Speed Dating With the Dead (20 page)

Duncan, not realizing she’d been asleep, said, “That footage is so good it almost fooled me. Who shot it for you?”

“What footage?”

“The jumper. The guy who skewered himself on the lamp post. I thought you weren’t going to have time to do that one.”

She kicked the blankets away and reached for her blouse. “All I shot was the Jilted Bride.”

“Come on, Ann. I’m not one of those idiots who believes anything you tell them.”

She grabbed for his coffee mug and took a mouthful of cool, bitter brew. “We’ve already used up all the footage. I told you we’d have to go into replay mode.”

“Well, I don’t know how this got on the hard drive, then.”

Duncan leaned away from the screen to reveal grainy, pixelated movement. She squinted and recognized the room. It was 312, the curtains featuring ornate braided piping that was at odds with the furniture. The room appeared to have been outfitted with leftovers, with imitation Queen Anne chairs, hand-hewn tables, a sagging art-deco vase holding flowers, and an impressionist painting that suggested a wooded lake. Though the picture was monochromatic, her memory filled in the autumnal color scheme of the room.

“We didn’t put a projector in 312,” Ann said. “Remember, we ran out of time.”

Duncan consulted his notes, brow furrowed, face stark and haggard in the lamplight. “You sure that’s 312?”

“That ugly painting. I made a remark about a flea-market find.”

“Yeah,” Duncan said, tapping the keys. “Let me run the program again.”

A window popped up on the bottom of the screen, revealing a video-editing program. He scrolled backward with the mouse and hit “Play.” The footage loop began. The first 10 seconds showed the still room, but then a man entered the camera view and threw the curtains wide, nearly knocking them from the rod in his haste. He wore a bow tie and had slicked-down hair, pouches under his tired eyes. He flipped the window latch and lifted the lower pane, shaking with what appeared to be sobs or rage.

“Check the clothes,” Duncan said. “Izod shirt and LL Bean plaid pants. Totally Eighties.”

Ann nodded. Those were the types of details she’d have included if she’d had time to rig another loop of fake footage. The suicide jumper had died in 1981, the dawn of the Reagan Era.

The jumper punched the window screen out with one foot and climbed onto the ledge. He gave one baleful, hopeless look back at the camera, and then he launched himself into the night beyond the window. The curtains swayed and settled back into the place, and again the room was still.

“I’ve never seen that before,” Ann said.

“It’s on the hard drive and the file is called ‘Jumper.’“

Ann looked at the split monitors in the corners of the screen. “Bring up the control room spycam,” she said.

Duncan enlarged one of the boxes, revealing the room where several SSI members gathered around a computer. The good-looking, long-haired skater punk was working the keys, drawing their attention to the computer screen. A rack of various meters, sound equalizers, and video gear towered on the table beside him. Whatever the teen’s skill level, he had enough tech toys to put on a show.

“The little fucker must have hacked us,” Ann said.

“Impossible,” Duncan said. “We’re double-firewalled. Plus he’s running a Mac.”

“How else do you explain it?” Actually, there was one other explanation: for some reason, Duncan was engineering an end run. He must have uploaded the footage while she wasn’t around and now was staging a “What the hell?” act.

“Let’s watch it again,” Duncan set, restarting the video file. The scene played out just as before, only this time the jumper had a faint smile on his face. The difference was subtle enough that Ann convinced herself it was part of the con Duncan was running.

After the man disappeared through the window, Ann said, “Back it up.”

She didn’t understand why Duncan would go to such lengths just for simple revenge. She’d warned him repeatedly that their relationship was doomed to end before the semester was over, and that she never let her dalliances linger too long.

Never screw a Scorpio. They always plant the stinger when you step on them.

As Duncan worked the mouse and reset the file, Ann decided to play along instead of busting him. The jumper repeated his sullen trek across the room, pausing at the window, and this time he lifted his hand slightly in greeting.

“Did you see that?” Duncan said.

“His hand.”

“I swear this is the same file. Something freaky is going on.”

“Maybe it’s just another haunted computer.”

“The kid hacked us.”

