Moore hollow, p.17
Moore Hollow, page 17
part #1 of Paranormal Appalachia Series
Ben looked up from the magazine. “It was just a thing, I know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you down at the pub some other time?”
“We’ll see,” she said, being more polite than she meant.
Ben watched as she quickly finished getting dressed. There was something about her, something familiar, that he couldn’t quite place. He studied her, hair pulled back in utilitarian fashion. The makeup was gone. It was almost as if she was a different person.
“Gotta get to work,” she said, waving as she walked out of the bedroom. “Bye!”
Before he could say anything, Ben heard the front door open and close. “Bye,” he said limply. He got up and got in the shower, unable to justify putting off his date with Artith any longer.
He stood under the hot running water for a long time, his mind slowly shaking off the cobwebs. Then it hit him like a flash. “Bloody hell,” he said to himself, “she looked an awful lot like Mel.”
Chapter 20
Ben arrived at the Journal offices without any warning or announcement. Artith knew his schedule. After all, she was the one who booked his flight. She should be expecting him. He assumed she hadn’t called yesterday to let him have the evening to get his head right. For the most part, it had worked. A good night’s sleep had done him good. Aspirin chased away the pounding in his head from the hangover and a cheap but powerful coffee had ensured he was wired and ready to face the morning. On the train, he watched the video one more time, just to refresh his memory. He needed it after the excesses of the night before. The vodka had been a very bad idea.
When he reached the front door, Ben pushed the buzzer and waited for an answer. This time the voice from inside was that of an old Englishwoman, not the young Indian man from only a week ago. “Yes?” she asked. “May I help you?”
“Ben Potter,” Ben said, frustrated at having to introduce himself to yet another of Artith’s doomed flunkies. “I’m here to see Artith.” That raised no recognition from the other end. “She should be expecting me.”
Another pause before the door finally buzzed. “Come in!” The disembodied voice was entirely too chipper for this time of morning.
The office looked exactly the same as it did a few days earlier, save for the older woman sitting behind the desk. She was almost Ben’s mother’s age. He instantly felt sorry for her. Surely, she had no idea what she was in for from Artith.
“What happened to the other guy?” Ben asked cruelly.
“I’m sorry?” the woman said. Either she wasn’t paying attention to him or Artith had not filled her in on the position’s prior occupant.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll go on up?” he asked, pointing up the stairs. He got no objection, so Ben charged up the stairs to Artith’s office.
Artith was leaning back in her chair, bare feet on the desk, reading a dead-tree copy of the Times and sipping a cup of coffee.
“As long as traditionalists like you never pick up an iPad, there’s hope for the newspaper industry,” Ben said, getting her attention. “Morning,” he said when she looked up from her paper.
“Ben!” she called out, quickly ditching the paper and sitting straight up in her chair. “How’s my favorite reporter?”
“Here and alive to tell the tale,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”
Artith waved him in and gestured toward an empty chair. “How were the colonies?”
“Still independent and stubbornly proud of it,” he said.
“Thank goodness for that,” she said.
“Dare I ask what happened to what’s his name?” Ben asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder down toward the lower office.
“Had to let him go,” Artith said, shaking her head in frustration. “Can’t find good help these days.”
“And the school mum from downstairs? Where’d you find her?” Ben asked. He was enjoying this.
“Look, she answered the ad and can actually string a few sentences together. Besides, she didn’t get spooked when I told her what we’re about,” Artith explained. “And, anyway, I’ve gone the young-and-hungry route. I figured it was time to give old and desperate a shot.”
If nothing else, Ben appreciated her honesty.
“So tell me about your trip,” she said, reclining again, coffee in hand. “Did you bring me back anything good?”
Ben gave her a generic rundown of his travel to Jenkinsville with specific emphasis on his need to procure a rental car and accommodations when he arrived.
“Sorry about that,” she said sheepishly. “Didn’t want to pin you down too much. Flexibility is good, yes?”
“Flexibility is one thing,” Ben said. “The peace of mind that comes with knowing where you’re going to sleep at night is another. Besides, did you think I was going to walk there?”
Artith grinned. “Such a hard job you have. I take it you didn’t wind up slumming it on the mean streets of Jenkinsville?”
“No,” Ben said. “The place I stayed was actually kind of nice. A little rustic, but historic. And it was right in town so I could walk most places. Worked out pretty well.”
“See? I knew you’d handle it,” she said. “Probably helped you get a sense of the place, huh?”
He didn’t dignify that question with an answer. The exchange did remind him of something, however. “I brought receipts,” he said, pulling a crumpled wad of paper from his pocket. He tossed it at her.
“Of course,” Artith said as the wad dropped on the desk in front of her. She picked it up and tossed it back. “Leave them with Ms. Sussman on the way out. I’ll send you a check. Now back to the story, Ben. Remember what I sent you over there for? What did you find out?”
Ben settled back in his chair and got comfortable. “The history is really fascinating,” he said. “Back in 1906 there was an election for a seat on the local ruling body for the county called the county court. It’s the one that my great-grandfather wrote about in that journal you got.”
