“Dust,” said another man. “I saw it swirling when you hit your flash.”
“No, it was energy,” Terry said. “I felt it.”
“Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said a weasel-faced woman.
Oh, yeah? Then what’s watching us from the end of the hall?
The Roach’s original count of active demons was six, but it figured they would try for seven if possible. While the number “666” had gained infamy because of its purported role as the Mark of the Beast, scholars had traced old translations and found the number had been recorded in error. Besides, the Holy Bible was hardly more than a field guide for the surface struggle. The real battles waged outside the pages, in rare air and poisoned darkness. Seven was appropriate, a number of magic, mystery, and perfection.
“Where’s Artie?” a woman said. “He was right behind me a second ago.”
The Roach looked down both ends of the corridor and at the locked doors lining each side of the hall. A quick head count showed he had indeed lost a group member. He hoped Artie was sitting on the stool down at the bar, indulging in spirits of the liquid kind, but the energy in the ancient structure had grown palpably stronger, and The Roach wondered if a demon had taken Artie for a spin across the dance floor.
The Roach activated his two-way radio. “Digger, I got a Lost Boy.”
Cody’s static-filled voice came back, the signal saturated with noise so that the words were barely audible. “Digger’s a Lost Boy, too. What’s the prob?”
“We had a sighting and someone must have fled the scene.”
“He wasn’t scared,” said the woman. “He loves ghosts.”
The Roach nodded while ignoring her. Paranormal tourism had all the inherent risk factors of traditional outdoor adventuring, with the same fear response and endorphin rush. The Roach frowned upon speed dating with the dead, but he figured he could best serve on the front lines where the metaphysical bullets flew hot and fast. He’d learned long ago that just closing your eyes to a problem didn’t make it go away.
And there was wisdom in the old saying about being careful what you wish for.
Because he wished a demon would invade Terry and shut her bitching mouth.
Chapter 23
Violet wasn’t sure what was worse—that old bitch Janey Mays hovering everywhere like a vulture crossed with a hummingbird, or disappearing when things went to hell.
Violet had called Janey several times from the front desk since the mummified manager had called the front desk. No answer each time, and Wally Reams had knocked on her door to no avail. J.C. Henries from night shift had gone AWOL, one of the gas burners in the kitchen stove had flared and burned a cook’s arm, the hot water was on the blink, and two of the guests were complaining about children running up and down the halls. Despite the lie she’d told Digger, Violet was positive no children had checked in, since most of the rooms were taken up by the ghost-hunting crowd.
The customer’s always right, even when they’re assholes.
“You sure she reported a leak?” Violet asked Rhonda.
The girl gave a nod, bouncing her red pigtails and smacking her gum. “‘bout 25 minutes ago.”
“Doesn’t it seem weird? She expects someone to clean her ashtray the second she crushes the butt. You think she’d wait 25 minutes without chewing the whole maintenance crew a new pooper?”
“Yeah, it’s weird,” Rhonda said. “Her car’s still in the lot and I can’t see her walking two miles to Black Rock. And where else is there to go?”
You got that right.
“I can’t believe she’d bail out of a big conference, especially with a freaky crowd like this,” Violet said. “I’m surprised she’s not counting the silverware and towels.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. She busted me for taking a roll of toilet paper.”
“Well, it’s hotel property. It’s her job.”
“Nobody should like their job that much.”
“This place is falling down around our ears. If anything else goes wrong, we’ll have to call in FEMA.”
”Life goes on,” Rhonda said, turning her attention back to People magazine, where Angelina Jolie was adopting another baby, this time from Madagascar. The clerk was slouched against the drawer that served as cash till, except most customers used credit cards these days. Violet eyed it, wondering how much loose change was in there. The best filching was done in the bar, but with Battle Axe away, then why not go for a few twenties?
Violet tried the phone again. It gave a sad bleat, the death of an electronic sheep. She banged the handset against the wall, and then checked the signal on her cell phone. It was hopeless, because cell phones never worked around the inn. Some said it was because of the inn’s location straddling the Eastern Continental Divide, while others called it a “dark zone” the wireless companies had not yet found lucrative enough to pursue. Whatever the reason, she had no bars.
Wally came huffing and puffing to the front desk, his ruddy face dotted with sweat. “Elevator’s gettin’ squirrelly,” he said.
“Squirrelly? Is that the engineering term for ‘out of service’?”
“It’s still working, it just don’t stop on the floor you push the button for.”
“We’ve only got three floors. How much of a problem can it be?”
“Normally, it wouldn’t be one, but these Christ-dang ghost hunters are crawling from floor to floor like piss ants in a sugar factory. The way the floors are divided, you got to walk a mile to get from 210 to 324. Down, around, and up.”
“And Janey didn’t answer?”
“I pounded on the door near hard enough to break it down. If she’s in there, she’s either dead or deaf.”
One of the guests approached the desk, a hawk-faced woman wearing an ill-fitting pants suit that spelled trouble. Wally stepped away, falling into invisible-worker mode. Violet was annoyed at being thrust into command, especially since she was due to clock out in half an hour and Phillippe Renaud, the new cook—”chef,” he had insisted, in that gorgeous French accent—had offered to buy her a Beck’s in the hotel bar.
“Excuse me,” the guest said, rapping on the counter with her room key. “My door’s messed up. I got locked inside my own room.”
The bony woman’s avian eyes darted past Violet as if expecting someone older and more mature to hear her complaint. An adult. Violet was annoyed. She had a community-college degree, for crying out loud. And one of these days, she’d own a pants suit, too. As soon as she paid back what she’d borrowed.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Violet said, giving her falsest, sweetest smile. “But our keys only work from the outside. All inside doors have privacy locks and deadbolts. Are you sure you didn’t turn the knob the wrong way?”
“I know how to work a door, Miss,” the Hawk said, with enough frost in her breath to lower the room temperature. Which Violet noticed had gotten colder in the last few minutes. A malfunctioning heater was all she needed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Violet said, her smile locked in place. “Wally, would you please look at the lock?”
Wally nodded, though his face curdled as if he’d swallowed a slug. “I’ll get J.C. on it right away.”
“And don’t disturb anything,” the Hawk said. “I have some very valuable equipment in there.”
As Wally hurried away, she added, “You people should do something about the heat. It’s freezing in here.”
Tell it to someone who cares.
A few guests were milling back and forth, as if the conference had hit a lull. Violet fished under the counter and came out with a couple of brass tokens. “Here, good for complimentary drinks at the bar.”