Dead Air Read online

  “Mickey!” the kid shrieked, and his mom smiled.

  “Mickey!” she agreed, stifling a yawn. “We’re going to meet Mickey tomorrow!”

  “Assuming we actually make this flight,” her husband grumbled, shooting Dad a dirty look.

  Family of five kicking off fall break with a trip to Disney World. How lovely for them.

  I turned back around to face Dad, who was holding up my puffy blue parka in one hand and a giant baggie stuffed with underwear and socks in the other. A green plaid bra was pressed up at the front like a kid’s face smooshed in a candy-store window.

  “Dad!” I hissed, and he tossed me the parka.

  “Don’t know what I was thinking!” Kneeling, he unzipped the already-stuffed duffel bag at his feet and crammed the baggie inside. “Jackets don’t count as carry-ons; we can just take them on board with us.”

  Dad pulled his own black parka out of my backpack (he’d run out of room in his), and we watched the scale drop from 51.2 to 50.5.

  “Almost there,” the check-in lady said encouragingly. Behind us, Blond Dad groaned.

  “Sorry, folks.” Dad beamed at the line of bleary-eyed travelers, and a few smiled back feebly. “Just another second.”

  He started groping around the backpack again, and the check-in lady cautiously peered inside.

  “What about that jar?”

  Dad turned to me, and I swallowed hard.

  “A jar of sand is pretty heavy,” the check-in lady added, her face suddenly uncertain as she glanced from Dad to me.

  Dad lifted the jar out of my backpack. The three of us had been bringing it to the lake every summer since I could remember, adding a little more sand every time. It had been Mom’s idea. I was in charge of packing it for every vacation—I hadn’t thought twice about bringing the jar. Dad cleared his throat. “What do you think, Kat?”

  “It’s just sand,” I said with a shrug. “Leave it.”

  Dad nodded slowly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “Perfect!” the check-in lady chirped, and I saw that the weight had dropped to 49.6. “Now you’re ready to fly.”

  She set the jar under her console as we picked up our stuff, and I wondered what she’d do with it. Throw it away, I figured. She probably thought we were weirdos, trying to bring a jar of dirt to Europe.

  Once we’d made it through the crazy-long security line and the crazier-long Starbucks line, Dad and I flopped gratefully into a pair of black plastic chairs. I devoured two day-old blueberry muffins in about a minute. Dad burned his tongue chugging his latte and said it was worth it.

  “This hair’s freaking me out,” he said, making little circles in the air as he pointed at my head. “I could’ve taken you to a barber, you know.”

  I was trying to pick the blueberries out of my teeth. “It was a last-minute decision.”

  “Mmm.” Dad stirred his coffee, eyeing me. “You didn’t leave all that hair in your room, did you? It’ll scare the new tenants.”

  “Grandma took it,” I told him. “She said she’d donate it to some organization that makes wigs for cancer patients.”

  Dad smiled. “That’s nice, Kat.”

  “Hey, want to see something cool?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I need your laptop.”

  After a few minutes of trying to get his clunky old laptop to connect to the airport’s Wi-Fi, I opened the browser, typed in a URL, then turned the screen to face Dad. His eyebrows shot up.

  “The Kat Sinclair Files?”

  “It’s a blog!” I said. “It was Grandma’s idea. This way I can post stories about the haunted places we visit for her and Trish and Mark and . . . anyone else. Plus pictures and stuff like that, too.”

  Dad laughed. “Very Nancy Drew.”

  “And Hardy Boys,” I agreed, thinking sadly of all the boxes of books I’d left in storage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin boarding flight 221 to New York in just a few minutes.”

  A rush of nervous excitement flooded through me. Now that we were actually at the airport, this whole thing felt more real. When Mom took off last spring, I was convinced she’d come back. After all, she’d done this twice before—once when I was five, and again a few years later. Both times, she returned in less than two weeks, full of apologies and new promises.

  Not this time, though. Two weeks passed, then three. A month later, she was still in Cincinnati.

