“Stu Brown.”
“Yes, ever since Stu Brown went nutty and burned his fortune in the fireplace. There was no doubt in my mind. Everything that’s happened since—and you’ve got to admit, Mr. Cantrell, you’ve had a few doozies—has only reaffirmed it. My point, obviously, is that this building is not done yet. Far from it.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I’m an expert, that’s how. This is my business, my trade, and I take it very seriously. Despite your earlier comments, I do not consider myself a con artist.”
Cantrell did not apologize. “Go on.”
“My network likes to label me a ghost hunter. I don’t particularly like that phrase, but it brands well. I call myself other things. I’m a medium—I can see things, hear things, smell things, taste things from the other side. I’m a clairvoyant—I can tell what certain people are thinking at certain times. And I’m an expert at the science of the paranormal. You’d be bored by the details of such things as electronic voice phenomena, or infrared photography. But I can assure you that I’m as knowledgeable about my career as you are about yours.”
“That’s all very impressive,” Cantrell said, “but I’ve devoted my life to facts, to physical science. I have a hard time swallowing any of this.”
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That’s okay. That’s your choice. You don’t need to believe any of it. Like I said, the important thing is that 12 million viewers do believe it, and I haven’t disappointed them yet. I can give the Exeter a clean bill of health.”
“But what if your magic, whatever you do, doesn’t work? What if you can’t cleanse this place? Where does that leave me?”
Cross smiled again.
“We’re both intelligent men, Mr. Cantrell, so I think I can speak frankly to you. Without disavowing my own abilities, I can safely guarantee you that I will be successful.”
“There’s no way you can guarantee something like that.”
“Don’t be naïve. I am the creator, the writer, the producer and the star of a very successful television show. I will never allow any of my shows to fail. It wouldn’t look good for my reputation, wouldn’t be good for the ratings.”
“So you’re admitting that you’re a fraud? Is that what you’re saying?”
With that, Cross’s pale blue eyes squinted in a momentary flash of anger. It was gone in an instant.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I can exorcise entities and have done so many times. I can cleanse buildings of such entities. I really do have that kind of power. But here’s the rub—sometimes things must be adjusted, for entertainment’s sake. My show adheres to strict guidelines—a bible, as we call it in the biz—that follows a logical story line and builds to a satisfying conclusion, all within a set time period. The viewing public demands clear and final answers, in a tidy, one-hour sitting. Whether my work achieves that or not is irrelevant. The show must go on. It’s as simple as that.”
Cantrell looked Cross in the eye. “In other words, whether or not you’re able to clear this place, people will believe that you were successful. That’s your guarantee?”
“Essentially, yes. But I’m offering you more than that. If it should so happen that my exorcism, my cleansing, if you will, doesn’t take during the taping of the show, I promise to return. I’ll come back, with no cameras and no crew, and I’ll fix it for good, no matter how long it takes.”
Cross let that sink in for a moment before continuing.
“I’m not trying to sell you a bill of goods here, Mr. Cantrell. It’s a straightforward transaction. I get viewers, you get tenants, not to mention twenty grand. Both of us walk away happy. Sounds like a good deal to me.”
Cantrell pushed himself away from the table and crossed his legs.
A slight grin appeared on the medium’s face. “I can sense that you’re actually considering this. That’s all I can ask.”
“I have to think it over.”
“Of course you do,” Cross said, rising from his chair. In one motion, he produced a check from his pocket and handed it to Cantrell.
“I know you’re a trustworthy man, Mr. Cantrell, so I’m giving this to you as a sign of good faith. It’s yours for the taking. And trust me, it’s not rubber.
“Just for planning’s sake, there are two things you must understand. I’ll need an answer no later than tomorrow night. My production schedule is unforgiving. And, should you accept, I’ll need total access to the Exeter—every room, every closet, every nook and cranny—for one entire night, no more than that. My crew and I will do our thing, and, if things work out the way I expect, you’ll never hear from me nor speak to me again for the rest of your life. Fair enough?”
“Like I said, Cross, I’ll think about it… ”
“Excellent. I’ll let myself out.”
The medium gathered his soaked coat and hat from the lobby floor, opening the front door to an all too perfect flash of lightning.
Cantrell watched as Cross disappeared into the storm. He was relieved to see the man go, but couldn’t help considering his offer, just as the man himself predicted.
What do you have to lose? There was a bitter truth behind the question. Without Cross’s admittedly crazy idea—and the $20,000—the Exeter would be boarded up in less than a month. He’d be regarded as a laughingstock, a failure, to his investors, to the city, to his peers, to the public.
To himself.
On the other hand, to see his beloved Exeter exploited on “Night Crossing”—not exactly Architectural Digest—would hardly be good press. It’d be a freak show.
As opposed to what? A horror show?
But what if Cross were successful? Or at least managed to convince his viewers that he was? Would tenants actually return? Would the press finally grow disinterested?
Would people stop dying here?
The thought brought him a moment of sharp clarity. He was thinking of the Exeter in the past tense, as though the horrors that had taken place here had suddenly ended.
He knew better.
Su Ling and Anna still lived in this building. They were as vulnerable as anyone else.
There was no hesitation in his mind that he would protect them, at any price. They were his life now, he realized, putting form to the idea for the very first time. Su Ling would have to know about Cross’s offer, and she would have an equal say in their response.
He rubbed his chin in thought, his eyes drawn to the walls of the conference room. The art on the walls appeared crooked, as if improperly hung. Impossible. Everything had been set with lasers.
Still, the lines were off, the shadows distorted, the proportions skewed. For the briefest of moments, it seemed as if one of the corners compressed into itself, as if the walls themselves were breathing. Then it was gone.
Idiocy. Rooms cannot move on their own. Buildings do not breathe. Geometry is absolute…
Really? Do you know that for sure? Of course you don’t; not after everything you’ve seen here…
He couldn’t deny it. There was something going on in this building; something that cared nothing for Cantrell’s geometry; something that operated by rules that scientists knew nothing about.
He did believe it. Now.
In the morning, the rain had eased, but the sky remained steely gray.
Cantrell hung up the phone and regarded Su Ling.
She rubbed his temple and smiled.
“Alex, you made the right decision. We made the right decision.”