Garden of Darkness (25 page)

“That went through my mind,” Alastair said. “But we found something that led us to believe otherwise. Something that led us to believe she might be in trouble.”

Surely Alastair wasn’t talking about skin. Graham hoped to God he wasn’t talking about skin.

“We found her camera and bag in the middle of Aspen Grove.”

Kristin might leave a lot of things behind, but she would never leave her camera. “What about videotape? Maybe that will tell you something.”

“We’re looking into that right now.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

The metal shovel hit stone; sparks flew, and Evan flinched in the darkness. In the glow of the lantern, he leaned close and dragged the shovel across the rounded rock of the foundation.

The foundation of the Manchester house, where the voices had told him to dig.

He could feel himself fading again. As his body weakened, so did his resolve. Richard Manchester was taking over.

His thoughts were jumbled and confused. Was this new Tuonela? Or old? Old, right? Or was it Tuonela before it became Old Tuonela?

If he walked upstairs, would he find a magnificent house that hadn’t been a victim of time and neglect?

I’m losing my mind.

No, you’re coming home.

Sometimes, when he finally fell into an exhausted slumber, a hushed roar of a hundred distant voices whispered to him. And he would find himself reaching for the oil lamp near his bed where no oil lamp existed. He would look at the floor and instead of seeing black stains left from a leaking roof, he would see a thick Oriental carpet in hues of rich burgundy and blue.

The walls were painted in beautiful shades of green, the woodwork brought over from England by ship, then train, then wagon. Stained glass imported from the finest Boston glassmakers.

I could have been so happy here.

I should have been so happy here.

If only he could go back. Do it all over again.

He’d been brought down by love. Weakened and tricked by love.

Oh, the shame.

He repositioned his grip on the shovel. His palms were raw, the blisters peeled and bleeding. But it wasn’t his body. This body was expendable.

Evan paused and frowned and listened.

Had someone said something?

Were they whispering again?

You had to listen hard. You had to tune yourself in to them, open up to them; otherwise you would mistake the voices for the wind.

Where does the wind begin?

In Old Tuonela.

He’d brought support beams from the condemned area of the mansion to use as braces. But one man could do only so much, and if the earth decided to shift and breathe the braces wouldn’t hold.

They’d filled it in when they’d left. His followers.

His mutinous followers. If he’d lived, it wouldn’t have happened.

People were so fickle.

Love of his life.

Hate of his life.

Bitch.
He’d been brought down by a woman.

The shovel hit something new, making a hollow sound, sending a shuddering impact up his arm.

A door.

He dug faster, but soon came to realize that the entrance had sunk and shifted too much ever to open.

Holding the shovel above his shoulder like a javelin, he beat at the rotten wood. Little by little it gave way until he was able to put the shovel aside and rip a section free with his hands.

He grabbed the lantern, ducked, and squeezed his body through the narrow opening.

Once inside the inner chamber, he lifted the muted light.

Another section of cellar with a foundation made of stones collected from the nearby hills, valleys, and riverbeds.

This part of the cellar was unchanged and untouched. As if she’d wanted it that way. As if she’d somehow been able to keep the tons of dirt from breaking down the door and swallowing her.

Victoria.

There she was. Where he’d left her over a hundred years ago, never to be found by anyone, not even Florence.

That knowledge gave him a small flicker of sinister comfort. To know that when he and Florence had been upstairs fucking, Victoria had been down here, chained to the wall.

He laughed, and the sound echoed in the small chamber.

He would make sure she knew this time.

He frowned. She? But she was dead.

Florence was dead? Wasn’t she?

No, he’d seen her. Seen her sleeping, her belly swollen with pregnancy.

Bring her here. Show her Victoria; then kill her and cut the baby from her womb.

He stared at the skeleton shackled to the wall. At the strands of hair and clothes and mummified skin. Next to it was a smaller corpse, Victoria’s child.

A girl?