  That’s when things got weird. By the time school let out, I’d realized Mom probably wasn’t coming back. But I was still in a constant state of anticipation, waiting for something I knew logically wasn’t going to happen. And Dad started acting . . . restless. Like he needed a distraction, but nothing worked—not our traditional summer-slasher movie marathons, not a nighttime visit to Chelsea’s one and only supposedly haunted house, not even a visit to the paranormal museum on the other side of town. When I started school in August, Dad decided he was bored at Rise and Shine, Ohio! and started looking for anchor jobs at other networks, in other cities. After a few weeks, he posted something about job-hunting on his college’s alumni Facebook page, and Jess Capote left a comment:

  P2P needs a new host! Want to chase ghosts with me? ;)

  I still wasn’t sure if Jess had been kidding around. For all I knew, she was just as shocked as I was when Dad replied: Yes!

  “An adventure, Kat!” he’d said in a hyperenthusiastic sort of way, already looking up plane-ticket prices. “Traveling all over the world . . . It’ll be an experience, visiting all these new places. Haunted places,” he added, beaming. “That’s where the best stories are, right? The haunted places.”

  He went on and on like that. But I understood what he really meant. Yesterday at the going-away party my art teacher had given me, everyone kept asking about all the places I was going. And all I could think about was that I was finally leaving.

  I mean, I loved my house, school was easy enough. And I’d definitely miss Trish and Mark, and Grandma, of course. But I still wanted to go. It felt like an escape. I knew Dad must feel the same way.

  And secretly, I was hoping maybe the Thing would stay in Chelsea.

  “If the plane has Wi-Fi, I might work on my blog,” I told Dad when the other passengers started boarding. “I bet I can find a cooler layout.”

  “Sure.” Dad took a final swig of his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash can next to his chair. “I’m sleeping the whole flight. And the one after that.” He groaned, stretching his arms over his head. “And the one after that. Two layovers, bleargh.”

  I bounced up and down, watching the line of first-class people form at the gate. “I don’t know how you can even think about sleeping,” I told him. But ten minutes after the seat-belt light went off, I was crashed out, facedown on the laptop before the drink cart even rolled by.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BOY WITH NO EYES

  Post: Travel Is a Beating

  Seriously, all I want is a shower and a bed.

  That was my first blog post. No pictures, nothing else. I wrote it in Munich during our second layover. I didn’t think anyone needed to hear the details of the almost eighteen hours of boarding and unboarding I’d endured—squinting at airport maps, dragging luggage from gate to gate, chewing insanely dry turkey sandwiches, and kneeing the backs of inconsiderate people who insisted on reclining their seats into my lap before the plane even took off.

  When Dad and I finally checked in to our motel in Rotterdam, I passed out face-first on one of the twin beds and slept so hard not even Dad’s chainsaw-snores woke me.

  RING-RING. RING-RING.

  I groped around without opening my eyes, wondering why my alarm sounded so weird. Then I heard Dad’s groggy voice.

  “’Lo? This is Jack . . .” He cleared his voice, suddenly sounding much more awake. “
Lidia, hello! Yes, we’re up. Half an hour? Sounds good, see you soon!”

  “Why’d they call in the middle of the night?” I mumbled. Dad pulled open the curtains and I yelped, ducking under the blanket to shield my eyes from the evil sunshine.

  “It’s almost eleven,” Dad said. “That was the producer—I’m going to check out the entrance to Crimptown, where we’re filming.” He yanked the blanket from my face. “Haunted tunnels, pirate ghosts . . . you coming?”

  My response was a grunt. I flipped over, piling two pillows on top of my head.

  But I couldn’t go back to sleep, despite my grainy, tired eyes. By the time Dad got out of the shower, I’d dug some clean jeans and a Tales from the Crypt T-shirt from my megabackpack.

  “Two minutes,” I promised, ducking around him and into the bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were out the door, the tangy smell of saltwater slapping me in the face. A man in a suit whizzed past us on a bicycle, jacket slung over his shoulder. I watched him head off the boardwalk toward the skyscrapers to our left. Farther down the harbor, I saw a massive bridge arched over the river, dozens of cables sweeping up from one end and connecting to a white, geometric sort of tower. It was oddly graceful-looking.