The jumper went out the window, recreating his suicidal leap. Duncan let the clip play through until the curtains were once again still.

“If SSI was on to us, do you think they’d bother playing games?” Ann said. “Wouldn’t they come right out and challenge us instead of wasting all these resources?”

“Don’t forget the time and energy we’ve spent on debunking,” Duncan said. “When you’re on a mission, common sense goes out the window.”

“Literally,” Ann said as the file repeated. This time the man paused at the window but didn’t climb onto the sill. Something about the picture was different.

Curtains.

The curtains were now flimsy white cotton, thin enough to be translucent. Like the curtains in their room.

Ann and Duncan turned toward the window at the same time. The jumper gave a small wave and forlorn grin, and launched himself through the window. The closed window.

“Was that a video file or real time?” Ann asked.

“I have no idea.”

“See if I show up on the clip.” Ann moved toward the window, holding her hand in front of her as if expecting to sweep the jumper away like a cobweb.

“Nothing,” he said. “All it shows is the window.”

“Still frame?”

“No, the curtains are blowing.”

“Maybe I scared him away,” Ann said, reaching the window. She glanced to the ground below, where a spill of lamplight laid a wide yellow circle on the dying lawn. The jumper stood on the lawn, looking up at her.

She took an involuntary step backward. “He’s down there.”

Duncan left the computer and joined her, but just before he reached the window, the jumper pointed above Ann and stepped back into darkness. Except she wasn’t sure he stepped. He could have simply drifted or dissolved.

“I don’t see anything,” Duncan said.

“I’ll bet SSI rigged the game,” Ann said. “Doing the same thing we’re doing, planting images and clips to work the hunters into a frenzy. They took it a step further and hired an actor.”

“I don’t see how they could hack our system,” Duncan said. “The computer’s hardly been out of my sight and we’re not networked, so there’s no way in.”

“Either that, or admit we’ve had a supernatural encounter.”

“I’m not admitting anything.”

“Whoever he was, he was pointing above my head.”

Duncan leaned back and peered at her. “Shit.”

“What?”

He waved his hand over her head as if brushing away a fly. “Your black halo.”

Ann put her own hands above her head. “This is no time for—”

She caught her distorted reflection in the window and there it sat, floating a couple of inches over her hair. Beyond the glass, the jumper slumped broken and skewered halfway down the lamppost, the lamp housing shattered but still radiating a sickly yellow light. As she tried to gather enough air to speak, the jumper slid down and separated himself from the pole. He patted it as if to say, “It’s here when you need it.”

“Get Wayne Wilson,” Ann said.

Duncan opened his mouth to protest, but Ann twisted her face into Bitch Mode. He nodded and retreated.

After the door closed, Ann went to the bathroom and checked the mirror. The halo looked as solid as forged steel. She grabbed at it, not knowing what she’d do when she had it, but her fingers passed through. Her eyes glittered in fright but her face was locked into Bitch Mode, no matter how much she worked her jowls to erase the expression.

She hated to admit it, but the halo was a nice accessory to Bitch Mode.

There had to be a scientific explanation, even if her brain was flooding itself with toxins and upsetting her perception.

As a researcher, she understood that the simplest answer was usually the right one.

And, in this case, that meant she was most likely a demonic bitch possessed by a denizen of hell.

And it wasn’t so bad.

A smile wended its way into the Bitch Mode facade.

Chapter 27

Wayne hummed the Monkees tune “I’m a Believer.”

He’d seen her face, and now he could no longer doubt. He didn’t know what she was now—a lost soul, a displaced memory of God, a photographic impression on the emulsion of reality, or simply an angel—but she was back again.

When she’d said “Forever,” she meant it.

Wayne couldn’t decide whether Amelia or Cristos would be the better channeler, but somehow he had to maintain contact with Beth. He rounded the corner toward 218 and nearly slammed into Burton.

“Digger,” Burton said. “Where ya been?”

“Busy,” Wayne said.

“Roach is AWOL, and so is the hotel manager, the MAC Attack is on the fritz, and we’re getting lots of actives. If I didn’t know better, I’d say all hell is breaking loose.”

“Cancel the hunts,” Wayne said.

