Katie didn’t blink. “And if they don’t? If you get only blank footage?”
Rankin, knowing the moment was finally ripe, sat down in a kitchen chair between the two women. “There are no guarantees with the paranormal, Ms. Bracken, nor with a TV series. In fact, sometimes I think they’re the same thing. Maybe we get a great show, maybe we get nothing, the event—the episode—turns out to be a dud.”
“So what’s the difference?” I asked.
“The difference, Mr. Bledsoe, is that the Sandersons—show or no show—will be fifty thousand dollars richer.”
Donna could not suppress a quick intake of breath.
She looked over at the husband. Rankin followed her eyes.
I didn’t have to see Byron’s face to know what he was thinking, so I turned to Katie. “Mr. Rankin…”
And still watching Katie I felt Rankin’s keen eyes on me.
“…I wonder if Ms. Bracken and I might have a moment alone with the Sandersons?”
“Absolutely not!” Rankin growled. “Are you trying to gang up on me?”
We all whirled to him.
Rankin leaned threateningly at me from atop the table. Then he lit up with a wide grin. “Just kidding!”
Everyone unwound a notch.
“I want all of you in on the project! The more expert testimony, the better!” He poured himself the remainder of the champagne. “Take all the time you want! Shall I wait outside?”
I looked at the living room windows, the dying sunlight. “The kitchen will be fine,” I gestured at the living room for the Sandersons, “it’s getting dark outside.”
Rankin smiled convivially, consulted his watch. “In that case we’d better hurry! The event occurs at midnight, am I right?”
Half-risen from her chair, Donna shot Katie a worried look. “You want to film tonight?”
“Have to if we want to meet the season schedule.” He glanced beyond the kitchen at the front foyer door. “Cast and crew should be here within the hour!”
Donna looked like she’d been suddenly stripped nude. “Y-You already made arrangements! You’re going to recreate the entire event tonight—“
“Just the nursery footage,” Rankin shook his head calmly. “A master shot and some close-ups. It’s essential we try to capture what happened in that moment your boy disappeared. The rest of it—the outside stuff, interviews with Ms. Bracken and Mr. Bledsoe here—we can tape tomorrow, do some pick-up and answering shots in the studio. The nursery stuff, though, that I can get professionally processed and analyzed before dawn, to see if there’s even anything more worth trying to get.”
“Damnit!” Byron shouted, starting back to the kitchen. “We haven’t even agreed to—“
I caught his arm, leaned toward him. “Neither have Katie nor I,” I said. “But there’s plenty of time for a quick powwow.”
“If you still trust us,” Katie added gently.
Donna took her hand, turned to the living room. “Byron? Honey? Let’s hear what Katie and Elliot have to say first…”
And she led us from the kitchen.
* * *
We sat in a close circle just inside the living room near Donna Sanderson’s work station, well out of earshot of Rankin.
The first thing Katie did was to get out her smartphone and make some quick calls.
I sat quietly with the Sandersons waiting for her, looking at their patient but clearly anxious expressions and thinking about all the techno-jargonese Rankin had spilled in the kitchen. And I thought of something else too: Garbanzo, Rita’s silly damn cat, wondering if one simple-minded little feline could do us more good right now than the most expensive digital recording equipment in the world.
Katie rang off, put away her phone and looked up at us.
She nodded. “Rankin’s verifiable all right. Has legitimately worked with the tech crew I hired earlier.”
“You mean the ones that warned us to get the hell out of here,” I added.
Byron looked at his wife. “What do you think, honey?”
Donna looked to Katie. “What would you do?”
Katie took her hand. “I don’t have any children, sweetie. All I can tell you is what I’d do from an old maid’s viewpoint.”
Byron snorted. “Old maid. Right.”
Donna waited.
“From a scientific standpoint I’d like to see Mr. Rankin get his chance. I’ve been on at least as many paranormal sites as he has and the truth is that sometimes you get results, but more often you don’t. If though, like the first group, he ends up with blank tape…well, that at least will tell us something.”
