Cicero's Dead (19 page)

Chapter II – Church of the Poisoned Mind

Around 10:15 I phoned a
taxi service and 15 minutes later a bearded, middle-eastern Yellow Cab driver
knocked on our door.

“You called a cab, Sir?”

“I did. I’ll be right out.”

“Okay,” he replied and went back to his cab.

I closed the door, holstered my guns and slipped
on a jacket.

Cassady tried to pretend that she wasn’t worried,
but we both knew better. I kissed her, first her left eye and then her right
and walked out, closing the door firmly. I got into the back seat and made eye
contact with the driver.

“Hollywood Hills.”

He sensed I didn’t want to talk and nodded. It was
a cloudy night with a nip in the air, and he drove smoothly. The fare came to
$80. I handed him a Franklin.

“Keep it.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

I was a few minutes early so I walked down the
block to an Exxon Mobil, grabbed a coffee and waited outside sipping slowly. At
a little before 11:30, I went back to the corner. Bobby pulled up in his blue,
1990, Ford E-series van and I jumped in the passenger side. It’s fitted out
with double-decker storage cabinets, a small sink, refrigerator and enormous
Captain’s chairs. It’s always reminded me of the Scooby Doo van. We were
carrying an arsenal -- pump shotguns, handguns, fully auto machine pistols and
an AK-47.

“Where to?”

“Take a right up the hill and park in front of the
apartment building.”

We were both tense and drove in silence. He parked
and I clambered into the back. There were two Kevlar vests, and a couple of
big-pocketed, safari bush jackets, with matching cargo pants. Although Kevlar
is bullet-proof, it’s a misnomer because a 9 millimeter bullet will still
result in a hellacious bruise, and some blunt trauma organ damage, but it’s a
big step up from no protection. I handed one to Bobby and got changed,
strapping on a vest and matching groin protector. I inserted a steel trauma pad
into the front of the vest, buttoned up my jacket and pulled on my pants. Bobby
did the same and looked like even more the Neanderthal than usual.

“Which sidearms?” I asked.

“Where are we going?”

“Underground.”

“A bomb shelter?”

“No. A labyrinth type bunker that extends all the
way up a hillside, and is apparently terraced into separate floors.”

“Where is this place?”

“Up by the Hollywood Reservoir. Belongs to
Clipper.”

“This should be interesting.”

“He doesn’t live there now, it’s rented out. But
under the lease he still has access to the bunker. I don’t know what’s in it or
if he’s even using it.”

“So why are we going in?”

“Dunno, bro, just a feeling I have.”

“You and your hunches, Nick.”

I shrugged. He looked grim.

“It was built by an eccentric millionaire in the
‘50s who apparently feared the Russians.”

“Smart man. I still fear the Russians.”

“I’ve got my Colt and my Walther.”

“I’ve got two nines and that reciprocating saw.”

“Let’s do it.”

On the drive up, two LAPD cruisers passed us,
probably on their way back from Halladay’s house. One slowed down and took a
long look, but didn’t stop us. Bobby drove slowly and carefully up the small,
winding roads that get narrower and twistier the higher you go. The streets
were all but deserted and lights from the houses cut thinly through the
overcast night. We turned west onto Beachwood and drove slowly ‘til we came to
the front of Clipper’s old home. Then we drove around back and started up the
access road. We parked off the road at the base of the steep incline, near some
shrubbery that partially concealed the van. After locking up the front, we
climbed in the back. We strapped on buck knives, put on our Kevlar, military
style helmets, grabbed flashlights, locked up the back and started trudging up
the hillside.

The moonless night gave us some cover and the city
lights were distant, swallowed by the greater darkness. We would be hard to
spot from either the road below or from the house above, should Reggie Mount be
peering out of his back windows. I imagined him working steadily in an upstairs
study, musing on the nature of evil. We came to the rock wall as a sudden wind
moaned through the foliage. I could make out the grain lines in the stainless
steel door, and flicked my flashlight to low beam. The padlock was gone and the
hasp was closed but unlocked. Fear that tasted like gunmetal started at the
base of my throat and moved down through my chest. Sweating, my breath coming
in short rasps, I shivered and stepped back to control myself.