He couldn’t remember.

He lifted the lantern higher and stepped closer.

Cobwebs and a layer of dust covered both mummies. The child wore a dress. A cotton sleeping gown with embroidery and lace trim. He closed his eyes; he could see her. A blush to her cheeks, dimpled fingers, long blond hair, and blue eyes.

Sweet, sweet girl.

Smelling of life.

Now a shriveled corpse.

Leaning against the wall was the sword he’d eventually planned to use to end their lives. He’d meant for them to die; but this hadn’t been his plan. Not this abandonment. But they’d gotten what they deserved. He’d been jealous of Victoria and the bond she and Florence had shared. His plan had been to remove her from the equation. Get her out of the way; then Florence would turn to him for comfort.

The alarm was raised. Victoria and the child went missing. After two weeks they were presumed dead. But they’d been here. In the catacombs beneath the mansion. Richard had been able to smell them even when he was in the solarium.

Especially at night. Always at night, the humid air a carrier of sound and scent.

Babies always smelled so sweet.

And yes, he took a perverse pleasure in setting the trap for Florence, knowing all the while that the two she longed for were such a short distance away.

She came to him easily.

Too easily.

He should have been suspicious, but infatuation clouded his judgment and reason.

He comforted her in her loss. She clung to him, sobbing, distraught, beside herself with sorrow. But not so distraught that she was unable to plot and plan. Not so distraught that she was unable to bring about the downfall of him and his kingdom. His beautiful Tuonela.

Bitch.

Making love to him. Whispering sweet words in his ear. Speaking of tomorrows together. Oh, his memories were thick with dark nights of sweet, sweating flesh and tangled bedsheets. Of candles burned to the quick and penetration so deep his soul left his body.

Never turn your back to a woman.

Never close your eyes and smile with her name on your
lips. Because when you do, she’ll stab you. She’ll pierce your heart with your own blade.

He’d made but one gasp. His eyes had opened and he’d looked at her with bafflement and disbelief and hurt. He tried to question her, but blood clotted his throat and filled his mouth.

She was smiling.

The witch was smiling.

Standing there naked, draped in dark hair, a dripping blade in her hand.

Oh, the actress! Never had he seen such acting in all of his life. He’d been convinced that she’d loved him above all others. That she’d worshiped him and would die for him.

“That’s for my sister,” she’d said. “And my niece.” She’d stared at him unblinking, as if unwilling to miss a single second of his pain and death. “And for all the other sweet innocents you’ve killed.”

Then it was his turn to smile.

Because her sister and niece had still been alive, chained to the cellar wall, out of earshot. If he’d been able to speak, he wouldn’t have spoken a word.

Her cockiness faded. “Why are you smiling? What do you know?”

He’d taken his last breath knowing she had not only killed him, but her sister and niece as well. Sweet revenge, but in no way complete.

Now, in the depths of the cellar, he picked up the sword and tested its weight.

Chapter Forty

Alastair leaned over the workstation and peered at the screen. “So, what do you think?”

Eric Fontaine rewound the tape and pushed play.

Alastair had driven two hours to get the footage to Eric. He hadn’t wanted to risk the mail, and he hadn’t wanted to send it over the Internet. They were in the basement of Eric’s suburban home located outside Madison. Alastair could hear the television upstairs, and occasionally the wheels of some plastic riding toy directly above his head. He could smell dinner being cooked. Something Italian. Maybe spaghetti.

Eric hit the pause button. “It looks real.”

They both stared at the monitor and the image of a young girl standing at the edge of Aspen Grove. Alastair knew when and where the video had been taken, because he’d been there. He’d even spotted himself in some of the footage.

“But it isn’t real,” Alastair said with conviction while still managing a question. “I was there that day. There was no little girl roaming around.”

“Oh, yeah.” Eric leaned back in his swivel chair so far Alastair thought he might tumble over backward. “I said it
looked
real. I didn’t say it
was
real. It’s relatively easy to do this kind of thing. Probably done in Final Cut or something like that. Good job, though.”

