Authors: Brian Rathbone
"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.