Abattoir (16 page)

The implied threat made Cantrell pause. Leaving the door open only as wide as the man’s foot, he spoke through the opening.

“I know who you are; that guy on television. You were here after Derek Taylor’s …”

“Untimely demise?” Cross offered.

“Whatever. I saw you talking to the press.”

“Yes. All true.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I have business here, with this building. With you.”

“You have no business here. I know what kind of
business
you’re in, Mister, what’s your name, again?”

“Cross. You can call me Steve.”

“Yes, of course. `Night Crossing,’ that joke of a television show.”

The man in the rain laughed softly. “Another cynic, I see. Do you have any idea how many cynics I meet? Do you have any idea how many of them I
convert
?”

“I really don’t care, Cross. It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning. Leave me alone.”

“I could do that easy enough, Mr. Cantrell. Leave you to your bankruptcy, your failure to deal with whatever’s roaming these God-forsaken halls of yours. Or, you can let me in, give me five minutes, and let me talk you out of your disbelief. What do you have to lose?”

He’s nothing but a huckster;
an exploiter; the kind of man you’d see at a carnival, barking at passers-by, trying to lure them into a freak show.

Still, there was something behind the man’s pale blue eyes, something vaguely authoritative in his professional, baritone voice, the voice of a consummate pitchman.

What
did
he have to lose?

“Okay, Cross,” he said, opening the door wider. “You have your five minutes.”

Cross entered, removing his sodden coat and hat, placing them on the elegant tiles of the foyer floor. Cantrell directed him to the conference room at the far side of the lobby.

Su Ling’s voice, echoing from the second floor above, was apprehensive, almost fearful.

“Alex?”

“It’s okay, Su,” Alex shouted back. “Just a visitor. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Cross’s head followed the sound of Su Ling’s voice. He then looked sharply at Cantrell, as if he understood at that moment their situation.

Cantrell hit the lights in the conference room and motioned his visitor to a chair. They sat down across from one another; two men at a table built for at least a dozen.

“Okay,” Cross began, wasting no time. “Let’s be frank: you and I have the opportunity to help each other; what you might call a win-win situation, different but coinciding interests.”

“Explain.”

“It’s not complicated. I’m the man who can solve your problem.”

“Which
problem
are you talking about?”

“Ah, that’s the beautiful thing,” Cross said with a smile. “All of them. Let’s start with the money. We both know you’re running out of it. Except for the young lady I just heard upstairs, I know this place is as empty as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. And I also know that it takes a steep pile of cash just to keep this place running.”

For a moment, Cantrell’s temper flared. Who the hell was this guy to come in here and delve into his personal business? Part of him wanted to throw this carney huckster back out into the rain. Another realized that he was making perfect sense.

“Okay,” Cantrell conceded. “But how can you help me with that?”

“First, I’m going to offer you a check for $20,000. That ought to buy you at least a little breathing room. But that’s just the start.”

“I’m listening.”

“After that, I’m going to put your building on television. National cable TV, Mr. Cantrell, with an audience of at least 12 million people, devoted fans of mine, each and every one of them. And then I’m going to rid this creation of yours of whatever ails it. I’m going to set the forces free, send them elsewhere. And you, my friend, will be in a position to attract new tenants. They’ll be tenants who will
stay
this time, and the reason they’ll stay is because there won’t be anything to scare them away. There won’t be anything to make them kill themselves, or each other, or go stark, raving mad. That’s my deal, in a nutshell.”

Cantrell rubbed his lower lip, looking silently at the man across the table.

“You’re speechless, aren’t you? You don’t believe me. You’re trying to find holes in my argument.”

“Yes, I am. After what’s happened here, I might be willing to believe in things I used to laugh at. But it’s
you
I have a problem with, Cross. I’ve seen your show. I don’t believe in all your mumbo-jumbo. It’s staged,
phony
. Excuse me for getting personal here, but I think you’re a con artist.”

Cross laughed. “Of course you do. Lots of people do. I’ve heard this my entire life, and you know what? It doesn’t matter whether you believe in any of it. What’s important is that
I
believe in it, and so does my audience.”

The medium ran his fingers through his white hair, just now beginning to dry.

“This place of yours, Mr. Cantrell, is loaded with energy. Very negative energy. The Exeter has been on my radar screen since that first incident, you know, the guy who ran nightclubs, what was his name?”

“Stu Brown.”

“Yes, ever since Stu Brown went nutty and burned his fortune in the fireplace. There was no doubt in my mind. Everything that’s happened since—and you’ve got to admit, Mr. Cantrell, you’ve had a few
doozies
—has only reaffirmed it. My point, obviously, is that this building is not done yet. Far from it.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’m an expert, that’s how. This is my
business, my trade
, and I take it very seriously. Despite your earlier comments, I do not consider myself a con artist.”

Cantrell did not apologize. “Go on.”

“My network likes to label me a
ghost hunter
. I don’t particularly like that phrase, but it brands well. I call myself other things. I’m a medium—I can see things, hear things, smell things, taste things from the other side. I’m a clairvoyant—I can tell what certain people are thinking at certain times. And I’m an expert at the science of the paranormal. You’d be bored by the details of such things as electronic voice phenomena, or infrared photography. But I can assure you that I’m as knowledgeable about my career as you are about yours.”

“That’s all very impressive,” Cantrell said, “but I’ve devoted my life to facts, to physical
science
. I have a hard time swallowing any of this.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. That’s okay. That’s your choice. You don’t need to believe any of it. Like I said, the important thing is that 12 million viewers
do
believe it, and I haven’t disappointed them yet. I can give the Exeter a clean bill of health.”

“But what if your magic, whatever you do, doesn’t work? What if you can’t cleanse this place? Where does that leave me?”

