She desperately needed one man—a man who knew Summer Place better than anyone alive. She needed him to come trick-or-treating with the rest of America on Halloween night.
She needed Professor Gabriel Kennedy.
PART TWO
CASTING CALL
six
Lamar University
Beaumont, Texas
Harrison Lumley had known Gabriel Kennedy since their graduate studies at Cal Berkley. For the past few days he had seen his old friend go from his classes to the quad area outside of his building and do nothing but sit under one of the trees and pretend to eat his lunch, or read a book. Harrison knew that television producer had visited Kennedy, and had a hunch her visit was what was occupying Gabriel’s mind. After reading this morning’s Houston Chronicle, he thought he better check on Gabriel.
“You know, October in east Texas isn’t like October in LA, my friend,” Lumley said as he looked down on Gabriel. “It’s hot as hell out here. It’ll make your peanut butter melt.”
Kennedy looked up, shielding his eyes, and held out the sandwich.
“With what you pay me, all I can afford is cheese.”
Harrison tossed the Houston paper down upon the grass next to Kennedy.
“I already know. It was on Good Morning America. Nice way to start the morning information, losing your toast and coffee.”
“This vindicates what you told the police seven years ago, wouldn’t you say?”
Kennedy shook his head. He looked at his half-eaten sandwich, then tossed it onto the brown paper bag next to him.
“Vindication for me, or vindication for my lost student?” he asked, looking away toward the science building.
“You. If you’re cleared of this mess, that means they have to reopen the case and try again to find that kid.”
“Just because a network television show will go to any lengths to promote a Halloween special, doesn’t mean anyone has been vindicated.”
“Gabriel,” Harrison said uneasily, “I took the liberty of calling the hospital where this caretaker’s boy is.”
Kennedy put his half-eaten sandwich in the bag and then looked up. He held his right hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the sun.
“Of course they wouldn’t tell me anything at the nurse’s station, so I used an old trick. I spoke with one of the elderly volunteers at the reception desk. She said that the boy is comatose—and then she told me he’d been scared nearly to death. Of course there is no such thing as being scared almost to death, clinically speaking, but we all know what shock can do to higher and lower brain function.”
“I met that boy, you know. I really liked his mother and father.”
“From what I’m hearing, this helps your story.”
“No, Harrison, it just adds to it,” Kennedy answered sharply. He stood and tossed his lunch bag into a nearby receptacle.
“Did Good Morning America inform the public that this crazy producer is going on with the Halloween special?” Lumley reached down and picked up the newspaper.
Kennedy slowly took the paper from his friend’s hand, looking him in the eyes as he unfolded it.
“What do the police have to say about that?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“If they keep fucking around with that house, it will kill them all.” He scanned the paper for the article.
Harrison turned away and started walking back to his office. “Then if I were you, I’d make sure they understand just what they’re getting into.” He stopped and looked back at Kennedy. “For your own peace of mind.”
Gabriel closed the paper. “I will never in my life go back to Summer Place, Harrison.”
His friend smiled at him sadly and walked away. Opening the paper once more, Kennedy quickly found the headline.
Old Nightmares Churn Once More in Pocono Mountains.’
“Jesus,” he mumbled, scanning the article.
All around him, the hot fall day went on its merry schedule of classes and first semester finals. Kennedy stood riveted to his lunchtime spot, and read. As he lowered the paper and let it slip from his hands, an old familiar chill coursed through his body, defying the heat of the Texas sun.
UBC Network Headquarters
New York City
Kelly Delaphoy had been expecting a boardroom full of suits, but instead she found herself facing only two men. One was nodding his head like a grandfather, his heavy jowls almost covering his ever-present bowtie. His thick glasses made his dark eyes larger than they actually were, giving him a cartoon-ish look. The other man had the smirk and dead eyes of a circling shark about to feed.
Abraham Feuerstein looked at Kelly calmly and silently. He had taken over a company a thousand times smaller than General Electric, and one with negative fluid capital, and turned it into a manufacturing juggernaut. It allowed him smaller, but just as profitable, playthings—playthings such as movie studios and television networks. He was the only man to claim a Chairman of the Board position, along with being CEO.
On the other side of the table, sitting and smiling like the Cheshire cat, was Lionel Peterson, fresh from his morning shower at the Waldorf Astoria. His grin lingered as he opened a folder in front of him. His hair was combed back so severely that it mirrored the soft lighting of the chairman’s office.
“Let’s open this little get-together with a few numbers,” he said, looking from Kelly to Feuerstein. “There’s only one good number here. It’s the that says Kelly and her crew actually stayed within budget for the broadcast test. In fact, she came in under budget. Probably only because the test was terminated thirty-five minutes in.”
“Were we supposed to keep going after—?”
Peterson held up his hand, cutting her protest short.
“We have two people missing, and after two full days it seems the Pennsylvania State Police cannot locate them. The house, Summer Place, has been searched with the proverbial fine toothed comb. The network is being accused of hiring a known child molester and exposing a teenager to that danger—a teenager who, by the way, is in a near comatose state. I say near because every few hours he awakens and screams for a solid thirty minutes. Then when he can’t continue, he passes back out.”
