glance that she wasn't certain he saw. "I came down here to investigate," she said. "If I don't make an effort, nothing is ever going to get done. Getting Shells out of here for a while is probably the best chance I've got of catching something; so just pipe down over there. I'm not here to document things that go 'hump' in the night. Got it?"

"I hear ya," Greg said. "I'll be good, and there's always later."

Trying to ignore her own arousal, Sam waited in the darkness for something to make itself known to her. So far it had only shown itself when she was drunk, or after certain strenuous activities, and Sam had to admit that Greg might be onto something. Perhaps the best thing to do was to set up the cameras and let nature take its course. Still she hadn't come here to make night vision porn, and the thought of Shells getting her hands on that footage was enough to quell any additional thoughts of on-camera antics. Instead, she concentrated on being still and tuning her senses to her surroundings. In the darkness, the lake continued to call to her, though its call was faint enough to make her wonder if it was her imagination. It was still relatively early, and the thought of sitting cross legged and waiting hours for 3:13 am to arrive made her eyelids feel heavy. She wondered if she would be able to make it that long. She had to. Something about that number was significant, and she couldn't risk sleeping through something important.

The sound of her stomach growling seemed especially loud in the stillness, and Greg chuckled. "Why did Shells have to mention pizza?"

"I have to admit," Greg said. "I can't argue with her this time. I'm hungry too. I wonder how long those two are going to be."

"There's just no telling," Sam said.

Chapter 15

The next morning yielded little more than empty pizza boxes and beer bottles; no evidence of the paranormal could be found. Even Greg's assertion that the ghosts must be attracted to the sound of mattress springs proved unfounded; though Sam did wake with a smile on her face. The frustrated group spent the morning hours reviewing audio and video footage to no avail, and the tedious work was doing nothing to raise the group's morale. Shells seemed as if she were on the verge of making some sort of smart remark when an odd sound reached the upper rooms of the Inn. It was tinny and harsh and completely undecipherable at first, and then Sam opened a window.

"...must evacuate before sundown," came the call of an in-car police address system. Sheriff vehicles drove slowly along highway 64 and the intent of their message was clear. Sam closed the window.

"You've got to be shitting me," Shells said. "I thought Mikey had lost his senses. Is this really happening?"

Greg didn't say anything but instead moved to stand alongside the window, looking out while trying to keep from being seen. "There's smoke."

Sam moved to his side and looked to where he pointed. "It doesn't look very convincing," she said. The column of black smoke that rose between the ridgelines was narrow and didn't seem all that menacing or in any way indicative of a raging forest fire. She slid the window open again, and the calls for evacuation were fading as they moved toward Chimney Rock. Sam put her face closer to the window and breathed in deeply. There was a smell on the air that didn't smell like any wood smoke she had ever encountered.

"Is it just me, or does that smell like a tire fire?" Greg asked.

"Leave it to a redneck like you to recognize the smell of burning tires from miles away, Greg," Shells said. He ignored her.

"It does smell like tires," Sam agreed. "I'm with Shells, though. I really didn't think Michael knew what he was talking about with this evacuation. What in the world is going on around here?"

Her question went unanswered. Moments later, all of them jumped when there came a knock at the door. Sam moved with tense anticipation to open the door, even though she doubted anyone had come to chase them off this soon.

Michael stood in the hallway with a victorious look on his face, and there was more than a hint of gloating in his voice when he addressed them, "I told you so."

"Wow, did you come up with that all on your own, Mikey? You have the heart of a poet, my friend; an arrogant and crow-like poet."

Michael's smile didn't fade. "We need to get your equipment stowed in the tunnel as soon as we can. Whatever is coming, it's big and I want to be able to document it. Can I count on you?"

"We've got your back, Mikey. Just give us a minute to get our shit together."

"OK. When you are ready, come down one at a time and make sure that none of the military types are casing the joint when you come through the lobby. If you see anything suspicious, just come back up here, hide the equipment and wait for me to come get you. Got it?"

"Rodger that, Scotty," Shells said. "We'll sneak through to the transporter unless there are Klingons about." Seeing Michaels disapproving look she added, "Dammit, Jim, I'm a ninja not a miracle worker!"

Michael glared at her for a moment. "Just make your way through the kitchens to the cellar if all is clear."

He left without saying any more, and Shells grinned at Sam. "I really love yanking his chain," she said.

"We noticed," Sam said. "Who wants to go first?"

Shells got into her Ninja stance and started doing her best impression of the theme to mission impossible as she gathered what gear she could carry without looking too suspicious. "If I don't make it, give this to the strawberry blonde and tell her I expect her to remain chaste until we can be together again!" She handed Sam a hastily scribbled note.

Maddie just shook her head and closed the door behind Shells. "I suppose we'll know if she doesn't make it. I expect she'll make a bloody racket if anyone tries to interfere with her."

"Of that you can be certain," Greg said in agreement.

Despite the fact that Sam didn't really expect any trouble, waiting in silence proved excruciating, and she kept looking over at the clock, wondering how long they should wait before sending anyone else down.

It was Greg who finally broke the silence. "I'm going down. I can't take this shit any more."

Sam and Maddie remained silent, but Sam couldn't argue with him. Part of her wanted to be the next to go, if for no other reason than to avoid having to wait in silence while wondering what was going on downstairs. It seemed nothing was more irritating than not knowing, and the suspense grew with each passing moment. Sam felt as if she would have a heart attack when the door to her room suddenly flew open and Greg came backing in. A question was forming on her lips when he turned and held a finger over his. Sam sat in silent suspense while Greg listened intently to the door. After a few tense moments, he turned back to her and Maddie.

"There are some pretty formidable looking fellows hanging around in the lobby down there, and Michael doesn't look happy at all. I think we should stay up here for a while and see if he comes to get us."

"Do you think Shells made it through without them seeing her?" Sam asked, unable to take it any longer.

"No real way to know, but I assume so," Greg said. "Michael did good and wouldn't look my way, so I have no indication from him; but that is for the best, otherwise those grunts would've seen me for sure. I just froze and did my best to get back up here without being seen."

"So now what do we do?" Sam asked.

"I guess we do what Michael asked us to do," Greg said with a hint of annoyance. "And stay away from the windows. We don't need anyone seeing us up here and coming to drive us out."

As if drawn by his words, Sam couldn't help but seek a few peeks out of the window. Each one seemed to annoy Greg even further, but Sam assured him that no one could see her, and she truly was gathering useful information. Highway 64 was now bumper-to-bumper traffic. With only a limited number of roads leading out of the valley, it was going to take a while to get everyone out of the Lake Lure area. Sam wondered how much of the surrounding area was being evacuated, but there really wasn't any way for her to know from their current vantage point. Instead, she tried to find a local news station on the television. Eventually she stumbled upon WLOS TV out of Asheville, and the evacuation of Lake Lure was among the top stories. Travelers were being advised to avoid Highway 64, Highway 9, and a stretch of Interstate 40. Video footage of the same helicopter they had been watching for days as it took water from the lake was the only footage that was shown except for some footage of the traffic jam as shot from someone's cell phone.