Donna thought about it, finally nodding at her husband. “Okay.”
“But,” I interjected, holding up a warning palm, “before he shoots a single foot, get the money. Have him wire it into your account tonight!”
I glanced at Byron.
He smiled back warmly.
* * *
Rankin’s crew was pretty nice, really; small but courteous and efficient and decidedly professional with that sloppy-polished look young filmmakers in L.A. have and a slightly bored aspect that made you confident they knew exactly what they were doing.
They also had that subtle attitude every gaffer and gofer and technician has: that you somehow were always in the way no matter where you stood.
We—Katie, the Sandersons and I—stood just inside the open nursery door while Rankin gave orders to everyone else; he was apparently the director of the show as well, at least tonight. We never got close enough to really see the actors that well in the moody lighting but the actress playing Donna was a tall, buxom brunette who looked nothing like Donna at all and the husband was a blandish guy with neither Byron’s sun-streaked hair nor his cheery attitude.
“This is ridiculous,” Donna clucked her tongue beside me, and I thought she was talking about the adult actors until I saw the children. Both the boy and girl were close to six-years-old. And though this made no gestation sense whatsoever, Rankin assured us that kids under six were impossible to deal with and this would save us a lot of time and energy.
The Sandersons’ real kids had been asleep in their parents’ bedroom since eight, and—after he’d gotten the appropriate close-ups and master shots he needed of the cribs, window, scattered toys, etc. Rankin directed the two child actors into their undersized cribs, spent twenty minutes eliciting advice from Donna on exactly how they were tucked in that night, which was the same way as every night, and everyone took his place. The digital Red camera and all attention was focused on a medium wide shot of the two cribs, with the wood floor between and the fireplace behind it making up the background, and of the antique turn-of-the-century wall clock centered above the mantle as the big hand ticked steadily to join the small hand at twelve midnight.
Finally, at exactly 5 minutes before 12 midnight, Rankin called “Speed,” and the camera buzzed into digital action.
The nursery went quiet. Absolutely.
You could even hear the soft ticking of the clock as the seconds passed; it reminded me of that clock in Cameron’s Titanic, also on a mantle, I think, same general size and shape.
Tick, tick, tick.
The big hand hopped up mechanically: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6…
Everyone’s eyes were glued to Nathaniel’s crib.
I thought I saw Donna, arms wrapped around her tight as if she’d experienced a sudden chill. Byron’s arm went about her small shoulders as they watched the crib.
Then, just as the clock began to chime, the assistant director called “Cut! Kid in the shot!”
I looked up to find a ghostly little figure in Dr. Denton’s PJ’s wobble past the mantle before the camera waving at someone.
And a moment later, an “Oh, Lord!” from Donna.
Followed shortly by a “Goddamnit!” from Byron as Donna rushed into the shot to scoop up a smiling Nathaniel—the real one—and Byron threw his hands high, then buried them in his face.
Katie was unable to hold back a s
norty giggle.
Amazingly, producer-director Riff Rankin remained comparatively calm as a red-faced Donna came out of the line of fire biting her lip in apology. “I’m so sorry! I thought he was asleep!”
Rankin forced a smile and patted her back reassuringly. “That’s okay, that’s okay. All right people, we’re still rolling, let’s clapper this and try again!”
Running and scuffling and adjusting on the nursery floor.
“I have to pee!” from the little girl in the crib playing Natalie.
“That’s a take five!” from a puffy-cheeked Rankin heading straight for his coffee thermos.
Donna, Nathaniel in arms, pushed between Katie and me guiltily with a forgive-me Halloween face. “I’m so sorry!”
Nathaniel grinned at me as they swept by and said “Pugh!”
Byron was walking in tight circles, hands thrust in his pockets.
