Rest Stop (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 4) by Catie Rhodes

Author:Catie Rhodes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Long Roads and Dark Ends Press
Published: 2016-04-26T06:00:00+00:00

6

Griff set up an office of sorts in his motel room with his laptop and his cellphone.

“I’m going to be making phone calls and accessing whatever databases I can on my computer.” He pulled out a legal pad and tore off the top sheet of paper and handed it to Mysti. “Your job is to call Camden’s college. Confirm he went there in fall of 1975. Something doesn’t feel right to me about DeVoss’s story.”

“Am I looking for anything in particular?” Mysti took out her cellphone and her bluetooth earpiece.

“Unfortunately, it’s needle in a haystack time. I’m looking for any odd stories about him, anything that doesn’t quite fit.”

“How will this tell us if he was psychic?” I stood by the door, useless as a condom on a stone statue.

Griff turned to me. “It won’t, but it’ll give me an idea of how dangerous this guy was.” He paused to type something on his computer. He stopped and glanced at me. “You call Margaret Franklin. She likes you best of the three of us. See if she can think of anybody who’d remember what Camden DeVoss was like. A teacher would be good. A classmate would be even better. Find out if Camden had an interest in the occult, or if there were odd stories floating around about him.”

I left the room to call Margaret Franklin. She put me in touch with Donny Wayne McClure, who’d taught Camden senior level English.

“Now Donny Wayne is eighty-five if he’s a day, but he’s scary sharp.” Margaret chuckled over the phone, her voice crackling. “Remembers things from back then better than he knows what he had for lunch. I’ll call him on your behalf.”

Margaret said her goodbyes and called me back a few minutes later. “He can’t wait to meet you. Says he’ll be waiting at the front door.”

Donny Wayne McClure lived in an assisted living community a half hour’s drive from Nazareth. The facility looked like a plain old nursing home to me. I parked and hurried to the front door.

A man who’d been sitting on the bench out front stood, leaning heavily on his cane. From a distance, he looked like a strong wind might blow him over. I got closer and realized only his body was frail. His blue eyes were clear and lively.

“You Peri Jean Mace?” He had a high, wheezy voice.

“Yes, sir. You must be Mr. McClure.”

“Call me Donny Wayne. I’ve not been a teacher for going on twenty-five years.” He bared a set of tobacco stained teeth at me and held out an age spotted hand. His skin was shiny and so thin it seemed I could see every vein. I was afraid to touch him, but the strength of his handshake surprised me. “Do you mind if we sit out here, hon? Fascists who run this place won’t let an old man smoke inside his own apartment.”

“Not a bit,” I said and sat down on the bench. I took out my cigarettes and held out the pack to him.

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