The weather forecast was next, and it showed a high-pressure system with expected clear skies and not much in the way of wind, which supported Michael's conspiracy theory; if there were no winds to drive the fire, there was probably little risk of the fire spreading into the valley. And even if it did come this way, there was certainly an abundance of water that could be used to battle the flames.

Soon the news was followed by sitcoms, and Greg turned off the television. "I'm going to try again," he said.

"But Michael said for us to stay here if we saw any of the military types downstairs," Sam said.

Greg gave her an annoyed look. "I know what I'm doing. If I see any sign of them, I'll just come back up, like I did the last time. I know how to keep from being seen."

"Oh yeah," Maddie said. "You're about as inconspicuous as mud on a white floor."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Greg asked.

"I don't know," Maddie said. "It's something my mother used to say, and I've been waiting for a chance to use it. Now seemed as good a time as any."

"Seriously, Greg," Sam said. "It might just be better to wait. It only takes getting seen once to get all of us carted out of here, and then we may never get to find out what this is all about. I don't know about you, but that would kill me. I really need to know."

Greg seemed torn. "I'll tell you what. I'll go scope things out but I won't take any of the equipment with me. If I get caught, I'll tell them that I'm alone and I'll let them ship me out of here. Fair enough?"

"I still don't like it," Sam said.

"I don't like it either, but I can't take it any more. Just sitting up here waiting is killing me."

"OK," Sam said. "Do what you need to do, but try not to be seen."

The look Greg gave her made it clear that she was stating the obvious. "I'll be right back."

Maddie looked at Sam when the door closed, and the look on her face conveyed the same level of anxiety that Sam was feeling. This was important to all of them at this point; they had come too far to be denied the truth. Sam already knew how much the unknown gnawed at her, and she wasn't sure she would be able to keep her sanity if she had to leave now. It just wasn't in her nature to let things drop; it was one of the things that had made her a good cop, even if it wasn't always the healthiest thing for her. The other people on the force had often warned her that there were times she would have to accept the fact that she might never know what really happened, but Sam had always ignored them, always driven to find out the truth.

Part of what bothered her about the paranormal research was that no one seemed to have ever found any hard evidence that was convincing enough to remove all doubt. Everything she had ever seen could be interpreted multiple ways; it always left some room for the skeptics to dismiss it. That was part of the reason she was so determined to capture irrefutable evidence despite the fact that part of her knew it might be impossible. In this age of technology where there were so many sensors and devices that could capture evidence, there were equally as many ways to tamper with or fabricate evidence, which made her position all the more frustrating. In the end she decided that the only one she really had to prove anything to was herself; the rest could doubt all they wanted. She would know the truth, and that would have to be good enough.

Deep in her thoughts, her heart jumped once again when Greg returned looking no less calm than the last time.

"They're still down there," he said in a whisper. "There are two of them, and they look to be on high alert. There's no way I'm going to be able to slip past them, and they aren't letting Michael out of their sight. I think we might be on our own on this one."

After a couple minutes of contemplation, Sam said, "Just a minute. I have an idea."

"What's that?" Greg asked.

A moment later, Sam was rifling through her baggage and then she turned to Greg and Maddie with a wicked smile; in her hands were two string bikinis. "Maddie's not quite going to fit in either of these, but that will only work to our advantage."

Greg and Maddie returned her smile.

"Now that might just work," Greg said.

* * *

Somehow the string bikini seems even smaller when worn specifically to get the attention of a couple strangers. For Maddie the effect had to be even greater since Sam's bikini only covered a small portion of her ample bosom. Greg crouched in the shadows with a bag that held the rest of their equipment and a change of clothes for both of the girls. Neither girl wanted to imagine completing this adventure without something a bit more substantial to wear. The evenings could get a bit chilly after all.

The problems they faced became even more difficult when they reached the bottom of the stairs and only one of the grunts stood near Michael. The man saw them immediately, and Sam instantly recognized the communications unit looped over the man's ear. Fortunately, Sam and Maddie had used some forethought; both carried MP3 players and had earbuds in their ears; Maddie carried a bottle of sunscreen.

When Michael saw them, his expression was a mixture of relief and annoyance. Sam bobbed her head to an imagined beat, and Maddie swayed to a tune in her head. Michael waved to them and urged them to come to him. Sam made a show of stopping the music and bounced her way to where Michael and the other man stood. The other grunt had taken up a position not far from the kitchen doors—most inconvenient. With as vapid a grin as she could muster, Sam jiggled as much as she could. "Hi y'all!"

Though the grunt lowered his eyes for a quick glance, he quickly resumed his stoic stance and continued to cast his gaze over the rest of the lobby area, only occasionally stopping for quick glimpses of admiration at Sam and Maddie, who were doing everything they could to catch his attention.

"Did you ladies hear the evacuation order?"

"The what?" Sam asked with her best ditsy broad impression. She could tell that Maddie was having a hard time keeping a straight face, and she decided she better tone it down a bit, but then Maddie managed to drop her earbuds on the floor.

"Oops!" When she bent down to retrieve them, still dancing to the no longer playing music, none of the men could keep their eyes off of her. Even Sam felt her gaze being pulled in that direction; perhaps she should go easier on men in the future when their gazes wandered, there were times it was simply too much to resist.

"There is an evacuation order," Michael said, his face almost expressionless, though Sam could sense that his anxiety was increasing with each passing moment. Sam couldn't blame him, since she was starting to wonder how they were going to pull this off. They had assumed both men would still be near the reception desk, and they had no plan for distracting the second man who was keeping a keen eye on the exact doors Greg needed to sneak through.

"I don't want to leave," Sam said. "We were just headed to the beach."

"You're going to need to get to your car and get on the road," Michael said.

"Ut oh," Sam said with mock innocence. "I seem to have lost my keys. Would you like to help me find them?"

This moment proved to Sam that all men are men and no amount of training can change that. The grunt next to Michael couldn't help but stop and run his eyes over Sam.

"See?" Sam said. "No pockets!"

"If we're going to have to get on the road," Maddie said, "I'm going to need a drink. Maybe two. How far away do we have to go?"

"I don't know," Michael said. "Probably not too terribly far, but I know you won't be able to stay in the Lake Lure area. Everyone needs to be out of here by sundown. Including me."

"Oh, well in that case, we have plenty of time," Sam said with her most winning smile. Then she walked to the front doors and looked out, knowing what she would see. "Look at all the traffic out there! If we left now, we would just have to sit in traffic all day. We should wait until it gets dark and then leave."

Maddie had already made her way to the bar and had the bartender eating out of her hand. She leaned on the bar and shook her ass at the man watching the kitchen doors, or at least the man who _had_ been watching the kitchen doors. Still, it wasn't enough. There was no way Greg would be able to slip past without the man seeing. After she acquired a free drink from the bartender, since she, too, had no pockets, Maddie walked over to the other man. "I'm going to the beach, but I need someone to put sunscreen on my back. Would you help me?"

Sam almost felt sorry for the man, who struggled to find words. He looked over at his companion, who was obviously in charge, and after the other man shook his head severely, he hung his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I have to stay here."

