“It costs a lot of money to live in paradise. San Diego is one of the three most expensive cities in North America.”
“I can believe it. But you’re…I mean, you seem to be--”
“I look like I’m doing well, Elliot. The truth is closer to us hanging on by our nails. I made most of my money at Bradshaw & Evans before I left to hang out my own shingle. Seemed like a good move at the time. I had a full list of clients lined up, important buildings in the Gas Lamp Quarter to redesign, several older homes in upscale areas like the one I’m living in to refurbish. Then one day—it literally seemed like one day—all my investors either went under or went south. We intended to stay in that big Victorian my crew was remodeling. Now my crew is down to a skeleton and I’m doing most of the remodeling myself just so we can sell the place and move to cheaper digs.”
“Move where?”
Byron grunted sarcasm. “That’s the big bone of contention. Donna grew up in California, her whole family is here. She hates the Midwest and the east coast is nearly as expensive as the west now. I have some small holdings in Chicago, but dragging Donna out of San Diego is…well, maybe impossible.”
“I’m sorry, Byron. Really.”
Sanderson watched the ground, shuffled a pebble with his shoe. “In some ways—don’t take this the wrong way—I was almost glad after the…incident with Nathaniel. Donna was really spooked. Still is.”
“But not enough to move out?”
Byron shrugged. “It’s more a question of whether I can finish remodeling the place so we can move out—get some real return on our dollar. Donna keeps after me to sell my collectibles, of course. Unfortunately most of them are of higher sentimental than dollar value. Still, I suppose I’ll have to. And soon.” He shook his head, looked up at the Old Globe. “To stay or not to stay, that is the question. I’ve tried to get Donna to let the kids go stay in Sacramento with her parents, but…”
“She won’t?”
“On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays she will…the rest of the time she plants her legs like a terrier and won’t be scared out of her own house. She can be very…Irish sometimes.”
I smiled, thinking of Katie.
“And so we go on. In a constant state of flux…a constant atmosphere of conflict. It’s wearing us both down. Badly. God knows what subliminal effect it’s having on the kids, especially Nathaniel.”
“Katie mentioned on the phone that he’s talked about the disappearance night. I expect—no, I’m certain she’s eventually going to have to ask him what happened.”
Byron shook his head. “He won’t tell her. He never talks about the incident now and Donna isn’t exactly encouraging.”
I thought about it. “Katie mentioned during your phone conversation…did Nathaniel say something about animal people?”
Byron turned a sober face to me. Something in his expression sent a chill through me.
“Only once. Ask him anything about that night now and he says he doesn’t remember.”
I nodded. “I see. What about—have you tried—“
“—a therapist? I’m in favor of it. Donna isn’t. ‘He’s a perfectly normal little boy,’ she keeps telling me.”
Byron toed the pebble absently. “…mostly just to hear herself say it, I think.”
* * *
The Geek Squad was repacking their equipment when we returned. Their arms were loaded with boxes and crates to carry back to their RV.
Katie was out of the silver Lexus almost before Donna had it parked in the drive.
She ran up, red-faced and puffing, and grabbed the arm of the fat bald kid with the mustard stains, who was hefting an even fatter crate. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
He looked at her with neither insolence nor apology in his chubby face. I did detect a hint of impatience, though, as if he and the others had suddenly remembered a prior appointment somewhere.
“Equipment’s not working,” chubby shirt said shortly as he shouldered his way to the open van door where most of the expensive equipment was already reloaded.
Open-mouthed and agog, Katie chased him. “Not working! What the hell do you mean not working? You’re supposed to be the best paranormal tech crew in the business, how can your equipment not be working?”
Chubby turned to move past her back up the walk for the remnants of his gear, but Katie stepped in front of him, got right in his face.
“What part of it don’t you understand, lady? We checked and double checked every last dial and tuner and relay system we brought. It’s dead! Zilch! Nada!”
He tried to push past again but Katie shoved him back. He was bigger than she, certainly heavier, but he didn’t push back.
