The Touch Of Ghosts: Writer's Cut (Alex Rourke) by John Rickards Page B

sister to tell her. State Police posted them as missing, but that was about it. I think the cops back in Minnesota had a look to see if there was any reason they might want to disappear; I don't know what became of that.”
    I thumbed through the sparse information Elijah had collected on the missing couple. “Why didn't this get brought up when Stephanie vanished?”  
    “Technically, they went missing in Orleans County, maybe Franklin, but as far as the way the statistics and everything is organized, definitely not from the same area as Stephanie. I thought of writing a piece on them, linking the two together, but I couldn't get nearly enough information to make it worthwhile. You're welcome to keep these copies of what I got, if you're interested.”
    “Sure, sure. Thanks, I appreciate the help.”
    “No problem.” Elijah waved a hand dismissively. “If you want to know any more about all this, you'd be best off talking to the State Police.”
    “I’m planning to. Do you remember who it was who was technically in charge of the Haley case?”
    He shook his head and pulled his hat back on. “Afraid not. If there's anything still posted about them anywhere, it might say who to contact.”
    “Maybe so.” Then something stirred in my head and I didn’t know if it was to do with Gemma or some vestige of professionalism connected to finding Adam Webb. “One last thing,” I said. “You know Burlington much better than I do. Where would I go if I was looking for a cheap bar where I might find out if anyone's offering casual work, or maybe to meet a couple of small-time criminals? Or if I wanted somewhere cheap and anonymous to call home for a while, where would be the best bet?”
    He thought for a long moment, then said, “You might try the Mountain Bar on Patrick. Or there's the Hart, and Cavanagh's. There'll all pretty rough places. As for accommodation, there's not much to choose from. Maybe some of the newer developments in South Burlington, but most of those still wouldn't be cheap. There’s a couple of low-rent apartment blocks and boarding houses that advertise in the classifieds. The kind of places where you can get a room for thirty bucks a week so long as you don’t mind sharing a bathroom with everyone else on your floor and a bedroom with every form of parasite known to man.”
    “Classy.”
    “I can't remember where they are exactly, but they shouldn’t be hard to find. I don't know much about cheap motels. I guess you could try asking around the train station in Essex Junction — there must be plenty of people get into town and need somewhere to stay for a while.”
    “Thanks, I might do that.”
    “Another story?”
    “Maybe. Or another missing person,” I said. “Or maybe one day I’ll need a way to disappear myself.”
    “I’d have thought that would be easier in Boston.”
    “You’d think. But wherever you go, people never seem to have a hard time just up and vanishing into the blue if they try hard enough.”
    “Yeah,” he said, “but most of those either turn out to be buried in a ditch or else they’ve thrown themselves off a bridge, Mr Rourke. Try not to end up either way if you can.”
    “No promises,” I said.

15.

    I should’ve listened to that voicemail again. I still hadn’t listened to that voicemail again. I ate a lonely dinner in Gemma’s front room and did my best to ignore both my cell phone and the sense of horror I felt whenever I thought about replaying Gemma’s death.
    I wanted to catch her killer.
    I didn’t want to hear her die again.
    By eight thirty I was in the bar. The place was pretty much empty. If Bleakwater Ridge had any serious drinkers, the cold was keeping them at home tonight. Ed Markham was in, as always, but he was alone. Charlie had either left early or else he hadn’t made it out at all.  
    “Hi, Ed,” I said, sitting opposite with a bottle of something I didn’t really want but might as well have.  
    “Evening, Alex. You look