"Ma'am? Did you really just call me ma'am?" Maddie asked, leaning forward and almost forcing her bikini into structural failure. The younger man's eyes looked as if they might leave his head.

"I'm sorry, m—I mean, uh, miss. I just. I mean. I'm not at liberty to leave my uh, to leave here at the moment."

"How strange," Maddie said. "If you don't like me, all you have to do is say so." She wore a hurt and pouting expression that clearly tore at the man's heart, if not other parts of him. "He doesn't like me." Maddie said to Sam from across the room, looking as if she might cry. The younger man looked to the older man with a pleading look in his eyes. The older man looked annoyed but compassionate. He glanced down at his watch and with his fingers gestured two then zero. The younger man offered a look of extreme gratitude before he turned back to Maddie.

"It would be my honor to assist you, miss, but I only have a limited amount of time."

"Oh, goodie!" Maddie said, clapping her hands and bouncing up and down, which clearly mesmerized the younger man. She grabbed has hands and dragged him toward the stairs. "If we only have twenty minutes, though, maybe we should skip the sunscreen and just go up to my room."

The younger man was speechless, and Sam thought his superior officer actually looked a little jealous. Sam knew it was a warning to Greg, who was waiting on the stairs. Worried he might need a little extra time to get back to Shells' room to hide, Sam tried to think of what she could do to create a distraction, but Maddie was two steps ahead of her. She dropped her MP3 player on the floor in front of her, and without warning stopped in front of the younger man, bending down to pick it up. This caught the younger man off his guard, and he walked into Maddie's waiting rear end. His hands landed on her waist, and Maddie gave out a little squeal, and without standing up, turned to look back at the younger man with a look of surprise and pleasure. "Oh, my," she said. "You're a big boy, aren't you? And such strong hands."

It was everything Sam could do to keep a straight face, and it seemed the younger man couldn't get up the stairs fast enough. Sam doubted he would need the whole twenty minutes. They discussed such a possibility before enacting their plan, and Sam was confident that Greg would have hidden in Shells' room while Maddie would take the young man to her room. This meant that Sam would be responsible for distracting the other man and giving Greg the all-clear signal. At the moment she was at a complete loss, but the way the older man was looking at her made it clear that he was willing to work with her, and that at least gave her hope. Maddie's comment about the twenty minutes seemed to have given the older man reason for suspicion, and Sam knew she would need to think fast. If this man suspected that they knew he and the younger man were posted here as guards, it could put him on even higher alert.

Before he could think it through any further, Sam stepped up to him, rubbed up against him and whispered in his ear, "I think my top is going to fall off. Could you please help me?"

This broke what concentration the man had left and he just looked at her with something of a blank expression.

"It'll only take a minute," she said as she took him by the hand and pulled him down the hall that led to the spa. Once in the shadows beyond, Sam reached behind her and pulled the string. "Oops," she said.

The man looked at her appreciatively, and his hands were equally appreciative. Sam let out a loud gasp of pleasure, and she thought she heard Greg make his way down the steps. He was supposed to be quiet, but the sound was traveling, so Sam turned it up just a bit. A moment later, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Could you tie me up?" she asked with mock innocence, and the man looked as if he might melt. He did as she asked, and let his hand drift lower and gave her ass a squeeze before they walked back to they lobby.

"Ooh," Sam said with a wicked smile. "Why thank you."

"The pleasure was all mine."

Not long after they got back to the reception desk, Maddie and the younger man returned. Maddie looked quite satisfied with herself, though the young man was red in the face.

"Twenty minutes might have been overkill," Maddie said, and the young man flushed even deeper. "Don't be ashamed sweetie, you were almost more than I could handle." Her words might as well have called him inadequate, and he returned to his post quite sheepishly. "Shall we get some time at the beach before we evacuate?"

"That sounds good to me," Sam said, and they walked out the front doors with all three men watching them go. Once outside, they turned to the right and quickly made their way over the hot blacktop to the garage, hoping no one else was watching all that closely. Given some of the catcalls that came from traffic, it seemed unlikely; but that was a risk they would simply have to take. Going to the side door, they quickly slipped inside and found Greg and Shells waiting for them.

"It took you long enough," Shells said.

"I had a little something to take care of," Maddie quipped, and Sam couldn't help but laugh.

Chapter 16

Huddled within the carriage house, Sam and the others watched as the steady stream of traffic continued to flow out of Lake Lure. She wondered how many others would stay behind, and just how much the evacuation order would be enforced. The fact that what looked like National Guard vehicles were gathering along the shoreline did not bode well for leniency.

The late afternoon sun cast orange rays through the valley and across the surface of the lake. Despite the chaos, it was among the most beautiful things Sam had ever seen. In those moments, she felt insignificant in the face of nature's majesty. The mountains seemed to look down on them with something akin to tolerant patience, as if knowing they would remain when the people had long since faded away. It was a strange realization, and it put Sam in a reflective mood. She had to ask herself what difference her life made in the grand scheme of things, and she found no answers.

When Michael emerged from the tunnel entrance, which remained exposed, he didn't look happy. "You all need to get back into the tunnel until after dark. When the time has come for you to emerge, I'll come get you."

"Aw, c'mon, Mikey," Shells said. "I don't get any cell signal down there. I can't even check my email."

"And believe me when I say that's a very good thing," Michael said, his mood still dour. "Cell phones can be used to track your location. Especially ones with GPS, like the one you have. You would be best served by turning that thing off."

"If I have to go back into that nightmare of a tunnel, the least you can do is let me play some games or jam to some tunes, dude."

"Suit yourself, but at least consider putting that thing in airplane mode. I wouldn't put it past someone to put up a dummy cell tower to find out exactly who ignores the evacuation order. Do you want to be on a list with homeland security for the rest of your life?"

"I'm pretty sure she's already on a few lists," Greg said.

"Whatever," Shells said. "If I turn off my phone, can we just hide out up here? It's seriously funkin' down there, man. That place is a good place for a stick up."

"Light a match," Michael said. "If you stay up here, I can almost guarantee they'll haul you out of here. After all we've done to get this far, I'd rather not see that happen."

"Some of it wasn't all that bad," Maddie said, and Michael raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

"Let's get back down there, then," Sam said, and no one in the group seemed enthused or in any real hurry to comply. "It'll be over soon enough. It's only a couple hours until dark."

"I'll close the door behind you and move the bench back in place," Michael said. "Let's get a move on. I don't want this tunnel discovered, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," Shells said, reluctantly going back into the tunnel. "I'm telling you man, something crawled up your garage's ass and died. Damn it stinks down here. For real, yo. Straight up."

* * *

By the time Michael returned, Sam found herself in agreement with Shells. Most times, extended exposure to foul smells would desensitize the olfactory nerves, but it was as if the ground released new foulness over time.

Shells cast a dark look at Greg, whose stomach had been rumbling for much of the time. "Seriously, dude. I have one word for you: Beano."

"It wasn't me," Greg said. "This hole in the ground just stinks, that's all."

"Uh huh," Shells said. "Whatever you say."

