Speed Dating With the Dead (26 page)

“Yeah. Right.”

“And there’s Rochester the Rat-Faced Boy, whose dressed like somebody out of a funeral parlor. Then there’s Dorrie the Doughball, and—”

“Whoa. These are characters from your comic book, right? The one you’ve been drawing?”

“No. Real people. And Bruce stole my sketchbook after I saw him hanging around in my room.” She’d bent the truth a little, but it was just a little white lie. Dad had taught her that lies were always better than promises. But sometimes they were the same.

Cody raised the flashlight so they could see one another’s face. “Okay, I know you’re under a lot of stress. Burton told me about your dad. We’re hoping we can pull off these hunts so SSI doesn’t get burned. And... your mom....”

“What about my mom?” Her lip trembled, despite herself.

“It must be weird with your dad thinking he’s run into her.”

“She’s dead. That’s all I know for a fact. The rest is just stuff for you to throw on Facebook for a laugh.”

“Kendra, I followed you because—”

“Because you feel sorry for me? Because you want to ‘help’ me? Like I’m some lost spirit that has to be guided to the light?”

“Because I—goddamn it, you sure don’t make it easy, do you?”

“Not my job. Now help me look for Bruce.”

She snatched the flashlight from his hand and navigated the uneven rows of support beams. A bed of shredded paper served as insulation on the attic floor, though a series of gangplanks allowed access through the crawlspace for needed repairs.

“Careful,” Cody said, close behind her. “If you step through, you’re liable to keep falling all the way to the basement.”

“Shh. Did you hear that?”

They were silent a moment. Muted conversation came from below them, obviously guests getting ready for the night’s hunt.

Kendra swept the flashlight in an arc. Cody grabbed her arm and guided it, pressing against her from behind. Even in her anger and fear, she noted the contours of his body. “The chimney,” he said.

She recognized it from the video Cody had shown her. “That’s where Dad saw the ghost.”

“The rigged image, you mean. We busted those clowns. Come on, let’s find their projector.”

His breath was on the back of her neck and she closed her eyes.
Emily Dickinson never had these problems
. “I’m more interested in my sketch pad at the moment, thank you.”

Cody let go of her arm. “I guess we all have our priorities. Piercing the veil between life and death or a bunch of pages of cartoon doodles. Tough choice.”

“What’s with you, Cody? You used to be so cool. Now you’re starting to believe your own blog posts.” She flipped the light toward him, and the beam was waist high, shining up into his face and casting his eyes in deep red shadows.

“We’ve got some real evidence here. A lot of active readings. If we can just keep it together, we may be able to make a case.”

“You’ve been drinking Digger’s punch, huh?” The dust nearly made her sneeze, and she wiped her nose so she didn’t blow her temper tantrum. “SSI and the White Horse Hauntings. Buy the DVD, read the book, eat the goddamned cereal, and by the way, I’ll come lecture at your conference for ten grand a day. That’s what the future’s all about, right?”

“This isn’t about money or ego,” Cody said. “It’s about
knowing
.”

“Who cares?” The attic was chilly and she shivered, wishing Cody’s body heat would enwrap and kindle her.

“Don’t you want to know where your mom went?”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Digger told me, so don’t act like a child.”

“Damn you, I’m not a child.”

She let the flashlight sag to her side, their faces in darkness. Where they were safe.

He touched her cheek. Emily Dickinson may have been a moribund virgin but maybe she still drifted over her beloved New England meadows, places she dared not walk while alive.

Sleeping the churchyard sleep? Or searching for that missing master?

His breath was close, soft on her cheeks, and then his lips found hers. She flicked the flashlight off, afraid of his dangerous eyes.

First kiss...and it tastes like strawberries and pennies.

Giggles erupted. A child’s voice whispered, “He’s going to touch her noonie.”

Cody’s lips froze and pulled back. “What the—”

She jabbed at the flashlight casing, fumbling for the switch. The giggling swelled, as if half a dozen kids were gathered around in the utter darkness, teasing and making fun of their kiss. She finally thumbed the light on and waved it wildly around.