I glanced at Katie, who was turning to catch Donna, held up my hand like a stop signal, and pointed back to her vantage point from the set. “Stay. I’ll take it.”
Katie hesitated in mid-step, then finally turned and regained her position, knowing as well as I did how important it was that she see the scene.
I trotted after Donna and Nathaniel, catching up with them in the long hallway. “Hey—“
Donna turned with the boy, still biting her lip. “I’m so sorry!”
I held out my hands. “Quit saying that and go back to your husband, I think he’s about to wet himself. Here, give me the boy…”
She tried a grateful smile. “Oh, Elliot, I couldn’t—“
“Yes you can, you need to see the scene, Byron needs you by him, and I need you to make sure Stanley Kubrick in there keeps his mitts off Katie.”
“He is cute,” she smiled, handing over the child.
“Like a rattlesnake.”
“I thought he’d stomp and yell like all directors.”
“Only in the movies. Come here, big boy! Who were you waving at back there under the big clock, huh?”
“Bless you, Elliot, sure you don’t mind?”
“Hey, we’ll have a great time! Ole Nathan and I are going to build us a campfire, right buddy? Sing racy ditties and eat peanut butter!”
“Pugh!” said Nathan.
* * *
I carried him into the master bedroom, laid him beside his sleeping sister, tucked him in with a big stupid grin on my face I wouldn’t have let Katie see for anything, and was all ready to read or an invent a bedtime story about camping and fires and bears when I looked up and saw little Nathan’s eyes already closing heavily.
“Wore yourself out on the set, huh partner?”
“Boop,” from Nathan.
“Yeah, that acting can be a tough gig. Do it every morning in front of my class. Tried every way conceivable to make ‘script formatting’ and ‘Robert Towne’ sound exciting.”
Nathan nodded incomprehension and sucked snot with one nostril.
I smoothed back a lock of gold spun hair. Wondering…someday?
Or is it too late for you, Bledsoe?
“So who were you waving at back there in the nursery?” I asked, tapping the perfect nose.
“’Olding ham,” Nathaniel yawned.
I leaned down closer. “How’s that again?”
“Holding hand…”
I made an O with my mouth. “Ah, you were holding hands! Not waving at all.”
Nathaniel nodded, beginning to drift. It was a joy to hear him making sentences; I had the feeling I could sit there and listen all night.
“And who were you holding hands with, old man, your new girlfriend?”
“Anna-peep…” the child mumbled, already halfway to dreams.
“Who?” I put my ear next to the rosebud lips.
Then jerked upright, heart thudding.
But I’d heard it this time.
Heard it clearly. Was sure I had. Positive.
“Animal People.”
NINE
There was a thump.
I blinked my eyes, starting a little on the edge of the mattress beside Nathaniel, the way you start when a thump in the road awakens you in a car.
Had I blanked out there a second? Is this what ‘senior moments’ were like? Already?
In my mind I heard the sound again.
A distinct thump. Very distinct.
And a distinct chill wafted suddenly through the Sandersons’ master bedroom.
I looked down at the tousled-haired sleepyhead. “Nathaniel? Did you say something?”
But he was out, soughing softly in his own adventures.
I looked around the still bedroom, craned about as if expecting to see someone behind me, maybe in the doorway, that distant chill hunching my shoulders a bit. The room was empty save for me and the children.
I pulled the covers to Nathaniel’s chin, tucked them around the little body carefully, started reflexively to bend and peck his forehead—stopped myself (he isn’t your child) and settled for cupping my hand to the peach-smooth cheek a moment, marveling at skin as innocently new as the beginning of the Universe.
I stood up, looked over to check on Natalie quickly, pushing down a pang of jealousy for the Sandersons, turned and saw the onyx carpet ball lying on the carpet near the bed…
…and felt the chill deepen, like a carapace of ice around my heart.