Michael appeared to be in a much better mood, and he even smiled at Shells' remarks.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" Shells asked.

"Can't you feel it?" Michael asked. "The time is almost here."

Despite all the distractions, Sam could feel something. The pulling sensation she had experienced in the past seemed to be growing stronger, and the more she concentrated on it, the more intense the pull became. Maddie met her eyes and wordlessly communicated her agreement. Sam wondered a moment at Maddie's ability to communicate with her without saying anything. The two hadn't known each other for long, yet there seemed to be a connection between them that defied explanation; just as many things about this situation did.

"It's just about dark," Michael said, "and the military types are busy getting into position. By my calculations, they've got just a few more hours before the big show begins."

"Calculations?" Sam asked.

"There are some things I haven't told you," Michael admitted.

"Now there's a shocker," Shells said. "Spill it, Mikey."

There was a long moment of silence, as Michael looked each of them in the eyes, as if trying to decide if he could really trust them. Then with a long sigh, he settled himself into a comfortable position and seemed to be talking to himself more than anything else.

"Years ago," he began, "I was a respected astrophysicist."

"Bullshit," Shells said, and everyone else cast angry glances her way. "Fine. Fine. The manager of the Lake Lure Inn is an astrophysicist. I guess I can buy that."

"My colleagues would only take their research so far, and whenever their findings pointed to the extraordinary—to things outside conventional wisdom—they were pressured to stifle those findings. The establishment did not want them to tarnish the reputation of the field, and much of what I found was considered too far fetched for the 'real scientists'." There was a note of bitterness in Michael's voice that Sam could relate with. She'd felt much the same when those in law enforcement had shunned her because of her paranormal research. It was as if people only wanted to learn things that did not take them outside of their comfort zone. No matter how much evidence she, or in this case Michael, could present, if it was too strange or outrageous, they would be cast aside and considered heretical.

"I kept most of my findings secret and only let others see the research that they would consider legitimate," Michael continued, his voice low and at times husky with emotion. "That is until I began to put all the pieces together. The conclusions I reached were too important to keep hidden. There was far too much at stake to keep it hidden any longer."

Michael trailed off and sat in quiet contemplation for a time, as if he had left the present and traveled to a painful past.

"What did you do?" Maddie asked in almost a whisper. There was a note of compassion in her voice, and that seemed to bring Michael back to the present.

"I bypassed my colleagues," he said after a few moments, and now his words were defiant. "I knew they would not listen to me, so I went to those who would have no choice but to at least look at my findings. I went to the governments of the world. This was not just a matter of national security; it was a matter of global security. It still is."

His words were filled with a mixture of rancor and conviction, but they were cut short by the sound of voices coming from above. It sounded as if someone was breaking into the carriage house. A panicked look came over Michael's face, as if he had just remembered some terrible mistake. Moving quickly, but as silently as he could, Michael scrambled to the old switch that controlled the lights and plunged them all into darkness.

* * *

The silent blackness seemed timeless, and the group had no way to gauge the passage of time save by their internal clocks. The lingering sounds of boots on the cobbled stone floor of the carriage house kept the group vigilant, and they knew silent darkness was their best defense. Deprived of sensory input, save for her sense of smell, Sam found her mind churning at a high rate. Michael's words had piqued her curiosity, but she dare not ask him to continue his tale. On top of that was the increasingly insistent pull of the lake. Though at times she had thought the urges were nothing more than a product of her imagination, this pull could not be denied; it was as physical and real as the wind, and about as easily defined. She could not capture it, or show it to her companions, yet it was still there.

Pale light poured in through the shoddy workmanship of the panel that concealed the entrance to the tunnel. It was that gap that Michael had so feared. As darkness had fallen, surely the lights in the tunnel would have been visible through that gap, and all their subterfuge would have been for naught. Despite the reality of this, Sam knew that her companions wished as strongly as she that they could turn the lights back on and make their way out of the tunnel.

Not long after she had that thought, there was a shuffling sound in the darkness. Sam thought she'd heard the carriage house door open and close at least an hour before, but no one had been willing to risk discovery, and they had remained still. Now though, the urge to go to the lake was almost irresistible, and Sam suspected the others were losing patience as well. She could not tell who it was that now blocked that tiny sliver of moonlight, but she knew someone was looking into the carriage house. When the moonlight suddenly grew brighter accompanied by the sound of the bench sliding over cobbled stone, Sam held her breath. Michael was pushing the door open from the inside.

In the bluish light she saw the faces of her companions blinking in the relative brightness. Michael climbed from the tunnel, and turned back and whispered, "It's clear. Come on out, but try to keep the noise down, they may still be nearby."

Shells wasted no time getting out of the tunnel; in fact, Sam was pretty sure she climbed over Greg before he could get out of her way. Her suspicions were confirmed when Greg said, "Damn, Shells, you're not getting any lighter, you know."

"Bite me, Greg. I couldn't stand it in there any more."

"Shhh." Michael said.

Sam offered her hand to Maddie and helped her stand, knowing just how cramped and sore her muscles must be from personal experience. There were more than a few grunts as they emerged into the pale light.

Nothing moved in the stillness of the carriage house or the parking lot beyond, but the landscape crawled with movement. Sam rubbed her eyes, certain they were playing tricks on her.

"Let's gather up the equipment," Michael whispered. "We need to get in position if we are going to capture any footage of the event."

The way he said 'the event' made Sam's skin crawl. He hadn't yet told them exactly what he expected to happen, but there was no doubt he expected it to be big—global security threat big. That thought alone was enough to make Sam's knees tremble, but her entire body thrummed with energy. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

"What time is it?" Maddie asked.

"Two forty-five AM," Michael said. "We only have about a half an hour to get into position."

"Three-thirteen," Sam said, goosebumps rising on her skin and the hair on her neck standing on end. Michael cast her a knowing glance but said no more.

"There is a place south of the beach where we can get a good view and still remain mostly hidden. I know the way. Just follow me and try not to fall behind. We don't have any time to waste. If we miss this, I'll never forgive myself."

Without another sound, Michael moved away, flitting from shadow to shadow, which made it even harder to follow him. She would have preferred he stay out in the light of the nearly full moon, but she knew he was trying to remain unseen. Much of the movement she had detected was the result of troops stationed around the lake; and they, too, were trying to remain unseen. What bothered her most was the movement that did not seem to be caused by anything natural. Fingers of blue light danced at the corner of her vision, and at one point she saw electric light, like the plasma of a neon sign, crawl from the edge of a kudzu leaf and leap into the open air before dissipating and disappearing.

"Did you see that?" Sam asked, despite knowing the need for silence.

"See what?" Shells asked.

"Never mind," Sam whispered under Michael's accusing glare.

"I saw it," Maddie whispered, and Sam wasn't sure she felt any better.

"Saw what?" Shells asked, making it clear she wouldn't shut up until someone explained.

"A bit of blue light jumped off of that leaf," Maddie said.

Shells looked dumbstruck, and her mouth dropped open. "Oh, great. Everyone is tripping except me. It's like college all over again."

