As Sarah and Carter exited the building, the girl looked again across the street and noticed the lone woman standing in the grayness wearing half a face. She sighed heavily.
“No rest for the wicked.”
“What?” Sarah said.
“Nothing.”
It was late—after ten. Patricia Martin sat at the laptop in her office, a browser window open showing a freeze-frame of a patient. A time code displayed in the upper left-hand corner. Outside her office, the hallway was silent. The only sound came through the closed windows, a strong wind bringing rain and sleet.
The patient in the video looked distraught. She clicked the play button again and sat back to re-watch the clip. Off-screen, a doctor was speaking.
“And the dreams?” the doctor’s voice said.
“Same. I-I know they’re not real, but that’s what they want me to think. So they can operate on me again and take my soul.” He laughed. “But they won’t find it. No, I-I’ve hidden it somewhere… Who are you?”
“Dr. Brody. You remember me. We spoke yesterday.”
“I’m not telling you anything. They’ll hear.”
“Who will?”
“Them. They’re everywhere.” He gestured wildly at the air with both hands. “Floating around here—can’t you see them? I can. All the time.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe they’ve gone.”
“What?”
The patient looked around. Grinning, he stared into the camera.
“Good job, Doctor. You’ve scared them away.”
Dr. Martin paused the video again and looked down at her chart. She would have to let Sarah and Carter know—she promised. Stretching, she closed her laptop and stood. Grabbing her purse, she left her office and locked the door after her.
Outside, the wind was getting stronger. As if something were trying to discourage her from what she knew she had to do.
Twenty-Five
Harlan Covington had had a horrible night. He’d kept turning over in his mind Fr. Donnelly’s warning. Protect Sarah. Impossible. There was too much at stake, and the priest knew it. But he’d been insistent—asking the attorney to promise in the name of the Holy Trinity. The sentimental old fool. It wasn’t fair.
And how was Harlan expected to keep some meddling psychic safe while cleansing the town of this latest scourge? As it was, he didn’t have much time. Though the proton beam therapy had seemed to arrest the cancer in his prostate, he knew the cursed disease would be back. Like the creeping evil that was consuming Dos Santos. It was ironic. For almost half a century, he’d practiced celibacy. Now, this.
When Harlan first met Sarah, he’d seen her as an amateur. Someone who’d stumbled into something she didn’t understand and was woefully ill-equipped to overcome. Sure, she might have gifts. In fact, he sensed in her an extraordinary power. But she was unaware of what she possessed and would most likely end up blundering blindly to her death through no fault of his. He felt certain The Darkness was after her. And so, apparently, did Brian Donnelly. Which was why the priest was unwavering. Sarah was to be protected at all costs. Reluctantly, Harlan had promised.
“And what about her friend Carter?” he said to himself. “Am I supposed to protect this child, too?”
Morning light leaked in through the shuttered windows. Harlan’s bedroom felt cold, as if something ominous and unseen had settled there. Groaning, he rose and did a few stretches. He followed this with his customary workout: one hundred each of push-ups and sit-ups, then thirty minutes on the treadmill. Other than the cancer, he was in excellent shape, he felt. Strong enough to fight.
As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Mary, his longtime housekeeper, entered with a tray. On it was a berry smoothie—his favorite. All of the ingredients were organic. And, he knew, she’d boosted the concoction with antioxidants and a little whey powder for protein. He watched as she set the tray down on one of the nightstands.
“Will there be anything else?” she said.
“No, Mary, thanks.”
He stepped off the treadmill and crossed the room to enjoy his smoothie. As he drank, he could feel the cooling froth trickling down his throat. When he was younger, he did all the things young men did—dined frequently on red meat, drank whiskey, and smoked cigars. And the women. What was it St. Augustine had prayed? O Lord, help me to be pure, but not yet.
These days, he was virtuous and watched his diet carefully, his only luxury strong, black coffee. Combatting the dark forces required not only strength but discipline. Thank God, his mind was sharp. Still so much to do. And only the Almighty knew how much longer he had.
After finishing his drink, he burped. Smiling, he recalled when he was a child and had belched magnificently at the dinner table. His mother had ceremoniously wiped her mouth with her napkin and said, “Go to your room.” There was no other punishment, but Harlan had felt so deeply ashamed, he never did it again. Now, in his seventies, he no longer cared.
“Go to your room, Mother.”
The finger wearing the ring throbbed, reminding him of what remained to be done. So much killing. He recalled when he first visited Dos Santos after training in Rome. That was fifty years ago. He’d immediately sensed the evil in the town and wasted no time getting to work. The result? A man engaged in human trafficking and who had been responsible for abducting countless runaways, left for dead in the forest with his eyes pecked out.
Harlan wished he could receive absolution, but for him there was none. He would have to face God with blood on his hands and hope for forgiveness. He looked down at the ring.
“Soon,” he said. “Soon, this will all be over.”
Sarah was surprised at how small and unremarkable the offices of Bad Blond Productions were. The unattractive building, located near NBC Studios, was the home of Dubious. Originally, she and Chief Fiore were supposed to attend the meeting, but Sarah insisted on bringing Carter.
