WILLIAM PLAITHE ENTERED his suite of rooms and closed the door. He’d been with the police all day, helping them cover every inch of El Diablo in search of the crazy bastard who’d escaped Hell Hill. According to the cops, the guy thought he had some connection to dead people, which, unfortunately, made El Diablo an obvious place for him to hang out.
Add to that the catacomb-like passageways underneath the hotel and you had almost a surety that the guy would show up.
Plaithe sighed, pouring himself three fingers of cheap whiskey. He tipped the cloudy, chipped glass and emptied it in one swallow. He had a record crowd showing up for Halloween, an internationally famous writer and his nosy family staying on the third floor, an unpredictable witch and her fat familiar skulking about, and now
