Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

“Goddamn it…”

“On top of that, there’s HIPPA regulations—those forms the doctors make you sign guaranteeing confidentiality? Those get taken very seriously. Technically, the staff can’t even confirm they have any particular patient in the facility without that patient’s signed consent.”

“I know,” Maria said. “They gave me that song and dance earlier, until the receptionist let it slip that Senft was there.”

“Well, there you go. What I don’t understand is this. Why is it such a big deal to just wait the two weeks—or however long it takes? After all, this is for a book, not an article. A book that you haven’t even pitched yet, let alone sold. Why the rush?”

“I just want to get started on it. I’m excited about the idea. I want to dive in while it’s still fresh.”

“You want some free advice? Sit on it and wait. What are you going to do if you sell this thing on proposal and then lose your sense of excitement halfway through? Then you’ve still got a book to finish. One that you no longer want to write.”

Yawning, Maria glanced around the parking lot, blinking at the bright glare coming through her windshield. It was deserted. Lots of cars and even an Amish horse and buggy parked at the rear, but no people. She assumed most of the vehicles belonged to the staff.

“Come on, Miles,” she pleaded one more time. “Isn’t there something you can do? Anything? Help me out here. Throw me a bone, for Christ’s sake.”

He laughed. “There’s no way I’m getting involved with this.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“Look, Maria, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve got a solid idea. I think LeHorn and Senft and the whole weird story would be perfect for a true-crime book. It’s got sex, murder, and black magic. I think you’d sell a ton of copies. But my duties are to the newspaper. If you start rattling cages or getting into trouble, and it reflects badly on us, I’d have no choice but to cut you loose as a freelancer. And then, with you gone, they’d hold me responsible. Shit rolls downhill, right? You know what the own er is like. I like my job here. They pay me for it, and in turn I get to keep things like my house and my car and that goddamn inground pool my wife made me buy last summer—the one we never use. Those things cost money and I’m a big fan of money. Therefore, I’m a big proponent of keeping my job. I can’t help you with this.”

“Not even unofficially? Just whisper the name of someone that might be able to help? You owe me, Miles.”

“Nonsense.”

“Who covered that anti abortion rally for you when all your staffers called in sick?”

“You did. And if I remember correctly, we had to publish an official apology because you called that evangelical minister a fuck-head while you were interviewing him.”

“Well, he was a fuck-head. But never mind that.”

“Never mind? I still get my ass chewed out for that!”

“Who got the county commissioner to admit on tape that the County Parks Department’s public domain seizure of the Larue Farms property was wrong? Who got you that quote when no one else could?”

Miles sighed. “You did.”

“So hook me up.”

There was silence on the other end of the cell phone. Maria thought that maybe her call got dropped, and was ready to curse her service provider, when she heard Miles sigh again.

“Damn it, girl. Okay, look. This is off the record and completely unofficial.”

Maria smiled.

“Are you recording this?”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, Miles.”

“There’s a couple of things you could try. Let’s call them ‘backdoors.’ If Senft wants to meet with you, he could lie to his handlers about who you are. Remember, he’s got rights. In Pennsylvania, the staff aren’t permitted to read his mail or monitor his phone calls. So instead of telling his treatment team that you’re a reporter, he could say you’re an old friend or a fan of his books or something like that. They can’t eavesdrop on your conversation when you visit, so you could ask him questions then. But if you got caught doing that, no reputable newspaper, webzine or magazine in the country would ever let you freelance for them again. It would totally discredit you, and you’d be stuck doing blogs.”

“Not necessarily. Reporters do that kind of thing all the time. It’s just part of getting the story.”

“Not anymore. Not with the corporations in charge. This is the New Media. Welcome to the age of accountability to the shareholders.”

“Well, then is there anything else? Something that doesn’t involve me dropping a nuke on my career?”

“Sure. Here’s something else to consider—these facilities have fences, and people can talk through fences.”

“What do you mean?”

“Senft has to have fresh air, right? He has to have exercise. Are you still sitting in the parking lot?”

“Yeah.”

“See the double security fence going around the place? You could try sneaking up to that and talking to him through the mesh.”

“But that’s even riskier than the other method.”

“Correct. So why not just let this go? Move on?”

“Because that receptionist pissed me off. And because I’m stubborn.”

“Yes, you are, Maria. You’re like a goddamned pit bull when it comes to a story. That’s why you’re my favorite freelancer. And that’s why I wish you’d just walk away from this.”

“I can’t. But thanks, Miles. I really do appreciate your help.”

“Don’t mention it. And listen…I’ll ask around. See if I can’t find you someone more sympathetic. But it’s got to be totally on the down low, okay?”

“No worries. I promise.”

“I’ll call you if I hear anything. And again, good job on the Ghost Walk story. It’ll run in this afternoon’s edition. Hawkins got some great photos to go with it.”

“Awesome. Talk to you later, Miles.”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“There won’t be any trouble, as long as I can talk to Adam Senft.”

“Maria!”

“I’m kidding. Bye.”

Grinning, Maria disconnected the call and bent over, putting the cell phone back into its charger, which was plugged in to the car’s cigarette lighter. She yawned again, rubbing her tired eyes. She decided to go home and get some sleep. When she sat back up, a shadow fell over her. A dark-haired, bearded man stood next to the open window. Startled, Maria gasped. She reached for her purse, intent on grabbing her can of pepper spray.

“I’m sorry,” the man apologized, taking a step backward and holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay?”

Maria’s hand slipped inside her purse. She closed her fingers around the can of pepper spray and paused, studying him. To her surprise, the stranger was either Mennonite or Amish. She couldn’t be sure which. His clothing and hat were a dead giveaway, though, as was his long, bushy beard. When Maria was younger, her mother had liked a rock group called ZZ Top. The band members all had flowing beards. This guy reminded her of them. His age was hard to determine. She guessed that he might be in his early thirties. She remembered the Amish buggy she’d noticed earlier while talking to Miles. If it belonged to him—and she assumed it did—that made him Amish. People from the Mennonite faith drove cars and trucks. Only the Amish still insisted on horse-drawn buggies.

“I’m really sorry,” the man said again.

Her shock dissipated. Whoever he was, she doubted very much that he was a rapist or carjacker. His expression was apologetic, his tone concerned.

“It’s okay,” Maria said, taking a deep breath. “You just surprised me, is all. Can I help you?”