MORENO, CALIFORNIA
It was two thirty in the morning when the last of the California Highway Patrol, San Bernardino Sheriff’s, and the Chino, Ontario, and Pomona fire departments and rescue services left the town of Moreno. Bob and Linda Culbertson stood watching as the last of the official vehicles left with all of them heading toward the interstate. Both private security people saw old man Leach watching from the third floor of Newberry’s, where Harvey kept his private quarters.
Linda lowered her cell phone and shook her head. “Cell service is even worse than it was before. It took four hours, but I finally got through to the home office.”
Bob’s eyes lingered on Harvey across the street until he saw the light go out on the third floor. He finally turned and, with a yawn, waited for Linda to finish.
“Evidently, there are some sort of legal arguments going on about the ownership of the land that the town sits on. Something about a freeze on all properties pertaining to a certain real estate firm. They say to hang tight and they will be in touch.”
“They didn’t say anything about our request? It’s only a few days we’re talking about here. This place has stood for seventy years; a week or two won’t make any difference.”
“They said remain until the contract expires, or until the legal entanglements are finished. Either way, I think we’re screwed.”
Bob shook his head and turned back to the darkness beyond the window. “Something is going on here, babe, I feel it.” He turned toward the cherub face of his wife. “You feel it too. So does Harvey.” He looked toward the department store once more through the last light of the dying moon. “Missing teenagers. People dying on Main Street. Private investigator up and vanishing. We’ve been here for ten years, and in all that time, nothing like this has happened. And now we have three incidents in less than a week. And there’s other things going on also.”
Linda placed the cell phone down just as the bars indicating cell service availability went to zero. She shook her head and looked at Bob. “You saw it too, didn’t you?” she asked.
“The lights of the theater marquee? Phones ringing in houses that haven’t had power to them in over fifty years? Music playing where it shouldn’t be playing? Hell, even the radio station is starting to give me the creeps. I even heard—”
“The DJ and music coming from the back?”
“You heard it too, then?” Bob said, finally turning away from the window. He felt the relief flood into his thoughts, knowing he hadn’t started going insane—at least not alone.
“I hear things lately that are impossible. School bells ringing. Cars hot-rodding up and down the street when there isn’t a vehicle anywhere near Moreno. I thought I was finally losing it being alone in this place. It used to be peaceful and tranquil in a cemetery sort of way, but now it has the opposite feel. It’s turned oppressive and dark.”
Bob saw the way Linda turned and stared off into the darkness beyond the glass and noticed that his wife, a woman not fearful of anything in the world outside of running low on coffee, was scared.
“The next incident that happens, they can take the last pay cycle and completion bonus and shove it up their asses. We’ll take the loss as long as we get to someplace where there are people”—he gestured at the street beyond the protection of the glass—“not this powder keg.”
“Powder keg?” Linda asked as she turned back to face Bob.
“Can’t you feel it? It’s like this place is building toward a detonation of … of … something, and I don’t think I want to be here when it goes off. A week, and we’re gone, no matter what.”
“Deal.”
As both Bob and Linda turned away from the window, they froze as the sound hit their ears. Through the coldness of the glass, the vibration had started. Then the music was as discernable as if it were coming through the speakers of their own stereo system. They both jumped when the old neon sign in the window flashed to blinking life as if a switch had been thrown. K-Rave—Fifteen Thousand Watts of Music Power came to its full bright red illumination with a humming that comes with neon lighting. And in the back of the radio station, through the triple-pane glass of the DJ booth, they heard the music and knew exactly what it was. Then the voice of the disc jockey came through the air, and it froze both security people in their tracks. The opening refrains of the instrumental intro were covered by the voice that sent chills down their spines.
“And now a slight blast from the past, from 1957, Mr. Buddy Holly and his gargantuan hit, ‘Everyday’ … bring it back home to Lubbock, Buddy.”
Every day, it’s a-getting closer, going faster than a roller coaster, love like yours will surely come my way … a-hey, a-hey, hey … hey …
The neon light blinked three times and then went dark once again as the music faded away to nothing. Of the gravelly voiced DJ, there was silence as the music, along with Buddy Holly, left the building.
