Authors: Heather Graham

Krewe of Hunters The Unholy (2 page)

BOOK: Krewe of Hunters The Unholy

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“Be careful,” he warned Jenny.

“Of course!” she said.

Alistair walked slowly down the steps, ever aware of her sweet-smelling presence behind him. He reached the landing. He’d never been here before when there was no illumination except the emergency lighting. It changed the entire appearance of the place.

The museum’s first scene was from
The
Maltese Falcon.
Humphrey Bogart sat at his desk while femme fatale Mary Astor leaned toward him and a creepy Peter Lorre hovered off to the side. They were all caught in shadow, and even Bogie looked dangerous, ready to strangle Mary Astor. Across osttor. Acfrom that tableau, Orson Welles as the title character in
Citizen Kane
stood by the breakfast table, angry after ignoring Ruth Warrick, who played his first wife. The old mannequins, created in the mid-50s by the previous owner’s special-effects studio, had been works of love, and in the dim red light and shadows, Alistair could almost believe that Orson Welles was about to speak angrily, his patience finally snapping him from the ennui of his marriage. Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake were together next, in a scene from
The Glass Key,
and then there were Dana Andrews, Vincent Price and Gene Tierney in
Laura.
The hall was long, and the exhibits were plentiful. A slim wooden barrier separated the walkway from the exhibits, and visitors could push buttons, which would let them hear the audio from the scene they were witnessing, along with information about the actors, producers, writers and directors. That night, to Alistair, all the characters looked as if they could speak without benefit of electronics.

Bogie made another appearance, with Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca;
he was saying goodbye in front of the plane that would take her away. Bogie gripped Ingrid by the shoulders, and the emotion between them—and the greater good of the war effort, the sacrifice required—seemed palpable.

Toward the end of the hallway, Alistair stopped.

The scene was taken from the movie he had been watching that night,
Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum.

There was hard-boiled Sam Stone, played by the ill-fated Jon de la Torre, arriving just a little too late in the fictional museum’s “Hall of the Pharaohs.” And there was the empty sarcophagus, and nearby, the man clad in the robes, his hands around the throat of femme fatale Dianna Breen, played by the equally ill-fated Audrey Grant. Snakes—Egyptian cobras—abounded on the floor, and Sam would have to make his way through them if he was to have any chance of saving Dianna.

Alistair stared at the scene and blinked; he could have sworn he saw one of the snakes move.

“Hey,” Jenny said, pushing against his back.

“What?” Alistair asked, distracted. He kept staring at the tableau.

“The door is open. The door to the studio is open!” she told him, speaking softly.

He turned to look down to the end of the hallway. The door into the basement of the special-effects studio stood ajar. He frowned; it should have been locked. His father and upper-level management were adamant about the rules when it came to lockdown.

He glanced at Jenny. For a moment she seemed to look like every femme fatale who had ever graced a movie screen. There was something wrong here. He was being played, he thought, really playean really d. Perhaps
punked.
There could be cameras somewhere that he didn’t know about and other people ready to break into laughter.
Yes, he was a fool, ready to do anything for a woman’s touch. And, as in so many film noir scenarios, the woman was luring him to his doom.
At least that was how it felt in his fearful and overheated imagination.

But there was something else about the night, the way the tableau seemed alive. Something that sent a chill raking his bones.

He warned Jenny with a glance that he was wise to the situation.

But when he started through the door to the studio he heard Jenny scream.

When he turned around, he was so stunned that at first his jaw just dropped.

The robed killer—the evil priest, Amun Mopat—had come down from the
Sam Stone
tableau. The
thing
seemed to have no face. There was only blackness where a face should have been. He, it, stood behind Jenny, and seemed to be staring at him, but it had no eyes….

“Hey!” He wanted to scream. The sound came out like a croak.

An act. It had to be part of an act.

A hand appeared, brandishing a long knife.

It was a special-effects studio, for God’s sake! Someone was playing a game, he told himself, maybe even at his father’s request. Maybe his dad had suspected him of doing something like this, hoping for a hot night with his girlfriend….

The knife looked very real.

“Hey, enough! Let her go!” Alistair said, willing his feet to move toward Jenny and her costumed attacker.