“You’ve seen the tape, what—”
“One of the hosts of the show is missing, probably with the child molester Kelly brought to the house without network knowledge. Now your other co-host has resigned.”
“The show will—”
“There is no show, Kelly,” Peterson said, closing the file.
“Mr. Feuerstein, am I going to be allowed to talk, or am I to be cut off by Mr. Peterson every time I open my mouth?”
“I believe Lionel has said what he came here to say,” the chairman said. He stood up and poured a cup of coffee at the large credenza, then turned and slowly paced back to Kelly’s chair at the table. He placed the china cup and saucer in front of her. “You may now have the floor, Ms. Delaphoy,” he said, returning to his large chair.
“No matter what the State Police are saying, you saw the tape, the eight frames of footage. Something came out of that vent and took Kyle. I know the same thing took Paul. It’s the same thing Professor Kennedy claimed happened to his lost student.”
Peterson cleared his throat. “Our best, most experienced technicians don’t know what they’re looking at on that tape. They say the image was recorded at such a slow speed, due to the loss of battery power, that the image may have been created by dust caught up in the night-vision and infrared optics.” He smiled at Kelly, and then looked at the chairman and shrugged his shoulders.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Kelly stared a hole through Peterson. “The goddamn image was blue, which according to the infrared scan means it was cold! Loss of battery power or not, the FLIR camera was operating. It was drawing power from a source other than the batteries or the outside power grid. Fucking dust? Is that the best you can do?”
“Ms. Delaphoy—Kelly—please. I think we c
an get through this without resorting to profanity. Mr. Peterson proves the point that everyone who sees the images will interpret this thing differently. You can’t beat their heads together to get the result you want. Being from the electronics business, I know how rarely engineers and technicians agree on anything. Now, we also had to turn the tape over to the Pennsylvania State Police, who—I may add—are threatening charges against you, Mr. Dalton and Mr. Sanborn for withholding evidence.”
“If we don’t capitalize on this free publicity for the special, it would be unforgivable to the stockholders.”
The chairman let his face drop for a brief moment before looking up at Kelly. “Young lady, I and I alone answer to those stockholders. You do not.”
“You see what I have to deal with here, sir?” Peterson asked.
Feuerstein held up his hand for Peterson to be silent.
“However, I am a business man, and did not rise up to be the head of this corporation by being blind to opportunity.”
Kelly closed her eyes and allowed her heart to settle back into its normal position in her chest.
“Now, we have a mess on our hands. Wallace Lindemann has recovered some of the bravado he lost in front of our attorney, and has filed an injunction to have our lease cancelled before Halloween.”
“I’m sure we have legal recourse to—”
“Kelly, you have a bad habit of jumping the gun before people have finished.”
Peterson looked away.
“Now,” Feuerstein continued, “as I was trying to say, our friend Lindemann has many unpaid obligations to other people, most notable of which are right here in our fair city. I think he can be persuaded to cancel the injunction and allow the special to go forward.”
Kelly let out the breath she had been holding with relief. Peterson, still tense, did not.
“So, I am inclined, at least for the moment, to start the final preparations for October 31st.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so—”
“There is one caveat, Kelly.” Feuerstein looked at her intently through his thick glasses.
Kelly waited for the ax to fall and sever her head from her neck.
“Professor Gabriel Kennedy has to be a part of the show. Not just part of the show—he has to host it.” Again, he held up his hand before Kelly could open her mouth. “You have lost both of the longtime hosts of Hunters of the Paranormal, thus crippling your credibility with your loyal viewers. Kennedy is vital, not only for your loyal viewership, but for the many, many new viewers we are seeking. I need the best person to lead this thing forward. I want Kennedy.”
Kelly’s mind was churning at the speed of light. “Do I have a blank check for hiring Gabriel Kennedy?” she asked.
“Let’s just say you have a free hand to do what you do best.”
Kelly ignored the slight. She knew exactly where the information about her coercive talents originated. She looked at Peterson and didn’t back down from his intense gaze. The real shark sat in the large chair behind the conference table in a silly bowtie, and that shark had just finished feeding.
“I need Julie Reilly also,” she said. “You said she was to be a part of the show, anyway. She may be useful in getting Kennedy to cooperate.”
“What can I say? You have her. She goes on official assignment as of today. She answers to me alone, not to you. Use her any way you wish, but I want her face on that television screen forty percent of the time, preferably right alongside Kennedy.”
“Fair enough,” she said, and then thought a moment. “There is one more thing...” She looked back at Peterson.
“You’re just full of demands, aren’t you?” This time, Feuerstein was smiling.
“I want a free hand. No interference from programming, and no budget arguments. Of course, that is, if the President of Entertainment can fulfill his side of the bargain and land those high-rolling corporate sponsors he brags about so much.”
“You must learn to curb your tongue, Ms. Delaphoy. I’m sure Lionel will do as he is told. Isn’t that so?”
