“Murphy’s law,” Wayne said. “The group hunts always work on paper, but people don’t hunt on paper.”

“Got it sorted out?” Cody asked, bringing up the split-screen view that showed small versions of all the live camera images.

“Trains are back on schedule,” he said. “Kendra, can I talk to you a sec?”

She rolled her eyes just enough for Cody to notice, and his lips pursed in sympathy. “Sure.”

Wayne escorted her to the hall and faced her, lowering his voice so Cody couldn’t hear. “You know I trust you and give you lots of leeway, and maybe that comes across as being inattentive, or ‘spaced out,’ as you like to say. And I’ve never worried about bringing you along on my hunts because you’ve always been so mature.”

Because when Mom died, somebody had to be the grown-up. That was the kind of response that would require years of psychotherapy, so she merely nodded.

“But this time I want you to stick close to me,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.”

“It’s just a creaky old hotel,” she said.

“Don’t be so damned hardheaded.”

“Is this about Cody?”

Wayne’s eyes narrowed and flicked back into the control room. “What about Cody?”

Dad was so shut off from his emotions that he couldn’t recognize teen lust when he saw it. Not that she was quite sure what to make of it herself, or how far she wanted to go, but if two heterosexual teens were stranded on a desert island, somewhere along the way things would get natural.

“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.