Jenny was no movie femme fatale. She implored him, her blue eyes wide and filled with terror. “Alistair!” His name was a shriek of panic.

“Enough!” he roared again.

Then he stood dead still. The thing attacked and, with a hard, quick motion, drew the blade across Jenny’s throat. Blood didn’t merely leak from the wound; it spurted. Her scream died in choking sounds that accompanied the blood, and it was cut off within seconds.

There was a scent in the air. Hot and tinny and fetid.

Because it wasn’t stage blood being spewed.

The costumed form dropped Jenny and moved toward Alistair.

He’d spent his life among the creepy and the macabre, the greatest movie heroes and most terrifying villains. Monsters, vampires, ghosts, alien slime…

But something within him—logic, reason—turned off, his terror was so great.

And he fell toward the floor as blackness seemed to overwhelm his vision.

He fell into a pool of blood. And he knew, from its smell, that no, it wasn’t part of any special effect.

It was Jenny’s death, all bloody. Bloody, and
real.

* * *

Vengeance.

In Hollywood, every character needed a name.

Vengeance
was a good name.

And so Vengeance stood hidden, watching, feeling such a sense of glee, it was almost frightening. The scent of blood remained; the first few minutes after the scene were all but imprinted on the moving reels of memory.

Most people would consider the act, and Vengeance, crazy. Stone-cold crazy. But that wasn’t the case.
Crazy
could not have worked out all the technicalities and the precise timing that had been necessary.

Crazy
could not have figured out everything that was needed to pull off the stunt.

Crazy
could never act it all out, as it must now be acted out….

But it had gone better than could possibly be imagined. The girl…the blood.

And Alistair Archer, slipping, falling, knocking himself out.

Then waking, screaming…racing to the guard station.

And now…the blare of sirens in the street.

Cops would soon be crawling all1emcrawlin over the place. But the cops would never suspect. Because the cops didn’t know the studio, and the cops didn’t know the past, and the cops would never recognize the brilliance that was bringing it all to fruition.

Ah, tomorrow!

Tomorrow…

Tomorrow, Vengeance
would become normal, ordinary, once again. Vengeance would throw off the assumption of superpersonality, sympathize, go about day-to-day business….

And no one would ever, ever know.

Not in this lifetime.

Vengeance smiled, and Vengeance actually laughed aloud in the night; no matter, because Vengeance couldn’t be heard.

It was all too good to be true….

Time to move, but Vengeance needed to savor the moment. Alone in the dark, watching…

Vengeance was good, and vengeance was sweet.

And Vengeance had just begun.

M
adison Darvil wasn’t really awake when the phone rang. She was in that delightful stage of half sleep, when the alarm had gone off…but the snooze button was on and she had a few minutes to lie lazily in the comfort of her bed before rising. Her phone was loud and strident. She rolled over groping for it, swearing softly as it dropped to the floor and she had to lean down to get it, banging her head on the bedside table.

“Shit!” she muttered, and was further humiliated when she realized she’d hit Answer as she’d picked up the phone—and the caller had heard her.

“Hello?” she said frowning. Seven thirty-three. Who was calling this early?

She could hear a soft chuckle, and then someone clearing his throat. “Madison?”

Inwardly, she groaned.

“Yes, Alfie?” Alfie Longdale was her assistant at the studio. She loved the fact that she had an assistant and she loved Alfie. One day, he was going to rule the world, his eye for detail was so exceptional.

`v>

“You don’t have to come in this morning. In fact, you
can’t
come in.”

Her heart seemed to sink to her knees. Had someone suddenly decided she was really a fake? That, despite her training, degree and experience, she was just a kid who played at working on the movies?

“What…what—?”

Alfie’s voice became hushed. “There was a murder last night! In the tunnel. Lord, Madison, Alistair Archer was arrested for murder! Some little starlet he had the hots for—they say her throat was slit from ear to ear. She’s dead, Madison. And Eddie Archer’s kid is saying that an Egyptian mummy—you know, the priest in the original
Sam Stone
movie, a
monster
—came down from one of the tableaux to commit the bloody carnage!”

Alfie was being dramatic. He
was
dramatic. But right now, what he’d said wasn’t registering.