“Kelly, I’m going to get you so much advertising revenue that you’ll drown yourself in budget money.” Peterson stood and buttoned his coat. “And with all due respect, sir, I’m also going to get the proper length of rope at the same time, so that Kelly will have no trouble hanging herself when this thing flops.”
“Well, if it does, you’ll be ringside to see it.”
“Sir?” Peterson asked.
“I believe you started out as a producer, yourself. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” he answered, sinking hesitantly back into his chair.
“I think Kelly and Harris Dalton would be more comfortable having your expertise on site during the live broadcast.” He looked up thoughtfully, and then fixed Peterson with a wry smile. “As a consultant.”
“But sir, I—”
“Pack your bags, both of you. You’re going to the Poconos.” He nodded, enjoying his private little joke, then rose and walked to the door.
Kelly and Peterson did not see the old man pause at the open door, and his final thoughts on the subject caught them both off guard.
“I expect this to be better than the live broadcast of War of the Worlds. I want everyone in this country talking about it the next day. If they aren’t, changes might be in order over at the entertainment division.”
With those words, the door closed. Kelly and Peterson’s fates had just been tied together into a knot—a knot that was tied not only tied around their necks, but also firmly connected to the rafters of the most dangerous house in the world.
Bright River, Pennsylvania
The hired security guards kept the press outside of the massive wooden front gate of Summer Place. Three network news trucks and several print journalists waited for Lieutenant Damian Jackson to give a statement about the progress of his investigation. The news crews were perpetuating the rumors that the two missing men had never left the property, in stark contrast to the Pennsylvania State Police “off the record” statements that suggested the two men were part of an elaborate hoax aimed at capitalizing on the UBC television special only two weeks away.
Julie Reilly wasn’t with the news van that had been dispatched from the local UBC affiliate in Philadelphia, or the one from Pittsburgh. Instead, she parked her rental car a quarter of a mile away from the crush at the front gate. She looked at her watch and frowned.
Julie had fought against the stereotype of the dumb blonde field reporter most of her career. She rose through the ranks with solid filings to the network from Iraq and Somalia, earning the right to call her own shots at UBC. She knew the anchor chair for the evening news was going to be up for grabs within the next year, and she wanted it. Julie knew she was now irrevocably linked to Kelly Delaphoy’s disaster in the making; she also was aware that this stunt would do nothing for her credibility with the news division unless she could get an angle. She had to prove either a real haunting, or an elaborate hoax. Since she didn’t believe any of the crap Kennedy or Delaphoy spouted about ghosts and mysterious happenings, she was aiming for the hoax angle.
Julie had her hair in a simple ponytail and she wore little makeup. She was here to take notes and ask questions of two men she had interviewed many times before: Lieutenant Damian Jackson, and the owner of Summer Place, Wallace Lindemann.
She looked at her watch one more time, then she glanced out her window. To her right, several state policemen and their bloodhounds left the barn and entered the stables, the dogs pulling hard on their leashes. She shook her head. She knew the two missing employees were holed up somewhere off the property, waiting until such a time as Kelly Delaphoy could stage a dramatic return— live, before the eyes of forty million people, more than likely. Julie was not going to be a part of that kind of deception.
As Julie watched the search team, she pulled up the collar of her leather jacket. The morning was actually getting colder. Fall was finally in full force. She yawned, and noticed the limousine coming up
the road. It slowed down to pull in behind her rented compact.
She took a deep breath, setting her jaw as she always did when she braced herself for confrontation. Opening the door, she put on her best smile. She reached the rear door just as it opened, and climbed in.
Wallace Lindemann looked haggard and tired. He wasn’t wearing his customary tie and he was unshaven. He instructed the driver to continue onto the house, and paid no attention to the gathered reporters screaming for the limo to stop as they slowly pulled up to the front gate.
“Mr. Lindemann, it was good of you to allow—”
“You people have more gall than I could ever have. First your bosses in New York sic your legal dogs on me, and then they resort to strong-arm tactics, and now here’s their ace reporter come to ask her questions, knowing I have to cooperate. Un-fucking-believable.”
Julie saw that the owner of Summer Place was going to be hostile. She should have figured as much, after seeing the bedraggled look on the small man’s features. He looked as if he had lost his razor and had been sleeping in his clothes.
“Number one: I cannot be held accountable for the actions of our legal department, nor the influence my network has with your creditors, although a man as smart and savvy as yourself should have seen this coming. Two: I suggest you take advantage of whatever opportunity is presented to you. This can be a godsend for you, if you play your cards right.”
“Lectured by a talking head,” Lindemann grumbled. Then he looked over at Julie. “Although...a beautiful talking head.”
“I won’t even comment on your opinion, Mr. Lindemann. I never do when people take that tack with me.”
“Okay. What do your masters in New York want?”
“I need more background. The last time I was here, you were far more in control of things and wouldn’t let me near you. I need to know what you really think about—”
“Look, Ms. Reilly, I was in the production van that night and I didn’t see anything. If you want—”
The Supernaturals Page 12