“You heard it?” Cody asked.

“Yeah.”

“Now do you believe me?”

“Do you believe
me
?”

Cody nodded. “Maybe we’re both right. There are ghosts here and this Bruce guy stole your sketch pad.”

“What kind of ghost plays tricks like that?”

“Well, it’s not a residual, because they reacted to our—you know.”

She touched her lips, which still tingled. “Yeah.”

“I hate to say it, but based on the other evidence, I believe we have a true demonic haunting.”

“A demon? Like in ‘The Exorcist’ and all that?”

“Worse. Multiples.”

“Christ. What are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”

“What about my sketch pad?”

“Your weakness. They’re using it to gain power over you.”

He guided her toward the access opening, his hands firm and confident on her shoulders. Cody called out to the recesses of the attic. “I’ll be back.”

Kendra thought the challenge was a little foolhardy, even though she didn’t believe in demons. She’d heard SSI talk about them, theorizing that they were fallen angels who were rebelling against God for being cast out of heaven. Why would demons bother playing such silly pranks, when they supposedly had the power to inflict real harm and destruction?

That kind of talk was for later, in the safety of a well-lighted room with a cup of herbal tea in her hand. She’d get Cody to tell her about it, asking enough questions that she could gaze into his eyes for hours, maybe luring him into another kiss or two. She was nearly to the square of light marking the access when the door below slammed shut.

“Cody?”

“Right behind you, kid.”

She turned and Cody was nowhere in sight, but Rochester seemed happy to see her. He grinned like a rat wallowing in contaminated cheese.

Chapter 38

He hadn’t seen Kendra in three hours.

Wayne Wilson splashed cold water on his face, his stomach finally settled enough for hunger to emerge. He cupped his hands and drank from the bathroom sink, watering down the bile. The erratic pulse had given way to the occasional
tha-dump
of a skipped beat. He winced as he studied his reflection, adjusting the top hat that now felt foolish, as if he were Bugs Bunny pulled out of some magician’s ass. His face was pale but he’d be able to fake it.

“Showtime, Digger,” he said. “It’s a new day.”

Bury the past yet again.

His last clear memory was sitting next to Cristos at the bar and making the decision to go for that third drink. After that, only flashes remained, a jigsaw puzzle of his night he’d never be able to reassemble: the hostess, Violet, waving from across the bar...a Bud Lite commercial featuring Mike Ditka...the cryptic message “Yaz manchoo” scribbled on the wall above the urinal...Kendra taking his boots off...and…

No. Please, God, you didn’t let her see me like that, did you?

And what if Beth had been watching? His encounter with her swirled in with the broken memories of his binge and the shards of frantic dreams, until he couldn’t sort one from the other. But maybe there was no difference.

Wayne changed the batteries in his walkie talkie and pressed the button. “Burton?”

“Aye, Kip-tin,” Burton answered, in a Scottish brogue parody of engineer Scottie from “Star Trek.”

“How’s it looking?”

“Assembling for night hunts.”

“I’ll be in the control room shortly. Over and out.”

“Roger.”

Professional, controlled, relaxed, just the way Wayne had taught him. And everything Wayne wasn’t.

The trip to the door went smoothly. He made it just fine to the stairs, greeting a couple of ghost hunters and smiling as if to say, “Sure, I’ve been around all day, you just haven’t seen me.” His head swam a little as he ascended, but nothing too unmanageable. Based on distant past experience, he’d have pegged his consumption at between a quart and a half gallon. Only his bar tab knew for sure.

He was nearly to the top of the stairs, breathing hard and wobbling, when one of the guests confronted him. He recognized her face but she wasn’t wearing her name badge. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, as if she’d been ghost-hunting in a basement somewhere. But it was her eyes that got him.

“Where’s the party, Digger?” she said.

“In the control room. We’re gathering for hunts.”

“I don’t need a group.”