"It's beginning," Michael said in an agitated whisper that silenced the rest of them and urged them for more speed.

Greg and Shells moved right behind Michael along a narrow footpath that wound through ancient pines. Much of the surrounding forest was choked with kudzu and the entire scene, bathed in moonlight, seemed like a dream. Sam slowed for a moment waiting for Maddie to catch up, and she noticed that it was not moonlight alone that illuminated the scenery; there was also light coming from the lake. In the area to which Sam and Maddie had been drawn, a blue light was radiating, dark shadows moving within the water, as if someone had submerged a spotlight and giant fish were swimming around it, only Sam didn't think it was a spotlight at all, or that there were fish that large in the lake. Once again, it made the hair on the back of her neck stand. She didn't think her senses could be any more heightened.

Maddie seemed to sense it as well, and the two of them had fallen behind. Sam was about to grab Maddie's hand and pull her into the shadows where she had last seen Greg and Shells, when she saw the Lake Lure Inn through a gap in the trees. With her senses on high alert, her eyes were drawn to what she knew had been the window to her room. There, surrounded by darkness, was a mass of even deeper black. Even from a distance, she recognized the shape of the apparition she'd seen that night, and once again it pointed to the lake; and once again, Sam felt drawn to the water. The urge was so strong that she almost turned aside from the path and leaped into the waiting waters, feeling as if she could swim to that light and all her questions would be answered. In the end it was Maddie who grabbed her arm and dragged her back into the shadows.

Fear crept into the pit of Sam's stomach, and she thought they had lost the trail; that the others had moved on without them, but they soon came upon a very annoyed Michael, who looked as if he wanted to wring their necks. "There is no time for sight seeing," he said, and they did their best to keep up with him.

Shells cast a lopsided grin at Sam and mouthed the words, "There is no time for sight seeing," while doing an exaggerated impression of Michael's ire, before rushing forward to catch up with the men. It almost made Sam laugh, and it temporarily lessened the tension. The lessening was short lived, and a shadow stepped out into the trail between her and Maddie. The figure in camouflage made a grab for Sam and missed. He made another grab for Maddie and caught her in his arms.

"Just hold still," a rough voice said. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're in grave danger out here. I'm just going to take you someplace safe. You, too, just come with me."

The man had turned to face Sam, but he had his hands full with Maddie, and Sam was torn. Maddie faced her with a look that showed the strength of her spirit. "I'll be fine," that look said, but still Sam hesitated. "Go!" Maddie mouthed the word and somehow made it a command. Despite every fiber of her being telling her to stay with her friend, Sam did as she was told. Still there was a tear in her eye as she ran. The feeling of guilt was also short lived. A moment later, a loud grunt filled the air, followed by the man shouting, "Hey! Come back here!"

Sam wasn't certain where Maddie would run, but when Sam resumed her own sprint to the shadows, she did so with a smile on her face. Maddie certainly could take care of herself.

* * *

"Where's Maddie?" Shells asked when Sam finally caught up to the rest of the group. They had made it to their destination, and Sam had to agree with Michael's choice; the view was magnificent.

"Someone grabbed her," Sam began, and Shells looked like she was ready to rip that someone's arms off. "I'm just about certain she got away, but I'm also pretty sure she won't be joining us. I think she went the other way to lead any pursuers in the wrong direction. Maybe we'll get lucky and she'll find her way back, but I wouldn't count on it."

"Are you sure she got away?" Shells asked.

"As sure as I can be without going after her. It sounded like she knocked the wind out of the guy, and then she took off. I was going to stay and help her, but she insisted I go. It was a tough call, but I ended up doing as she said."

Shells didn't look quite satisfied with that answer, and Sam did feel a little guilty, but there wasn't much she could do about it at that point. Instead she focused on seeing what was going on in the valley below. The light in the lake had grown brighter, and now it seemed less like the light was coming from below the water, and instead seemed to be coming from the air above the lake. In fact, the entire valley seemed to be charged, and the air nearly sang as it trembled with energy.

Looking up, Sam noticed that the moon appeared backlit and now looked like a full moon when it had clearly only been a partial moon hours before. When she looked closely, it seemed as if the moon was on fire, and blue and orange flames licked its circular edges. The craters stood out in sharper relief than she had ever seen them before and she became entranced by its ancient beauty. It had always been there, yet never before had she noticed it so keenly, and it was as if she looked upon it for the first time.

"I told them it would come!" Michael said with an air of righteous victory.

"OK, Mikey. This shit is starting to freak me out. Straight up. What the hell is going on here?"

Michael turned to her with the widest smile they had seen on his face yet. "At three-thirteen AM there will be a planetary alignment that hasn't occurred in over two-thousand years. When this occurs, gravity will be affected, and when gravity is affected, time is affected. Do you understand?"

"No," Shells said, and Sam thought it might be the most honest word Shells had ever uttered. Sam also had to admit that she didn't understand either.

"There is only one thing that affects the flow of time, and that is gravity. Did you know that time moves more quickly on Earth than it does in space?"

"Uh, no," Shells said.

"Well it does. In fact, satellites that circle the Earth have to make minute adjustments to their clocks in order to account for the time differential."

"You're freaking me out, dude."

"OK," Michael said. "I'll try to get to the point. Tonight, for a very brief time, it will be possible to travel between worlds."

"Say what?"

"Let me see if I can explain this," Michael continued. "So you know how in quantum physics it is possible for something to be in two places at the same time?"

"That's some crazy ass psycho babble you're spouting there, Mikey."

"Where did you people go to school?" he asked, but then he let it drop. "OK, did any of you ever read A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle?"

"I read it when I was a kid," Sam said, and Greg said he had as well.

Shells looked at both of them as if they were some kind of freaks. "I've never even heard of that shit."

"Just bear with me," Michael said. "in that book she explains that if you hold a long piece of string between your hands, and if you had an ant on one of your hands, it would take many steps for the ant to walk across the string and reach the other side, right?"

Sam and Greg nodded. Shells looked as if she would say something, but Michael didn't give her the chance to speak. "But if you brought your hands together, the string would wrinkle and the ant could walk to the other end of the string with only a couple steps, right?"

"Yeah. I remember that," Sam said.

"Good," Michael said. "That's kind of what's going to happen tonight. There is going to be a wrinkle in space-time. Our world and another are going to be right next to each other, and at the same time they are going to be light years apart. Make sense?"

"Not even close," Shells said, but Sam and Greg both nodded. "You're all friggen' nuts."

"Perhaps," Michael said, undeterred. "But we shall see. The show is about to begin."

Shells turned over her smartphone and Sam saw the time; three-twelve. A chill ran down her spine.

"I don't think you'll need night vision for any of this, and it's probably better to leave it off. The military types will almost surely see it. I wanted it mostly for getting up here, but there were no clouds. Are you ready to record?"