The chair squeaked and he leaned forward. “Notice the girl’s skirt? You can see through it. I mean, you can see the trees on the other side. Pretty cool, but not that hard to do.”

“So it’s fake.” Again the question combined with a statement of fact.

Eric looked up, and Alastair could tell he was trying to figure out if he was serious. Or crazy. Of course it was fake. Cops didn’t ask if a ghost was real. You didn’t do that kind of thing.

“I’m only asking because of the seriousness of the case,” Alastair explained. “A person is missing, and I need a statement from a specialist so we can move the investigation forward.”

“I get it.” Eric relaxed. “I’m guessing an old still was put over the top of the original footage. How about I send this to a buddy of mine? Get his opinion?”

“No.” Alastair had specifically brought the footage because he didn’t want any copies getting out. “This is evidence. I came to you because I knew you were one of the best, and I hope you can be discreet. I don’t want anybody knowing about this.”

“Okay.” Eric popped out the minicassette and handed it to Alastair.

Eric’s evaluation was what Alastair had hoped for. He thanked the younger man, pocketed the cassette, and left the basement through a side door. Outside he pulled out his cell phone, called the mayor, and gave him the report.

“That’s good news,” the mayor said. “I’ll call a press conference.”

“That seems a bit premature.”

“Have you found any evidence of foul play?”

“No.”

“It’s a scam. I think that’s fairly obvious by now. Kristin Blackmoore wanted someone to find the camera and the footage. She wanted it to make local and national news.”

Maybe. Very possible.

In his mind’s eye, Alastair saw the image of the little girl in the transparent nightgown. He felt sick and confused. He thought about the skin in his freezer. He thought about Evan. More than anything, he thought about Evan.

In the basement, Eric Fontaine opened the door to his dubbing room, ejected the fresh DV copy, returned to his chair, and popped the tape into his workstation deck. He played it through, rewound, paused. Then he captured a screen image of the girl and made a JPEG.

Yes, he was discreet. But a guy had to share something like this with his best buddy and fellow media tech. He dragged the image into the body of an e-mail, wrote a short note, and pressed send. · · · James took a long swallow of beer, then lowered the bottle to glance at the computer screen. An e-mail was trying to come through. Something fairly big, because it was taking a while to download. The program chirped and he opened the mail.

From Eric Fontaine.

James scanned the attached text, picking out a few words, enough to know Eric wanted his opinion. Of course the image was fake, but what did he think of it?

He leaned closer and peered at the screen. He could see through the girl’s dress. Not only through her dress, but also through her.

Pretty cheesy.

Oh, Eric, Eric, Eric.

The kid was always sending him shit. It was nice to be looked up to, but James was getting tired of pretending he was impressed.

Had Eric made this himself?

Probably. He’d done that a couple of times before. Sent him something and pretended someone else had done it, hoping to get a truthful response from him. Why not just come out and ask?

James scanned the text again.

Aspen Grove. Outside Tuonela.

Oh, yeah. Tuonela.

Eric lived in Wisconsin. James was from California and had a hard time visualizing the Midwest. In a lot of ways it didn’t exist and didn’t matter to him. He couldn’t help it. That was just the way it was.

He put the image in a new e-mail and titled the e-mail
Aspen Grove Ghost.
He went through his address book, clicked on the group file of over a thousand names, and sent the image to everybody on his list. Once James accidentally sent a nude photo of his ex-girlfriend to three hundred people. These things happened.

Maybe if he hadn’t had so many beers he would have exercised some restraint, but he got his kicks tormenting amateurs like Eric Fontaine. James was looking forward to sitting back and watching the furor and speculation once the image made its way around the globe.

Chapter Forty-one

Graham heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. He shut off the television, tossed down the remote, and jumped to his feet as Alastair stepped inside the house.