A mummy? A monster? Alfie had to be making it up. Monsters were what they did, what they created, quite frequently. Well, superheroes, giant rats for commercials, cute little pigs and other such creatures. But horror was big; horror movies could be reasonable in cost and make massive amounts of money.

“Alfie, is this—”

“No! It is not some kind of joke. It is not a movie script. Madison, it’s real. A woman was killed in
our
tunnel. Anyway, the crime scene units are there today, and Eddie Archer’s closed the entire place.
No one
goes in until the police have finished with the tunnel, the security tapes, the studio—you name it. Anyway, I was up last night when it all hit the news. And Eddie Archer looked white—I mean, white as a ghost!—when they showed him on film. He said he wants the police to have complete access to
everything
because he’s
going to find out what really happened—his son is not a murderer!”

Alfie was telling the truth. As shocking as it was, she knew he was telling the truth.

Madison felt her heart break for Eddie Archer. He was such a good man.

Alistair was a good kid, too. Could he have snapped and killed someone?

No.

She couldn’t accept that. He was too nice and decent, even shy.

“A monster,” she repeated. “You mean—the Egyptian priest, the killer from
Sam Sockpan>
tone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum?
”

“Exactly! Is that movie stuff or what? Everyone suspects
The Unholy
is a remake of that movie, but most people don’t know for sure. And now, right in front of that tableau…a real murder! Anyway, I thought I’d call because if you show up at work, you’ll be sent home. This way, you might be able to get some more sleep.”

Madison wrinkled her face at the phone, as if she could convey her expression to Alfie. What? Go back to sleep
now?

“Thanks, Alfie. Thanks for letting me know. I’m sure I’ll get tons of extra sleep.”

“Keep me posted if you hear more,” Alfie said. He seemed not to notice her sarcasm.

“Ditto,” she said, and ended the call.

She crawled out of bed, drawing an indignant meow from Ichabod, curled up at the foot of the bed. “Sorry, my friend,” she told the cat, hurrying out to the parlor of her old rented bungalow and switching on the TV, going from channel to channel until she found a news station covering the murder.

The information Alfie had given her was true. The news showed the crime tape blocking off the cinema and the studio, then cut to an earlier interview with Eddie Archer in front of the courthouse. He denied his son’s culpability, and swore that he’d learn the truth behind the shocking murder.

Mike Greenwood, creative head of the studio and Madison’s supervisor, stood beside him. When Eddie finished speaking, Mike stepped up to the microphone. He reasserted what Eddie had said, that the truth would be discovered and, while Alistair had been arraigned for the murder, the D.A.’s office had acted only on what
appeared
to be the case—not what was. They would work toward his release, and by the middle or end of the week, when the police had gone over every inch of the place, Archer’s Wizardry and Effects
would be back in business. They would move forward with their various projects while the investigation continued. Mike spoke so earnestly, he silenced the spate of questions that should have arisen. He seemed concerned, but in control.

Mike was a steady man, excellent in stressful situations. Whenever they were on a tight deadline, Mike was the one who calmed down everyone at the studio, assuring them that, step by step, they’d get it all done.

Eddie had acted with his usual composure, but Madison felt so sorry for him.

Eddie, nearing fifty, was still fit, but his face bore the tension of sorrow. As Alfie had said, he looked white as a sheet. He’d run his fingers through his graying hair repeatedly as he spoke, his words calm s words but determined.

She was still staring at the TV in disbelief when her phone rang again. She’d left it in the bedroom, and raced to retrieve it, thinking it would be Mike Greenwood giving her the message that Alfie had already conveyed.

Her “Hello?” was breathless.

“Madison?”

The caller wasn’t Mike Greenwood. It was Eddie Archer himself.

“Eddie!” she said. “Oh, Eddie, I’m so sorry.”

“Then you’ve heard.”

“Yes.”

“Alistair didn’t do it.”

“I believe that, Eddie. With my whole heart.”

“Thank you.”

He was quiet.

“I heard not to come in, Eddie,” Madison said. “Alfie called me.”

“Actually, Madison, I do want you to come in. I have a friend arriving—a film effects artist I worked with years ago. He’s a member of the FBI now, and he’s going to handle a special investigation for me. I’d like you to meet with him, show him around the studio.”