  “The Erasmus Bridge,” Dad told me. “Beautiful, isn’t it? They call it the Swan.”

  I nodded without responding. My head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton balls, but through the fuzz, realization was starting to dawn.

  I was in another country.

  I followed Dad mutely down the wide boardwalk, eavesdropping on conversations and not recognizing a single word. Dad and I had listened to a Learn Conversational Dutch app he’d downloaded on one of our flights. Apparently nothing had sunk in through my jet-lagged stupor.

  Suddenly, I was very aware of how far from Chelsea I was, like someone had just swooped me from Ohio to this spot in two seconds flat. It was exciting and terrifying, like one of those elevator-drop rides at an amusement park. The breeze ruffled my newly cropped hair, and I felt a rush of giddiness. Maybe I really had escaped the Thing.

  “Do you see Jess?” I asked.

  “Lidia’s meeting us, actually,” Dad replied, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Jess is with the rest of the crew.”

  My stomach rumbled loudly. “Are we going to have breakfast with them? Do you think they have pancakes in the Netherl—”

  “Jack?”

  Dad and I both turned to face a woman barely taller than me. The frames of her glasses were huge and bright blue, the lenses magnifying her amber eyes. Strands of frizzy dark hair that had come loose from her ponytail whipped around her face in the wind. She looked kind of frazzled, but her smile was warm and friendly.

  “Lidia!” Dad turned on the talk-show charm full force. “Great to finally meet you.”

  They shook hands, and then Lidia held her hand out to me. “You must be Kat. Lidia Bettencourt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bettencourt,” I said, taking her hand gingerly. It felt frail, like I might snap a bone if I squeezed a little too hard.

  “Oh, just Lidia, please!” Rummaging in her purse, Lidia frowned. “Now, let’s see, I thought I . . . here!” She pulled out an odd-looking gadget I recognized from watching the show—an EMF meter, which was supposed to . . . well, I wasn’t entirely sure how they worked. Grandma called them spook sensors. “Nope, that’s not it . . .” After another few seconds of groping around her bag, Lidia pulled out a few granola bars with a triumphant “Aha!” and held one out to me.

  “Thanks!” I said eagerly, ripping the wrapper off and devouring half in one bite.

  Dad took the other bar, watching me in amusement. “We haven’t had a chance to eat breakfast yet,” he told Lidia.

  “I figured,” Lidia said. “Jet lag is brutal, but don’t worry—you’ll get used to it. So, the theater’s just a few blocks . . . You don’t mind walking?”

  “Not a bit!” Dad replied cheerfully. I trailed behind them most of the way along the waterfront, staring out at the boats and wishing I had about eight more granola bars.

  Ten minutes later, we were looking up at a ramshackle theater. The bulbs around the marquee had all been removed, and only three letters were still hanging on—an I, an O, and a crooked U. The box office was boarded up and covered in faded graffiti.

  “Very creepy.” Dad said it like a compliment.

  “What’s with the ‘IOU’?” I asked, pointing at the marquee.

  Lidia tilted her head.

  “Ooh, I hadn’t noticed that,” she replied. “Good eye! Remind me to point it out to Jess—we should get a shot of it for the opening sequence.”

  I stared at the marquee again and found myself mentally framing it, adjusting the focus . . . Then I shook my head. I’d left the Elapse in my suitcase intentionally.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Kat?”

  Startled, I looked at Lidia. She was smiling at me. “Oh, um . . . I don’t know.”

  “Good answer,” Lidia said with a grin. “I’ll ask you again in a week or so. Maybe your answer will be different.”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t keep the doubt out of my voice.

  “We’ll fill you in on the Crimptown story during the meeting,” Lidia said to Dad. “I’ve got a few people lined up tomorrow for you to interview. There are a couple of entrances to Crimptown, but the theater’s got the entrance where the official tour starts, so that’s where we’ve set up camp for now.” She turned to me again. “Kat, I hope you don’t mind hanging out for an hour or two while we get your dad settled in. My nephew’s here, so he can keep you company. We’re so glad this homeschool thing worked out with the two of you.”

  I blinked a few times. “Um . . . what?”