Sam, Shells and Greg all pulled cameras from the bag and started recording. While trying to get a good focus on the illuminated water, Sam zoomed out and ran her camera up the opposite side of the valley. Through her viewfinder she saw a glistening figure standing on an outcropping of rock that stood over where the light struck the water. Even from a distance she recognized the man from Arrowheads, only now he wore nothing but a loincloth and a subdued headdress. His accouterments were far less colorful than the way Native American ceremonial dress was often portrayed, and it achieved a completely different effect; it made him look a part of his environment and exuded respect for the natural world. Sam wondered how she could get so much information from simple garb; but still the thoughts came to her easily, as if she, too, were in tune with her surroundings.

"Why was I drawn here?" Sam asked Michael suddenly, and he was clearly not prepared for the question.

"I have some ideas, but I doubt you will like them. Perhaps it would be better if you searched inside yourself for answers."

"I've looked inside and all I find are more questions. Tell me."

"As you wish," Michael said. "You heard me say that this type of thing hasn't happened in thousands of years, and that means that it has happened before. If you look in our history, you will find times when people claimed strange and magical things occurred as part of their everyday lives. Why do you think that is?" he didn't wait for her to answer. "I think it because beings traveled between worlds, and those beings interacted with our ancestors; perhaps they even laid with our ancestors." His words brought a shocked look from all those around him.

It looked as if he would continue, but then the helicopters came. Scouring the coastline, they used searchlights to illuminate anything that seemed out of place. The first thing they found was the man from Arrowheads, and the spotlights shone on his glistening body that looked as if it had been anointed with oils.

"Stay where you are," came an amplified voice from within one of the helicopters. "You are not in any trouble, but you are in danger. Stay there and we will come get you."

At that same moment, the air around Sam began to sing and thrum with energy, and now that energy seemed to be concentrated until it had physical form. Electric lights, like the one she saw jump from the kudzu began to swirl through the air like a snow of plasma. Light reached from tree limbs, leaves, pinecones, and just about anything that came to a point. Sam felt her hair standing up, and Shells looked as if she had been attacked by static cling. It was obvious that she didn't need any gel to make her hair look spiky at that moment.

"Holy crap," Shells sputtered. "Something really is happening. Holy friggen' crap! Look at that. Oh, shit! Look at _that_!"

Even as the helicopters hovered near the shoreline, the light above the water began to form a conical structure that reached into the night sky, all the way to the moon and beyond.

"I knew it!" Michael shouted with exultation. "This is the only place in the world that anyone can see this tonight. There is a magnetic field that traps the light, and time. Only those within a five-mile radius will even know something out of the ordinary is occurring. You are seeing something that very few people have ever seen, and something that I dare say no one alive has ever witnessed. You are recording this, right?"

Jerked back to reality, Sam checked her viewfinder and panned across the scene as it unfolded. When she reached the area where the light touched the surface of the lake, she gasped. The water there had begun to rotate. As she watched it grew faster and faster until a great rolling maelstrom formed, and the funnel roared a primal yet alluring call.

"That is what they were trying to hide when they built this lake!" Michael cried out. "There, at the bottom of the lake, is an ancient Native American shrine. They knew this was a holy place."

As if in response to his words, or perhaps because of the uniformed men that approached his position, the man from Arrowheads jumped. Sam cried out in shock and horror, but the man never hit the water. It looked as if the twisting vortex of light sucked him in, and he became transparent before diffusing into nothingness. Within seconds he was gone. Tears came to Sam's eyes.

Michael, on the other hand, shouted in joyful exultation, "Go! Be free! Go home to your ancestors!"

A moment later the valley was filled with a mighty roar. The swirling vortex grew even more distinct, and a magical song vibrated and thrummed, but it was accompanied by a different kind of music; the music of V8 engines and the theme to Miami Vice.

"Oh my God!" Sam cried out. She didn't know if she should be terrified or excited. Roaring across the lake was Greg's Uncle's boat. Helicopters roared overhead, shining their lights on Maddie who was at the helm. With her were others that Sam recognized; the Woods Woman Psychic was there, and the strawberry blonde, and other psychics who had gathered. All of them rode with their hands held in the air as if in triumph, and Sam decided to celebrate with them, even if she was filled with terror as they approached the maelstrom at full speed. The mighty cigarette boat roared as it entered the swirling waters and began to be sucked into the central vortex of open air that now reached all the way to the floor of the ancient river valley. There was no water there to catch them. There would be nothing there to break their fall. It was too late, and Sam's screams would have no impact on the outcome.

Twice the boat rotated around the vortex before it plunged into the central vacuum. Then, just as it appeared it would crash to the lake floor, it grew transparent and diffuse, and then in a roar of V8 fury and the roll of drums, it was gone.

Sam wept tears of joy and loss. There was an ache in her chest that made her want to follow Maddie and the others, and a feeling of loss, since she knew she would not. She felt as if she were being torn between two worlds. A quick glance at Greg showed him frozen in place, his expression one of complete shock, and Shells didn't look much better. Sam was about to reach out to them when Shells exclaimed, "What the hell is _that_?"

Following her gaze and pointing finger, it didn't take Sam long to locate what she was talking about.

"I knew it!" Michael shouted. "I just knew it!"

"Spit it out, Mikey, or I'm going to beat it out of you," Shells said.

" _Those_ ," Michael said, his voice thick with emotion and excitement, "are the Brown Mountain lights! I just knew it!"

Like spheres of plasma, the lights danced through the foliage, one minute in one location, and the next instant jumping to a nearby area. Looking much like a psychedelic light show, Sam had difficulty keeping them in frame, and she could only hope that the others were faring better.

"They're going home!" Michael shouted triumphantly as the lights entered the water, casting rays of light through the turbulent waters of the lake. "Go baby go!"

Then, with unnatural speed, the lights shot through the water and into the vortex, and then they were gone.

Thus far, the military presence had been relatively passive, but that all changed when it looked as if something was coming through the vortex—from the other side. In that instant, the world erupted. Tracer fire split the night and ripped into the vortex only to disappear, and Sam shouted out in dismay, worried the fire would erupt on the other end of the portal and hit Maddie and the others. She had no way of knowing what was occurring on the other side, and the unknown gnawed at her. Dark shapes erupted from the vortex and shot through the water with incredible speed. The military opened fire with the largest weapons Sam had ever witnessed. The echoes of massive gunfire echoed through the valley like primordial thunder, but it didn't seem to have any effect. The sound of men giving orders filled the air during a brief lull in the firing, and then the largest shape yet erupted from the vortex. This one did not shoot through the water and disappear into the depths as the others had, though. Instead it sprung into the air, one stroke of its massive wings displacing enough air to send the helicopters spinning out of control. One was able to right itself fairly quickly; another was sent spinning violently and was forced to make a clumsy and unexpected landing, though it appeared no one was seriously injured.

Then, for the first time, Sam felt that she and the others were in serious danger, since the giant flying beast was coming directly for them. Tracer fire followed its every move, and Sam could hear the unsettling sound of rounds striking the trees and rocks below them. The beast blotted out the moon and stars as it moved overhead. Whether out of rage, victory, or in pain Sam didn't know, but the beast erupted in a roar that froze her in primal fear. What had just entered her world, she wondered, as the world began to wobble and shift even as the massive gunfire moved away from them. On trembling knees, Sam watched as the vortex wobbled, losing its distinct form. Looking up, she saw that the moon had shed its crown and was now only partially engulfed in fire. Within minutes it was over, and the world returned to normal, save the smell of expended shells and the sounds of men shouting. Boats roared over the surface of the lake, and searchlights filled the forests around Lake Lure.

