by Ninie Hammon
She leaned across the table and fixed him with an unwavering look.
“I trick the equipment, ‘manage the readings,’ warp the outcome to create the most entertaining effect. Weren’t you listening to what I said before? The same instruments I use are used by scientists to document real phenomena. If there really is some—” She must have seen skepticism in his and Cotton’s faces. “I’m not using the G word, ghost, okay. But some kind of … entity, spiritual phenomena, sentient being. What’d you call it — the Jabberwock? Doesn’t matter what you call it, if there really is something there, this equipment will show us where and what it is.”
“What’s the point?” Cotton wanted to know. He rubbed his eyes to clear them, leaving them even more red than they already were. “So we find out there is … what? A spirit? A poltergeist? Casper and all his significant others?” He stopped and barked out a sardonic laugh. “How come all ghosts are white? Did you ever wonder about that?”
Jolene looked mildly uncomfortable, the way most white people looked when they were forced to actually recognize the skewed-white distortion of the world.
“I’ve noticed,” Stuart said. “When my grandmother died, I wondered if she’d come back as a white ghost. That’s when I decided all ghosts were white because if they were black you couldn’t see them in the dark.”
Cotton dragged the conversation back to the point.
“So we can demonstrate they’re here — what good does that do? Maybe you weren’t tracking with Stuart and me when I said I have spent two weeks trying to get people to believe there is something horribly wrong here, that thousands of people have vanished. And there’s plenty of evidence, hard, factual, you-can-hold-it-in-your-hand evidence to prove that, but—”
“What if it’s not just you saying the sky is falling. What if there are fifty, a hundred, a thousand Chicken Littles?”
“I don’t get what—” Stuart said.
“If I get the kind of real readings that I believe I’ll get — not fraudulent, cooking-the-books, but real — can you imagine the explosion it’ll cause when I tell this whole story on my show? With indisputable, scientific proof and a whole county full of empty houses? The road to Nowhere County will be clogged with cars all the way to Lexington. You’ll be tripping over nut-bag ghost-crazies and real scientists and lookie-loos and everything in between.”
“What good will—?” Cotton began.
“They’ll see. Don’t you get it, they’ll see. They may be coming here looking for ghosts, but when they get here they’ll notice that, oh by the way, a whole county full of people really is missing.”
“But they’ll forget—”
“You sure about that? Are you sure this Jabberwock thing can wipe the minds of dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of people?”
She had a point. In truth, they didn’t have any idea what the Jabberwock thing could or could not do. Just how powerful was it?
It was certainly worth a try to find out.
Chapter Eight
Malachi looked like Sam had slapped him. He didn’t literally stagger backward a step, but she could see him do it psychologically, could see him withdraw from information he flat out did not want to know. Who could blame him?
Sam had always felt sorry for Malachi because she believed, genuinely believed, that he was cut from an entirely different cloth than the other members of his murderous crime family. He wasn’t like his mother and brothers. As far as she knew, there was a short period of time after high school when Malachi had joined in with the others in the family business. She wasn’t sure about the particulars because she was pregnant with Rusty, and had way bigger fish to fry than wondering about a former classmate’s criminal activity. By the time Sam got her head above water again, with a goal in life, a toddler to raise and a determination to make something of herself, Malachi seemed to have been bitten by the same bug. He’d left Nower County for the military, and for the next decade he was only back intermittently. She only found out that he’d been home after he had left. It was a stroke of coincidence that he’d been home on leave when his brother got the infected spider bite. Otherwise, Sam wouldn’t have seen Malachi at all since graduation more than a decade ago.
Seeing him now reacting to her words confirmed for her what she had always believed — that Malachi had no idea what his mother was capable of doing.
Though she and Charlie had not spoken about it last night as they were seeing to Liam … to his body … Sam suspected Charlie shared her fear that the reason Malachi had not shown up at the meeting he’d promised to attend with them, the reason he hadn’t made his “little speech” that Charlie had ended up making for him, was because he knew what his mother and brothers intended to do. And either he wanted no part of it, and so he stayed away, or he was in cahoots with them and his absence was part of Viola’s plan to take over the county.
Now, seeing the look on his face when she accused his mother of killing Liam, it was clear to Sam that Malachi had not been privy to his mother’s plan to overthrow the law enforcement of the county and install herself as the new dictator. He’d had no idea she’d planned to kill Liam. In fact, Sam saw denial in his eyes, a pulling back, a refusal to believe his mother — even given what he had seen her do in the past — could be heartless, soul-less enough to murder poor Liam Montgomery in cold blood.
“Why … what makes you think …?”
Sam laid it out in simple statements. It was clear Viola had the whole thing planned out in advance — had orchestrated “disturbances” that suddenly broke out all over the room at the same time while she and her sons took up strategic positions on the stage.
“I saw her in the back of the room with your brothers,” Charlie said. “And the next thing I knew, the meeting broke out in arguments — everywhere at once — bickering that was heating up toward violence.”
Sam continued her description of what happened.
