On the first floor, the sound and camera operators heard Paul’s scream of pain. Then something slammed into a wall upstairs and the house shook under their feet. The two men screamed. Every light in the house suddenly switched on, even though the power to each individual floor was under the control of the electricians standing by at the breaker box outside.
As Kelly stumbled from the van, she saw the house illuminate so brightly she thought there had been an explosion. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she thought they were failing her. The house expanded, as if taking a deep breath, and then all went quiet and the lights went out one by one, floor by floor. A loud sigh echoed in the valley around her, just as Paul’s sound and camera operators came running from the house and down the steps. The soundman took a misstep and tumbled onto the drive with his mic boom flying into the air. There seemed to be another sigh and then a sudden wind sprang up, swirling around the house for mere moments before it vanished. Then the sound of terrifyingly loud footsteps resonated from the interior, as if whatever it was began retreating back to where it came from.
Inside the van, Harris Dalton sat so hard into his chair that the headphones fell from his head and went crashing onto the control panel. The rest of the production crew stared silently at their monitors.
“Someone…” Dalton cleared his throat. “Someone…” He patted his jacket, looking somewhat lost. “Does someone have a cell phone?”
The assistant director held her phone up. At the same time, Wallace Lindemann’s cell phone fell from his hand. He was staring at the monitors in shock.
“Call 911 and get someone, anyone — out here.”
FOUR
In the hour it took for the Pennsylvania State Police to arrive, Harris Dalton took it upon himself to search the house. Kelly was sitting on the porch questioning the soundman and camera operator, but not getting anything useful. These two had been part of countless incursions into houses and situations far more menacing than Summer Place, yet they were still shaking from their experience on the second floor. The only thing Kelly was getting from them was the fact that they had not actually witnessed a thing.
Wallace Lindemann had been furious at Harris Dalton for calling the State Police before they knew what was happening. He paced on the large covered porch, smoking a cigarette as he spoke to one of his high priced attorneys in New York. He evidentially didn’t like the advice he was receiving. Angrily, he tossed his cigarette off the porch.
Harris Dalton and his assistant Nancy Teague, stepped from the open double front doors just as the first unmarked police cruiser honked at the front gate. Mr. Johansson was there — Lindemann had called him — and he allowed the first of four cars through. Soon, red and blue lights colored the landscape and the front façade of Summer Place, just as they had after the Kennedy debacle, years before.
Kelly stood when she saw the large black man step from the unmarked car. He examined the house as if he was seeing a scourge upon the streets of Philadelphia. He shook his head, buttoning his coat as he came around his car.
Kelly recognized the officer from her file on Gabriel Kennedy. Lieutenant Damian Jackson was the man who wanted to pin murder on Gabriel’s lapel so badly that he had knocked UBC star reporter Julie Reilly on her ass, bumping her as he passed her in the grand jury hearing. Even though they both had fought for the same cause and had supplied most of the rope to hang Professor Kennedy with, they still hated each other.
“All right, is someone going to explain to me why I was pulled from my bedtime glass of milk?” The man’s eyes were locked on the soundman, who wiped his face and lowered his head. “And don’t start off with anything like ‘it was a dark and stormy night,’” Jackson added with a scowl.
“Lieutenant Jackson, these people are with me. It seems we’ve had…had some trouble.”
The state detective looked up at the man bounding down the stairs, taking in his three-thousand-dollar suit. His brows rose.
“Mr. Lindemann, I would have thought you’d learned your lesson after the last time.”
“I assure you, I thought I was dealing with professionals this time around. They are, after all a major network.” Lindemann held his hand out to Jackson in greeting.
Jackson stepped past Wallace Lindemann without shaking his hand. He looked at Kelly Delaphoy, studying her for a moment as the bearded Harris Dalton and his assistant approached.
“I take it you’re the man in charge here?” Jackson asked him. “Maybe you can explain why I’m not in my robe and slippers right now.”
“Actually, I’m only the director. The producer is right there,” he said, pointing at Kelly.
“I’m Lieutenant Jackson; it seems I can make a living coming out to this place. Now Miss, please enlighten me.” Several more uniformed state troopers joined the group at the foot of the stairs.
“It’s Ms., Detective, and if I may ask, aren’t you part of the state police barracks in Philadelphia? I would’ve thought they would just send us local troopers.”
Jackson watched the woman rise to her feet. She gave the soundman a comforting pat on the back.
“You may ask.”
From the look he gave her, Kelly knew she could indeed ask as many times as she wanted, but she wouldn’t get an answer. The man must have been close by, perhaps at one of the two motels in Bright Waters. The word had spread quickly that the “television people” were here in force, and she figured the detective still had a stake in Summer Place. More than likely, he had assumed Professor Kennedy would be mixed up with the production, and had decided to spend the night nearby. The man was watching her, no doubt waiting to see if she had anything else to say so that he could show her how in charge he was.
An old station wagon pulled into the driveway, but it had not come from the main gate. Mr. Johansson was there to meet it. As all of them watched Eunice Johansson stepped out. She was agitated, and it looked as though she were arguing with her husband about something. She turned toward the house and pointed a finger directly at them. When she started toward them, Mr. Johansson reached out and tried to take her arm, but she shook him off and strode determinedly to the base of the front porch.
“Is he with you? Please tell me if he is. He won’t be in trouble, I just want him to come home,” she said to Kelly.
Kelly shook her head, then looked at Greg. He had finally joined them after taking some time in the production van to settle himself down, From the smell, Kelly suspected he had accomplished this with a hefty shot of bourbon — or two.
“Is who with us, Eunice?”
The woman was clearly struggling to keep calm. She twisted the bottom hem of her red blouse, which had worked its way out of her jeans. Her husband looked from the production group to the large police officer with worry written on his face.
“Our boy, Jimmy. He never came home this afternoon. My wife, we…well, we figured he would be here. You know, all the excitement…”
Kelly looked from the worried couple to the faces of her team. They all shook their heads.
“We seem to have misplaced two of our own at the moment, so we’re probably not the best people to ask. But this man, that’s what he’s here for,” Harris said, gesturing to the state trooper.
Damian Jackson had met the Johanssons before, during the Kennedy investigation. He shook his head. The cast is almost complete, he thought.