“I knew this would work.” She lowered her voice, looked away and then back at the camera. “Did you hear Lionel scream when Sickles went for the door?”
“Yeah, we saw, along with the rest of the world. But before you start getting too thrilled over Peterson’s state, you better get a hold of yourself and start making a plan with Kennedy, because I think you’ve got a real problem.”
“What in hell can be a problem now?” Kelly asked.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve all been herded into one place. On Camera Five, up on the third floor, something isn’t right.”
“What’s that?” she asked, her smile fading.
“The doors to the sewing room and the master suite are now closed. That means whatever was down near the basement and the ballroom more than likely came from the third floor.”
“I get you, Harris.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We can see the lights on in both rooms, even though the power has been out for the last fifteen minutes.”
The network ad executives were on the phone throughout the ten minute break in live programming. The din in the screening room was music to Abe Feuerstein’s ears — they were now actually turning down requests from the main sponsors of Hunters of the Paranormal to add additional time to their commitment.
The CEO watched as the men and women who had supported Lionel Peterson in his coup also scrambled to try and save their positions. As they attempted to approach Abe one and two at a time, he simply held up his hand and waved them away. Several left the screening room altogether. The night was his, and he only wished Lionel was here himself to see his complete and utter failure.
“Sir, all indications are that we are now nearing a fifty percent share on the night. The late night audience is just now tuning in and the sequence of events at Summer Place could not have come at a better time.”
Feuerstein nodded and shook his glass which contained nothing but melting ice. The young lady took the glass and the meaning but stayed as she needed to say something else.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Our legal department is concerned about what’s happening. I guess they are now believers themselves and—”
“Tell them to shove their concerns.”
“They would like all nonessential personnel out of that house, Father Dolan especially.”
Abe smiled and tapped the glass the young assistant held in her hand.
“The good Father stays. I believe he and Lionel Peterson need to be in on the finale, don’t you?”
The assistant turned and went to refill the CEO’s glass.
On the main viewing screen, a brand new Chevrolet Malibu shot down a Rocky Mountain highway. The scroll at the bottom of the screen warned the viewing audience that Hunters of the Paranormal would resume in five minutes. Abe smiled as he accepted his whiskey.
“Yes sir, this is television.”
With the storm breaking in earnest outside the walls of Summer Place, the occupants inside of the ballroom were becoming concerned. The men, including Lionel Peterson and the very frightened Wallace Lindemann, were crowded in front of the massive oaken doors. They had been trying to open them and the smaller side door for the past ten minutes, to no avail. It was as if the ballroom had been encased inside a concrete block. Kelly Delaphoy and Julie Reilly were standing next to the sofa where they had moved Father Dolan, while Jennifer Tilden and Damian Jackson tried in vain to smash the glass at the French doors in the front. Chair after chair met a similar fate to those in the living room an hour before.
“How about taking one of the doors off at the hinges?” one of the camera men asked as he zoomed in on the greenish figures standing at the doors.
Gabriel looked at John and tilted his head, then smiled. “I guess they didn’t cover everything at Harvard, did they?”
Lonetree looked at the camera man and nodded, as if to say, “one for you.”
One of the sound men reached into his bag and tossed Gabriel a large screwdriver.
In the front of the ballroom, Jackson stopped swinging the barstool at the ornate glass of the French doors, out of breath. Jennifer patted him on the back.
“Still think things around here are rigged, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not ready to admit to anything yet.” He tossed the stool away and reached into his coat. He pulled out a two way radio, winking as he brought it to his lips. “We’ll see how this place stands up to a ten ton battering ram on wheels.”
Jennifer gave him the faintest of smiles, as if she knew what was going to happen.
A flashlight illuminated Jackson. He and Jenny were joined by Wallace Lindemann and Lionel Peterson.
“Thank God someone’s thinking around here,” Peterson said. He pulled over the same sound man who had produced the screwdriver for the men working at the large doors and yanked the headphones from the man’s head. He placed them on and started to call Harris in the production van just as Jackson, after giving Peterson a distasteful look, initiated contact with the state police.
“State Police barracks seventeen, do you copy, over?”
“Harris, this is Peterson, get every technician and firemen you can and get those fucking front doors open. We’re coming out now!”
At the same moment, a voice came over both the technician’s headphones and the police radio — one that didn’t originate at either the production van or the state police barracks. The voice was deep and booming and brought everyone in the darkened ballroom to a complete and utter standstill. The sound was not only coming from the radio and the headset, but from the powerless stereo speakers and ornate jukebox in the far corner, which had illuminated to its full glory. Everyone in the ballroom smelled the odor at the same time, as if it had flooded into the large room and clung to everything and everyone. It was the smell of lilac.
“You cannot have them, they are mine!”
Jackson figured it was more interference and technical wizardry from Kelly Delaphoy, Kennedy or even Peterson himself. Both camera teams were now on the small group by the French doors. Jackson tried again. “State Police barracks, this is Lieutenant—”
“Get out!”
With that chilling, dark voice still echoing inside the ballroom, the lights came on and the tall doors clicked and then slowly opened. The smell of lilac immediately vanished as if it had never been there. Then they heard the cracking of the glass: the French doors, which Damian Jackson had struck time and time again, and also the plate glass windows in the living room. A few of the small panes of glass were weakened enough that they gave way and fell outward onto the large front porch.
Peterson slowly removed the headphones and let them fall from his hand. Jackson lowered the radio and shook his head.
“Amazing what happens when we threaten to bring my colleagues in, isn’t it, Professor?”
Gabriel looked at Jackson and the small smile told him it was a nice try at goading him into a statement. Instead of saying something to the state policeman, Gabriel quickly walked over to the small couch and leaned down to Father Dolan.
“Let’s get you out of here. I don’t think our host cares very much for your profession.”
“I would prefer to stay.”
“Not a chance. We may have enough legal problems on our hands,” Peterson said. His fearlessness was returning brighter than the lights now illuminating the ballroom. “It’s time we shut this thing down.”
“I don’t think you have that authority anymore, Lionel,” Julie Reilly said as she gathered up her microphone and headset. “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure you work at this network any longer.”