“People started pulling weapons, the place was seconds away from something like a shootout and Liam leapt off the stage and waded into the crowd to calm things down.”
“Then there was a gunshot, a single gunshot,” Charlie said.
“And Liam was lying on the floor, bleeding to death.” Sam’s voice was suddenly tear-clotted.
“So you didn’t see my mother shoot—?”
“I didn’t have to see it!” Sam was grateful for the anger that boiled up in her belly. It gave her the strength to push through all she had to say. “She was on the stage, just appeared there as soon as Liam jumped into the crowd. It wasn’t random, chance. She didn’t just happen to be nearby. She and your brothers were positioned there — like soldiers — spaced out across the front of the stage with weapons drawn.”
“Getting the drop on everyone,” Charlie said. “I saw her and the others when they came in and your mother was not packing a 30-06 rifle! I’d have noticed! Which means she had it all planned out in advance, had weapons stashed somewhere for her to grab when she needed them.”
“I don’t know if anybody actually saw who did the shooting,” Sam said. “If anybody did, they kept what they saw to themselves because nobody came forward. It was so confused and happened so fast.”
“But you think my mother—”
“Liam was shot in the back, Malachi.” Sam’s words rode a sob out of her throat. “And the only person standing behind him was—”
“My mother,” he finished for her.
She watched emotions play across his face in the silence that followed.
“She planned the whole thing,” he said simply.
“It’s easy to see now that it was orchestrated like a ballet. One minute she and your brothers are in the back of the room standing against the wall. Then the fights break out and bada boom, bada bing, she’s on the stage … with a deer rifle!”
“She planned it, all of it,” Malachi said.
Sam couldn’t determine the exact emotion she heard in the words, and maybe there was no emotion at all. None he would allow
to come through.
“She planned to take over and …” There was only the hint of a hesitation before he went on, “… and she planned to kill Liam. Of course she did. He stood between her … He was the only legitimate authority that stood between her and her own little country.”
“There’s no way to prove it,” Charlie said. “In a normal world, with amenities like 911 and the Kentucky State Police, autopsies and ballistics — somebody would be able to match the bullet in Liam’s back to—”
“But it’s not a normal world in Nowhere County, and …” Sam heard her own thoughts coming out in her words, spoke it before she even understood the implications, “… and I don’t think it ever will be again unless we do something. Who else is doing anything to try to figure this out? If not us, who?”
“It’s more than that,” Charlie said, and both of them turned to look at her. “It’s not just that we’re the only ones trying to understand. It’s — I think it … the Jabberwock is …” Now, it was clear Charlie didn’t want to continue. But she pushed through it. “I think maybe the … thing … is trying to … it’s talking to me.”
That was a conversation stopper. There was a beat of absolute silence. Another. And then each of them drew in a breath, eager to ask/say/speak—
But none of them got the chance, because into their silence fell a voice from down the hall, the voice of her son, Rusty.
“Mom, come quick. Something’s wrong with E.J.”
Chapter Nine
As soon as she’d convinced Cotton and Stuart to go along, Jolene started laying her plans.
“We could set up this equipment anywhere, but I want to test my father’s house. There is something there. I know it. I felt it.”
“Something,” Stuart said. “Yeah, I’ll bet there’s definitely something.”
There wasn’t a shred of disbelief on Cotton’s face either. And that was a first. The people with whom she came in contact in her line of work were always somewhere along a scale from “you are a crazy woman or a liar” all the way to “ask my dead Uncle Hurl where he put the safety deposit box key.” But nobody just took the existence of spirits without a shred of argument or disbelief the way Stuart McClintock and Cotton Jackson did. That in itself was spooky because their lack of disbelief had nothing to do with faith in her or in her equipment. They knew she wasn’t making stuff up. And that gave her a genuine case of the willies.
They all loaded into her van. The sky had grown even more overcast while they talked and now hung in a gray, brooding canopy above their heads. During the short trip from Persimmon Ridge to her father’s house in the Middle of Nowhere she began an explanation of the equipment she’d be using and how it worked, starting with the GaussMaster EMF meter.
“It has probes, sensors that measure electromagnetic fields. A really good probe doesn’t disturb the field, and has to prevent coupling and reflection to get precise results. There are two main types of EMF measurements: broadband and frequency-selective measurements. Broadband uses a probe that senses any electromagnetic signal across a wide range of frequencies — mine has three independent diode detectors. Frequency-selective measurements use a field antenna or spectrum analyzer to monitor the frequency range.”
She paused when no one spoke, then continued proudly, “You can get EMF probes that respond to fields only on one axis, but mine is triaxial, showing a field in three different directions at once.”
When she paused again, Cotton spoke from the backseat.
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
She made eye contact with him in the rearview mirror.
“What?”
“Or you can say it backwards,” Stuart said from beside her in the front of the van, “which is docious, ali, expi, istic, fragi, cali, repus.”
“And your point?”
“Either one of them makes as much sense as what you’re saying,” Cotton said. “And I used to be a mathematics teacher.”