"I think it might be time to go," Michael said, and no one argued with him. "Let's see if we can get back to the carriage house without being seen."

Moving as silently as they could, the group stayed to the shadows. Only Greg's voice broke the stillness, and it seemed he spoke only to himself, unaware that the words had actually left his lips, "What am I going to tell my Uncle?"

"It was a pleasure boat, at least," Sam whispered. "It's not like you burned his house down."

Greg didn't make any response.

"Just tell him the 1980's called, and they wanted their boat back," Shells said. Greg cast her a scathing look.

Sam shook her head, and he caught her eye. "You have to admit," she said. "That's going to be one hell of an insurance claim."

"Now would be a good time to stuff a sock in it," Michael said as they neared the edge of the tree line. There was not much in the way of cover between them and the carriage house, and they were just going to have to make a run for it. Motioning with his head, Michael led them into the semi-darkness with only the moonlight casting its eerie glow over the landscape. No cars moved along highway 64, and only the shouts of the military surrounding the lake gave evidence that anyone else was about. Nothing barred their path as they made their way across the parking lot, and Sam let out a sigh of relief when they finally entered the carriage house. Her relief was short-lived, however. As soon as the door closed behind them, the lights came on, and a pair of armed men stood waiting for them.

"You didn't really think we were going to let you show the world that footage, did you?" asked a man that Sam recognized from earlier that day; he was the older man that had been stationed within the Inn. "We may have let you see what occurred, but we can't allow that footage to go any further. Sorry. Hand over the cameras."

With a sigh of resignation, Sam put her camera and the night vision goggles on the bench at the back of the carriage house.

"Yours, too," the man said to Shells, who had not yet relinquished her camera. Greg laid his on the bench, and eventually Shells did as well, but not before giving both men the finger. "No one would have believed you anyway. Even with the footage, people would just have claimed it was a fake. If you tell anyone about our involvement, we will deny it, and records of your past mental health issues might just get leaked to the media."

"What mental health issues," Shells asked, incredulous. The man just shrugged. "You're complete assholes!" Again, the man just shrugged. "Are we free to go now?"

"Not yet," the man said. "Forgive me for not trusting you, but we just need to do a quick search of your persons to make sure you aren't trying to hide any tapes."

The search was relatively quick and went without much trouble until they got to Shells.

"If you try to feel me up, I'm going to kick you in the nuts. Got it?"

The older man ignored her and looked triumphant when he pulled a miniDV tape from one of the pockets in her cargo shorts.

"Nice try," he said. "You are now free to go. If you are wise, you will keep your mouths shut about all of this. If not, then I may be paying you a visit. At the very least, your pasts will become a great deal more colorful than they already are. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"Oh, yeah," Shells said, glaring at him.

After taking all of the tapes from the recorders, the man and his subordinate left the carriage house.

"I suppose there is no need to sneak around now," Michael said, and he led them back to the main doors of the Inn. Once inside, he bid them a good night and walked away while mumbling something under his breath about notes and colleagues. Shells, Sam and Greg made their way back up the steps to Sam's room.

"What do you think happened to Maddie and the others?" Shells asked, a hitch in her voice.

"I'm betting they are having one hell of an adventure," Sam said. "They weren't drawn here for nothing. Something wonderful must have been waiting for them on the other side."

"If nothing else," Greg said, a bit forlorn, "They've got one hell of a nice boat to cruise around in."

"If only they hadn't taken those tapes," Sam said. "All that work and we have nothing to show for it."

"I wouldn't say nothing," Shells said with a victorious grin, and then she held up her smartphone. "These things take pretty good video, you know. Not only that, but since they have Internet access, you can upload video straight from your phone to a remote server. Even if they realize it and come back for my phone, that shit is sitting in a remote data center and being backed up to tape as we speak. Take that, bitches!"

Chapter 17

Eating falafel and watching Shells at her computer, Sam leaned back in her chair. Despite her initial hesitation, she had to admit that the falafel wasn't bad. It wasn't likely that she would become vegan any time soon, but she might try a few new things just to expand her horizons.

In the weeks that had passed since their return from North Carolina, everything in her life had changed. She had gone from jobless and homeless to having more money than she'd ever had before. Shells, as it turned out, was a master of selling bits and pieces of footage to cable networks, world news organizations, and even science fiction television shows. The last annoyed her, since she knew the footage was anything but fiction, but it didn't annoy her enough to turn down the checks.

"Our web server is gonna melt if this keeps up," Shells said with a huge grin, though Sam wasn't really sure what she was talking about. All this technology stuff was over her head, but she'd seen the results Shells could produce, and it never ceased to amaze her. How they could reach a global audience out of Shells' condo in Delaware was something Sam had trouble reconciling, but there was no doubt it was happening. "The ad revenue is through the roof!"

Already there were those offering numerous ways to discredit the footage, but that only seemed to fan the flames. Shells had convinced a number of experts to examine the footage, which was surprisingly good given the fact that it was recorded with a cell phone; something Sam still had trouble believing. Three of those experts had already come back and said that the footage did not appear to have been tampered with, but for each of those there were at least a dozen groups funded by anonymous donors who claimed the footage was little more than a hoax and that any videographer with a couple hundred bucks worth of software could reproduce it. Shells had issued a challenge on the Internet offering $100,000 in cash to anyone who could reproduce the footage. At first, Sam had panicked, afraid someone would do just that, but no one had.

It also was still sinking in that Shells actually had the money to back up her challenge. How strange it felt to go from broke to well off in such a short period of time. For Sam it didn't seem real. One thing that did help it sink in was buying a house. Though she could have had a new house built, or she could have bought any number of existing homes in great neighborhoods, all Sam had wanted was her old house back on Windy Corner. Renting was no longer an option; she wanted to own the house so no one could ever make her leave again. Closing was only a few days away, and Sam couldn't wait. Having her home back was something that would make her feel like a real person again; and having the house back in the family felt like a real accomplishment. Living out of her car and crashing with Shells made her feel like she was just drifting through life, and she needed to put down real solid roots before she could truly move on with her life. The future was uncertain, and she had no real idea of what she would do next. The money introduced the strange possibility that she didn't have to do anything, but that wasn't Sam. Somehow she would find something to occupy her time, and she had a feeling she would continue her quest for answers. What she had witnessed in Lake Lure hadn't really answered many of her questions, and in many ways it just created more.

"Can you give me a ride to Jersey?" she asked Shells after a while.

"Yeah, sure. Just let me answer a couple of these tweets and make one more post on Facebook."

