“What did you get on him?” asked Duncan Hanratty, her graduate assistant and temporary lover. He was on the bed, propped against pillows and reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics.
“I’ll show you the clip later,” she said. “When the phonies stand up and start blathering, I’ll roll this out and dash ice water in their faces.”
“You’re sexy when you’re mean.”
“Lucky for you.” She wondered if Digger had reported the incident to his team. She might not get an opportunity to sneak back into the attic, especially if SSI got their cameras hooked up. For space cadets, they sure knew their stuff when it came to high-tech gear.
“What do you have against these guys, anyway?” Duncan said, tossing the magazine aside and rubbing his tousled hair in that sleepy, Teddy-bear manner that made him so adorable for minutes at a stretch.
“This pseudoscience gives real science a bad name,” she said. “We’re planning the first mission to Jupiter, we’ve mapped the human genetic code, and we’re making major breakthroughs in nanotechnology. But there’s no sense of wonder in it. People would rather engage in make-believe.”
“Still seems like a waste of our weekend,” Duncan said. “We could be logging some lab time.”
“You’re too young to understand.” It was her favorite taunt, though he was in his mid-twenties and only 15 years younger than she.
“I understand perfectly,” he said. “You need to know you’re right, and you need other people to know they’re wrong.”
Ann checked her laptop and made sure the other pieces of bait were ready. She’d planted a few digital recorders around the hotel, triggered by wireless remote signals. The recorders contained cryptic sound bites such as the one she’d broadcast for Digger in the attic. “You’re blinding me” was one of the most obvious, given that ghost hunters tended to work in the dark and carry flashlights.
“The trouble is they don’t know they’re wrong,” she said. “They’re trying to prove a negative.”
“Well, your scientific method is suspect, too,” Duncan said, with that infuriating smugness. Or maybe Ann was only infuriated because he had a point. “You can hardly consider your approach methodical and objective, because you hold the belief that ghosts don’t exist. Therefore, you are trying to prove a foregone conclusion rather than collect data in an impartial manner.”
“What’s your point?” It was the common response of those in a weak position. But at least she had the authority to stop sleeping with him if necessary.
“You’re in high dudgeon,” he said.
“I have no idea what ‘high dudgeon’ means.”
“Me, either, but whatever it is, you’re in it.”
Ann scrolled through some programs on the laptop. She wasn’t in the mood to argue or play, which were usually the same when it came to Duncan. She’d seduced half her male assistants, and one of her female assistants, since securing her Ph.D., and Duncan was the first she’d actually almost loved. “You know what’s ironic?”
“You as a NASCAR queen?” he said, his hand creeping toward his belt.
She was wearing blue jeans and a Dale Earnhardt sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a pony tail instead of flaring in the usual defiant and deranged curls. The biggest insult was the Carolina Panthers ball cap clamped down on her forehead. But the disguise had worked when, during her preliminary scouting expedition, she’d blundered into a cramped rear room where the hotel staff sat sullen and tobacco-soaked. She didn’t quite have the wrinkled, defeated look of the permanent underclass, but she had passed for some sort of laborer, because she’d given a conspiratorial wave that said, “This place, what can you do?” One of the maids had even directed her to the service stairs, where traffic was minimal.
“Shut up and listen for a change,” she said. “I’m trying to be objective here.”
“Shoot.”
“Assuming 50 people are here focusing their energy on ghosts, what if the combined electromagnetic force of their brain circuitry slightly altered the normal EMF state of the hotel? And subsequently that alteration led to hallucinations, feelings of disorientation, and a sense of being watched or touched?”
“You mean the power of wishful thinking?”
“Or maybe just projection or self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“That’s the whole trouble with the supernatural,” Duncan said. “It’s beyond the laws of nature and, as such, can’t be measured, quantified, or compared. It’s like arguing religion. Say a child is swept away in a flood but gets snagged on a tree branch and survives. The rescue is called miraculous proof of God’s mercy, but what about the people who drowned?”
“They come back as waterlogged ghosts?”
“Have you noticed,” he asked, “that most of our conversations are in the form of questions?”
“And this is a bad thing?”
“You love to be bad.” Duncan rolled off the bed and stood behind her. He kissed the back of her neck and then peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. “Hey, did the light level just change in the attic?”
“What if we accidentally discovered irrefutable proof of the afterlife while trying to debunk it?”
“It would be a miracle,” he said.
Ann clicked through the files on her computer. She had five more doctored videos and a folder full of superimposed still images. She’d spent one on Digger, but she could use that one again. Maybe she’d wait until several true believers were around to witness proof of the impossible.
She switched to the view from the hidden spycam in the attic. Light fluctuated and she wondered if Digger had returned for a second look, but the shadow fell still. She smiled. Such imaginative impressions would have sent the average ghost hunter into a paroxysm of bliss.
“We’ve got a few hours to kill before showtime,” she said, turning to meet his kiss.
“Want to continue this conversation in bed?”
“Will you shut up already?”
Chapter 8
People called him The Roach.
Rodney Froehmer wasn’t sure whether it was because he could fit through impossibly tight crevices or because he was likely to survive nuclear winter as the last living human in a post-apocalyptic world. Either way, he embraced the role, from the rubber gloves dangling from his belt to the mini MAG light clipped on the bill of his black baseball cap. He only had one antenna, unlike his insect namesake, and it extended from a two-way radio headset. His night-vision goggles completed the bug-eyed appearance, but at the moment, they were draped from his neck.
All of the Spirit Seekers International crew were hooked on technology, but The Roach was in his own special class of geek. His equipment dangled from loops and straps or bulged from the cargo pockets in his jumpsuit. While the SSI uniforms made all of them easily recognizable, The Roach particularly loved the attention from the paranormal community. He didn’t have Cody’s looks or the artistic flair of Digger Wilson, but he’d carved out a niche and been photographed with plenty of ghost-hunting groupies. The coup de grace was the silver crucifix that dangled down his chest.
Since Kendra was running the check-in table and the rest of the crew was setting up gear in the control room, The Roach figured he could loaf by the front desk and serve as advertising. Besides, there were forces at work that merited a little surveillance, even if those things couldn’t be seen at the moment.
A couple who appeared to be husband and wife came down the hall, the husband carrying a glass that contained either red wine or grape juice. He was balding and flushed, seeming to fade into his wife’s ample shadow. She was one of those overweight women who didn’t seem comfortable in her own skin, because she kept tugging at her lime-colored blouse and suit jacket as if somehow she could disguise the extra eighty pounds. She was formidable and brassy, her perfume running interference. She grinned at The Roach, her heels hammering as she increased her pace.
“You’re one of the ghost busters.” she practically squealed with delight.
“We don’t bust anything, ma’am.”
“You’re on the team, right?”
“Spirit Seekers International, at your service.” He touched the bill of his cap like a jet pilot about to embark on a flight. Digger had taught them the importance of showmanship.