“I—I thought it was closed down, other than for the police?” FBI? How had he gotten the FBI involved? She wasn’t savvy about law enforcement, but she’d always assumed the FBI only came in for serial killers or kidnapping or crimes that spanned several states.

And how the hell did a special-effects artist wind up in the FBI?

And, oh, God, why had Eddie chosen her?

She knew exactly why Eddie had chosen her. He’d never challenged her, he’d never forced her into a corner over this. But he believed—had reason to believe—that she talked to the dead.

“The police closed the Black Box Cinema. But
I
closed the studio. And Sean—Sean Cameron—won’t be here until this afternoon. I just talked to him in the wee hours of the morning and he’s coming from Virginia. I’m picking him up myself, so I’ll suot so Iwing by for you after I’ve collected him from LAX. If that’s all right with you.”

Madison exhaled on a long breath. The man she had hero-worshipped for his artistry throughout her formative years was asking for her help. The same man who’d hired her and opened up a world that she’d only dreamed of knowing.

“Eddie, I would do anything for you,” she assured him humbly. “And for Alistair.”

“Thank you. I think you’re the right person to work with Sean. And I deeply appreciate your friendship—for Alistair and me. You can expect me around five.”

“Of course,” she murmured lamely.

Eddie wasn’t ready to hang up. “Alistair didn’t do it—he really didn’t.” He was quiet for a minute. “He told me that the Egyptian priest, Amun Mopat, came down from the
Sam Stone
tableau, and killed her. Alistair tried to reach Jenny, but slipped in the blood, conked himself out…and then came to and saw it was real—he was lying in a pool of blood. I guess it’s normal for the police to think that either he’s crazy or his story is and that he’s going to try for an insanity plea. But I know my son. I know he didn’t do it. And only someone who’s familiar with the studio can prove he didn’t.”

“We’re in Hollywood—a place filled with actors and effects,” Madison said.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, sounding bitter. “But, oddly enough, I believe we’re the only ones who see the possibility that Alistair didn’t do it. Anyway, Madison, I’ll be by for you. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“I’m happy to show your guy around the museum, Eddie.”

Eddie Archer ended the call. Madison sank down into her art deco–style sofa, setting her phone on the coffee table in front of it.

“Hey.”

Madison nearly leaped a mile into the air at the sound of the voice. Her hand fluttered to her throat; her heart thudded.

She turned and saw the man who’d spoken, standing just behind her.

The voice was soft. The man was slight, with dark graying hair and a wonderful face filled with character.

She let out a breath. Her sometime-resident “invisible” friend—whether extension of her imagination or real ghost—was seated on the arm of the sofa, looking at her sorrowfully.

“You all right, kid?”

She let out a breath, realizing that the very concept of someone being murdered where she worked was terrifying.

“Yeah. It would help if you didn’t startle me like that.”

“I spoke quietly. And I’m not exactly a surprise now, Madison, am I?”

No, not anymore.

She could see him plain as day, as if he were flesh and blood, a good friend who’d stopped by in a time of need. He had a fascinating, ruggedly masculine face—including his slightly scarred lip—and a lean, slight form. When he stood, he was on the short side at only five feet eight inches.

“Um, I’m fine. I’m just stunned,” Madison said. Then she rushed into words, well aware of how ridiculous she’d look if anyone else was there—because she saw Humphrey Bogart as he sat in her living room. “I don’t know how much you hear or fathom from phone conversations, but there was a murder at the studio last night. A starlet who was with Alistair Archer. I can’t believe he killed her. I
won’t
believe it—not Alistair. Eddie must be beside himself, desperate to help him. He’s such a loving father.”

“Watching a child suffer is a hard thing,” Bogie said, his voice low and slightly nasal.

Bogie.

Madison stared at him.
Was
he an imaginary friend? She would never be sure. She’d had strange experiences as a child. She’d tried chalking them up to growing pains, teenage angst and, as her parents had suggested, an overactive imagination—the kind that had led her right into a career. She’d also had experiences that had broken her heart—and might be part of the reason she embraced her work, day in and day out.

Bogie hadn’t come with the bungalow, though he’d lived there briefly in the 1920s. He’d told her once that he had loved it and loved living there. She’d first met him at the wax museum when she was a college student; she’d assumed he was a look-alike actor hired to play the part. They’d spoken and laughed together….