“Are you saying that nothing will fire up? It must be the power, then! The power into the house! Did you check it?”
He wiped sweat from his brow and settled on his hip, maybe grateful for the excuse to take a break. “Three times. Everything from the fuse box in the cellar to calling Con Edison and inquiring about the power. A little silly, of course, since all the ceiling lights, lamps and other electrical stuff were full operational as we did. It’s not your power, lady, it’s…something else.”
“Like what?”
He stared at her quietly a moment, then couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. This time I detected a slight quaver to his voice. “I…don’t…know.”
Katie stood there speechless.
So did the chubby boy.
The moment was interrupted by the rest of us joining them. “What’s up?” from Byron.
Before anyone could speak the third geek called from the open door, a small box in his hands. “That’s the last of it, Chet! We’re out of here!”
The Sandersons looked at each other. “Already? They’ve finished all their tests?”
Chubby Boy turned. Katie caught his arm again. “You can’t do this! You’ve been paid!”
This time the chubby face wasn’t so pleasant. “Oh but I can do it! Along with the rest of the crew. We can and will leave that house anytime we please! And it pleases us now!”
And he turned on his heel.
He turned back to Katie sharply as he opened the door to the van. “And if you’d like some free advice, if I were in your shoes I’d do the same! The sooner the better!”
He started to step in, turned again to the prostrate Katie and a wisp of sympathy crossed his face. “You can’t conduct experiments or live in a house without at least a modicum of control. And there’s no control in there. None.” He hesitated. “At least not human control.” The boy slammed the door as the driver gunned the engine. “I’ll mail back your check tonight.”
And they were out of there.
The four of us turned and looked at each other, perplexed.
Then we turned and looked back at the empty house.
Or what we assumed was the empty house.
Donna started a little as a tall figure appeared in the doorway and came smiling at us through palm branch stripes of warm California sun. It was the good looking one, Riff.
He’d stayed behind.
Katie looked up at him. “You’re not leaving with the rest of the crew?”
He flashed her a blinding smile. “No dear lady. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced!”
“Why not?”
The blinding smile remained as he shrugged. “No time in all the excitement, I guess!”
“Why didn’t you leave with the rest of the crew?”
The smile became patiently modest. “Because, my dear, I’m not actually part of the rest of the crew.”
“Who are you?” Byron stepped toward his wife and the handsome man with authority.
The handsome man didn’t take his eyes off Katie. He thrust a hand out to her.
“Riff Rankin, my lady, Hollywood producer! Ms. Bracken, isn’t it? Charmed!”
Katie took his hand tentatively, perhaps slightly hypnotized by the killer grin below the dark, curly hair? The well-rehearsed bon vie bon? I’d always heard the grea
t producers in Hollywood were also great actors.
“Producer of what?” Byron demanded.
“Television!” Riff let go of Katie’s hand, offered his to Byron.
Byron ignored it. “What kind of television?”
The killer grin widened as Riff turned to appraise the four of us. “If you good folks have a minute, why don’t we all go back inside your wonderful house and talk about that?”
Katie folded her arms with suspicion. “What kind of TV?”
Mr. Riff Rankin’s dark, twinkling eyes fell on her again. Across her. All over her. “America’s Most Haunted! Ms. Bracken, I’ve heard of you!”
“Have you now.”
Riff smiled at me. “Oh, yes! Of both of you. The Louisiana thing. Brilliant! Truly! Congratulations!”
Donna pulled Katie aside with lowered tones. “America’s Most Wanted?”
Katie was appraising Rankin up and down, but not the way he’d appraised her.
“’Haunted,’” she murmured to Donna. “I believe he said, ‘haunted’.”
EIGHT
Without remembering quite how we got there, the four of us were seated around the Sandersons’ kitchen table while Rankin casually perused the newly refinished cabinets. Adroitly, smoothly, like he’d done this before. Like he lived here.
“It’s one of those ‘Mock-umentaries’, isn’t it,” Byron asked irritably, watching the producer’s every sure-handed move, “America’s Most Haunted?”
