Speed Dating With the Dead (22 page)

The light switch would set things right, make it just another room, just another lonely hour with her sketch pad, painting herself into corners.

Before she could reach it, the door handle clacked and the door swung open, something thumping heavily against jamb. The wedge of light that cleaved into the room lit up the person crouched in the corner. Not Mom, not Bruce, not the Wizard of Oz.

It could only be Rochester, and he was even worse than she’d drawn him.

Then the light flicked on, Rochester was gone, and the real horror began.

Dad staggered in drunk as a senator, mushing out an atonal jumble of song. “...shaw her faysh...muuuh bweever….”

The koo-koo choo-choo had just derailed.

Chapter 30

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours,” Burton told Ann Vandooren.

She blinked at him as if waking from a nap. “This is important.”

“He had something come up,” Burton said. “Trust me, Digger wouldn’t bail on a conference without good reason.”

“Do we tell them?” Duncan said.

Burton looked from the woman to her young companion, then at the stack of video gear on their desk. “Tell us what?”

Cody, who had been with Burton in the control room when Duncan burst in, glanced at the computer and the various firewires and cables that protruded from the machine’s ports. “Nice system.”

“What’s the deal?” Burton asked. Ann looked like she’d aged a couple of decades since he’d last seen her, or maybe she’d taken off her make-up. She was hollow-eyed and evasive, a junkie without a fix.

“I’m possessed,” she said.

Drama queen. There was one at every conference, usually more than one, sometimes entire bus loads. Somebody had to be the most sensitive, see the most ghosts, endure the deepest sympathetic link with the dead. He wouldn’t have figured Ann for it, because his money was still riding on that fat loudmouth Amelia G. But she was the first to declare herself possessed, and that counted for something.

All Burton could do was humor her. “Is this a demonic possession or more of a communing with the dead?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the difference?”

Cody, who had moved closer to the computer set-up, said, “Demonic possession is subtle and insidious. It’s not like a boogieman jumping into your skin and yelling, ‘Hey, Lucy, I’m home.’ Demons tend to find the weak, search the brick wall for chinks, and then hitchhike into your soul by way of your worst traits.”

“Hey,” Duncan said. “I understand psychology, but we’re not talking a meltdown here. I tell you, I saw a black halo over her head.”

“I saw it, too, in the mirror,” Ann said. “You can’t convince me we’re both cracking up. We’re scientists, for god’s sake.”

“Science,” Burton said. “The last refuge of the faithless.”

“Look at this,” Cody said, pointing to the split screen on the computer. “You’ve got a camera in the attic.”

He reached for the keyboard as if to click the image to full resolution.

“Get away from there,” Ann said, leaping at him with her fingernails extended.

Burton moved forward to grab her, but Duncan reached her first. She shrugged him away and reached for the computer. Cody turned at the motion and her fingernails clawed his cheek. Ann slammed down the lid of the laptop, mashing Cody’s fingers.

“Jeez, lady,” he said. “I’m trying to help.”

“Ease up, everybody,” Burton said. “Look, it’s the middle of the night. We’re all a little tired. Why don’t we get some sleep and work this out in the morning?”

“And let the demon get even deeper inside me?”

“We’ve got a guy on staff who’s an expert on such things. The Roach will be glad to talk to you, no matter what the problem is.”

Ann put her fingers to her lips as if savoring the tiny bits of flesh she’d raked from Cody’s face. “This place...there’s something wrong with it.”

“Scientifically speaking?” Cody rubbed his cheek.

“Okay,” Duncan said, putting an arm around Ann. “I can take care of her. Sorry I bothered you.”

Burton nodded.
To hell with it. Let Digger deal with her. Better get Cody out of here before the kid blows a fuse.

“Come on,” he said to Cody. “Let’s set up the recording gear for overnight.”

Cody left without another word. Ann’s face, already puckered with anger, twisted a little bit more. Burton decided she was putting on an act. He was turning to follow Cody when the black ring materialized over her head.

What the fuh—?

The walkie talkie squawked from his hip and by the time he’d thumbed the receiver, the image was gone.
Must be getting combat fatigue.