Bob and Linda reached for the cell phone at the same time. They had to get someone to listen to their tale so they could leave this place. They soon gave up when they failed to adequately reach a distant cell tower. They even tried the landline from the wall-mounted pay phone, but it too was on the fritz—not an unusual circumstance, as the lines in and out of Moreno were seventy-year-old technology.
They didn’t know it, but the fuse to that powder keg about which Bob was so worried had already had been lit … it had been burning since that night back in 1962, and that fuse was growing ever shorter.
It was five days until Halloween.
TEN MILES EAST OF QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
None of the eight frightened people had ever been in a military transport before. The UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter swept low over the Virginia countryside, and most of its passengers were happy that it was still predawn so the imminently close ground wasn’t visible. John, who was deathly afraid of heights and flying in general, held Jenny’s hand as a reminder not to scream like a schoolgirl every time the Black Hawk dipped and rose over the trees. The U.S. Army crew chief watched the civilians with a smirk on his face, as they all looked as if they had boarded the world’s riskiest roller coaster ride. The young specialist had seen these people on television and thought they lacked the necessary demeanor to be ghost hunters. The intrepid investigators were all frightened of a simple helicopter ride.
Gabriel saw the lights of the compound and its illuminated circular landing pad, and then he saw the cordon of U.S. military personnel waiting below.
The crew chief unplugged his helmet from the comm system and sprang for the door as it was slid open from the outside. He hopped out and assisted the three women first and then let the men stumble out for themselves. It was the first time the helicopter crew had provided transport to a shipload of nerds.
“Professor Kennedy?” a man said, the blades of the helicopter spoiling his finely coifed hair.
“I’m Kennedy.”
“Sir, I’m Special Agent Jim Lipscomb, FBI. The director asked that I make sure you have everything you need.”
Kennedy followed the agent and had to stop and turn when everyone else hesitated, and then they reluctantly fell in line. The group approached the large manor house that had been utilized by the FBI many times but never for anything remotely resembling what was happening now.
As the beating rotors of the Black Hawk helicopter became nothing more than background noise as it lifted back into the air, Gabriel managed to stop the agent before they reached the backyard and pool area of the house.
“Isn’t the director going to join us?” he asked as the others caught up with them. The agent looked as if he were not going to answer at first. Then he leaned in closer to Gabriel.
“The director posted his resignation while in the air from California, sir.”
“He quit?” Damian asked, worry crossing his features.
The agent said nothing, but turned and went into the house.
“I guess not having any answers drives some to the extreme,” Gabriel said to no one. “Someone should have welcomed him to our world.” He followed the agent inside.
* * *
The back entryway was filled with men and women. Some were dressed in black Nomex commando gear and others in dark suits. They all looked tired and haggard from whatever it was that was killing the former commander in chief. They were drinking coffee or standing in a small line in the kitchen with plates in their hands, getting ready to eat breakfast. They all eyed the motley group that came in the back way. The newcomers, in turn, studied a group of people that looked to be in a war zone—that forever tired and weary look a soldier gets after months of hard combat.
As the Supernaturals looked at the faces around them, there was one they all recognized. The First Lady—or former, if you like—stood in the kitchen doorway. She was looking straight at them. She also looked tired, but not like the others in the large space and in the kitchen. She was more focused on the group. Her eyes didn’t hold hope; they looked as if they held contempt. With an upturn of her upper lip, one that could have been considered a sneer in most circles, she abruptly turned and left. Her assistant was right behind her.
“How is she taking all of this?” Jennifer asked as she watched the swinging door to the kitchen and pantry as it came to a stop after the departure of the First Lady.
“That’s not my place to say, ma’am,” the agent said. They could see in the way he spoke and the seriousness in his eyes that he had a very low opinion of the former First Lady. “We have the main library set up for your team, Professor. Every inch of video, disc, written eyewitness reports, and the sum of our investigations has been provided.”
Gabriel looked from the agent to Leonard and nodded. The diminutive black man took the agent by the arm as Kennedy led the others out of the crowded room and to the large hallway.
“Look, I know that lady has a lot on her plate, but there are certain things I need from her.”
