Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited

by Heather Graham

  Maybe she’d believed she could walk into the tunnel and emerge with an instant answer. But life wasn’t like that. Apparently, neither was death.

  The very first time, it had been her friend Billy. A bee sting on a sunny day had killed him when he was only six. As she’d stood near his grave, her hand in her mother’s, she’d seen him across the cemetery. Later, at the reception, he’d come to her and told her he was all right, and to please make sure his mother knew that. He wanted to go along the sunlit path ahead of him; he could hear children playing and the soft voice of a woman who’d watch over him until he saw his own mother again.

  But she’d quickly learned that you didn’t tell other people when you saw the dead. Her mother had gone white when Madison talked about Billy; she’d pulled Madison aside and told her she mustn’t say anything, anything at all. Billy’s mother was in enough pain as it was.

  Other people, she’d soon figured out, didn’t see or talk to the dead. And they didn’t believe anyone else did or could, either. To them, the very suggestion was crazy.

  Her mother wasn’t being cruel; she just didn’t believe in ghosts and she empathized with Billy’s mother. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she would’ve felt if it had been her child who’d died, and she desperately wanted to spare Billy’s family any more agony.

  Madison listened to the low hum of voices from the TV in the living room and hoped they would lull her to sleep. She started as she felt the weight of Ichabod leaping up on the bed. She pulled him to her and rubbed his ears.

  The worst had been during her last year in high school: Josh Bollyn, the sweetest jock in the universe and, at the time, the love of her life. A night of laughter and camaraderie with friends had been destroyed when someone threw something out of a car. A bottle. An empty liquor bottle. Someone who was just careless—a litterbug, maybe a drunk litterbug—had become a murderer because the bottle had hit Josh in the head as they walked along the street. The next thing she knew, he was in the emergency room because of the way the bottle had hit him.

  And Josh was dying.

  Nothing the doctors could do could change what the angle of the bottle had done, cracking Josh’s skull and damaging the brain. She sat there and listened until his parents came, and she had to watch them and listen to the flatline….

  And then Josh’s words, “Help them, Madison, please, help them. Get my mother out of here, and help her. Just hold her, just stay with her….”

  And he’d stood beside her at his own funeral, sad, but saying things to her that he wanted said to others so they could let go. No one had deserved to live more than Josh, and she’d stopped understanding. She had hated herself and withdrawn.

  Into work. Dating had to be casual, she’d decided. If she came too close, maybe… No, she hadn’t caused what had happened to Josh. She knew that. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was deadly luck for others, and it seemed best to retreat into herself.

  And, of course, with Bogie’s regular visits, even casual dates became a challenge!

  Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, and her sleep was that of the exhausted, the restless—and filled with dreams that really had no beginning or end.

  In her dream she found herself at the studio. The L.A. smog had made its way in; low-lying gray mist pervaded the place and swept around all the creatures. Someone was behind her, chasing her, and when she turned around, she saw the evil Egyptian priest from The Unholy. She ran, and her only escape was through the door that would lead to the tunnel and the tableau of Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum.

  The door to the tunnel was ajar.

  She threw it open.

  But when she reached the tunnel, she was slipping and sliding.

  In blood.

  When she tried to steady herself, another monster stood before her, blocking her escape. But it was actually the same one who’d been chasing her. She stared at what should have been the mannequin of the priest, Amun Mopat—but he wasn’t a mannequin. He was alive and waiting for her, brandishing his curved knife.

  And he had no face.

  You want to see me? You want to see who I am? he asked her. Come on, keep coming, and rip away my mask. Can’t walk? I’ll come to you.

  Madison awoke, heart pounding. She was clammy with sweat and had made a knot of the bedclothing.

  But she was safe. Safe in her own room. And tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  Ichabod let out a worried meow. He was at the foot of the bed, staring at her. She smiled. “Come here, silly cat. I’m okay now.”

  But she wasn’t. The television in the living room wasn’t loud enough. She wanted the reassurance of sound, of a benign presence on the television in her room, so she chose a cartoon channel. But she didn’t lie back down right away; she walked over to her window and looked out. Chills ran down her spine.

  She couldn’t see anything. Her street, with its rows of small old bungalows, was quiet and dark. A streetlight flickered, and for a moment, the darkness seemed heavier. There was an unrented house across the street, its foliage growing dense. The area around it looked like a dark hole—no, oddly, it was more like some kind of gaping maw. Her imagination was rampant and she saw an image in the shadows created by the flickering streetlights. It was a face, a black-masked face, with malevolent eyes.

  Step outside, little girl, it seemed to say.

  And she could feel the eyes, the evil in the eyes, and something that wanted her silenced.

  She hurried out to the living room. Bogie wasn’t there. “Bogie!” she said, whispering his name.

  He didn’t answer. She walked to the windows in the living room and gently drew back the curtain. She saw the empty house and overgrown lot from a different angle. They still seemed to create a face. And the feeling that the face had eyes that were staring at her was almost overwhelming.

  Then she sensed a reassuring presence.

  * * *

  The L.A. County morgue was a vast place.

  Sean wasn’t familiar with it and despite his own credentials, he was glad he was there with a detective who knew the drill.

  Benny Knox really wasn’t a bad guy. It was ridiculously late at night, and only a handful of the customary staff was working. Nonetheless, getting through the formidable reception area might not have been so easy if it hadn’t been for Knox, and finding a medical examiner on duty might have been a lot trickier. In a county the size of this one, few of the many bodies that went through the morgue on a daily basis were considered a middle-of-the-night priority.