  “I actually haven’t filled Kat in on that yet,” Dad cut in, shooting me an apologetic look.

  “Filled me in on what?”

  “Oh, it’s my fault—this was all so last minute,” Lidia said quickly. “My nephew, Oscar—he’s your age—he’s been asking if I could take custody of him since last winter. He’s been with my sister in Oregon, but he . . . well, he had some problems at his school. But I’m always on the road—I couldn’t just pull him out of school altogether . . .” She paused for breath, beaming at Dad. “Then Jess found us a new host with a thirteen-year-old daughter! And Jack said—”

  “He’s homeschooling me,” I interrupted. “Right?”

  “That was the initial plan,” Dad said quickly. “But Lidia came up with a better idea.”

  “We have an intern,” Lidia rushed on. “Her name’s Mi Jin, she graduated last May—college, not high school!—and we asked her if she’d be willing to tutor you and Oscar since she’ll be less involved with the show than your dad and I, and she’d have more time. Plus, you know, a little extra cash in her pocket.”

  My mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Lidia talked so fast it was hard to keep up. “Hang on,” I sputtered. “So this guy’s mom let him come with you just because he doesn’t like his school?”

  “No, no, his mother died years ago,” Lidia said. “He’s my brother’s son, and . . .” She paused, then waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a long story. Anyway, let’s get in there so you can meet everyone! Kat, I hope you can tag along tomorrow for your dad’s interviews; there’s a pretty cool story behind Crimptown . . .”

  I tuned her out as she led the way into the theater. So I had a new teacher and a new classmate. That could be interesting.

  The inside of the theater didn’t look too bad. It was chilly and dim and pretty run-down, but it wasn’t falling apart or covered in mold or anything like that. But this was just the entrance to Crimptown, the focus for this episode. All I knew was that it was a tunnel system beneath the Rotterdam waterfront that was supposedly haunted by the ghost of a pirate. And tomorrow we would spend the night down there.

  Not
that I was scared or worried or anything—growing up watching horror movies starring my grandmother helped me develop an immunity to creepy stuff. (Like the kissing scenes. Oh God, the kissing scenes were the worst. You haven’t experienced real horror until you’ve watched your grandmother make out with a vampire.)

  As we passed the small bar in the lobby, I heard the low murmur of people talking. Lidia opened the door to the box office and gestured for me to enter. The chatter stopped, and several heads turned in my direction.

  “Hi!” I said brightly, doing my best Anchor Dad impression. “I’m Kat Sinclair, your new host.” In my mind, I could hear Trish and Mark snickering. Of course they weren’t actually here, so my stupid nonjoke was greeted with silence and raised eyebrows. Sighing, I stepped aside to let Dad in.

  Soon everyone was shaking hands, and all sorts of names were flying around. I hung back, trying to figure out who was who.

  Of course Sam Sumners was easy to spot. Somehow, he looked even more plastic in real life than on TV—shiny black hair, crayon-blue eyes, and eyelashes straight out of a mascara commercial. He smiled at me, and I imagined Grandma swooning and tried not to snicker.

  Next to Sam was a scruffy-faced guy with thick eyebrows permanently arched in a way that suggested he was about to say something sarcastic—Roland Yeske, the parapsychologist. (Seriously, a psychologist specializing in the paranormal. Grandma swears it’s a real profession. I have my doubts.)

  I also recognized Jess Capote—bleached-blond hair and a gazillion freckles—just before she threw her arms around Dad in a bear hug. Behind them, a girl with an eyebrow ring sat with her combat boots propped up on the table, toying with one of about a dozen cord bracelets. I’d only seen her in a few of the more recent episodes.

  Lidia spoke up over all the chatter. “Hey, where’d my nephew get off to?”

  “He said he was going up to the projection room,” Roland said, tilting his chair back. He looked at me pointedly. “Did we get picked up by Nickelodeon or something? What’s with all the kids?”

  Jess swatted him on the back of the head. “You knew Jack was bringing his daughter,” she said airily before turning to me with a broad smile. “Great to have you here, Kat! We’re about to talk your dad’s ear off and it’s probably going to get real boring real fast, so . . .”