He remembered her now. Eloise Lanier, one of the panelists for “What’s My Line?,” a discussion of why some people were more attuned to supernatural and psychic phenomena than others. He made a polite step to one side to indicate he was in a hurry. His throat was already dry despite the glass of water he’d downed. “Well, ma’am, we can’t accommodate solo—”

She shoved him against the railing with enough force to knock his top hat over the side and twenty-five feet down to the landing below. Off balance, he grabbed at the slick oak rail. “Ma’am, if you’re upset—”

Eloise grabbed a fistful of his ruffled shirt and shook him. Even though she outweighed him by a good eighty pounds, he was startled by her strength. “Upset? Why should I be upset?”

He gripped her wrist with both hands, forcing himself to remain gentle despite the pain. “I’m sorry if—”

“I’m not upset, I’m grateful.” Her voice changed and deepened. “Thanks for inviting me to the party.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun,” he said. “But we also hope to get some serious data on the White Horse Inn.”

She leaned her face closer, spittle flying from her broad, dark face as she hissed. “You want answers, Wayne Wilson? Do you really want to know?”

Wayne blinked. Had her eyes flashed yellow or was he still wobbly from the drinking? He couldn’t trust any of his senses, and it made him feel even more lost than before.

He pulled free but she grabbed his wrist as he tried to slip past her.

As her eyes burned into his, he caught a glimpse of a dim, dirty opening and a crumbled carpet of gray and black. Ashes. In the vision, a tiny dot of red sparked to life underneath, then orange-red sparks winked to life.

He reeled against the railing as the hallucination swept over him. Eloise’s grip was like molten iron, and an electric wire of heat stabbed up his arm. The hallucination broadened and the embers burst into flames, images of naked bodies in the flickering bands of red, yellow, white, and blue.

Hell... the gate of hell
....

But he didn’t believe in hell. This was someone else’s illusion, a fire-and-brimstone story from a Southern tent revival. Or a bad horror movie. Yet the warmth engulfed his chest and his heart stuttered. He clawed at the searing band around his wrist, his head jangling with more than a hangover.

The vision swelled until he could no longer see the dull white walls of the stairwell. He was surrounded by darkness, and the searing band was now a lasso, tugging him into the roiling pit of burning human forms. The crackle of the flames was like a soft, sibilant whispering, an almost seductive lulling.

“Dance with us, Digger... stay and play.....”

“No,” he said, straining against the lasso. “I don’t see this.”

And just like that, his eyes snapped open, and he was in the stairwell, holding onto the railing and gently swaying. Eloise Lanier stood a couple of steps above him, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

Wayne looked around and reached for the top of his head. His hat was missing. “I’m just a little...late.”

“I heard you were under the weather.” She gave a sweet smile of sympathy.

He looked over the railing. His black top hat lay on the carpet of the first-floor landing, the brim dented from the fall. When he turned his attention back to Eloise, she eased down a step. He fought an urge to back away. This wasn’t the embodiment of evil.

According to the biography she’d sent in for the conference program, Eloise was a public librarian who fancied herself a psychic medium. She probably baked cookies for her grandchildren. If he gave her credit for channeling a vision through him, she’d probably quit her job and start dressing in black gowns and owl feathers.

It was easier to believe he’d gone through a delayed case of
delirium tremens
, the scientific name for shaking yourself sober.

“I dropped my hat,” he said.

“Good thing your head wasn’t in it.” Her smile remained frozen in place.

Wayne’s walkie talkie crackled and he jerked at the sound. “Come in, Digger,’ came Burton’s voice. “Where are you?”

“On my way.” He eased past Eloise, half expecting her to trip him up. He was nearly at the top when she whispered, “Catch you later, Digger.”

From the third floor, he looked down to see that his hat was gone. Children’s laughter echoed up the stairwell.

I’m going to have a talk with that goddamned manager. But first things first.

Get the night hunts rolling, find Kendra, and get out of this hotel before my brain pickles in its own juice.

Chapter 39

“Cody?” Kendra swept the flashlight beam past Rochester and into the recesses of the attic. Cody had been right beside her. How could he have just disappeared?

Rochester laughed. “What, want to play ‘kissy face’ some more?”

She thrust the beam into his face. He didn’t squint and his dark eyes seemed to soak up the light. “None of your business, you little rat-faced creep.”