Cross smiled again.

“We’re both intelligent men, Mr. Cantrell, so I think I can speak frankly to you. Without disavowing my own abilities, I can safely guarantee you that I will be successful.”

“There’s no way you can guarantee something like that.”

“Don’t be naïve. I am the creator, the writer, the producer and the star of a very successful television show. I will never allow any of my shows to fail. It wouldn’t look good for my reputation, wouldn’t be good for the ratings.”

“So you’re admitting that you’re a fraud? Is that what you’re saying?”

With that, Cross’s pale blue eyes squinted in a momentary flash of anger. It was gone in an instant.

“
No
, that’s not what I’m saying. I can exorcise entities and have done so many times. I can cleanse buildings of such entities. I really do have that kind of power. But here’s the rub—sometimes things must be
adjusted
, for entertainment’s sake. My show adheres to strict guidelines—a bible, as we call it in the biz—that follows a logical story line and builds to a satisfying conclusion, all within a set time period. The viewing public demands clear and final answers, in a tidy, one-hour sitting. Whether my work achieves that or not is irrelevant. The show must go on. It’s as simple as that.”

Cantrell looked Cross in the eye. “In other words, whether or not you’re able to clear this place, people will believe that you
were
successful. That’s your guarantee?”

“Essentially, yes. But I’m offering you more than that. If it should so happen that my exorcism, my cleansing, if you will, doesn’t take during the taping of the show, I promise to return. I’ll come back, with no cameras and no crew, and I’ll fix it for good, no matter how long it takes.”

Cross let that sink in for a moment before continuing.

“I’m not trying to sell you a bill of goods here, Mr. Cantrell. It’s a straightforward transaction. I get viewers, you get tenants, not to mention twenty grand. Both of us walk away happy. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

Cantrell pushed himself away from the table and crossed his legs.

A slight grin appeared on the medium’s face. “I can sense that you’re actually considering this. That’s all I can ask.”

“I have to think it over.”

“Of course you do,” Cross said, rising from his chair. In one motion, he produced a check from his pocket and handed it to Cantrell.

“I know you’re a trustworthy man, Mr. Cantrell, so I’m giving this to you as a sign of good faith. It’s yours for the taking. And trust me, it’s not rubber.

“Just for planning’s sake, there are two things you must understand. I’ll need an answer no later than tomorrow night. My production schedule is unforgiving. And, should you accept, I’ll need total access to the Exeter—every room, every closet, every nook and cranny—for one entire night, no more than that. My crew and I will do our thing, and, if things work out the way I expect, you’ll never hear from me nor speak to me again for the rest of your life. Fair enough?”

“Like I said, Cross, I’ll think about it . . . ”

“Excellent. I’ll let myself out.”

The medium gathered his soaked coat and hat from the lobby floor, opening the front door to an all too perfect flash of lightning.

Cantrell watched as Cross disappeared into the storm. He was relieved to see the man go, but couldn’t help considering his offer, just as the man himself predicted.

What do you have to lose?
There was a bitter truth behind the question. Without Cross’s admittedly crazy idea—and the $20,000—the Exeter would be boarded up in less than a month. He’d be regarded as a laughingstock, a failure, to his investors, to the city, to his peers, to the public.

To himself.

On the other hand, to see his beloved Exeter exploited on “Night Crossing”—not exactly
Architectural Digest—
would hardly be
good
press. It’d be a
freak show.

As opposed to what? A horror show?

But what if Cross were successful? Or at least managed to convince his viewers that he was? Would tenants actually return? Would the press finally grow disinterested?

Would people stop
dying
here?

The thought brought him a moment of sharp clarity. He was thinking of the Exeter in the past tense, as though the horrors that had taken place here had suddenly ended.

He knew better.

Su Ling and Anna still lived in this building. They were as vulnerable as anyone else.

There was no hesitation in his mind that he would protect them, at any price. They were his life now, he realized, putting form to the idea for the very first time. Su Ling would have to know about Cross’s offer, and she would have an equal say in their response.

He rubbed his chin in thought, his eyes drawn to the walls of the conference room. The art on the walls appeared crooked, as if improperly hung.
Impossible.
Everything had been set with lasers.

Still, the lines were off, the shadows distorted, the proportions skewed. For the briefest of moments, it seemed as if one of the corners compressed into itself, as if the walls themselves were breathing. Then it was gone.

Idiocy
. Rooms cannot move on their own. Buildings do not breathe. Geometry is
absolute . . .

Really? Do you know that for sure? Of course you don’t; not after everything you’ve seen here . . .

He couldn’t deny it. There
was
something going on in this building; something that cared nothing for Cantrell’s geometry; something that operated by rules that scientists knew nothing about.

He
did
believe it. Now.

§

In the morning, the rain had eased, but the sky remained steely gray.

Cantrell hung up the phone and regarded Su Ling.

She rubbed his temple and smiled.

“Alex, you made the right decision.
We
made the right decision.”

He exhaled loudly. “Whether we did or not, it’s all in motion now.”

“How did he sound?”

“Happy as a peddler making his first sale of the day. And greedy.”

“Was he surprised that you said yes?”

“Not in the least. He already knew what my answer was going to be. Remember, he’s a
psychic
.”

“What time will he be here?”

“They’re moving really fast. They’re set to start shooting tomorrow night, at 9 o’clock. The crew will start arriving in the late afternoon. He told us to make sure not to step on any cables and break our necks.”

Su Ling looked troubled.

“Does it have to be at night?”

“Cross insists on it. Better atmosphere. His viewers expect darkness, shadows and things that go bump in the night.”

That made her smile a little.

“I guess it doesn’t make any difference, does it?”