And he’d followed her home.

Bogie showed up whenever he wanted to. Apparently he had other places to haunt, as well. Madison simply accepted him as a friend—imaginary though he might be. Sometimes she thought she was crazy; sometimes she thought she was incredibly lucky that such a man had chosen
her
to haunt. Although she believed that now, she hadn’t always. He’d scared her to de haed her ath at first, and had occasionally made her life hell.

He’d just startled her today; the first night she’d seen him sitting on her sofa, however, he’d practically given her a heart attack. She’d fumbled to call the police, and they’d come and almost arrested her, assuming she was another college kid trying to make trouble. Bogie had been apologetic and courteous—so sorry for causing her distress. He was what he was, and he’d tried to explain, but she hadn’t believed him.

Maybe he
was
imaginary, but she didn’t know what part of her mind triggered his appearances.

And if he was, what about the other dead people who’d spoken to her?

But imaginary or not, he was there for her now.

“Have some coffee, kid. That’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m not sure it will help me feel better. But at least it’ll wake me up.”

“What are you waking up for? You could go back to sleep.”

“Why is it that everyone thinks I can sleep
now?
” she muttered.

Bogie ignored that, standing and stretching as he gazed out the windows. He turned to look at her. “The murder took place in the studio?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The underground tunnel between the Black Box Cinema and the studio—where Archer has his film noir museum.”

“Interesting,” Bogie mused. “By which display?”

Madison frowned. “The news didn’t say, but Alfie told me it was by the tableau for
Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum.
Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I mean, especially since the studio is now in lockdown because of
The Unholy
—the
Sam Stone
remake.”

“A lot has been crazy in Hollywood through the years. You’ve heard about the case of the Black Dahlia? Poor girl, tortured and then displayed, chopped right in two,” Bogie said, shaking his head. “There’s always been murder out here—and out here, it becomes sensational, with more emphasis on the drama than the tragedy. You had Fatty Arbuckle and the murder of Virginia Rappe back in 1921, and later, you had the Manson murders and then the Simpson murders, and anytime anyone’s killed here, the press is out looking for every sordid detail.” He shrugged. “I watch the news, you know,” he told her seriously, “as well as old comedy reruns. And, kid, this is a big place full of ilze=e full lusion. Murder isn’t confined to Tinseltown, but there’s no way it’s
not
going to occur here, too.”

Madison nodded absently. She glanced over at Bogie and wondered sometimes why he didn’t haunt some of the other places he’d loved. And some of the people… He’d told her once, though, “They can’t see me. I can’t reach them. So it just hurts, kid. It just hurts.” And he’d grinned at her. “You reply when I speak to you and I like that. It’s why I keep coming back, kid.”

And now, most of the time, she was glad. Very glad.

“Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum,”
Bogie said. “I could’ve been in that movie. I think I was busy at the time. Something else going on. Might have been
Casablanca.
Yeah, probably. That was 1942. Anyway, I always thanked God I wasn’t on that set, because there was a death back then—and it might have been a murder, too.”

Madison tried to see if she could remember her Hollywood lore and legend well enough to recall a murder that had happened during the making of
Sam Stone.

“I don’t recall ever seeing anything about it—in any of the lurid books about true Hollywood murders or on any of the history or entertainment channels,” she said.

Bogie joined her on the couch again. Watching him, she hid a smile. He seemed to sit differently from other people she knew. He was relaxed, and still, somehow appeared proper.

“It was 1942. The war effort was in full swing. Movies were being made to encourage heroism—or to try and divert the public from the war.
Casablanca,
” he said, and grew thoughtful. “Ah, that was a good one for me. There was some great writing on that movie. I wish some of those lines
had
been my own. That and
The African Queen…
some of those were my ad-libs. And both of them gave me a persona to live up to.” He paused and looked at her with his famous lopsided grin. “Anyway, I digress, kid. And I’m talking out of line. The death of Pete Krakowski was never officially called a murder. No real inquiries were made, no one was investigated and no one was arrested. There were just rumors on the set, rumors that traveled around. Gotta remember, back then, the studios were king, and they were powerful. Krakowski’s death was seen as a tragic accident, and that’s the way it went. It was long ago and in the middle of a world war, and it wasn’t particularly noted at the time—he was a bit player, not a big star.”

