“Jesus died for our sins,” Rodney said. “Now you get to die for yours.”

Phillippe collapsed and Rodney wiped the crucifix on his victim’s shirt. He didn’t know how the body would be retrieved—maybe the ropy tentacles would slither across the floor, or maybe the wires overhead would carry it back to the furnace. Rodney wanted to be out of the basement before that happened.

Lucifer’s greatest trick wasn’t getting people to believe he didn’t exist. His greatest trick was playing God better than God ever had.

Chapter 33

Morning dropped like a bag of broken rocks.

The thirst was the first thing he noticed, and his tongue felt like a wool sock. His skull throbbed, each sluggish heartbeat punching through taut, angry arteries. He found himself lying on his back, but the bed was floating. He touched his forehead, afraid to open his eyes.

God, why did you make me wake up?

The Digger had done it again. He wasn’t sure where he was or how he’d gotten here, or even if he was anywhere at all. If someone would yank the vibrating screwdriver out of his temple, maybe he could remember.

There was one other option. Maybe he was dead. This might be his afterlife, his condition forever and ever. Not even a glass of water, not even enough bile in his stomach to puke.

A clacking sound rattled his ears and then light poured over him, sharp enough to slice his eyelids.

“They’ve been looking for you, Dad.”

“Who?” The word tasted like dirty pennies.

“SSI, the hotel people, the hunters, everybody.”

“What...time is it?”

“Don’t worry, I told them you were having a nervous breakdown. Saw your dead wife and it blew you mind. They’ll cut you some slack.”

He gave an experimental blink and found the room was fuzzy. “You shouldn’t—”

“Cover for you. I know.”

Digger was in his rumpled clothes, still wearing his boots. He rolled away from the sunlight that sluiced through the window like an accusing finger. He swallowed down nails, fiberglass, cobwebs, and sand, and dry acid slithered back up. His pulse was erratic and fluttering.

“Shit,” he said.

“Could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“I’m not sure, but it could be. Mom could be dead or something.”

Digger opened his eyes. Kendra sat on the opposite bed, fully dressed, the box of registration information beside her.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs registering people?”

“Registration’s ended.”

He licked his chapped lips. “It goes until noon.”

“It’s nearly two.”

He tried to rise, but a sit-up position brought too much blood to his head, so he flopped on his side and rolled up on one elbow. His knuckles were bruised. He hoped he hadn’t punched anyone. “I blew it again.”

“Nah,” Kendra said. “The show must go on. Burton and Cody are leading the panels, and Holmes and the others are looking for Roach.”

“Roach?”

“He’s missing.” She peered at him. “Guess you don’t remember that part, huh?”

He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, and the nausea hit him almost instantly. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it to the bathroom. “Besides Roach, how is everything else going?”

“A lot of people are mad about the messed-up hunts. A couple asked for refunds.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The fine print. ‘No refunds after Nov. 12.’”

“Are you mad?”

“Why should I be mad?”

“You know....”

“What? Another broken promise? Another disappointment? Another chance to babysit my dad? What’s to be mad about?”

“It’s...the thing with your mom....”

“I know, I know. After you pulled that bit, I thought I saw her, too. Power of suggestion. Neat trick.”

“It’s her.”

“And what if it was? You were afraid to face her so you crawled back in the bottle like you always do?”

No, I was....”

Excuses. He always had some handy. Cristos made him. Gelbaugh. Blame this, blame that, blame those people. All their fault. When all else failed, God made the ultimate fall guy.

“I was out of control,” he finished, fighting down a knot of vomit. “I knew better than to take that first sucker drink.”

“Well, I got my own problems. I’m being stalked by a ten-year-old brat who has keys to the whole hotel.”

“No kids here.”

“Tell him that. It’s like I’m his personal entertainment. He keeps showing up out of nowhere, pestering me and playing tricks. I think his dad works here.”

“I’ll talk to the manager about it.”

Kendra shook her head, her dark hair swinging across her shoulders. “Don’t rat him out. I can handle it. Besides, it’s only for another day.”

“Two o’clock. Two more panels before the dinner break.”

“Speaking of which, can you keep anything down? I can get you orange juice and some toast.”

Digger winced. That was the menu for his “headaches,” when young Kendra would bring him breakfast in bed, thinking he had a cold. The glass of water was there on the bedside table, though its ice had melted. He tried a sip. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I wanted to—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Kendra, I—”

“You’d better clean up and put in an appearance. The Digger can’t keep his fans in suspense forever.”

He took a few more drinks of water, the fluid racing through the greasy tunnels inside him. “She wants to tell me something.”

“We don’t believe in ghosts, Dad.”

“I made a promise.”

“Like that means anything?” She jumped to her feet and grabbed her sketchpad. She tossed his walkie talkie beside him. “Give me a call when you get your act together. Maybe I’ll still be around.”

Then she was out the door, the slam echoing through his head like a thunderstorm, leaving him alone with the pain and sickness and self-pity.

He clutched at the walkie talkie and held it with a trembling hand. “Beth?”

Nothing. The batteries were dead. Just like his soul.

Chapter 34

The panel entitled “Christianity and the Paranormal” had gone about as well as could be expected, meaning the few true believers who approached hunting with a missionary zeal were not stoned by the hardcore atheists in the crowd. Burton had to admit, Wayne had done a good job of balancing the panelists, with an Episcopal minister, a physicist from Westridge University who viewed supernatural phenomena as dimensional disturbances, a member of the Eastern Seaboard Skeptics Society, and a Jewish scholar who specialized in the Old Testament. Despite Martin Gelbaugh’s repeated heckling, the divergent viewpoints had filled the hour and entertained the attendees.

With the audience dividing up for break-out sessions on EVP technology, Ghosthunting 101, and ectoplasmic detection, Burton had a couple of hours to round up Roach, sober up Wayne, and find out why Cody had a bug up his ass, but first he had to clear all the keys for the evening’s hunt locations.

At the front desk, he encountered the same gum-popping teenager who’d worked the night shift. From the way she slumped in her chair, the magazine curled to the shape of her grip, she could have perched there around the clock.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is the manager in?”

She scarcely glanced up from her magazine. “We don’t know where she is.”

“Someone on your staff has been locking the doors behind us. We were told all the hunt locations would remain acessible.”

“Nobody could be locking the doors. The only set of master keys belongs to our maintenance supervisor, Wally Reams, and he’s off today.”

“Both 302 and 218 are locked. And we were promised—” He looked around, lowering his voice in deference to the guests. “Look, I’m okay with the staff playing tricks. I know it’s all part of the haunted-house show. But we’ve already got some pissed-off clients, and if they miss out on any more hunts, we might all be looking at some refunds.”