Read Krewe of Hunters The Unholy Online
Authors: Heather Graham
Krewe of Hunters The Unholy (30 page)
Where the hell is it? Where’s the entry? It’s got to be here somewhere. The dead in those catacombs didn’t get there by themselves.
He cursed and looked across the rows and twisting paths, over winged angels and weeping cherubs.
Neither the original blueprint nor any of the plots and ownership lists had mentioned anything at all about the underground burials.
He started to walk, remembering the cemetery plans, and trying to envision just how far the basement of the studio reached.
* * *
“Helena is missing,” Logan said. They’d just arrived at the studio. It was still early, barely 8:00 a.m.
Kelsey and Tyler had gone on to check with the guard and the police officers who’d been on duty throughout the night.
“Missing?” Madison echoed.
“Eddie was going to tell her we wanted to speak with her, and she was gone. According to Pierce, she was seen going up to bed last night, but not since. Her bed hasn’t been slept in, and her car is gone.”
“So do you think she’s another victim, or that she’s somehow involved and on the run?”
“I think she may blithely drive back home after having gone to the drugstore. Or that she might have skipped town. Or that she might be a victim,” Logan said. “I just don’t know.”
They walked into the studio. “Can you remember
anything?
Anything at all that might have to do with any of this?” he asked urgently.
“I swear, if I could think of anything else, Logan, I’d tell you,” Madison said. And then, as she approached the front door to the studio, she paused and turned back to him.
“There
is
something I hadn’t thought of,” she said slowly.
“What?”
“Lucas Claymore.”
“The previous owner of the studio?”
“Yes. And his father owned the land, inherited from
his
father, and founded the studio. I believe the family gave the cemetery to the church for its burial ground, and then, of course, it was outgrown, and a new church was built. But once, when I was going through the cemetery, I met up with the younger Lucas Claymore. He was old, kind, very pleasant. I know that ghosts don’t show up on demand, but if we walked through the cemetery, he might appear to one of us. I doubt it’ll be as easy as saying, ‘Hey, Lucas, did you happen to be around when Jenny Henderson was killed in the tunnel?’ But he could tell us
something
that might help—don’t you think?”
“I do, indeed,” Logan agreed. “In fact, Sean is crawling around somewhere in the cemetery right now. That was his hunch. If he could find the entry to the catacombs in the cemetery, he could follow the killer’s path.”
“The cemetery gate is on the street,” Madison said. “Unless you want to jump the wall?”
“Oh, let’s go in properly,” Logan said. “I only jump walls when I absolutely have to.”
She smiled; she knew that either Colin Bailey or Winston Nash was on duty at the guard stand, and that Kelsey and Tyler had gone to the studio. She wondered if any of them were watching as she and Logan turned away, and started back down to the sidewalk and the cemetery entrance.
The arched iron gate stood at a break in the high stone wall. The letters that spelled out Peacell="0ee Cemetery were curlicued and ornate, late-Victorian vintage. Actually, the cemetery might have fit an old town in New England better than it did the contemporary bustle of L.A. It was a reminder that while the movie business wasn’t old in the history of man, Los Angeles had been around, with hundreds of thousands seeking the American dream, even before the dawn of celluloid fever.
They entered the cemetery. Logan paused for a minute.
“It’s huge.”
“There’s a hell of a big population living—and dying—in these parts,” she said wryly.
Logan nodded. “Where do we begin?”
She gestured at a little rise. “That vault there—it’s one of the smaller individual vaults. Very pretty, all in marble. The Claymore vault.”
“How many times have you seen Lucas Claymore?” Logan asked.
“Just once. I thought he was an elderly gentleman, alive and well and breathing, the first time I saw him,” Madison said. “I think that’s when Eddie figured I was either crazy…or communicated with ghosts. I didn’t realize Lucas was dead until I understood that Eddie couldn’t see him. Eddie and I were here studying gravestones and monuments. You have to make the not-real look real—if you want movie magic.”
“Of course.”
“So, let’s see if he’ll come out today and talk to us.”
The kept walking, heading up one of the winding paths that led toward the vault. It was a lovely day, with the sun shining brilliantly. The temperature might go as high as the mid-seventies, since spring was waning and summer was on the way. They passed new burials and memorials interspersed between old stones, other vaults and fenced-in family plots. Fresh flowers had been placed at some of the newer graves. Other stones were chipped and weatherworn, and the great oaks seemed to dip low, as if weeping sadly for those who had gone on.
They reached the Claymore vault. The iron gate was open.
Logan looked at Madison. “Is this customary?”
She nodded. “There’s a little bench and an altar inside. Lucas is under the altar.”
“Shouldn’t it be locked at night?”
“I don’t think they worry about it too much. The walls surroun wadiv heigding the cemetery are high, and the gates are pretty solid. They don’t have much trouble out here. In fact, we
never
had trouble out here—until Jenny was killed.”
