Levi sighed. “I’ve told you before, Sterling. I’m not Amish anymore. I use a cell phone for the same reason everybody else uses a cell phone: because it’s a lot more practical than a carrier pigeon.”
“Yeah,” Sterling cackled. “You got that right! Still, I hate the things. Wife has one, but I don’t. I think they’re just evil.”
“Perhaps,” Levi agreed. “But they are a necessary evil. Sometimes a little evil is necessary to achieve a greater good.”
Levi cut Sterling off in midreply and thanked him again, then hung up. He slipped the cell phone back into his pocket.
He did not smile.
There was nothing funny about what he had to do next. But it was necessary.
Thick clouds glided over the moon, engulfing it. The night grew darker.
CHAPTER SIX
Maria drove from York City to the site of the Ghost Walk. Urban row homes, ethnic restaurants, liquor stores, and pawnshops gave way to deserted industrial parks and factories, followed by the excesses of suburban sprawl, and then wide-open expanses of countryside. Along the way, she got lost on the back roads and had to turn around twice. Before leaving, she’d gone online and printed out directions; unfortunately, those directions landed her in the middle of nowhere. She’d never had to travel to the rural parts ofYork County before. It was a little scary after dark—just trees and shadows and darkened houses. Several of the porches held garishly carved jack-o’-lanterns. Their eyes and mouths flickered with an orange glow as candles burned inside them. Other than the pumpkins, the houses seemed deserted. No lamps or television lights. She passed only a handful of other cars. It was like she’d driven back through time. This part of the county seemed divorced from the rest of civilization. She felt like an astronaut exploring a different planet. In locales like this, it was easy to understand why primitive man had been so afraid of the dark.
The radio was on. Warm 103, the local easy listening station, played softly in the background. Whoever programmed the station relied heavily on songs from the sixties, seventies, and eighties—almost as if elevator music had died after 1989. Maria hated the selection, but for some reason the only other channel she could pick up in this remote area featured a preacher screaming at his audience. She tried again, scanning the dial, but found more of the same.
“
“That’s wonderful news.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
“
There was a chorus of amens, and then the preacher continued.
“Great,” Maria said. “My choices are hellfire and brimstone or Whitney Houston and The Righteous Brothers.”
Sighing, Maria turned off the radio and drove in silence. She found it preferable to the preaching. Although she considered herself a spiritual person, Maria had little patience for organized religion or its spokespeople. At her father’s insistence, she’d been raised in the Islamic faith, albeit a watered-down Western version. She didn’t know what she was anymore. She disliked the agnostic label and she didn’t consider herself an atheist, but she didn’t believe in the Muslim, Christian, or Jewish versions of God, either. She’d always felt that God, if He or She existed, was probably more of a personal, singular deity—a God that was specific to the believer’s current needs rather than beholden to the dictates of an entire world. A personal Jesus, just like in the Depeche Mode song, or an instant karma, like John Lennon had sung about. She’d never told her parents this. If she did, she’d never hear the end of it. While neither of them were particularly religious behind closed doors, they were all about keeping up appearances —doing what was expected of them by the community and their peers. They expected the same of Maria. It wouldn’t do for the Nasrs’ only child to be labeled a nonbeliever, especially in times like this, when Islam was so misunderstood by so many others. She was supposed to embrace her Jordanian father’s Muslim heritage, not turn away from it—even if she didn’t truly believe.
Her attention was drawn to something black and red lying in the road. Her headlights flashed off it. Her nose wrinkled at the sharp, pungent smell of a skunk. She swerved around the dead animal and sped up.
Eventually, Maria found some roadside signs for the Ghost Walk. Simple and crude—block letters and crooked arrows spray-painted onto cheap plywood: GHOST WALK—3 MILES. Following them, she turned onto another winding road, then off the road and into a massive field. The terrain was bumpy. She bounced up and down in the seat. Her teeth clacked together.
“Jesus…”
Fragile wisps of fog swirled in her headlight beams. A paunchy man with a flashlight appeared, waving her in and directing her to the parking area. Maria smiled and nodded, indicating that she understood. Then she realized that he probably couldn’t see her in the dark, so she waved her hand instead.
There were about a dozen other cars parked in the field. Maria turned off her headlights and got out of the car. The man with the flashlight approached, smiling. As he drew closer, she was able to make out more details. He was in his late thirties or early forties. A few days’ worth of whis kers covered his pale face. His red flannel shirt fit tightly over a middle-aged gut. He also wore a hunting jacket, dirty jeans, and a Mack Truck ball cap. Thin, brown hair jutted out from beneath the hat’s brim.
“Howdy,” he said, pointing the flashlight at the ground. “You the lady from the paper?”
Nodding, Maria stuck out her hand. “I sure am. Hi. Maria Nasr.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand.
“You must be Ken Ripple?”
“Sorry, no. I’m his friend, Terry Klein. I’m sort of a second-in-command here, I guess.”