“Such as?” the agent asked, not liking the fact that it involved Catherine Hadley.
“Such as family records—health, financial, legal, and other things that were placed into a blind trust when Hadley came into office.”
“President Hadley.”
“Excuse me?” Leonard said.
“He’s still called the president.”
Leonard smiled, and then he laughed and slapped the FBI agent on the shoulder as he started to follow Gabriel and the others. “Whatever you say, chief, but the man is an asshat that deserves everything he gets.” Sickles stopped and momentarily lost his smirk. “Well, maybe not everything, but don’t look to me to have respect for a man that ruined the economy, ruined the office, and is a cheating bastard. You worked for him; I did not. Now get with the queen and explain to her what I need. Provide it so I don’t have to start digging into closets they don’t want opened.”
The special agent watched the black man vanish through the door and shook his head.
* * *
The library was large—enough so that George and Damian whistled simultaneously. Books from floor to ceiling lined the walls. Long tables had been set up with no fewer than ten computers. Printers, large-screen monitors, and phones were abundant.
Leonard entered the room and with Agent Lipscomb close behind. The agent closed the large sliding doors behind him as the noise and murmuring were cut off from the hallway and the rest of the house. Sickles didn’t wait. He removed his jacket and tossed it on an antique couch and went directly to one of the four PCs. Leonard became angry but held that anger in check when he saw two of his personal laptops sitting in the table. He gave Kennedy an “I told you so” look but sat down nonetheless. He immediately started tapping commands on the keyboard. Gabriel nodded, as Leonard was now in his element—one of gigabytes and specialty programs of the criminal world. Yes, Leonard was at home.
“Professor, we have a team of researchers from Quantico standing by to assist you in—”
“I think for those of us not too tired from our travels and our prison breakout, we would like to see the president and his current condition.”
The agent looked at Kennedy and nodded as he turned for the doors.
“We also need most of these people cleared out of the house. Send them outside or wherever, but get them out, all except for security for the president; I’ll leave that up to you how many that is.”
“If I had my way, it would be a battalion of marines.” The agent finally nodded. “Hell, as nothing seems to be able to stop whatever it is, it really doesn’t matter; most will be happy to get out.”
Gabriel he reached for the aluminum case that had been delivered from Joint Base Andrews ahead of them. He opened it and then presented the agent with a stapled grouping of papers. “I also need the attorney general, the head of the FBI, and the Secret Service to sign these within the next hour, or I gather my people and we’ll head back to face justice in Los Angeles.”
“What are these?” Lipscomb asked as he looked at the differing pages.
“Release forms. They were drawn up while we were in the air and faxed to the plane. No matter the outcome of this investigation, we cannot be held responsible for any harm that may befall that man up there,” Gabriel said as he pointed at the ceiling and the bedrooms. Kennedy produced one more set of papers and handed them to the agent. “This is for the general accounting office.”
“And this is?”
“Our terms of service.” Gabriel smiled at the others. “Since this is our final investigation as a team, we need to get paid.”
“And rather handsomely too,” Lipscomb said as his eyes found the numbers Kennedy was demanding. “One million apiece?”
“Nonnegotiable.”
“That means you deal, or we walk,” John Lonetree said as he stepped up to the agent.
“And if you just happen to prove this is a farce, that he is nothing more than insane and incompetent, you’ll receive a one-million-dollar bonus per person. That’s in addition to your fee.”
They all turned to see that a back door had been opened and Catherine Hadley stood in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She stepped into the room, closing the door on her female assistant before she could follow. She walked in and eyed the Supernaturals one at a time, and that look said she was not impressed. She paused in front of Kennedy. She did not offer her manicured hand for shaking.
“A farce?” Kennedy asked as he exchanged curious looks with Lonetree.
“You and the FBI are not the only ones capable of theorizing and doing research, Professor. My belief is that this is happening through Dean and Dean alone.” She said this last with a look of disdain for the people she was meeting with. “It is highly possible he is doing this himself. Surely through your books and your reporting, you know it is far more likely that his brain is conjuring up all of this. You say it yourself, Professor—hauntings are mostly wishful thinking. This is nothing more than a child going through puberty, as your theory would suggest. Only instead of puberty, it’s just plain old senility and brain trauma from his war years in Vietnam. He’s insane. Nothing more. It’s the president that is causing this, not ghosts.”