“Save the explanations for the folks who tune in to your show and buy enough toothpaste or running shoes or car insurance to keep the advertisers happy,” Stuart said. “Just set it up, turn it on and we’ll see if it has anything to report.”
She sighed. “Fine. But it’s a bummer. This is the first time in my multifaceted career that there might actually be a paranormal presence to find, and there’s nobody here to see that I didn’t screw with the results to make it happen.”
The moment they pulled into her father’s driveway, Jolene began to feel cold all over. She’d have turned down the air conditioning, but it wasn’t on.
“You guys feel—?”
“Cold?” Stuart responded. “Uh huh.”
“Copy that,” Cotton said from the backseat.
She couldn’t keep the silly grin from creeping out onto her face or the excitement out of her voice.
“It’s real. Nothing made up. This is such a rush!”
“Let’s see if you’re still thrilled when we get in there and the … presence wants us to leave,” Stuart said.
The excitement drained away as she recalled how she had been violently expelled from the premises only a few hours before.
Opening the sliding side door of the van, she gestured toward what must have looked like a Rube Goldberg creation to the two men, and asked if they’d help her carry the various pieces of equipment into the house.
“Everything but that,” she said, pointing to the machine stuck back behind the others. “It’s a—” She caught herself. “It’s a thingamabob that emits ultra high frequency sound waves. Higher than a dog whistle.”
“What’s it for?” Cotton asked.
“Bug spray for ghosts. Gets rid of them.”
“Does it work?”
“How would I know? I’ve never used it on a real ghost.”
Cotton and Stuart got the machinery out of the van, set it on the rolling cart, and pushed it up the sidewalk and into the house. She crossed the yard behind them, and the closer she got to the house, the more aware she was that whatever it was that now … occupied … the residence was not happy to see her. Even after they’d hauled everything into the living room, she left the door open because the stuffiness in the air seemed to grow more uncomfortable by the minute. The open door wouldn’t help but it was all she could do.
“Well would ya look at this!” Cotton stepped up to the canvas in the living room, staring in admiration at the map that took up almost the whole wall.
“Your father drew this?” Stuart asked her and she nodded.
“All those years as a mail carrier, probably wasn’t anybody in the county knew it better than he did,” Cotton said.
“Good to see a map of the county that actually has the name on it,” Stuart said, and when they both looked at him, he continued. “You haven’t noticed?” They shook their heads.
He reached into his suit coat pocket and took out a map. He said he’d gotten it at the convenience store on the way into Nower County, that it had taken ten minutes to re-fold it properly after he’d opened it, sitting in front of the gigantic hole blasted in the asphalt. He opened the map again and held it up awkwardly for them to see.
“Nower County’s not there,” he said, pointing to the space between Beaufort and Drayton and Crawford counties. “Well, the place is there, but the name isn’t. And this is the official map of Kentucky, that became effective” — he searched around on the legend page until he found it — “on June 1, 1995.”
“Nower County isn’t on the map.” There was fear-tinged awe in Cotton’s voice.
“You think that has anything to do with what’s going on here?” Jolene asked.
“Yeah.” His voice was soft. “But I don’t know if it’s cause or effect.”
She watched him try to shake off the gloom that had settled around all of them, to no effect. It was a heavy, palpable presence, unshakeable.
“Set this stuff up and let’s see what it says,” Stuart said, and even the guy built like a professional wrestler lo
oked around apprehensively. “So we can get out of here.”
Chapter Ten
It was instantly clear that E.J. was having a seizure. What wasn’t at all clear was why.
Sam and the others raced down the hallway to find E.J. in the bed, hooked up to the IV lines, his back rigid and his eyes rolled back. He was convulsing violently. Sam scrambled to remember words on a page in a textbook, describing a phenomenon she never expected to see up close and personal. And she’d never have dreamed she would be responsible for figuring it all out and doing the right thing in response.
A seizure was an electrical storm in the brain, a sudden burst of electrical activity. E.J. was suffering a grand mal seizure. Rusty was trying to restrain his heaving body.
“Let him go,” Sam told her son. To Malachi, she said, “Help me roll him over onto his side, to keep his airway clear.”
Malachi stepped forward and the two rolled E.J. onto his side, gently holding his jerking body in place. Sam looked at her watch, then realized the absurdity of the action. You were supposed to time the duration of a seizure so you could report it to the attending physician. She was the only physician, attending or otherwise.
Gratefully, the seizure subsided in a couple of minutes and E.J. regained consciousness. He was disoriented, but seemed otherwise unharmed. Looking at all the people gathered around his bed, he managed to whisper, “Who called this meeting?” and tried to grin. “I didn’t get the memo.”
But the seizure had banged his injured leg around and Sam knew it was likely screaming in pain. She glanced at the clock. He wasn’t due for more pain medication — more of Malachi’s contraband oxycontin — for another half hour, but she pulled the bottle out of the pocket of her white lab coat, popped a couple of pills into her hand and held E.J.’s head while he washed them down with a cup of water.
She eased him back down on the hospital bed Malachi had scrounged for him and they all made inane conversation as he got less and less coherent. He was soon asleep.