It was after ten. As the three of them walked in from the parking lot, they were greeted by a pleasant-looking woman who looked to be in her fifties.
“You must be our guests,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Lillian.”
Before they could introduce themselves, she led them through a narrow hallway lined with huge framed posters, each of which showed Donnie and Debbie Fisk in some dramatic pose, the word Dubious emblazoned across the top. Eventually, they arrived at a conference room. A large TV was mounted on the wall, and the table was surrounded by comfortable-looking leather chairs.
“Can I get anyone coffee?” the assistant said.
Lou smiled. “That would be great.”
“Anyone bring their autograph pens?” Sarah said.
Donnie and Debbie walked in. Everyone exchanged greetings.
“I appreciate you guys coming down,” Donnie said.
He removed his thick glasses and cleaned the lenses using a shirttail. Lillian returned with a tray of coffee mugs, enough for everyone.
“Thanks, Lillian.”
She distributed the drinks and exited, closing the door after her. Debbie smiled through collagen-swollen lips, like an oily press secretary. Sarah and Carter exchanged a look.
“Sarah, you all are about to see something that’s, well, a little odd.” She looked at her brother and tittered.
“More than a little odd,” he said.
“And after you’ve had a chance to look at it, my brother and I have a question for you. So. Is everyone ready?”
Sarah felt like she was back in kindergarten. She wondered if they’d be asked to take a nap on the floor after. She looked at her friends, and the three of them took their seats.
“Good,” Debbie said. “Donnie?”
Donnie turned out the lights and switched on the TV. The video they were about to watch was already cued up. He hit the play button, and Sarah saw herself approaching Peter Moody’s grave. When the scene had finished, Donnie stopped the video.
“Did anyone want to see that again?” he said. No one said anything
. “Okay. I’m going to show you something else. It was taken accidentally after Sarah’s investigation. Apparently, the kid moving the equipment switched on the camera by accident. Just watch.”
He hit play again. There was a lot of bustle. People moving in and out of frame—no sound. The camera moved and, as the lens pointed away toward one of the walls of the cemetery, a figure in white could be seen standing there, the eyes glowing. On the video, a hand waved in front of the lens, and the video stopped abruptly.
“Can we see that again?” Carter said to Donnie.
“Yes. And there’s another one after this.”
Sarah strained to see the figure, her heart thudding. It looked as if it was not fully formed. Debbie’s voice startled her.
“Everyone ready?”
Donnie played the last video. “We digitally zoomed in to get a better look.”
For effect, he freeze-framed the final image. Sarah, Carter, and Lou leaned in. The room was dead silent. There was no mistaking it—no trick of the light, no shadow, no cheesy visual effects.
It was the girl in the mirror.
The lights came on, and Sarah found Donnie and Debbie staring at her intently, like joke cops waiting for the perp to confess. Their faux-friendly demeanor had been replaced by one of mild hostility. Sarah looked at Carter, who also seemed confused by the sudden change in attitude.
“We want to know how you did it,” Donnie said, his voice even.
“Did what?”
Debbie sighed and took a seat across from Sarah. She shook her head and glanced at her brother.
“We’re not amateurs, you know.”
Donnie joined his sister. “Our goal is to make it to a hundred shows—enough for syndication. We’ve been all over the country, documenting so-called paranormal events. And this season, we’re planning a trip to Australia. And we have a script in development over at Universal.”
“People are always trying to pull shit on us,” Debbie said, her voice rising. “Pardon my French. They rig up projectors and sound systems playing creepy noises. But it never works. Want to know why? Because we’re professionals.”
“Okay,” Sarah said. She pointed at the frozen image of the girl visible on the TV screen. “Are you suggesting that I created that? How would I—?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Sarah had had her fill of these two. “Let me explain something to you, Debbie. Ghosts are real. And that up there? Also real. I think we’re done here.”
Choking back anger, she got to her feet. Carter and Lou did the same. Lou approached Donnie, standing within inches of him. Donnie tensed.
“We have an active investigation going on,” the police chief said, “and I’m going to need a copy of everything you showed us. Plus, if there’s any more…”
“I don’t believe I need to give you anything.”
Lou smiled to himself. “Okay, hardball it is, then. I’ll get a subpoena. And while I’m at it, I’m going to need both of you to come up to Dos Santos for further questioning.”
“What?” the brother and sister said, their voices higher than normal.
“That’s right. And I’m also going to get a warrant to search the premises for any other evidence you might be ‘withholding.’ I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”
“But we didn’t do anything!” Debbie sounded like a petulant teenager.
Lou smiled graciously and leaned toward her. “Where I come from, that’s how you play hardball, sister.”
Sarah and the others walked out and were about to get into Lou’s car when the receptionist came scurrying out, waving something.
“Wait!” Lou walked over to meet her halfway. “Donnie told me to tell you this disc contains everything you asked for. Oh, and he’s sorry for any misunderstanding.”
Lou accepted the offering. “Tell him thanks for me. See you later.”