“Very good,” Rankin smiled affably, finding what he wanted and bringing it down from the top of the cupboard with a tall, easy reach: a bottle of French champagne with feminine curves. “’Moc-umentary’…that’s very good, Mr. Sanderson. For an architect. We in the business prefer calling it a ‘Docu-drama’. Our particular show is one of the few that hones strictly to the facts of the case. Always.”
He twisted once deftly, and the cork somehow popped free. I think even Byron was impressed.
“Every case we cover is different, you see, with its own personality and idiosyncrasies, its own peculiar story and personalities. We try hard to be faithful to them. To be absolutely fair and unbiased.”
“To the peculiar personalities,” Katie put in.
Rankin, never faltering, smiled wider and poured with the expertise of a French garcon, making a long stemmed glass appear magically before each of us, all the while keeping one dark brown lashed eye on Katie. “Which we very much hope will include you, my dear,” he bowed, “and the talented Mr. Bledsoe, of course.”
I nodded, sipping. “Let’s not leave out the most peculiar one of all!”
Rankin beamed against the counter, confidently pouring himself a glass of bubbly. “That does seem to be how viewers regard families like yours, incidents like yours—as peculiar. It is also what keeps them coming back week after week, and provides the advertising revenue that lines our pockets! Cheers!”
Everyone drank but Byron. “How’d you know,” he nodded at the top of the cupboard, “we had champagne up there?”
Rankin fielded every inquiry with equal delight. “I could, Mr. Sanderson, tell you I sensed it…extrapolated it from both the size and style of the house and an instant evaluation of the warm family members who live here—perhaps even felt it in the ethos brewing throughout the home, ostensibly to impress you with my understanding of the mysterioso and life on other planes, in other dimensions. The truth, I’m afraid, is a bit more banal; I did my research on your case, as I do with all my cases, gleaning as much knowledge about potential participants as is available. I have what they call an eidetic memory, you see. Also a very talented staff. A thorough and meticulous one.” He turned and looked directly at me. “I insist on the facts.”
“Do you believe in the occult?” Katie asked evenly.
Rankin held the wonderful smile, turned to her. “I like to believe I have an open mind, Ms. Bracken,” he told her, as if he were already aware that I was the pragmatic member of our team, Katie the intuitive one.
Katie watched him silently. The right answer, her eyes seem to tell me, is not necessarily the truth.
I heard Byron’s chair creak as he leaned back from the table. “So—if I get this right—you’re looking to exploit us, correct? Our misfortune. The trauma and humility this relatively locally exposed incident has made my family endure, though with the advent of a national broadcast the term locally would certainly become moot. Is that right, Mr. Rankin?”
Rankin set his glass on the kitchen counter and looked Byron in the eye. He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
The rest of us—expecting a different kind of response—went silent for a few moments.
“I wish to exploit you, Mr. Sanderson, Mrs. Sanderson. And you, Mr. Bledsoe, Ms. Bracken. If you’re so willing. Just as you will exploit me.”
“Exploit you?” exclaimed a flabbergasted Donna. “And how is that exactly, Mr. Rankin?”
Rankin seemed to study her soberly for an instant with an expression I felt he had used before at this juncture of the conversation. Then the magic smile was back. “With money, of course, Mrs. Sanderson!”
Katie opened her mouth to say something but I stopped her with a knee under the table.
I sat there waiting quietly—having heard Byron’s sad tale at Balboa Park--to see which one of the Sandersons would ask first—how much?
I was sure it would be Byron.
But Donna got there before him. “It’s out of the question,” she said firmly, and laced her hands atop the table to add a note of finality.
Rankin nodded, not attempting to counter with a reply, and took another slip from his champagne glass instead. “This is quite good,” he smiled at Byron. “Dom Perignon?”
Byron nodded. “You know your champagnes, Mr. Rankin, what else do you know?”