“Burton,” he said into the walkie talkie.

“Shaw her faysh....”

“Digger?”

“Are you a bweever, Burton?”

“Who is this?”

“The lost and the lurking.” The voice trailed off into giggles.

Out in the hall, he caught up to Cody. “Did you hear that? Some kid screwing around on the channel?”

“No.”

“Sorry about those two,” Burton said. “You get every kind—”

“They were broadcasting. Not just recording.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“I caught video that looked a little suspicious. I thought somebody might be playing around. I figured it was an inside job, maybe you and Digger—”

“Watch it, Cody. You might be the ‘Future of Horror’ and all that happy horseshit, but we’ve been doing this since you were in diapers.”

“You’ve got to admit, Digger’s all about the show. I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a little stunt like that.”

Cody’s anger had shifted targets, and Burton realized the kid was bothered more by phony science than Ann’s talons. Burton prided himself on keeping cool, and now he was seeing things, hearing things, and bitching at his teammate. While Digger’s technical expertise was the weakest of all the team members, the man had a way of holding them together. And Digger was as invisible as the shyest ghost.

“If you don’t want to be part of SSI, you can pack up your toys and go home.”

“I got my own reasons for being here,” Cody said.

As Cody stomped down the hall, giggles leaked from Burton’s walkie talkie.

Chapter 31

“It’s supposed to be locked.”

Violet had wanted to use the basement key she’d swiped from Janey’s office, a small symbol of access and power, a hint of all Phillippe could have with her.

“An invitation,” he said, taking her elbow. Not a great line, but at least his grip was firm and confident. A little tingle of anticipation raced up her spine, just as it had done when she was prowling in Janey’s office. As she’d sat in the chair and rifled the desk drawers, she fantasized herself as Janey’s replacement. Queen of the White Horse, the new Battle Axe. Somebody had to carry on , now that Janey had permanently checked out....

How do you know she’s dead?

Phillippe reached through the basement door and flipped the switch, revealing the dirt floor. “Let there be light,” he said.

Because they said so.

“I don’t see any ghosts,” she said.

“I think we need a closer look.” Phillippe wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. He pulled her closer to the top landing of the stairs. The basement air was moist and stagnant, and a coppery corruption settled on her skin like mist. Her nipples went taut, but not from arousal.

As Phillippe led her down the stairs, she said, “Now I know why the stupid kids go down in the basement in the horror movies, even when they know something bad is down there.”

“Why is that,
madamoiselle
?”

The French got her going again and reminded her of the goal. “Because they might get lucky.”

Phillippe grinned at her with those plump, exotic lips, and by the time they reached the basement, his face was near enough that she could smell the Chablis. “Worth a little risk, no?”

He pulled her close and she shivered against his body heat. “The door,” she said.

“Stay right here,” he said, as if she might wander off into the cobwebbed corners. He propelled himself up the stairs and she glanced into the shadows, wondering if anyone was hiding among the posts and support walls. She had the distinct sense of being watched.

By the time Phillippe rejoined her, she went into his arms, more for warmth than passion. The basement had gotten colder.

“Where we were?” he whispered.

“Nowhere,” she said.

“Yet everywhere.”

It was a line he’d probably used a hundred times, feeling up Parisian girls in cramped walk-up apartments where art littered the walls. She didn’t care. Once they were married, she’d pick out the art, and it wouldn’t be square purple cats and pastel vomit. And when she became queen of the White Horse, all the drab curtains and reproduction Victorian furniture would be on the curb and Martha Stewart would get a hefty royalty check.

He pulled her closer, and she molded into his body, feeling his erection tenting against her belly. He nuzzled her neck and his breath drifted across the fine hairs at the base of her skull.

“Mmm,” she said, looking over his shoulder to the rusty, hulking boiler in the recesses of the basement. The coal gate was open and something dangled from the dark recess. Phillippe nibbled at her ear and she giggled.

“Ticklish?” he whispered.