As Lou started the engine, the three of them watched the assistant trudge back into the building.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Sarah said.
Carter joined in. “I’m guessing this is not a good time to ask you to fix my parking tickets?”
“That’s it, guys,” he said. “Keep pushing my buttons and see what happens.”
Whistling tunelessly, he pulled out and got back on the road, glad to be leaving beautiful Burbank.
It was almost noon by the time they reached Santa Barbara. Lou had offered to buy Sarah and Carter lunch, but Sarah wanted to check something first. At the police station, she took her car and drove Carter to Casa Abrigo. She was sure Joe wouldn’t mind.
“It’s lovely,” Carter said as they made their way to the front door.
The property had been newly landscaped, and the house looked like something out of a magazine. The front door, which had been freshly stained, stood partially open. Carefully, Sarah pressed on the door handle, and they entered.
“Oh my God,” Carter said. “How much did you say you’re selling it for?”
“Why? Interested?”
“You never know.”
The interior was immaculate, and Sarah had to catch her breath when she saw the open kitchen leading to the dining room, where new high-end lighting had been installed. She tried imagining it filled with expensive furniture.
“Joe?” she said.
“In the cellar.”
She smiled at Carter. “Come on.”
They crossed to the kitchen and descended the stairs. The wine racks had been put back in place, and Joe and Manny were rolling up the drop cloths. The smell of sealer was strong and made Sarah a little lightheaded.
“Don’t mind us,” she said to the men. “By the way, Joe, Fr. Brian is a go for the house blessing.”
“Fantastic.”
“This way,” Sarah said to Carter.
She led the girl to the storage room. The door was closed. Carter looked at her apprehensively.
“You first.”
Sarah smiled. “No, I need to know your impression.”
Smiling nervously, Carter grasped the knob and turned it. Slowly, she swung the door open. As she did, she felt as if a cold wind had pushed her back, and she gasped.
“You okay?” Sarah said, touching her shoulder.
“There’s a lot of energy in that room.”
“Right?”
“Don’t make me go in, though, okay?”
“No, I think I got what I needed.”
Water bottles, plates and napkins, and pizzas from Papa Pepito’s took up one end of the conference room table at Greene Realty. Sarah and Carter had turned the space into a war room. Bulleted facts about the case were listed on the whiteboard. Lou stood there, staring at what they had so far, chomping on a slice of salami and mushroom.
“Don’t forget that biblical verse,” he said, pointing a greasy finger. “It might be important.”
Sarah arched her eyebrows. “Right.”
In a separate corner, she scribbled the name Harlan Covington, followed by a question mark.
“You think he’s involved?”
“I think he knows more about Peter Moody than he’s letting on.”
Carter took a red marker and made a circle. Under it, she wrote Cellar! “Whatever’s going on in that house is concentrated in that room.”
“So, basically,” Sarah said, “what we have is a lot of useless facts.”
Lou wiped his mouth with a napkin, grabbed a water bottle, and stepped up to the board. “You have to find the thread.” He took a swig and read across. “It’s here. We just can’t see it yet.”
“The dead girl is the thread,” Sarah said.
Carter turned to her. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Let’s see… It was in a dream. I was back in that storage room in the cellar.”
“What about the mirror?”
“After we moved it to public storage, I went there with Joe. Nothing.”
“Maybe you should go back.”
“Tha
t’s a good idea. You seem to have a feel for this, Carter. Maybe you can get her to come out and play.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Lou said.
Sarah returned to the board and underscored the name Michael Peterson twice. Rachel poked her head in.
“Anyone want coffee? I’m making a run.”
Lou’s hand shot up. “Double espresso, please. No, make that—”
“A triple, I know,” Rachel said.
Lou stared at her, surprised. “But how did you—?”
“Can I have a chai latte with an extra pump?” Carter said. “It feels weird giving my order to someone else.”
“Nothing for me,” Sarah said.
“Got it.” Rachel paused and stared at the board as Sarah drew a line connecting Michael Peterson and Gail Cohen. “Are you saying those two are connected? That’s a stretch.”
“Rache, don’t you think it’s odd that they both came into our lives at almost exactly the same time?”
“A coincidence,” Lou said.
Sarah shook her head. “My little woman says otherwise. And while we’re on the subject, why was Gail Cohen murdered?”
“Who says she was?”
“Come on, Lou. Birds from hell?”
“Okay, I’ll admit that is weird. But it doesn’t prove—”
“Fine.” She erased the line.
“Well, I haven’t got any better ideas,” Rachel said, and left.
Sarah fake-pounded her temples and groaned loudly. “I feel like the answer is right here. But I can’t seem to…”
Her phone, which was lying on the conference table, went off. She ignored it. Carter happened to be closer and glanced at the number.
“Hey, Sarah, you might wanna get that. Looks like a Kansas area code.”
“Holy crap!”
She dropped her marker and practically leapt for her phone. “Hello? Sarah Greene. Dr. Martin? Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker.”
She set the phone down and cranked up the volume as everyone crowded around.
“Dr. Martin, can you hear me?”
“Perfectly.”
The Girl in the Mirror Page 24