“You were able to confirm what happened during that election?” Artith asked. She knew what the journal said and was obviously excited about what lay beyond it.
Ben launched into a detailed recounting of what he’d learned about the 1906 election, The Cheat, and Coleman. He skipped a few details, but otherwise wanted to show Artith that her money hadn’t been wasted.
She was clearly not impressed. Artith’s face changed from one of gleeful expectation to disappointed frustration. “Ben, we knew all that, didn’t we? I mean, the extra background is nice, and I suppose nailing down the election details is good. But what about these ‘irregularities?’” She put the word in air quotes. “Did you find evidence backing up the story in the journal that this King Tommy person actually raised the dead to vote for him?”
Ben let the question linger in the air a few moments while he reached into his jacket pocket. He would whip his phone out and show Artith the video and completely amaze her. He took it out, held it in his hand, and began to unlock it. But nothing else happened. He sat there in silence, looking at the phone for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“Ben?” asked Artith. “Is something wrong?”
The question jolted him. “No,” he said, locking the phone and slipping it back in his pocket. “Thought I felt a buzz; thought I missed a call. Must be making things up.”
“No problem,” said Artith, a little dubious of his behavior. “So, come on, what’s the punch line? Did King Tommy raise an army of zombie voters or not?”
Ben sat, unsure of what to do next. His urge was not to bring the phone back out and show her the video. Instead, it was to lie to her. “I don’t know,” Ben said, throwing up his hands. “There’s nothing concrete, just a couple of vague references in newspapers of the time. But I couldn’t find anything else.”
“Oh,” Artith said, sinking back into her chair in disappointment. “When were you planning on telling me that, Ben?”
He tried to look apologetic. “I didn’t want you to think it was a total waste, I guess. There’s some interesting history there, at least. Just no zombies.”
“You mean no proof of zombies,” she said, leaning forward, resting her chin on her entwined fingers and clearly thinking out loud. “We’ve still got your great-grandfather’s journal and the stuff you found. Maybe you can put together a story based on that?”
He waved the idea away. “No thanks.”
“Come on, Ben,” she said. “This is the London Journal of the Paranormal we’re talking about here. We’ve done much more with even less.”
“You have, maybe, but I haven’t,” Ben said more defensively than he planned. “Look, Artith, I’m happy to head out to Hampstead to interview some cross-eyed drunk who thinks he saw Spring-heeled Jack. That’s one thing. It’s straight reporting, or as close as you can get in this field. But the only story I can write about going to Jenkinsville is one of failure. I went to America to find something and I didn’t find anything. That’s no story I have any interest in writing.”
Artith flopped back in her chair in frustration. “I’m disappointed in you, Ben. You’ve never pulled this kind of stunt on me before.”
Ben shook his head. “No stunt. We had a deal, remember? You send me over there and if I find something, great, but if I don’t, no hard feelings. Write a travel piece, you told me.”
She waved his remembrance away.
“Look, I know damned well why you brought me, in particular, into this story,” Ben said. “You knew that any other investigative reporter, anyone who could actually do the job, would shoot it down before they left the office, much less London. You needed me because of the family connection. You knew it would make the whole thing irresistible.”
“Was I wrong?” Artith asked, eyebrow raised.
“Obviously not,” Ben said. “But that’s the point. Any other writer worth his salt would have read that journal and said these are the ravings of a loon, fanciful stories to amuse the folks back home, or maybe the memories of a sad old man slowly losing his grasp on the world.”
“Is that what you thought?” she asked.
“Why would I?” Ben said, standing. “I was too close to the source, which is something I, of all people, should know something about. But I jumped at it, anyway, because I need the work and because I wanted to prove to myself that my great-grandfather, and his son, weren’t completely out-of-touch losers.”
“Fine!” Artith said. “Yes, that’s why I called you. Now, why don’t you channel that desire into the effort of sculpting a story for the Journal? What else are you going to do with it?”
“I know this might be hard for you to believe, Artith, but I do have some standards,” Ben said. “I won’t make stuff up just so you can have a story. I won’t lie.” He nearly tripped over his newfound superiority. “I just can’t do it. If you want to hire somebody else to work up a story based on what I learned, I can’t stop you. Just keep my name out of it.”
“Keeping your name out of my mind, more like it,” she said, “next time I have a job you might do.” She looked out the window, pretending to ignore him.
“Whatever,” Ben said, turning to leave. “Just send me a bloody check, all right?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer and stormed down the stairs, grabbing his mangled mass of receipts along the way.
The old woman at the front desk must have heard the row upstairs. She tried to look reserved and businesslike but was clearly a bit spooked. “Is there a problem, sir?” she asked as Ben walked through.
“No,” he said. He stopped and handed her the wad of paper. “Receipts for travel. You’ll need to cut me a check as soon as possible, right? Address is in the files, I’m sure. It’s Potter, Ben Potter.” He turned and headed for the front door.
“Are you in a hurry, sir?” she asked.
The question caught him off guard. He stopped and wheeled to face her. “No, but if I were you, I would be.” He didn’t give her a chance to follow up.
