The Supernaturals (18 page)

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—”

“Professor Gabriel Kennedy,” she finished.

If Lindemann was shocked by the question, he covered it up well, only raising his right eyebrow.

“He’s a crackpot. Of all the people in the world, you should know that. You and Lieutenant Jackson were the ones who placed that label squarely on his forehead. You two would have done well in the days of the Spanish Inquisition.”

The limo pulled through the gate. Reporters smashed their faces against the tinted windows to view the long black car’s interior. They slapped at the glass and shouted questions that were muffled and unidentifiable.

“Score one for you. I assume you’ve been thinking about that the whole way here.” Julie closed her eyes and then opened them. “I don’t care what you’ve heard or what you believe.” She removed a notepad from her bag, just as the limo stopped under the massive portico’s overhang. “I just want to know about the cleanup after that night in 2003.”

Wallace Lindemann was taken aback by the question. Julie could see it.

“Cleanup?”

“Yes. You obviously had to hire someone to repair the physical damage to the house. It’s described in the official police report.” She made a pretense of looking at her notes, though she knew the details by heart. “Plaster was damaged in the second floor hallway, several heavy doors had to be re-hung—the police confirmed those parts of Kennedy’s story.” She looked up from her notes and fixed him with her penetrating eyes. “So, what was the damage and what did your contractors have to say?”

“They came and fixed several items. I don’t exactly recall—”

“Why didn’t you use local contractors? You hired a company out of Altoona—almost two hundred miles away.”

Lindemann looked away as the chauffer opened his door. He stepped out quickly. “I’ll have to check my records. I don’t remember what was done exactly.”

“Who said you could bring in a reporter?” a booming voice called from the top of the steps.

Julie looked up and saw the large figure of Damian Jackson, replete with his tan raincoat, standing with his right hand in his pocket and looking down on them—his favorite position in life.
Probably sexual in nature
, Julie thought.

“Nice to see you again, Lieutenant,” Julie said as she climbed out of the backseat. “I see you’re still trying to convince the world that you’re Colombo and Superfly all rolled into one.”

Jackson didn’t respond, he just watched as Lindemann and Julie climbed the steps. He eyed Wallace as he passed.

“I’ll be in the bar,” Lindemann said. He slithered by the detective.

“This crime scene is off limits to the press for the time being. Your network may have enough on Lindemann to get him to sneak you in here, but they have nothing on me.”

Julie eased up to Jackson and leaned closer to his large frame. He didn’t look down at her, but stared straight ahead.

“Let me clue you into something, Damian. You and I are linked to this place, and this case.” She continued past him, up the stone steps. “After all, many people think that it was you and I who railroaded an innocent man. And now here we are all over again. Only this time there’s not just Kennedy, but a whole network team of Emmy winners saying something’s wrong with this place. And that, Detective, has bite.”

Jackson took a deep breath, waiting until the front doors had opened and closed before he turned around. The moment he had first heard about the network broadcast test, he had known that the past would be coming back to bite him right in the ass. Now the first piranha had arrived to start the feeding.

When Jackson entered
the barroom, he saw Lindemann at his usual barstool and Julie helping herself to a cup of coffee.

“Look, before you start with your crap, I can bring anyone in my house that I want to,” Wallace said like a petulant child. He stared into his glass of whiskey.

“So, what is the state of your investigation?” Julie asked, removing her coat and leaning against the bar.

“What, no note taking?” Damian advanced into the large ballroom.

“No, this is more of a personal interview. After all, Lieutenant, I think both of our career advancement opportunities are on the line.”

“Yours maybe, but I see my career advancement as still viable. After all, I based my report on facts, unlike you. As I see it, you have to prove Kennedy guilty all over again, while I only have to prove another party guilty of the same crime. A fresh start, you might say.”

“Still smug as hell, aren’t you?” Julie asked, studying Jackson.

“Not smug, just right. I know this house didn’t take those people. There are no ghosts and there’s no such a thing as a bad house, just bad and very stupid people who prey on the gullible.”

“Look, I’m here to call a truce with both you and Lindemann. I’m going to report the same facts that I did before. I need to prove that people are the real evil here, just as you say. If I don’t, and if Kelly Delaphoy proves that there’s an otherworldly problem here, then our careers are both finished.” She took a sip of the hot coffee. “Public opinion is a strange thing, Damian. Its power has even been known to stop unpopular wars.”

Jackson knew Julie was right. His harshness with Gabriel Kennedy in 2003 was on record. Jackson removed his hat and tossed it on the bar next to Lindemann. His bald head gleamed in the overhead lights. “You’re willing to go against your network and actually say this Halloween special is a put-on job?”

“I’m going to do far more than that,” Julie said. “I’m going to be here for all eight hours, and I intend to prove that this haunted house crap is just that. And there is one more thing, Lieutenant...” Julie locked her green eyes onto Jackson’s.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the piranha to take its last bite.

“The network is trying to get Gabriel Kennedy to host the special.”

Lindemann and Jackson both stared at Julie. The big detective glanced around the ballroom, a curious look on his face.

“What is it?” Julie asked, placing her coffee down.

“Didn’t you hear that?” Jackson said, looking at the two of them with eyes wide.

“What?” Lindemann asked standing from his stool, spilling his drink on his hand in his haste.

“Why, the house, of course.”

“What….what do you m-m-mean?” Lindemann looked around.

Julie hid her grin at Wallace’s obvious discomfort.

“It’s laughing its shingles off—Kennedy is coming home.”

Every door on the second and third floors suddenly slammed closed, making all three of them jump.

Julie swallowed and looked at Jackson. “Draft must have closed all the doors up there.”

“How in hell would a draft close doors that were already closed and locked?” Lindemann emptied his glass and slammed it down.

Damian Jackson smiled as Lindemann stormed past him. He looked at Julie, who had also lost her brief sense of humor.

“Maybe the house isn’t happy that Kennedy is coming back.”

 
Jackson looked at her, then looked around him at the ostentatious ballroom.

“Maybe not.” He smiled again. “But I surely am.”

seven

Lamar University

Beaumont, Texas

The sun had set and the heat of the day had finally drained from the air in the classroom. It was now cool enough that the windows could be opened and Kennedy could catch some of the breeze that found its way between the old buildings.

He watched the silent campus through one of those windows and wondered if he was the only faculty member still there. He turned and walked with purpose to his desk, producing his set of keys as he went. There were only four keys on his key ring—one to his studio apartment, one to his classroom, one to his mailbox, and the last and smallest opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He sat heavily into his chair and took a deep breath.

The drawer and its contents had eaten at him all day. He stayed after everyone had left, finally deciding to breach the vault that held the combination to that night in Pennsylvania. He inserted the key and opened the lock, and then he pulled open the largest drawer. He pursed his lips and scratched his beard. Before he could lose his nerve, close the damn thing and once more hide the truth, he reached in and removed the five journals and ten file folders. He slammed them on his desktop as he kicked the large drawer closed with his foot.