More like thinking he was silly, with all his well-oiled moves and suave maneuvers. She was used to the high school boys in their pick-up trucks, whose rough hands would grab and squeeze and push her into compliance. Not that she’d spent much time on that scene. She’d seen enough classmates pregnant at fifteen, with nothing but bruises and food stamps in their futures. She dreamed bigger, and if it meant she had to endure Phillippe’s wine-softened tongue, well, a woman couldn’t count on looks forever.

Besides, his tongue wasn’t so rough, and his lips were not too slobbery. But she couldn’t relax under his tactics, because of the thing dangling from the boiler. She squinted, trying to make out more detail.

A rag, maybe?

Phillippe’s hands did a slow crawl across her back and shoulders, kneading and stroking. They were strong but also gentle. Like she was a soufflé and he had to fold the eggs just right so the whole recipe wouldn’t collapse.

“Your skin is lovely,
ma cherie
,” he said, his nose against her cheek.

“I still don’t see any ghosts.”

“Perhaps we should turn out the lights, my sweet.”

But the switch was at the top of the stairs and the whole moment would be blown. And she couldn’t quit staring at the thing dangling from the boiler. It was cloth, but it wasn’t a rag. And there were...what?

Fingers
?

“Phillippe,” she whispered.

“I know,” he moaned, grinding against her as if he were trying to break the wooden totem pole in his jeans. His hands slipped lower and cupped her buttocks, and then he locked lips. His little goatee irritated her chin, but at least he didn’t suck all the air from her lungs. But the moment she parted for a breath, he slipped his tongue in, like a snake heading for a hibernation hole.

“
Murr-umpha
,” she said into his mouth, trying to pull free, but he was too busy proving his French manhood to listen. One hand slipped to her breast and circled, stretching the lace of her bra. The bra cost her $35 at Victoria’s Secret, and if he popped the elastic, it was coming out of his wallet without his permission. His fingers found her nipples and he pinched as if it were a generous helping of salt.

The cloth thingy in the boiler...had it moved?

No breeze, except for the lust hurricane from Frenchie’s mouth.

God, maybe it was a rat’s nest. The hotel had plenty of them. She’d have J.C.—

Ouch
.

“Easy,” she whispered. Maybe they went for pain on the Seine, and the French had a million reasons to be masochists, but if she wanted to be abused, she’d have married a cop.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, rolling out the words with a husky richness.

Good one. What’s next, “I love you”? Just do your thing, or at least the warm-up part of the act.

He thumbed free the middle button of her blouse, not even pausing in his oral attention, and then his hand was inside, teasing bare skin at the elastic frame of the bra. She wasn’t stacked by any means, but she had enough there to fill the cup without padding. She’d let him go at it a bit, maybe even a finger in the panties, but no way was she giving the milk before she got the deed to the farm.

The cloth thingy definitely moved, and it wasn’t just Phillippe that was breathing heavily. She looked around. That pervert J.C. might be down here drinking and goofing off, doing God-only-knew to kill time. It would be just like him to watch. Phillippe’s turgid snake was demanding to be free, and she’d have to make a decision soon or he’d whine about blue balls and she’d never get another chance.

She touched his zipper but all she could think about was the rats in the boiler. And the heavy breathing was louder, like a hundred pieces of sandpaper on wood.

“Phillippe?”

“
Oui, ma cherie
?” He was focused on his little mammary maneuver, inching toward raw nipple and disrespecting expensive lingerie.

“There’s something in the boiler.”

“The ghost thing...we already played that game. Now time for a new one.”

He squeezed hard and bit her neck, sending a jolt through her. Not all of it hurt, and she was disgusted by the tiny hotwire of pleasure that raced to her vagina. She moaned and closed her eyes. Encouraged, he bit again, this time hard enough to leave marks. His zipper was halfway down and heat plumed from the opening.

“
Eeee
-zy,” she said, knowing he was pushing the limits to see how much he could get. Men thought they were so damned clever, like they were setting the ground rules. But even if she’d wanted to bone him up, the dreary, creepy basement was jangling her nerves. She never relaxed during sex, not completely, because a girl had to stay on guard. But here, with that weird noise and the cloth thingy moving and—