He walked out into the midmorning sun that had broken through the early fog. His heart was pounding, as was his head. What had just happened? Why didn’t he show Artith the video? Why wouldn’t he write whatever damned story she wanted him to write? While he was walking and trying to sort through things, his phone buzzed against his chest. The feeling startled him, making him shout out loud and nearly stumble and fall.
He pulled the phone out and looked at the display. It was coming from his parents’ house. “Bloody hell,” he said, pushing the button to answer. “Hello?”
“Benjamin, dear,” his mother said from hundreds of miles away. “I wasn’t sure if you were back from America yet. Are you? Back home, I mean?”
“Yes, Mum,” he said. He knew better than to think she just called to chat. “What’s up?”
“Well, since you’re back, your father and I would like to hear about your trip,” she said. “Could you catch the train and come for dinner tonight?”
“Shit,” Ben said under his breath and away from the microphone. After the run-in with Artith he wasn’t sure he could handle a family gathering. But he had no good reason he could think of to tell his mother he couldn’t. “Um, yeah, I should be able to make it. I better get going now, though. If you don’t hear from me in a few minutes, I’m on my way.”
“All right, dear,” she said. “I hope you can make it.”
“Sure, sure,” Ben said. “Are you certain nothing’s up? Nothing’s wrong?”
“Of course not, dear,” she said. “Can’t a boy’s parents just want to spend time with their son?”
“Right,” Ben said, knowing that was not the kind of thing his mother and father were wont to do. “See you tonight.”
He hung up and started looking for a cab.
Chapter 21
Catching the train proved to be no difficulty at all, much to Ben’s disappointment. As the slowly dimming countryside rushed past the window, Ben sat, staring at his phone. He wasn’t watching the video anymore, just scrutinizing the black screen. In his mind, Ben kept going back to his days in Jenkinsville. They were days full of constant misdirection, used on almost everyone with whom he came into contact. In the end his cover had been blown, but how much damage had that really done? By the time he drove out of town two days back, he was certain what was going to happen the moment he returned to London.
First, he would go to Artith and show her the video. She would know who needed to be brought in to punch up the images and the sound. Next, she’d send him away to write the story, probably with a small advance to act as an incentive. He would take it, pound out the words on his laptop, and snigger at the thought of the earnest citizens of Jenkinsville dealing with the onslaught of every paranormal investigator and conspiracy theorist in the Western Hemisphere. Never had it crossed his mind to do anything other than write a full exposé on the voters of Moore Hollow.
The plan was working perfectly, aside from a slight delay owing to his activities with Sinovia, until Ben pulled out his phone in Artith’s office. Something hit him then as he looked at the blank screen. Some kind of realization rose up in his gut and suggested that this wasn’t worth doing, the story wasn’t worth writing.
Working it through now on the train, he couldn’t say it was a rational decision. He could make rationalizations for the decision after the fact, but that was different. He knew the money wouldn’t have been that great. It never was when the Journal was involved. At least he wasn’t out any expenses, so long as Artith came through as promised. He could convince himself, maybe, that was a good enough reason.
But he knew inside it wasn’t the reason that had won the day. Ben was slowly realizing as the train chugged on toward Leeds, that it was shame. Shame and guilt for how he had behaved. Not at lying his way into and around town, but lying his way out. Aside from the practical question of whether McGee or Mel could actually rain retribution down upon him, they, along with Rhodes and even Gabe, had put their trust in him. They relied on him to do the right thing. Mel did so even after she had ample reason to think he might not. Something inside of him was making it difficult to violate that trust.
The sun was just setting by the time the train reached Leeds. As fate would have it, the first cab in line at the station was driven by the same man who took Ben out to his parents before his American jaunt.
“Back for more revelry, mate?” he asked. “Not sure I can keep up with you another night.”
“Back for more,” Ben said with a pained grin, “but not the revelry. Back to the parents, I’m afraid. I believe you know the way?”
“Aye, sir,” the driver said, slipping away from the station.
It was dark by the time they arrived at the foot of the driveway.
“Take you up this time, sir?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Ben said. “I’ll walk. I could use the air.” Not to mention the time to mentally prepare.
“Shall I wait this time?” the driver asked as Ben fished in his pocket for cash.
“No, thanks,” Ben said, handing him a wad of bills. “Might be a long night. Go have some fun in my name,” he said and stepped out of the cab. “At least one of us will.”
On the long walk up the hill, Ben went over exactly what he was going to talk about tonight. It was one thing to hold the truth back from Artith. Telling her would mean the story went global and be available to anyone with an Internet connection, including those in Jenkinsville. His parents, on the other hand, were unlikely to broadcast any of what he told them, at least intentionally. On the other hand, who knew what they might say to whom in an unguarded moment? “You won’t believe what my son saw when he was in America,” Ben could hear his mother saying. And they would surely tell Victoria who, in spite of her profession, had a problem keeping interesting secrets.
Besides, the deal with Rhodes, McGee, and Mel was clear. He wasn’t going to write the story and he wasn’t going to use the information to settle his family issues. Telling his parents, showing them the video, would still be a violation of their trust.
