“Working on that right now, boss. We’re trying to get an independent phone line out. All cell phone service is down. It’s like its being jammed,” Leonard Sickles said. He and three of the computer techs worked to reestablish contact with the satellites above.
“Dalton, are we attempting to enter the house from the outside?” Kennedy asked into his production microphone.
“Harris Dalton is the director in charge of tonight’s special. He is located in the network production van outside of Summer Place,” Julie explained. She went to one of the frozen windows and pulled back the thick curtain.
“Uh…yes, Professor, we have three men trying to break through the front doors and the rear kitchen door as we speak. I am surprised you haven’t heard them.”
The voice coming from the production van was but a whisper that was picked up on the air. Harris Dalton didn’t like the fact that the viewers could hear him, but they were all flying by the seat of their pants.
“Thus far, we are unable to break through. I can’t explain it yet,” Harris said.
Outside they saw another flash of lightning through the frozen glass, followed by the roar of thunder. Damian Jackson wondered why they could hear that and not the sound of men with axes trying to batter down the doors. He turned and left the ballroom and made his way out to the front doors through the darkness of the living room. Leaning toward the double doors, he thought he could hear thumping noises, but they seemed distant and far away. He pulled back and placed his hand on the frozen pane in the center of the front door. The glass was like ice. As he stepped back he could see some light passing through the glass from a lightning strike not far away. As he did, he saw the figure start to take shape as if someone were dragging a finger through the frost on the window. As he watched, he saw a rough outline of a pole, and attached to that pole was the figure of a man. A hanging man — lynched. The dark figure was hanging by a rope and as another lightning strike hit, the body attached to that rope swayed. Jackson backed away from the glass. The large room had become colder.
“What is it?”
Jackson felt his heart go into his throat. He turned and saw John Lonetree standing behind him. When he looked back at the glass to point out the anomaly, the pane of glass was completely frosted over and there was no figure etched in the moisture.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Can you hear anyone out there trying to get in?” John asked.
“They’re out there, but that’s about all I know.”
Lonetree turned back to face Damian.
“Not like your typical police investigation, is it.”
“I’m still not buying it, Lonetree. Come on, you’re a cop. You can’t believe this shit, can you?”
Lonetree shook his head. “Detective, I learned a long time ago not to question the natural world. There are things out there that our science has never touched on. There are worlds we know nothing of, and one of those worlds is alive and well and in this house. Now, that may not be the answer you’re looking for, but it’s one you better start considering. Your closed mind just may be your undoing.”
Jackson snorted.
“If your mind is closed off to those things, just how can it come up with a defense?” The big Indian moved away toward the ballroom. “And you may want to join us. Gabriel’s getting ready to explain the plan of attack.”
“Attack?”
Lonetree stopped and turned. “You didn’t think we came here just to study, did you?”
“What else would you have come here for?”
“To go to war. Did you think Gabriel was going to allow this house to kill one of his students and get away with it?”
Jackson watched Lonetree disappear into the ballroom. He turned and looked at the glass again, and then turned just as quickly away from it.
“Yeah, well in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s already down a man.”
Damian placed his hat on his head and started to follow John back into the ballroom. Upstairs he heard the sound of a door slamming shut. He wondered if it was something entering a room, or coming out. He glanced up the broad, darkened staircase, and quickened his step toward the ballroom.
Harris Dalton removed his headphones, careful to mute the microphone. He turned and looked at the lead mechanic, who was trying to explain what was happening.
“You mean to tell me you have all of this power flowing into the breaker boxes, but nothing is flowing into the house? How can that be possible?”
“It isn’t possible. It’s like the electricity is being siphoned off before it reaches the breakers.”
“Siphoned? Do you know how that sounds?” A thought slowly crept into Dalton’s mind. “Look, you stand by outside the van. You’re going to go on live with Julie Reilly, and she’ll interview you remotely from inside the house. Explain to those people inside Summer Place what’s happening out here. Tell that fireman to also stand by. I want him to explain why they can’t bust in through the windows or doors.”
“Oh, I don’t think our union will allow—”
Harris almost exploded. He took the man by his right shoulder and squeezed. It took all of his will power to calm himself. Using his most menacing voice — the one that had carried him through five Superbowl telecasts — he leaned in toward the man.
“I don’t give a good goddamn if you worked directly for Jimmy Hoffa in the day. If you don’t go on, I swear to God I will make sure you’re bundling electrical cable in Oklahoma City this time next week. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the mechanic said. He turned and left through the plastic strip curtain.
Harris Dalton placed the headphones back on and took a deep breath.
“Julie, you’ll be conducting two interviews after I run a three minute commercial break. One is with the lead mechanic and the other is with the fire chief.”
After Julie had her questions answered, Harris watched the monitors in front of him. He examined the ambient light cameras on the second and third floor and saw absolutely no movement on either. He changed headphones and then checked the directional microphones on those floors. All he heard was the distant sound of thunder outside. He switched to the basement microphones next, and then he froze. He pressed the headphones into his ears and waved everyone in the control room to silence. The sounds he was hearing didn’t seem to be coming from the basement, but the subbasement. They were distant and hard to define. He turned a switch and brought the sounds out through the large speakers.
“Can anyone tell me what the hell that noise is?” He tilted his head and closed his eyes as his brain worked to identify what he was hearing.
“Sir, it sounds like crying,” his assistant said.
“That’s what I get. Women, a lot of women. At least more than three or four,” said the sound engineer.
“Can you boost the gain on the basement microphone?” Harris asked..
“That’s as high a gain as we have. We need to place the microphones in a different area, like as close to the trapdoor as we can.”
“Okay. As soon as Julie finishes with her interview, we’ll see what Kennedy wants to do.”
“Maybe they can convince that asshole Peterson to go and do it,” his assistant said.
The elicited laughs told Harris that his production team was at least thinking about what was happening. And if they believed something was afoot inside Summer Place, then most of America would be believers.