“So, you don’t believe the theory cast about by the authorities that this is an outside attack by a foreign power or source?” Damian asked for Gabriel, who was busy sizing up the woman almost as hated publicly as the president himself.
“Not at all. Why do this when he was on the way out anyway? As you know, he was going to be impeached eventually but had decided to resign before that. What would a foreign government hope to achieve?”
“A test, perhaps. Maybe they just tested this offensive strike before hitting a real target,” the FBI agent infused into the conversation with one of the opinions forwarded by CIA and his own office, “like the sitting president or someone in intelligence.”
“That theory is nothing but horseshit.” Leonard continued to slash away at three out of the six keyboards in front of him.
“Excuse me, young man,” the agent said. “I think we have a handle on this. Now it may not stand up to your higher scrutiny of how things work in the hood, but that’s what most intelligence people think. This has to be outside influence.”
John and Gabriel exchanged amused looks as Sickles stopped typing and turned to face the career FBI agent.
“The hood, huh?” Leonard said with a grin. “Let me explain something, my red-tape-bound friend. In the midsixties, a small group known as the Wheeler Team, a unit contracted by the CIA in July 1967, conducted unauthorized human testing on American military personnel in Germany—out of the way of nosy people, I guess. During those tests, they tried to project thought through space and time. They used drugs, hypnosis, and other nefarious ways to get substantially high ratings on telepathic ways and means. Never mind that the experiments cost no fewer than five soldiers their lives. For what? Nothing. Don’t sit there and tell me something is viable when there is not one shred of evidence to support your theory outside of some whack-job doctors from the Middle Ages. No, this is not the work of some dark enemy in Moscow or Beijing. This is something that we’ve never come across before. Now say it with me … ‘We just don’t know.’ It’s not hard. ‘We just don’t know.’”
“And you seem to know a lot about classified data,” the agent said, growing angry that he had been shown up.
“It’s because all of us black folks in the hood are that way. We sit and sharpen our knives in our hangouts, and after we clean our AK-47s after our latest drive-by, we discuss all the new and unusual ways the enemy forces of the world can screw us up by gaining access to our minds. That’s a high priority in the hood.”
Gabriel smiled. “Okay, you made your point, Boy Wonder. Now get back to it.”
“As distasteful as it is, I agree with this … gentleman,” Catherine said, glancing toward Leonard. “I don’t buy what the intel agencies suggest. It’s psychosis, pure and simple.”
“And he kills people in his sleep? That’s taking Gabriel’s theory to the extreme, don’t you think?”
Catherine Hadley turned to face the smaller woman who had spoken. She smiled when she saw who it was. “Ah, the woman who was possessed. You tell me, Ms.…?”
“Tilden, Professor Tilden,” Jennifer said as she returned the smile even though the First Lady didn’t mean it as a welcoming or friendly gesture in the slightest.
“As I was saying, Professor, the brain is a powerful thing; you of all people should know that. It can produce any number of physical and mental capabilities, and these are your own theories. So the faster you can declare the president mentally unstable, the sooner we can get him some real help.”
Jenny was about to respond to the slight when she caught the look from Gabriel. She closed her mouth as John moved to her side.
“As I said, a one-million-dollar bonus to each of your team when you come to the obvious declaration of incompetence.”
“And if our conclusions differ from the conclusion you have arrived at?” George asked, worrying about the wording of the offer.
Catherine smiled and then left the library.
“Leonard?” Gabriel turned for the double sliding doors.
“I’m on it,” he said, never even looking up from the computer screens, which were all operating now.
“On what?” Julie Reilly and Kelly Delaphoy asked at the same moment.
“On just why our illustrious former First Lady wants her husband declared insane and thus incompetent to run his affairs. Just what does she have to gain besides the obvious divorce?”
“Motivation?” Damian asked as Gabriel pulled the doors open.
“Money, of course,” Kennedy said as the others came toward the door. “Now shall we go see the president?”