Burton’s jaw dropped. “Fifty-seven registered and we got a lot of money tied up—”

“Give it back. I’ve got something more important to do.”

Wayne brushed past Burton, who grabbed at his shoulder. Wayne slapped the hand away and wheeled, eyes narrowed. “She’s here. I don’t care what the machines say.”

“Boss, we better—”

“Handle it,” Wayne said, already halfway down the hall. “The Digger is hanging up his shovel.”

He decided on Cristos Rubio, remembering how the man’s eyes had darkened while conning Gelbaugh. As Wayne descended the stairs, music and laughter trickled from the bar. Probably some of the hunters had found an outlet for their spare time.

You could pop in for a quick one. Just one little bitty shot.

He licked his lips and could almost taste the whiskey. His head swam in imagined pleasure and he nearly lost his balance on the steps. That was just the kind of thinking that caused people to say, “The Devil made me do it.” Because who’d ever want to own up to poor choices, bad behavior, and swallowing sweet poison when there was someone or something else to blame?

“What’s the harm in it, Digger?”

He looked around, unsure where the voice had come from. Someone was laughing on the second floor, but that voice was distant. This one had been near his ear.

He continued down the stairs, intent on passing the bar without a glance. A Rolling Stones song was grinding across the room and spilling from the door like cigarette smoke. Glass clinked and several dozen tongues blended into one thick murmur, televisions casting kaleidoscopic light. He couldn’t help himself. Blame the bar mirror, blame the Devil, blame the goddamned weather, but he had to look.

His eyes went first to the row of amber bottles stacked at the back of the bar, then over to the bartender, a spike-haired young man with a thick neck, then back to the bottles. He told his feet to keep right on walking, because he had a date with his dead wife, but drunks knew how to screw things up at the most inconvenient times. That’s what they did best, and who was he to try to be better? When the devil made you do something, well, what could you expect besides the worst?

Besides, Cristos Rubio was sitting at the bar, perched on a stool like a frog sitting on a lakeside rock and waiting for a fly.

I can kill two birds with one stone.

Wayne was already through the door before he realized there was no second bird. He waved to a group of ghost hunters gathered in a booth. A couple nodded at him, apparently harboring no ill will over the disrupted schedule. Booze greased the squeakiest wheels, Wayne well knew, and he was feeling a bit rusty himself. The beer signs, dart board, karaoke stage, cigarette machine, and half-empty glasses were screaming “Welcome home,” and even the solemn Cristos was smiling at him.

Wayne made it to the bar before his knees went weak, and the bar stool was there to catch him.

“Deegger Weelson,” Cristos slurred in this thick accent.

“Cristos, I need some help.”

“You need a drink,
compadre
.”

Wayne swallowed. He’d promised Kendra. He’d even promised Beth, in the closest thing that ever passed for a prayer from his lips.
Today I can do it. Today will be different. This time I can control myself.

“No, I just want to talk to you about something,” he said. On the television in the corner, two prize fighters were swapping body punches, one of them riding the ropes as if waiting out the bell.

“I know,” Cristos said. “That’s why I wait here for you.”

Cristos slid a drink coaster toward him. Wayne looked down at the design. It was the same snake illustration that had adorned Gelbaugh’s surprise Tarot card, the serpent entwined with a tree, its forked tongue flicking out from a vague reptilian smile.

“How did you do that?” Wayne asked, but Cristos was signaling the bartender. The Peruvian seer tapped his glass and held up two brown fingers.

“You wonder about fate,” Cristos said. “The will versus the randomness of chance.”

“I...had an experience.” Actually, he’d had several, but lies were easier than promises.

“Chance or will?”

“Does it matter?”

“I have read the cards for many years. The outcome is always the same.”

“I saw my dead wife.”

Cristos stared at his own reflection in the bar mirror. Wayne looked beyond the row of glistening bottles and saw Violet at a table, leaning forward and talking with a handsome, curly-haired man. He considered asking her about Janey Mays, but then the bartender was pushing a whiskey sour under his nose and his world was reduced to four ounces of golden fluid and half a dozen ice cubes.

“We see what we want to see,” Cristos said.