Realizing I was being silly, I walked over and looked down at Byron’s antique prize. I bent and picked it up, turned the heavy sphere in my hand. “Well, you don’t seem want to stay on anyone’s shelf!” Reaching out to replace the ball next to Byron’s collection of Stephen King books where it had rolled free, I suddenly felt a wave of vertigo so intense I had to resist not reaching out to cling to the bookcase myself.
I closed my eyes a moment, steadying myself with my own two feet instead. Too much of that expensive champagne of Byron’s. Old Rankin knew how to set the mood, talk people into a project: get everyone involved half-lit. Too much champagne mixed with the late hour and the excitement over the filming. Or taping, or whatever it was called these days.
“Animal man,” Nathaniel said behind me.
The ice stabbed my heart again as I spun around to the bed.
Nathaniel and baby sister Natalie were dead out, oblivious to the world as only young children can be. What a perfect time to take them in your arms and slip out the window, I thought. And then thought: what in God’s name are you thinking, old man? Pull it together, Bledsoe, and get back to the nursery shoot. Better yet, pull it together and stop putting children and Katie in the same thought. I shook my head, shook it off. Does James Bond have weird thoughts after drinking that stuff? No wonder he never got married.
Footsteps in the hallway.
I stared toward them. “Donna? Byron? I was just coming…”
I came to the door. There was no one in the hall.
Come on, come on! I’d heard footsteps! Clearly! That had nothing to do with champagne!
I glanced back at the kids, suddenly reluctant to leave them, then turned back to the empty hallway, frowning. Because they weren’t footsteps I’d heard, not exactly…more like foot falls. From something large and heavily muscled and stealthy, and not necessarily limited to two legs…
I rubbed hard at the bridge of my nose, shaking my head.
Stop this! Get back to the set!
Resisting the urge to glance at the kids a final time, I stepped into the hallway and closed the bedroom door gently behind me with a soft click.
I hesitated, head tilted like a robin’s, listening. But it wasn’t a sound I was waiting for, it was something else. And then I knew: the chill in the air had vanished. It felt thirty degrees warmer in the Sandersons’ hallway.
Maybe they’d left the bedroom window open a crack, something I hadn’t noticed; maybe Donna always did that at night. But it was too cold in there for the children…
I started to reach for the knob again, but stopped myself. There was no open window, Donna wouldn’t d
o that; besides, it hadn’t seemed cold when I’d carried Nathaniel in. It’s all in your mind, Bledsoe, along with a healthy mixture of Dom Perignon.
I turned and started back down the hallway.
I took an even breath, forced myself calm, not allowing the quick sweep of vertigo to catch me again. C’mon, old man, you’ve drunk more than this. That bottle wasn’t loaded. Unless Rankin put something in it. I smiled to myself: Wouldn’t put it past him, tricky bastard.
I was halfway down the hall when it happened again.
It seemed to be taking a long time to get to the other end of the corridor, as if I were either moving with a much slower, more deliberate rate than before, or the far wall was moving slowly away even as I got closer to it, like one of those horror movie trick shots. That was when the footfalls came again.
I froze on the carpet.
The footfalls froze, too, but not in time to keep me from hearing the very last tread.
Yes, it was definitely pacing me, and it was definitely not human.
Big, though. Purposeful. Like something stalking its prey.
I stood there feeling the sweat pop out, peppering my brow; the next cold wave of frigid air passed over it like a glacial headache.
That bastard, Rankin, he had slipped something into the champagne!
Not really believing it even as I thought it.
And here came the footfalls again. Ahead of me, or so I’d assumed; I wasn’t so sure now…
I spun about.
The hallway behind me was empty.
But the bedroom door seemed not more than twenty feet or so away. Yet I’d been walking for what seemed like—
Nathaniel! The children! It’s after the children! Go to them!
But I hesitated. The door was closed, the windows shut, I was sure of it now; nothing could have gotten into the bedroom. The children were fine. Safe in there.
I was the one in danger, alone out here in the darkened hallway.
NIGHT CHILLS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery Page 9