“About fine wines? Very little . What I do know are my James Bond movies. And that from the lovely Lamborghini out front, you know them too.” The great smile went a tad wistful. “What red-blooded young man among us hasn’t dreamed the dream? Know what attracted me most to Mr. Bond when I was a kid?”
“His ruthlessness?” from Donna.
Rankin chuckled. “I was going to say his ethics. He didn’t have many, but he treasured above all else those he did have.”
“Like you?” Katie asked.
Rankin shrugged modesty. “I like to think so.”
“Then why choose such an invasive occupation? Why bother these good people with publicity they don’t need and that can’t help them?”
That learned nod came from Rankin again. “I could ask you the same question, Ms. Bracken—“
“I haven’t agreed to be in the show.”
“—but I can see merely by talking with you and Mr. Bledsoe that you’re good people, whose intent is to help the Sanderson family, not exploit it.”
“You just said you intended to exploit—“
“Exploitation, Ms. Bracken, is just another way of saying that everyone makes a fair buck. When your work is done here, you’ll doubtless write a few magazine articles, contract for a book if anything fruitful evolves. Both activities have the ability to help heal the Sandersons and further the important study of paranormal activity. But both provide funds. And they take time. Time that could be used for public awareness, which might help others in similar predicaments. At the most with a book like that you’ll reach a few thousand readers over a course of months. I can reach 6 million viewers in one night.”
He took what looked like a folded contract and a tooled leather checkbook from his inside jacket pocket. “And I can pay the Sandersons instantly. Tonight.”
Donna shook her head violently. “Years ago, maybe. Not today. There’s too much lunatic fridge out there. I won’t have my children’s faces exposed to so many potentially evil eyes.”
“And they won’t be!” Rankin jumped in quickly. “Neither their faces nor their names, nor even the address of this house. Not even the state it’s in.”
Donna looked up at him. “I don
’t—“
“He uses actors,” Katie told her flatly, “professionals. Isn’t that right, Mr. Rankin?”
Rankin nodded, coming over to refill both women’s glasses. “And we’ll even film the reenactment in a studio, if you insist. But I don’t advise it.”
“Why not?” Byron wanted to know.
“Because, Mr. Sanderson, if we—and by extension your family—are going to put ourselves through all this, why not give it the best shot for producing the best results—finding some real answers?”
“But it’s a reenactment,” Byron insisted.
“Yes! And with stand-ins for your family members. But shot in the exact same place at the exact same time, in the carefully arranged exact positions of the original event! It’s the house, Mr. Sanderson, which is key here! What happened to your son that night may have happened to anyone occupying this property. That’s why Ms. Bracken and Mr. Bledsoe hired a tech team to study it!”
“Which failed,” Katie said drily.
Rankin grinned at her. “I know. I know that crew well, even used them on my own shows the first season. They’re a dependable group. But all they got here were dead seismic readings and blank video. It’s happened before, happens all the time with paranormal research equipment, as you should know, Ms. Bracken.”
Donna Sanderson turned to look at Katie.
“And you’ll do better with movie cameras and make-up?” Katie challenged.
“We’re professionals, Ms. Bracken. This is our fourth season. And I can tell you we’ve seen and recorded some damned strange phenomena both inside old houses and outside new ones, from here to New England. Shot thousands of feet of tape and film…and yes, captured images that neither I nor the so-called experts can verify or explain. But never once have we ended up with blank tape. Your little tech crew was well steeped in the paranormal, but they’d be the first to admit that even their advanced equipment doesn’t reach the outer spectrum of the supernormal. My team isn’t even going to try. We’re engineer oriented, Ms. Bracken, with cutting edge digital sensors, image sharpeners and motion detectors. Yes, we have a range of night filters, infrared gels and polarized prism vectors far in advance of anything your little team can imagine, but mainly we depend on the latest advancement in audio-video algorithms and carbon-based attenuation vectors, not devices for the evidencing of flapping specters and ectoplasm. If anything—solid or otherwise--enters the space-time continuum within range of our cameras, our lenses will capture it, if only in residual form.”
NIGHT CHILLS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery Page 8
