Peterson looked away.
“Now,” Feuerstein continued, “as I was trying to say, our friend Lindemann has many unpaid obligations to other people, most notable of which are right here in our fair city. I think he can be persuaded to cancel the injunction and allow the special to go forward.”
Kelly let out the breath she had been holding with relief. Peterson, still tense, did not.
“So, I am inclined, at least for the moment, to start the final preparations for October 31st.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so—”
“There is one caveat, Kelly.” Feuerstein looked at her intently through his thick glasses.
Kelly waited for the ax to fall and sever her head from her neck.
“Professor Gabriel Kennedy has to be a part of the show. Not just part of the show — he has to host it.” Again, he held up his hand before Kelly could open her mouth. “You have lost both of the longtime hosts of Hunters of the Paranormal, thus crippling your credibility with your loyal viewers. Kennedy is vital, not only for your loyal viewership, but for the many, many new viewers we are seeking. I need the best person to lead this thing forward. I want Kennedy.”
Kelly’s mind was churning at the speed of light. “Do I have a blank check for hiring Gabriel Kennedy?” she asked.
“Let’s just say you have a free hand to do what you do best.”
Kelly ignored the slight. She knew exactly where the information about her coercive talents originated. She looked at Peterson and didn’t back down from his intense gaze. The real shark sat in the large chair behind the conference table in a silly bowtie, and that shark had just finished feeding.
“I need Julie Reilly also,” she said. “You said she was to be a part of the show, anyway. She may be useful in getting Kennedy to cooperate.”
“What can I say? You have her. She goes on official assignment as of today. She answers to me alone, not to you. Use her any way you wish, but I want her face on that television screen forty percent of the time, preferably right alongside Kennedy.”
“Fair enough,” she said, and then thought a moment. “There is one more thing…” She looked back at Peterson.
“You’re just full of demands, aren’t you?” This time, Feuerstein was smiling.
“I want a free hand. No interference from programming, and no budget arguments. Of course, that is, if the President of Entertainment can fulfill his side of the bargain and land those high-rolling corporate sponsors he brags about so much.”
“You must learn to curb your tongue, Ms. Delaphoy. I’m sure Lionel will do as he is told. Isn’t that so?”
“Kelly, I’m going to get you so much advertising revenue that you’ll drown yourself in budget money.” Peterson stood and buttoned his coat. “And with all due respect, sir, I’m also going to get the proper length of rope at the same time, so that Kelly will have no trouble hanging herself when this thing flops.”
“Well, if it does, you’ll be ringside to see it.”
“Sir?” Peterson asked.
“I believe you started out as a producer, yourself. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” he answered, sinking hesitantly back into his chair.
“I think Kelly and Harris Dalton would be more comfortable having your expertise on site during the live broadcast.” He looked up thoughtfully, and then fixed Peterson with a wry smile. “As a consultant.”
“But sir, I—”
“Pack your bags, both of you. You’re going to the Poconos.” He nodded, enjoying his private little joke, then rose and walked to the door.
Kelly and Peterson did not see the old man pause at the open door, and his final thoughts on the subject caught them both off guard.
“I expect this to be better than the live broadcast of War of the Worlds. I want everyone in this country talking about it the next day. If they aren’t, changes might be in order over at the entertainment division.”
With those words, the door closed. Kelly and Peterson’s fates had just been tied together into a knot — a knot that was tied not only tied around their necks, but also firmly connected to the rafters of the most dangerous house in the world.
The hired security guards kept the press outside of the massive wooden front gate of Summer Place. Three network news trucks and several print journalists waited for Lieutenant Damian Jackson to give a statement about the progress of his investigation. The news crews were perpetuating the rumors that the two missing men had never left the property, in stark contrast to the Pennsylvania State Police “off the record” statements that suggested the two men were part of an elaborate hoax aimed at capitalizing on the UBC television special only two weeks away.
Julie Reilly wasn’t with the news van that had been dispatched from the local UBC affiliate in Philadelphia, or the one from Pittsburgh. Instead, she parked her rental car a quarter of a mile away from the crush at the front gate. She looked at her watch and frowned.
Julie had fought against the stereotype of the dumb blonde field reporter most of her career. She rose through the ranks with solid filings to the network from Iraq and Somalia, earning the right to call her own shots at UBC. She knew the anchor chair for the evening news was going to be up for grabs within the next year, and she wanted it. Julie knew she was now irrevocably linked to Kelly Delaphoy’s disaster in the making; she also was aware that this stunt would do nothing for her credibility with the news division unless she could get an angle. She had to prove either a real haunting, or an elaborate hoax. Since she didn’t believe any of the crap Kennedy or Delaphoy spouted about ghosts and mysterious happenings, she was aiming for the hoax angle.
Julie had her hair in a simple ponytail and she wore little makeup. She was here to take notes and ask questions of two men she had interviewed many times before: Lieutenant Damian Jackson, and the owner of Summer Place, Wallace Lindemann.
She looked at her watch one more time, then she glanced out her window. To her right, several state policemen and their bloodhounds left the barn and entered the stables, the dogs pulling hard on their leashes. She shook her head. She knew the two missing employees were holed up somewhere off the property, waiting until such a time as Kelly Delaphoy could stage a dramatic return— live, before the eyes of forty million people, more than likely. Julie was not going to be a part of that kind of deception.
As Julie watched the search team, she pulled up the collar of her leather jacket. The morning was actually getting colder. Fall was finally in full force. She yawned, and noticed the limousine coming up the road. It slowed down to pull in behind her rented compact.
She took a deep breath, setting her jaw as she always did when she braced herself for confrontation. Opening the door, she put on her best smile. She reached the rear door just as it opened, and climbed in.
Wallace Lindemann looked haggard and tired. He wasn’t wearing his customary tie and he was unshaven. He instructed the driver to continue onto the house, and paid no attention to the gathered reporters screaming for the limo to stop as they slowly pulled up to the front gate.
“Mr. Lindemann, it was good of you to allow—”
“You people have more gall than I could ever have. First your bosses in New York sic your legal dogs on me, and then they resort to strong-arm tactics, and now here’s their ace reporter come to ask her questions, knowing I have to cooperate. Un-fucking-believable.”
Julie saw that the owner of Summer Place was going to be hostile. She should have figured as much, after seeing the bedraggled look on the small man’s features. He looked as if he had lost his razor and had been sleeping in his clothes.