Read Online Flowers in a Dumpster by Mark Allan Gunnells - Free Book Online Page B

selected the digital video recorder with infrared night-vision. “When we get sanctioned by the school and start collecting membership fees, we can finally get some decent equipment like the professional outfits use.”
    “Maybe we can even get Chip Coffey to pay us a visit,” Topher said. Cane shot him a heated glare, and Topher pulled the corners of his lips down in a severe, exaggerated frown. “Sorry, forgot I was supposed to be Mr. Serious.”
    “Enough fooling around. Let’s start over at little Gracie’s grave.”
    The trio headed to one of the many roads that cut through the expansive graveyard. Topher remained silent for about ten seconds, which was pretty much his limit, then said, “So I think I’ve come up with a name for this little excursion.” Cane didn’t respond, but he knew that wouldn’t stop Topher. “The Bonadventure. What do you think?”
    “I think that sounds ridiculous.”
    “It’s fun and whimsical, like me.”
    “I want this organization to be taken seriously, not seen as some colossal joke.”
    “Yes, God forbid anyone laugh at the Scad Pit.”
    “Look Topher, I know you think you should be in charge of this group, just because you lead those little walking ghost tours around the downtown area, but you’re not.”
    “Hey, my ghost tours are the most popular in the city, and one hundred percent historically accurate, so don’t go shooting your fat mouth off.”
    “I’ll say whatever—”
    “Guys,” Kinsley said, stepping between the two. “Whatever happened to keeping our voices down? I suggest you save the pissing contest for later so we can get the job done.”
    Cane and Topher stared at one another for a few seconds, then turned without a word and continued down the road.
    So far S.C.A.D.P.I.T. had done three investigations, Bonaventure being the fourth. Already Cane was sick to death of Topher and his unprofessional demeanor. Other than their interest in the paranormal they had absolutely nothing in common. Their personalities clashed like a cold and warm front colliding to create a massive thunderstorm. More than once he’d considered kicking the jokester off the team, but seeing as he already hurt for members, he couldn’t really afford to give anyone the boot. Besides, much as it pained Cane to admit it, the guy’s tours were immensely popular and could potentially draw in new members.
    As they approached the grave of six year old Gracie Watson, Cane started up the recorder, looking at the display screen to check the picture quality. The night-vision rendered everything a glowing green, but the picture was clear and focused. “Anything registering on the EMF?” he asked without glancing at Topher.
    “Everything’s in normal range, Cap’n.”
    They stopped before the grave, enclosed by a tall wrought-iron fence. Inside, the life-sized marble statue of the girl shone ghostly in the moonlight, startlingly lifelike in its detail. Foliage exploded around it. Cane positioned the camera through the bars and trained it on the statue. “Still nothing?” he asked Topher.
    “No unusual spikes in the electromagnetic field. Maybe she’s sleeping?”
    Cane pointed the camera at the collection of dolls and trinkets that had been left just outside the fence. Little Gracie’s grave was purported to be one of the most haunted sites at Bonaventure Cemetery. People claimed they could sometimes hear Gracie, who had died of pneumonia in 1889, laughing or singing, sometimes even crying. Supposedly, the statue even wept blood at times. Cane highly doubted the latter, but there may be truth to the other tales. He hoped to find out tonight.
    “Okay, Kinsley, you’re up.”
    She seemed distracted, staring off at something to the left of them. Cane called her name again before she turned on the recorder. “Okay, um, here we go. Is the spirit of Grace Watson with us?”
    Kinsley paused, and they all remained silent, even Topher. The night seemed to be totally devoid of sound.