Lure

By Brian Rathbone

Warning: This title contains sexual content, bad behavior, mild profanity and immature characters.

What readers are saying:
"Like Beavis and Butthead...only hotter and sassier."
"Lure is like a cross between Saving Grace, Ghost Hunters and Jersey Shore."
"Fans of the movies The Hangover and Brides Maids are sure to enjoy this irreverent comedy."

Sam Flock is a good cop, even if she does drink too much. Off-duty, she's been known to cause her own trouble, but when she drives into the side of an ambulance after seeing a ghost, her career in law enforcement meets its end. Determined to find answers, she forms a paranormal investigation agency with her capable but sometimes annoying friend, Shells. Though they are perhaps the world's worst paranormal investigators, they find something beyond their wildest imaginings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Rathbone
• Release date: Feb 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466097087

Book preview

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