The Sleeping and the Dead by Jeff Crook Page B

the Laundromat, spreading garbage on the floor while Grant filmed them. Walter was leaning against a dryer with his mouth hanging open. As I came in, Trey looked up and pointed for me to stay at the door, as though I had a communicable disease.
    â€œWhat’s up?”
    â€œThey is something in the garbage,” Trey said.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œGarbage. Hell if I know.”
    â€œThem little sticks crossed over the top of the can,” Walter said, looking spooked. He rubbed his mouth with the back of one hand while he reached for his back pocket with the other.
    â€œY’all stand back.” Trey waved his divining wands over the spread of garbage, pacing a circle around it. His circle became an oval that narrowed with each pass, until finally the rods crossed and stuck, as though drawn together by magnets. Deiter stooped under them and picked up a crumpled fast-food bag. Grant pushed the camera in while he opened it.
    Deiter looked up and said, “I don’t get it.” He tipped the bag over and a cell phone slid out.
    â€œY’all gonna clean this shit up now, right?” Walter said.

 
    12
    D EITER LOOKED DEEPLY AND EARNESTLY into my eyes. “Ghost hunting is not an exact science. Sometimes you get a hit and sometimes you don’t. Just because we didn’t see anything tonight doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. I just want you to know I believe you.”
    â€œI appreciate that,” I said.
    â€œAnd if you experience anything else, you can call me, night or day.”
    I shook his big, warm hand. “I will.”
    â€œIf you see anything, try to get a picture with your Leica.”
    â€œAnd you call me if you find anything on those Orpheum images.”
    After dawdling around the hall and offering several more apologies, he dragged his flip-flops out the door. I closed and locked it, then turned and looked at the room. It still smelled like Trey’s chewing tobacco and Deiter’s Viking barn funk. I could also smell the faint, sweet reek of garbage, like a fairground on a summer day.
    I got the last quart of beer out of the fridge, sat down and turned on the television. I didn’t have cable, but a Vincent Price movie, Theater of Blood , was still in the DVD player. I listened to the movie without really watching, distracted by the cell phone they had found in the trash. The cell-phone battery was dead. I had the same brand of phone, so I plugged it in to let it charge.
    Trey said the phone didn’t have anything to do with Walter’s haunted elevator. There was something else about it that had drawn his divining rods, but he couldn’t say what. I got the feeling he didn’t like me much. I jammed his frequencies. I did that to lots of people.
    When the movie was over, I turned the phone on to see what I could find out about the owner. The photos indicated a woman. The phone was full of pictures of women at parties and bars, your standard self-portait with your friends. One seemed familiar to me for some reason, but I couldn’t put a name with her face—a gorgeous, photogenic blonde. The person consistently holding the phone was a young, pretty brunette, so I guessed it had belonged to her. She had probably thrown the phone away with her lunch.
    I checked the last number she called and pressed Redial. After three rings, a woman answered, no hello, just a hostile “Who is this?”
    â€œI found this phone. I’m just trying to contact the owner.”
    â€œJenny, somebody found your phone,” the voice said. Music played in the background, something by John Hiatt, and women talking loudly over the din of a crowded bar.
    After a few seconds, another woman took over. “Hey, you found my phone!” She had to shout over the noise.
    â€œIn a Laundromat on Summer.” I didn’t try to explain how I found it.
    She said, “Somebody stole my purse from a party last night.”
    â€œI