When Phillippe returned with their drinks, he said, “So, what’s all this talk of fantomes? Ghosts? A couple of the cooks were talking about the knives that fly across the room by themselves.”
“Well, they say the place is haunted. That’s why these people came, to hunt the ghosts.”
“Like on the TV shows?”
“Yeah.” She pointed. “That man at the end of the bar, that’s Digger Wilson. He put this together.”
“He sure knows how to drink.”
“Well, it’s only a little after midnight. I don’t know why they gave up so early.”
“Maybe they found what they were looking for.”
“You don’t believe that junk, do you? You’re French, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be enlightened.”
“These ghosts, where do they hang out?”
“Well, they say Room 318 is the spookiest. The wiring is a little tricky, but other than that, it’s just another room.”
“How about a little tour?” His eyebrows raised in suggestion. He definitely wasn’t gay, and she shifted in her seat.
“The hunt rooms are reserved for the guests. Wouldn’t want to barge in on anyone. Janey would have a hissy fit.”
“The basement?” He smirked, a challenge in his European eyes. “Nobody down there, oui?”
“Nobody,” she said, leaning forward so she could whisper over the jangling strains of “Crimson and Clover.”
He knocked back his wine and stood, holding out his hand. She considered the choice between Phillippe and the unknown or the petty cash in the bar till.
What the hell, the cash will always be there, and Janey could fire Phillippe next week for all I know. This might be my only chance. Sure, he’s only a cook now, but he has a chef’s degree, and that could lead to management.
She was out the door before she’d really made up her mind, and by then it was too late.
Chapter 29
Cody had dropped her at the door to 318 like a perfect gentleman.
Not a kiss on the cheek, not a hint that he’d tuck her in if she wanted, not even a handshake, just a “Get some rest, and I’ll catch you in the morning.”
Kendra was disappointed but also relieved, because she was tired and edgy. At least the room lights worked. After all that weird stuff in 218, she welcomed some down time with her sketch pad. The room had two twin beds, which wasn’t too awkward because she’d traveled a lot with Dad, but Kendra didn’t want any goodnight hugs. With luck, Dad wouldn’t show up until she’d drawn herself to sleep.
She settled on her bed and chose a charcoal pencil. She opened the pad to find the sketch of Dorrie Dough-Face and Rochester the Rat Boy.
I tore that out and left it for Bruce.
Except this picture wasn’t quite the same. Rochester’s eyes had a glint in them and his whiskers lifted in a sneer, while Dorrie grinned as if to say, “I ate the last doughnut and the bitchin’ crumbs, too. Whatcha gonna do about it?”
The little twerp must have sneaked into the room and copied the sketch back into her pad. He obviously had a master key. But his fingers were way to plump to draw at such a level. Kendra was proud of her skill, but she was also realistic about the work involved. Talent meant little until you had logged those endless hours of development and made the shift from art to craft. That was way too refined a concept for a 10-year-old to grasp, and prodigies were in short supply.
“You like my picture?”
Kendra dropped her pencil.
Bruce stepped from the shadowy bathroom, still wearing his too-short trousers and dirty green shirt. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.”
“That’s exactly what you meant to do, you little creep. What kind of game are you playing, anyway?”
“Hide and seek.”
“It’s way past your bedtime. Your dad is going to kick your butt.”
“He’s busy.”
“What if I’d been changing into my pajamas?”
Bruce grinned uneasily. “Rochester said he saw you in the bathroom.” He giggled. “He saw your noonie.”
“Crap.” She clenched her fists and rose from the bed as he retreated into the bathroom.
“Just wait till I—”
The bathroom was empty. She clicked the light just to make sure. She checked the cabinet under the sink, expecting him to jump out and yell “Boo.” Nothing but spare rolls of toilet paper and the rank, musty smell of moist pipes.
The shower curtain was pulled closed, opaque enough to hide him, but there was no way he could have ducked in without the curtain swaying. He might be lying down, though. She yanked the curtain back with a flourish, anger tightening her jaws.
The giggle came from the bedroom.
Creak creak creak.
The creep was bouncing on the bed. If he stomped her sketch pad, that would be one dead kid. Except it wasn’t just a creak, another sound accented it, as if he were brushing the ceiling with each leap.
Creak flup creak flup creak flup.
His singsong rhyme was syncopated by his bouncing.
“Stay—”
Creak.
“—and play—”
Flup.
“—with Mommy—”
Creak.
“—and me.”
Flup.
She raced into the bedroom, more intent on rescuing her precious sketch pad and its cast of characters than on mashing the little brat’s teeth down his throat.
The creaking had stopped, and Bruce dangled in midair, a piece of fiber-coated electrical wire wrapped around his neck and tied to the light fixture. His black tongue protruded, and his blank eyes bulged, the flesh around them sunken and purple. Flies buzzed around his head and his skin was the color of cottage cheese.
Christ—
Before she could decide whether to touch him or if he was too far gone, the lights went out.
Christ and back again.
She didn’t know whether to retreat or feel her way forward. The afterimage of the light burned orange blobs behind her eyelids, but the image of the dead boy burned just as brightly.
You’re cracking up, kiddo, just like Bradshaw said you would. Too much imagination. Too much fantasy. Too much believing in the monsters you make.
Too much being the Digger’s daughter.
Her cracked laughter sounded too loud in the dark room.
It wasn’t real. She could make it to the light switch, get the room back in working order, and find some way to jam the lock so Bruce wouldn’t bug her anymore. And as soon as Dad came in, she’d make him report the little twerp to the hotel staff. Surely they had some sort of security, even if it was just that old mummy of a manager. One scowl from her wrinkled, witchbag face would scare any kid straight.
Yeah. Logic and reason. Much better than the koo-koo choo-choo to Nutsville.
One hand in front of her, she took brief steps forward across the carpet, mapping the room in her mind. The beds were over there, coffee table and TV cabinet to the left, an open path in the middle, right where Bruce would be hanging--
He’s NOT hanging, damn it.
Still, she slowed a little and waved her hand in front of her. Despite the lamps outside that girded the walkway to the hotel’s front entrance, the room was way darker than it should have been.
She thought of that screwy line the ghost hunters used when they were ushering a restless spirit to peace in the Great Unknown: “Go toward the light.”
Count to three and do it.
Count to three....
Stay and play with Mommy and me.