* * *
Kennedy and the others went up the stairs, passing no fewer than twenty security men in their black Nomex fatigues and carrying M4 assault rifles. Julie held Kelly’s hand as they stepped from one riser to the other.
The hallway was even more crowded than the stairs or even down in the kitchen. These men were a combination of very lethal-looking FBI hostage rescue team members, ten combat-ready marines, and no fewer than fifteen Secret Service agents. None of these groups looked like they wanted to be there. They saw Special Agent Lipscomb standing by the door of a bedroom. He was waiting for them.
“How many people are inside?” Gabriel asked as the other seven gathered around them.
“Two nurses, one doctor, and six security.”
“With the exception of the security detail, we need to see the president in private.”
Lipscomb nodded and then entered his security code into the doorway locking mechanism. The door opened, and Julie and Kelly smelled a familiar odor; it was like the subbasement of Summer Place. It was as if death were waiting for them right inside the brightly illuminated room. With a look at the others, Kennedy stepped inside.
The doctor and the nurses protested, but they eventually left with the promise that the door would remain unlocked for them to get back inside quickly if they were needed. Lipscomb then left the room, closing the door behind him. The six-man security team eyed the newcomers but kept their distance from the overly large bed and its occupant.
The president lay in bed with the blankets pulled up to his shoulders. His right arm was free of the covers and hooked up to an IV, which Jennifer went to and she eyed the two plastic bags full of doctor-ordered intravenous drip. She looked up at Gabriel.
“Saline to keep his veins open and a nutrient to keep him fed. No medicines or painkillers.” She turned from the stand that held the IV bottles and faced the group. She reached for the chart at the foot of the bed and read. “Vitals are erratic at best. Yesterday he received an opiate for pain. How they came to the conclusion he was in pain is beyond me,” she mumbled. “His temperature fluctuates in leaps and bounds. I’ll have to compare these stats with video and see if these spikes in temperature coincide with the attacks. The damn doctors aren’t noting the obvious here.” Jenny went to John, and he handed her the black bag. She removed a stethoscope and went to the side of the bed and looked down on the former president.
John and the others joined her as she took Hadley’s vitals. The man looked well beyond his seventy-two years. His brows were untrimmed, and that alone made him look insane. His pajama top was wet with perspiration.
“His temperature is up some from the last reading taken fifteen minutes ago,” Jenny said as she released Hadley’s wrist and then gently laid it aside. Gabriel saw something on the bedsheet and then pulled the covers back. He nodded at Jenny for her to continue her examination. She slowly unbuttoned the blue pajama top. When she finished, she took a deep breath and then raised the white T-shirt underneath.
Jenny slowly peeled away the gauze and the tape covering the recently received wounds. They all saw the healing scabs and stitches from the assault two weeks before. They saw the ugliness and how deep the cuts must have been. It looked as if he had been carved on. Even the security men in the room looked away from the sight.
“‘Trick or Treat,’” Damian said aloud. “Is it just me or is anyone else getting a little tired of these Halloween surprises?”
“Brutal,” Julie said as she stepped closer to get a few pictures.
Jenny lowered the T-shirt and then buttoned Hadley’s pajama top. She took a deep breath as she quickly examined the other injuries sustained by the assaults.
“You know, nothing we have seen goes against the First Lady’s ideas on the brain,” John said as he watched Jenny work.
“In my line of work, there has never been a case of this kind of aggression against a host,” Kelly said as she finally broke away from the group and approached the bed to look at Hadley. Kennedy smiled when he saw her paralysis concerning her supposed betrayal was now gone, or at least closeted for the time being. “Outside of our own experience at Summer Place, there is not one documented case of physical harm coming from a haunting. The First Lady may be right in her assumptions that it’s him doing this, not anything supernatural.”
“George, do you want to take a crack and see if he’s feeling anything?” Gabriel asked a staring Cordero, who didn’t look too enthused about getting too close to Hadley.