They walked in and Madison sat on the bench. The vault was beautiful, with a circular stained-glass window above the altar, and two more on either side. Each depicted a scene from the New Testament. Above the altar and the coffin beneath, the central window showed Christ with a peaceful look, folding his hands. To one side, the window had Christ surrounded by lambs, and the third window represented the wedding at Cana.
Logan took a seat beside her. “Anything?” he asked softly.
Disappointed, she shook her head. “Did you see him in here the first time you visited?” Logan asked.
“No. I just met him when we were looking for unusual headstones.”
“Do you remember where?”
“Beyond the vault, there’s another little rise, and something of a potter’s field. The burials were for those who died indigent, but the coffins and services were paid for by an actor’s fund—those who made it paying for those who didn’t. There are a number of really pretty and interesting stones. Some, I suppose, because people were really kind, and some because they didn’t want their good deed to go unnoticed.”
“Let’s take a look,” Logan suggested.
They left the Claymore crypt and started along the winding path again. “See,” she said to Logan, “isn’t that gorgeous? Marian Hatfield had it designed for Shelby McLaughton. They were both silent-film stars.” The memorial was carved to picture a feminine-looking angel with a finger to her lips, and beneath it were carved the name of the deceased and the words
In Heaven All Whispers Are Heard Like the Voices of Angels in Song.
“So Claymore was right here?” Logan asked.
She nodded. “We can wait.”
They found another bench and sat. Madison began to feel restless; she was sure Logan had to be feeling the same. He’d listened to her, but she suspected they were on a wild-goose chase.
And then, straight and lean, white-haired and a bit fragile, Lucas Claymore appeared. He stood under the shade of an old oak, and he was watching them.
“Logan,” she whispered. “He’s here.”
* * *
As he neared the cemetery chapel, Sean heard his phone ring. Caller ID informed him that Benny Knox was calling.
He answered immediately.
“Two of my patrol officers found Helena LaRoux’s car,” Knox told him.
“Where is it? No sign of Helena?”
“No sign of Helena. The car’s on the street behind the northern end of Peace Cemetery. I’d say it’s about a half-mile around that back wall to the entrance of the studio. I’ve called the officers there, but none of them have seen Ms. LaRoux. And the guard about to go off duty—Colin Bailey—swears he hasn’t seen her, either.”
Sean frowned. “I’m in the cemetery now.”
“Do you see anything?”
“A lot of tombstones,” he said. “But I’m going to check out the chapel.”
Knox was silent for a minute. “What are you doing in the cemetery?” he asked.
“Looking for a pathway to the dead,” Sean said.
“I’m heading down there,” Knox said. “We need to get on a real search and find that woman. God knows, maybe she met up with a friend, maybe…” He groaned. “Why the hell park at the cemetery? There’s nothing around it for miles. This just gets worse and worse,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”
Sean studied the chapel. Once upon a time, it had been consecrated as St. Bartholomew’s. But the parishioners had long outgrown the building and the area; St. Bartholomew’s was closer to downtown L.A. now and the chapel here was nondenominational. Eddie allowed them to use the building rent-free, as a place for services to be held or for mourners to say their prayers.
Sean had been inside once, years before, accompanying a friend to a funeral service. It was larger than the typical funeral chapel, but then it had begun life as a real church. The main aisle led up to a raised altar, while side aisles converged at the back, where the one-time choir might gather before entering. There were monuments above the walls. The pastor who had first reigned over the old congregation had originally been buried beneath the altar but his remains had been relocated, along with the congregation.
When he entered by the main doors, Sean thought it had been and still was a beautiful place, with just the right poignancy in the decor. The pews were hardwood with dark crimson cushions for kneeling in prayer, and the walls were divided into diignaeight panels, which held Tiffany windows of clear glass with images etched into them—doves, lambs, olive branches and, closest to the altar, looking across at each other, a pair of angels.
Sean walked down the aisle to the altar. He paused for a minute, turning to get a feel for the size and scope of the chapel, and its relationship to the studio and the Black Box Cinema. It was
possible
that tunnels stretched from the chapel to the other buildings.
There was nothing to be seen in the empty church so he went around to the left-side aisle and through a door. He noted that in the rear of the church—where one might enter without being seen by the congregation—was a door.
The staging area for the chapel was in darkness. There weren’t huge cut-glass windows here to let in the sunlight. Two wall lamps were aglow, one on his side and one on the other side. The rear of the chapel was apparently used by the cemetery maintenance workers; several wheelbarrows were lined up against the back wall, a pile of sod waiting to be laid, and shelves holding vases. There were cones that advised Construction Area on the far side of the room. He walked over, trying to see what the construction might be, but nothing gave him a real indication. The place was old and well-maintained, but earthquakes, big and little, had shaken the area over the years, and old foundations always needed to be shored up.
He looked around, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the light.
Once they did, he saw a shelf near the pile of sod, and a number of old wooden signs piled up beside it. He dug through them. Several advertised restrooms in one way or another. Ladies, Gentlemen, Men’s, Women’s. He saw two doors on the right side, one with a large W and the other a large M. He opened both doors to assure himself that the rooms were indeed for the purpose advertised.