“How did Krakowski die?” Madison asked, puzzled.

“There was some kind of fault with the wiring. He was electrocuted. From what I understood, he was fooling around on set before the filming was to start, and then he was dead. Fried,” Bogie said, shaking his head sadly.

“We’re doing a remake of that movie—and I never even heard about it. Why do you say it might’ve been a murder?” Madison asked.

“You didn’t hear about it because there
were
accidents on sets from time to time. Krakowski wasn’t the only film person who died that you’ve probably never heard of—no internet back then. You just heard about these things if they happened to a major star or if someone was killed by a lover or a spouse.” He cocked his head toward her. “Bit player, and what was deemed an accident. Nothing sensational about it, and Krakowski was hardly a household name. Like I said, no way for every little piece of news to be known across the country back then. No Twitter, no Facebook and no Google.” He was quiet for a minute. “I woulda liked a Facebook page,” he said.

“Actually, there are several devoted to you,” she said. “But why would someone suspect it was murder? It sounds like an accident.”

“I knew the key grip
and
the lead electrician on that film. They were the best in the business. If they were working the rigging and electric, both were safe.” Bogie waved a hand. “Anyway, Krakowski’s death is a far cry from a starlet being sliced up in the tunnel. A far cry, indeed.” He leaned back, nostalgic. “I remember that old cinema from way back. Played silent films, even before my time. It’s a shame, a damned shame. That Eddie Archer has a real appreciation for the past—this shouldn’t have happened on his property. Shouldn’t have happened to the poor girl, either.”

Madison realized that she’d been feeling sorry for and worried about Eddie Archer and his son, Alistair. She’d almost forgotten the victim.

Was that how it had been when the death had occurred during the original filming?

“Lord,” she whispered. “You’re right. The poor girl.”

“That’s Hollywood for you,” Bogie said. “It’ll steal your soul, if not your life. There’ve been so many who came here with such dreams and wound up dead. Christa Helm, Dorothy Stratton, Dominique Dunne, Elizabeth Short or the Black Dahlia, Sharon Tate. Peg Entwhistle, the only one to really jump from the Hollywood sign. I remember that,” Bogie said. “She found her fame in death. And we may never find out what really happened to Marilyn Monroe.” He paused. “Did you know the young woman who was killed?”

Madison nodded, then shook her head. “I can’t say I
knew
her. I met her a few times when she was with Alistair and once at an office party.”

“You work too much, kid. You’ve gotta remember, none of it’s worth anything if you don’t have a life.”

Madison arched a brow and refrained from remed ned froinding him that the last time she’d brought a date home, she’d acted like an idiot because Bogie had been watching something on her television and had said, “Don’t mind me, kid.” He loved TV. He couldn’t do a lot on the physical plane, but he could manage such simple tasks as pushing buttons on the remote control. He adored old sitcoms and liked to keep up with the television news.

“There has to be some information on Krakowski’s death,” she said, returning to their previous topic.

“There was—one newspaper article. No follow-up. He died. It was sad. He was buried. And that was that. I’m sure many of us thought about it back then. But time goes by.”

“This is so horrible. For the poor girl, yes, of course. And for everyone who will be touched by it.” She sighed. “Alistair really loves his dad. He didn’t usually bring people to the studio. I mean, I don’t know what went on before—I’ve been there for about three years now. But as far as I can tell, Alistair respects the studio. And he loves film. He wants to get into directing rather than special effects, but…although I didn’t really know Jenny Henderson, I saw the way Alistair followed her around like a puppy dog. He had a huge crush on her. I can’t believe he would’ve killed anyone. And I
especially
can’t believe he would’ve hurt Jenny. He was crazy about her.”

Bogie shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I think it might have been better back in the bad old days when we were contract players for the major studios. Now, the young and the beautiful come out here willing to do anything for stardom. Anything. Can’t help wondering what Jenny Henderson did—or was willing to do. Or maybe her dreams had nothing to do with her death. Maybe she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The wrong place at the wrong time.
How could that be possible? The studio was in lockdown. There should have been no one with access to the museum—other than Alistair, Eddie and some of the department heads.