George swallowed and nodded reluctantly. Jenny and the others made room as Cordero stepped to the bed, closed his eyes, and took the exposed wrist of the president. His eyes remained closed as he concentrated. He never, ever tried to see into someone’s thoughts while they were asleep. When he had tried it in the past, he came away with a confused and jumbled look at a person’s warped view of their lives through their dreams, and he didn’t care for the secrets that most had; even if they were unconscious and unfettered thoughts, they still disturbed him to no end. He had learned that the base human thoughts when not controlled by wakefulness are those of violence and death.
He grimaced as a vision popped into his head. It was Jennifer. George tilted his head as if he were trying to understand something. He flinched and then released Hadley’s wrist as he stepped back. He looked at Jenny.
“What is it?” John asked when he saw the worried face of Cordero.
“Hadley just named everyone in the room. It was like he was reading attendance for a class. After each name, he would say, ‘Present.’ He didn’t mention Leonard, but he did mention someone else.”
“Bobby Lee McKinnon,” John said, not as a question but as a fact. Jenny looked from George to John.
“You knew?” she asked as the others looked on very surprised at the announcement.
“You talk in your sleep.” Lonetree took Jenny’s shoulder and squeezed. “I figure Bobby Lee came home to roost about two years ago, and he’s once again gaining strength. Reapplying the hold he had on you.”
They all knew that the ghost of the old rock-and-roll legend had been a part of Jennifer’s soul for years. He had vanished when confronted by the evil inside Summer Place, and they thought Jenny’s curse was finished for good. But it was now obvious that the ghost that attached itself to her during a routine investigation many years before had indeed returned. Bobby Lee McKinnon, while not evil, had almost cost Jenny her life through the use of her life force.
Kelly let out a yelp of surprise when President Hadley sat straight up in bed. He reached out and grabbed the hand of George Cordero and then with tremendous pressure squeezed it. George looked as if he had been hit by an electrical charge, hard enough that John reached out to steady him, but Kennedy stopped him.
“Let him communicate,” Gabe said as he released John’s hand.
“Sing it for me, sing it for … her.”
They watched as the words spilled from the mouth of the clairvoyant. They were those of a much younger George, but they were clear and extremely intelligible. Cordero opened his eyes and looked straight at Jennifer.
“From the valley to the sea, from the Inland Empire to the streets of Tinseltown, here’s Bobby Lee McKinnon and the Spotlights.”
Before they could react, Jenny was pushed against the wall, where she crashed into one of the security men who reached out to help her, but again Kennedy stopped the man from assisting. “Leave her!” he said too loudly.
Somewhere … beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover stands on golden sands …
They heard the male voice as it broke free from Jenny’s mouth. In the corner, Julie Reilly went to her phone and started tapping out commands, as she too recognized the voice of Bobby Lee McKinnon and also the song. The voice died away, and the look on Jennifer’s face was one of pain and shock as she just as suddenly snapped out of her trancelike state and slid down the wall. John rushed toward her and pushed the security man out of his way and assisted Jenny to her feet. She cried and leaned hard into Lonetree. Hadley slowly smiled and lay back onto the bed.
“Bobby Lee McKinnon will be live! Be there or be square!”
They watched as a peaceful look came into the president’s face as he finally released George’s hand from the viselike grip. Hadley’s remote mouthpiece stumbled back and was caught by Gabriel.
The room came alive with motion as John moved Jenny away from the wall and George Cordero slumped into a nearby chair with the help of Kennedy. Gabriel then went immediately to check on Jenny and then stood and raced toward Julie. She held the phone out to him. She hit the right button, and the song started playing so all could hear it. The abbreviated verse stopped, and then Julie looked at Kennedy and then the others as she read from her phone.
“‘Beyond the Sea,’ recorded in 1959 by Bobby Darin.” She hesitated as she looked from Gabriel to a frightened Jennifer. “Cowritten and scored by Bobby Lee McKinnon in New York. Bobby Lee wrote that song for Bobby Darin in the latter half of 1958.”
“Oh, God, he is back,” Jenny said as she buried her face into Lonetree’s chest.
“And Bobby Lee’s been invited to God knows what along with the rest of us.”
All eyes once more went to Kennedy, but he wasn’t done with his summation just yet as he walked over and looked down on President Hadley.
“I think we can rule out the Russians.”