We stood shoulder to shoulder and Bobby gave me a
grim look. “Almost like they’re expecting us.”

I stashed the flight bag containing the saw in
some brush. Bobby pulled his Beretta and screwed on the silencer. Sliding my
Colt out of its holster, I carefully opened the hasp on the door. I turned
sideways trying to be invisible as Bobby flattened out on the road, gripping
his pistol with both hands, aiming into where the darkness would rush out to
meet us when I opened the door. I exhaled and pulled it open. Nothing. Dead
silence except for the low whisper of the nighttime wind. We inched forward and
the beams from our flashlights dissolved into what seemed an immense blackness.
Cement steps descended, matching the angle of the ceiling. Had my heart not
been doing its best to bang its way out of my chest, I would’ve had vertigo.

Bobby peered down into the gloom. “How come the
freakin’ steps go down, but the hillside goes up?”

“Bizarre sense of humor. Makes it creepier.”

He nodded grimly and gestured impatiently with his
pistol. Bobby led the way, and I tried to count the steps but immediately lost
track. At the base of the staircase, we came to a landing enclosed by two by
fours with insulation nailed between the ribs. The ceiling was cracked and
discolored, and the drip of moisture sounded loud in the stillness. To our
right, an opening ran into a low corridor. We looked at each other and entered.
It was maybe 30 feet long, ending in an ascending staircase, which led to
another similar landing, only this time the connecting passageway was finished.
The walls were painted with Mediterranean designs, similar to the tiled steps
I’d been descending when I saw Halladay jogging the first time I came here.

There was no sign of anyone having recently passed
through, but, we proceeded with great caution. As we threaded our way through
the maze, I was struck by the horrifying thought that we could be locked in by
someone simply attaching a new padlock to the outer door. If Bobby shared my
thoughts, he kept it to himself. He was in his element, securing each
passageway, guiding us deeper into this underground riddle. Although he’s not
my equal when it comes to pure investigation, he’s a superb scout and if anyone
could lead us to the heart of this labyrinth and back out to the world above,
Bobby was the guy.

After 20 minutes of slow progress, we came to a
corridor which sloped down at a 30-degree angle and narrowed as we descended.
There was a round hatch at the bottom, not unlike the door to an old furnace.
Bobby took a deep breath, grabbed the handle and swung it open. Our beams
barely cut the blackness as we descended down a wide ladder staircase, shoulder
to shoulder. Halfway down, we triggered a motion detector and I shuddered as
the dark was replaced by an overwhelming brightness.

Steel support columns had been sprayed with an
orange, furry, soundproofing material, giving the cavernous room an industrial
feel. Nickel-plated art deco chandeliers hung in silence. The walls were
painted with party scenes, in which attractive young men and eyeless servants
carrying trays of drugs and delicacies posed and mingled.

“I don’t like this guy,” said Bobby. “He’s way too
modern and efficient. Give me an old school psycho any time. Somebody I can
relate too.”

“Look for the control panel for the motion
detector.”

As we searched around, Bobby said, “It’s as hidden
as the light switches.”

“Yeah. Not good.” Unease was crawling up my spine.
I had the distinct feeling we were being watched.

It was beyond disturbing. At the back of the room,
three staircases threaded upward. Black leather furniture contrasted with an
ornate Persian rug. Speaker cabinets were mounted on the wall. Flat screen TVs
and a state-of-the-art sound system threatened to display things that few had ever
seen, and sounds that could never be unheard. Lawyers’ bookshelves held a small
library. I opened one volume, men and boys and animals engaged in vile
practices. My hands shook and I felt sick as I replaced it on the shelf.

“What is it?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

His eyes narrowed and he reached to pick it up. I
didn’t try to stop him. Some things you have to find out for yourself. He
turned a page and rage creased his big face. He replaced the book and took out
a block of C4 from one of his cargo pockets.

I was stunned. “What the fuck?”

“There’s only one way to cure this disease. He
held up the C4. “With this.”

“I get it, bro, but first we have to find out
what’s down here.”

He nodded and put the C4 away.

“What’s this thing that Clipper has about eyes?”

