“Nothing. He’s just a tech geek.”
“Cody can take care of himself. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Like I can’t take care of myself?”
“Look. Some stuff is happening, okay? Things I can’t explain.”
“I thought that was the point,” she said, then slipped into a mocking delivery of one of his marketing slogans. “‘All the shivers you can stand, or your money back.’”
“That was show biz, but this is real.”
“Digger Wilson calling something ‘real’?”
“Honey.” His features curdled, his pretense of patience drained dry.
“You said I was mature for my age, but I think you just forced responsibility on me so you wouldn’t have to bother with me.”
Digger slammed the bottom of his fist against the wall, the suddenness causing her to jump. “Damn it.”
“Great, a few more punches like that and this whole place is liable to collapse.”
Digger walked away just as Cody poked his head out of the control room. “Something fall?” Cody asked.
“Just my high hopes,” Kendra said. Dad had already turned the corner. Kendra was still flushed with the thrill of cheap victory. In younger days, she would cry, her tears driving him into helpless rage. She’d grown a little subtler since then, but he was just as vulnerable to his anger. The violence was a new manifestation, but nothing she couldn’t turn to her advantage.
“Thanks for keeping our little secret,” he said.
“Hmm?” She was only half listening, thinking of Dad.
“The superimposed image. I need to break it down a little to see if it’s legit.”
“And if it is?”
“Then somebody’s trying to set us up.”
“What’s the third alternative?”
“I don’t believe it’s an intelligent haunt. No interaction.”
“Well, you believe in demons, right?”
“Yeah, but–”
“Why couldn’t a demon superimpose an image, or manipulate your video data, if they’re so powerful?”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Cody looked a little less certain than he sounded.
“You have rules for everything, but not everything follows the rules.” The combative mood still lingered, and she couldn’t shake it, even though Cody had done nothing wrong. To her horror, she felt a surge of heat in her self-righteousness, and wondered if she had inherited the Digger’s anger issues.
She needed to get away before Cody wrote her off as a bitchy lunatic. A little down time with some paper and pencils was the cure for her mood.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m starting my period.”
Cody grinned, which she took as a sign of forgiveness. “My deepest sympathies.”
“Good luck with that image thing. Gotta run.”
“Later.”
Kendra headed for her room, yearning for escape into two-dimensional worlds and cartoon ghost faces, where the characters behaved the way she wanted.
Chapter 16
The Psychic’s Room was set up in 131, and Cristos Rubio was holding court in style.
When Wayne entered the room, Rubio was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees with his palms turned up. He wore his signature purple cloak, a silk cord holding it around his neck. His wrinkled brown face was etched with secrets, and his skin looked as if it were flaking. His eyes were small, dark, and reptilian.
A young man sat in front of Rubio, a deck of playing cards on the floor between them. The man pressed one of the cards against his chest.
“The card you’re holding is the seven of diamonds,” Rubio said in his rich Spanish accent.
The man turned the card over and flipped it to the floor, where the half-dozen onlookers gaped at it. It was the six of spades.
“Three out of eight,” the man said.
Rubio opened his eyes. The left one wandered, swiveling toward the corner of the room. In the Middle Ages, those with wandering eyes were considered seers, and the lucky ones managed to earn their bread by telling fortunes, preferably good ones. The rest were burned at the stake or exiled.
“Cut the deck,” Rubio said.
The man did, and Rubio touched the top card. The onlookers fell silent, as if they were also trying to tune into the card. Wayne admired Rubio’s sense of drama, letting the moment play out. Rubio took his fingers off the card and the man picked it up.
“It feels like the jack of hearts,” Rubio said.
The man turned the card over, revealing that Rubio had predicted it correctly. Or else examined the marks hidden in the patterns on the back of the card.
“Four of nine,” the man said, with a slight bit of awe.
“Is he cheating?” whispered a woman in the back of the room.
“Probably,” said a man in a black turtleneck. “But it’s a good act.”
“I checked the cards myself,” Wayne said. “He’s legit.”
As far as I know.
Wayne had found Cristos Rubio through an Internet search, figuring a psychic would round out the conference and give some of the low-energy types a reason to skip out on the hunts.
“One more,” Rubio said. “I should be good to pick at least 50 percent.”
The man went through the routine again and this time Rubio correctly guessed three of clubs. This elicited a few “oohs” and “aahs,” as well as a little muttering. Gelbaugh, leaning against the wall wearing his patented smirk, offered, “Hardly a controlled experiment.”
The man who was dealing the cards, whose face was pointed like a weasel’s, though he had gambler’s eyes, said, “Why don’t you try one?”
Good theater, Digger thought. I might have to make this a regular part of Haunted Computer Productions.
Gelbaugh eased his way through the crowd, strolling like a motion-picture sheriff headed for a showdown. “Let’s try my deck,” he said, fishing inside his sports jacket. “Then we’ll know it’s clean.”
Unless you two varmints is in cahoots.
Gelbaugh pulled out a deck with an elaborate, mystic design on the card backs, replete with stars, moons, comets, and other celestial bodies against a midnight-blue background. He set the deck on the coffee table, cut it, and said, “Try the top one.”
Rubio touched the deck, closed his eyes, and frowned, the deep creases of his forehead as eroded as the Andean Mountains of Peru, his country of origin. His thick, dark eyebrows worked up and down in concentration. “These are not playing cards,” he whispered after a moment.
“Sure, they are,” Gelbaugh said. “We’re playing a game, aren’t we?”
“Don’t push it,” Wayne said.
“What’s the matter?” Gelbaugh looked around at the assembled audience, several of whom appeared to be silently supporting him. “You don’t want anyone to peek behind the curtain?”
Wayne was resigning himself to another verbal shootout with Gelbaugh when Rubio cut in with renewed strength in his voice. “I see.”
Gelbaugh’s smile dropped into an O of surprise, and Wayne’s pulse leaped at the cheap victory. If Gelbaugh were left dead in the street, his trigger finger cold and limp, then the conference attendees might be able to relax and enjoy themselves.
“Okay,” Gelbaugh said. “Wing it.”
“Is Tarot,” Rubio said.
Gelbaugh’s face went impassive. “Obvious,” he said. “The design gives that one away.”
“From India.”
“Wrong. These are from Poland.”
“Designed in Poland. Printed in India.”
Gelbaugh remained inscrutable. “Much of the world’s printing is done in India.”
“It’s moving to Hong Kong and China,” said a man in a tie that featured a ghost drinking a martini and bearing the logo “Blithe spirit.” “I’m in advertising. All those crazy chemicals and no regulations, plus there’s more merchant ships.”
“Thank you for the trivia quiz,” Gelbaugh said. “But I’m sure you folks want to get back to chasing figments of your imagination, so let’s get this over with.”