Sam knew that might mean another hour, since one thing seemed to lead to another on the Internet, but she didn't really care. She would get to New Jersey when she got there, and nothing was really all that pressing. She did want to get to see Greg, and find out how he was coming along on the project his Uncle had assigned him. Despite seeing the footage, Greg's Uncle was convinced that he had somehow sunk the boat out of negligence, and now he wanted Greg to polish every one of his vehicles as some sort of penance. Sam had expected Greg to bulk, but instead, he said that it was a relatively small price to pay. Sam had a check for him, his share of the take from the video, and she knew that would also help. Money wasn't everything, but not having money could lead to any number of problems. She also knew the check they had sent to Michael had most likely helped to make the whole ordeal a little more worthwhile for him.

"OK," Shells said. "I'm shutting this thing down before anyone can ask me anything." Sam heard the sound that indicated incoming messages, and she feared Shells might stop to read them, but instead her friend just gave her computer the finger and shut it off. "That shit'll be here when I get back. Let's go."

"I think the real question is will the whiskey be here when you get back?" Sam said. Shells' friends had been eyeing the wooden barrel of whiskey that Michael had sent them home with. After the taste they had gotten before departing, Sam knew it was of the highest quality.

"Yeah," Shells said. "We are going to have to start making a dent in that soon, or it's gonna disappear, but I've made it clear that I'll kick some serious ass if I catch anyone pilfering. Straight up. No bullshit."

Sam chuckled and said," Let's go."

It came as no surprise that Shells' jeep drew looks from just about everyone they passed; Sam had gotten used to that long before. It was one of the things Shells liked most about her jeep; that and the fact no one had ever out climbed it along the dykes that lined the shore of the Delaware River. Seeing the Delaware Memorial Bridge rising up on the horizon, its twin spans looking impossibly tall, had always been a sign to Sam that she was almost home. Once over that bridge, she was back in her own territory, in her element, where she knew all the roads, side roads, dirt roads, and shortcuts. There was no toll when going north on Interstate 295 over the bridge, and they roared onto the span with no traffic to slow them.

"Ever notice that it's free to get into New Jersey, but it always costs money to get out?" Shells asked, and Sam nodded with a smile. She had noticed. "Where to?"

"Morton's."

"You know that guy is retired, right?" Shells asked. "There are plenty of people who could work on your car for you. I'm sure Billy Beuchler would be happy to fix your crappy old Camaro up for you."

"Watch what you say about my Camaro," Sam said. "Billy works on her every now and then, but I like to give Morton something to do with his time; otherwise, who knows what kind of trouble the old codger would get into."

"Yeah, yeah. I hear you."

It wasn't long before they were rolling up Chestnut Street, half expecting to see one of Salem's finest on their bumper at any second. By some freak of chance, they didn't see any police, and Shells made the turn into Chestnut Terrace without being accosted.

Several hotrods and a couple new cars with spoilers and body kits were parked in front of Morton's house when they arrived.

"I'm gonna drop you off here," Shells said. "I've got a hankering for a chocolate milkshake from Hudocks. If for some reason your car isn't ready, just give me a shout and I'll come back to get you."

"Sounds good. Thanks for everything, Shells. You're the best."

"Damn straight, and don't forget it," Shells said with a grin. "You know I got your back, girlfriend. Straight up. Oh, hey, I heard Gandy's band is playing at the Oakwood tomorrow night; you wanna go party with the rednecks?"

"That sounds like a plan," Sam said. The Oakwood Inn was one of her favorite haunts, and she'd been wanting to hear her old friend play for some time. "I'll give a call later."

"Peace out," Shells said.

Once Sam climbed down, Shells roared through the terrace making 25mph look like a hundred. Not even bothering to check the house, Sam went to the garage and found Morton leaning on the bench, watching a gaggle of young men working on Sam's car.

"I told you slackers to hurry the hell up," he said with a wide grin when Sam walked into the garage. "Now the car's owner is here, and she doesn't like to wait, now do you, Sam?"

"You get slower every time I bring my car to you, you old coot. And now you've got all this young meat doing the hard work for you. What do I need you for, anyway?"

"I'm supervising," Morton said. "These boys are from the Vo-Tech, and they need the practice, but they're slower than molasses running up hill in January."

"You need me to light a fire under their butts?"

Several of the boys stopped long enough to look at Sam, and some of them let their gazes wander.

"Easy now," Morton said. "I'm pretty sure these boys can't handle you. You show 'em where you keep your duct tape, and I'll never get any more work out of 'em."

Still the boys watched Sam.

"You little shits get back to work!" Morton said. "You see? If I wasn't here to keep 'em in line, they wouldn't get a damn thing done. They'd just hang around here all day and drink all of my beer. Are you slackers done with that yet? Let me see."

"It's all done, Mr. Morton."

That statement alone brought a smile to Sam's face. After a brief inspection, Morton lowered her car down off the jacks. "Now you boys thank Ms. Flock for letting you work on her classic car. And be nice to her, or she just might whip your skinny little asses."

"Thank you, Ms. Flock," the gathered young men said, and Sam smiled.

"Thank you, boys. I appreciate you helping the old codger fix up my car."

"You should be careful," one of the bolder young men said. "Your ball joints were shot. If you kept driving it much longer the wheels would've fallen off."

"I can't argue with the boy," Morton said, grinning. "Keep a better eye on your ball joints."

With a firm nod, Sam said, "Yes, sir. What do I owe you?"

"Get out of here," Morton said. "These boys work for free, so I'm just in it for the parts. Shake your ass on the way out, and we'll call it even."

Sam did her best to oblige, and not a sound could be heard in Morton's garage. "How about one of you boys pull the car out to the street for me?" Sam asked, and she thought a fight might erupt to see who would get to drive the car. In the end, the smallest of the boys won out. Sam wasn't sure how he won, but when he got out of the car and held the door open for her, his face was a red as a beet.

"Thank you, Ms. Flock," he said.

Sam gave him a kiss on the cheek, and she thought he might catch fire. Shouts and catcalls erupted from the garage, and Sam gave them all one more shake before she climbed into the car. The steering wheel felt oddly tight and responsive, and there was no vibration at all when she hit the brakes. She'd known she could count on Morton.

There were a dozen places she should go and many people she needed to see, but she drove through town and onto route 45, headed for Woodstown. Though she doubted anyone at The Corner Bar was all that angry with her, she knew she had apologies to make, and that was as good a place to start as any. On her way, she stopped at WaWa and smiled when she saw redneck Brian behind the deli counter. He wasn't looking when she walked in.

"I want a dolla's worf o' cheese," she said, and he just gave her the finger without turning around. The manager gave her a dark look. "And don't be touchin' my cheese with yo nasty ass hands." At that, he finally turned around and smiled.

"Good to see you made it back; we all had bets as to whether you'd get yourself locked up down there. Find any ghosts?"

"Not really," Sam said. "But we had a good time."

"I'm having a party at my place tonight," he said. "Nobody leaves until the keg floats."

Sam could see where this was headed, and she turned to the store manager, "Do you sell duct tape?"
About the author

When Brian Rathbone isn't writing fiction, he's usually writing code or advocating for rural broadband Internet access. Writing is his true passion, and it is a joy to follow that passion. You can find out more about Brian Rathbone at BrianRathbone.com

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You might also like Brian's fantasy series, The World of Godsland.

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