I shrugged. “See no evil. Feel no evil?”

“This fucker’s pure evil.”

Bobby led the way and we mounted the right hand
staircase. The area in front of us illuminated, while the main room behind us
went dark. The stairs led directly into a galley-style kitchen and again,
lights flickered to life as we stepped inside. It was all ultra-modern and very
expensive stainless steel appliances and upscale cookware, but without any
signs of recent use.

I checked behind a Norman Rockwell calendar
hanging on the wall just inside the kitchen door, and found the control panel.
I pressed the dimmer and the lights faded. Bobby grabbed his flashlight and I
flipped off the lights completely, plunging the room into total darkness and
then brought them back up.

“Detectors for every room. But why?”

Bobby shrugged. “Dunno. I get using dimmers, for
mood an’ all, but not the whole motion thing.”

“Unless it’s for security?”

We descended back into the main room. Using my
flashlight, I searched above the light fixtures and found what I was looking
for. Just below the ceiling, in each corner, were tiny, recessed security
cameras. I pointed to them.

“Shit,” said Bobby. “You think they’ve made us?”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Stepping it up, we took the left hand staircase.
When we reached the top, we stepped onto a large landing, furnished with
antiques. The walls were painted yellow in a contemporary scroll style, and a
single step led to a flat panel door made of dark hardwood. A stainless steel
sign with letters in black calligraphy hung at eye level: Abandon All Hope, Ye
Who Enter Here.

“I’ve seen that before,” I said.

“
Dante’s
Inferno
.”

“Yeah. You’ve read it?”

“Several times.”

“That’s amazing? When I read it in college, it
freaked me out. I had to force myself to finish it.”

“When I got back from Nam, it somehow seemed
fitting. The only thing I could find that helped me make sense of the horror of
it all.”

I nodded and grabbed the door handle. Bobby moved
to the right, and I pushed it open. Soft, moody light flooded a well-furnished,
high-ceilinged bedroom. In the middle, lacy lavender curtains surrounded a
four-poster bed. Saloon style swinging doors led into an exotically tiled
bathroom with recessed lighting. It was divided into sections with two wooden
toilets sitting side-by-side in a separate cubicle, finished in Asian black
lacquer with gold designs. An entire wall of the bedroom was dedicated to what
had to be Clipper’s intricate, precise, and very disturbing artwork. Pen and
ink in the hands of a madman can be terrifying.
 
Horrific creatures, twisted and
deformed, tortured, raped, and devoured each other.

“It’s the nine circles of Hell, with his own
twist.”

“Fucking weird, bro.”

It was unnerving. That someone as evil as Clipper
was a first-rate artist was troubling. I’d been staring at the wall for some
time when Bobby shook me out of it.

“We gotta keep moving.”

He yanked me away and we walked out of that
nightmare. We descended back to the main room and immediately started up the
center staircase, which was carpeted in black with ebony handrails. Halfway up
we were plunged into darkness.

“No motion detectors,” whispered Bobby.

“I feel safer this way.”

Our flashlights probed the darkness and at the top
of the stairs we came to a landing where a second staircase intersected it and
angled sharply downward. There were no handrails and the walls had been sprayed
with black powder paint.

“Jesus,” said Bobby. “Feels like we’re stepping
deeper into hell.”

We continued on and, after about 100 feet, the
tunnel forked.

“Left or right?” I asked.

He said nothing and I followed as he stomped off
down the left hand tributary. After about a minute, we came to a barrier made
of flat-stacked rock. It too was painted black.

Bobby looked at me, his eyes narrowing, “What’s
the point of this? A tunnel that goes nowhere?”

“Maybe that is the point.”

He turned and I caught a glimpse of his face, his
square jaw set, his sad eyes hooded. He muttered something under his breath and
started back up the corridor. When we reached the other branch he picked up the
pace, striding rapidly forward. To my surprise, a dim light shone in the
distance. We came to a large landing with the ceiling supported by four thick
cylindrical pillars. This time the walls were painted to resemble a winter
forest scene -- snow on the ground, pine trees, their needleless branches
extending toward a thin sky, a family of white foxes hurrying toward their
hillside burrow. The work was painstaking and precise.