  Some morgue employees managed to remember that every corpse had once been a living human being, breathing, laughing, working and playing, and, most often, loved by someone. Others became so jaded they could sit among dozens of corpses and see them as little more than evidence or specimens on a slab. In the middle of the night, most of the staff was just holding down the shift—and praying there wasn’t an onslaught of bodies due to an accident, earthquake or other disaster.

  The attendant on duty, obviously a medical student—he had his books open before him—yawned. Of course, everyone had heard that it was Eddie Archer’s son who’d been accused of the murder, but that didn’t make the victim’s corpse any more exciting than all the others. The young man tracked down medical pathologist Dr. Herve Rodrique, and Rodrique, though puzzled by the hour, nodded, looked through his documentation and told them to wait. He’d have the corpse taken back out to the autopsy room.

  During the day, the high-profile murder victim had been a priority. The autopsy had been performed, evidenced by the Y incision clearly visible once the sheet was pulled away from Jenny Henderson’s body. Dr. Rodrique hadn’t done the autopsy, but he had the chart in front of him—which, he informed them pointedly, looking over the spectacles that sat low on his nose, had already been sent to the police.

  “Yes,” Knox said, “but Agent Cameron is not a policeman, he’s with the FBI. And he wants to see the corpse.”

  “And ther
e she is,” Rodrique said. “Female, twenty years old, five-nine, weight one-fifteen. If we hadn’t had a clean identity on her, we would have discovered it. Breast implant surgery about a year ago, and the serial numbers on the implants match the ID we were given. She was in excellent health when she was killed, and no trace of drugs or alcohol was found in her system, although we’re still waiting on some tests. Cause of death—well, gentlemen, that’s obvious. I don’t believe anyone needed a medical degree to see what killed her.”

  “What kind of knife was used?” Sean asked.

  “Let’s see…Chang writes that it must have had a sharp point—but the edges of the wound are rough, as if the edge of the knife wasn’t sharp, and a lot of pressure was put into the kill. Not a serrated edge, but it’s as if the flesh was ripped more than slashed.”

  Sean nodded, and looked down at Jenny Henderson. She’d been a pretty girl. Her eyes were closed and she almost appeared to sleep—except for the red line of the knife wound that had ended her life.

  And a corpse was never truly indicative of the real person who had lived and breathed and laughed…

  Talk to me, please talk to me. Help me, because even if you were using him, I know you cared about Alistair, and I know you don’t want him to pay for what someone else did.

  But the corpse of Jenny Henderson lay still and unmoving. Not that he’d expected her to rise or to speak….

  Jenny, please, I’m here to help. There has to be justice, if you’re to find peace, if you’re to go on.

  Then it seemed—or in his mind’s eye, at least that her eyes opened. She looked at him, and her face changed. Her features no longer seemed sunken. She gazed at him, and he heard words that were fraught with terror.

  I’m so scared. I’m dead, I see it, I know it, and I’m so scared.

  That was when Sean always felt at a loss—when the dead expressed their fears. What lay beyond? He didn’t know. No one knew, because once you walked from your own death and into the light that beckoned, there was no returning.

  Jenny, you were a beautiful young lady, he told her silently. You don’t need to be scared.

  I did use Alistair! she whispered, sounding miserable. If I let go, I’ll end up in hell.

  I can’t claim that I know God, Jenny, but hell is reserved for evil. Of that I’m certain. And if you can help us find the truth, we can help you find your way.

  He heard her sobbing. Life. A precious gift. It had been stolen from her.

  “What’s he staring at?” Sean heard Rodrique ask Knox.

  “No idea,” Knox muttered back. “Who knows what they teach at the FBI Academy these days?”

  “It’s late,” Rodrique said. And in his peripheral vision, Sean could see the man looking at his watch.

  “You got a dinner date?” Knox asked him.

  Rodrique flushed. “I have mounds of paperwork!” he said indignantly.

  Jenny! Sean whispered in his mind. Help me. Alistair didn’t do this to you. Who did?

  She began to cry again.

  Who, Jenny?

  No, no, not Alistair. Never Alistair.

  Then who?

  The man.

  What man?

  The mannequin man. The one in the robe.

  It seemed that she turned her head toward him. That her eyes were open and staring beseechingly into his.

  The mannequin man, she repeated. The man with no face.

  * * *

  Madison screamed. She spun around, ready to swing and fight.

  “Hey! It’s just me. Lord help us, it’s just me, Bogie!”

  Madison released a shaky sigh. “Oh, Bogie! It’s that house across the street. This is crazy, but I’m seeing a face in it, and it’s scaring me, and… Sorry, I feel like an idiot.”

  He studied her expression. “It’s pretty creepy-looking, all right,” he agreed. “And after the day you’ve had…”

  “I need sleep,” Madison moaned.

  He nodded. “I’ll come and sit in that chair in your room. Maybe you’ll sleep then?”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll find an I Love Lucy rerun. And,” Bogie added, “I’ll watch that house across the street. If anything moves…I’ll wake you in a flash!”

  * * *

  Vengeance was angry.

  Vengeance had waited. For hours.

  Tonight…yes, tonight.

  No, it couldn’t be tonight. Cameron hadn’t left until she’d walked in and locked the door. And if Vengeance broke into her house, that would be careless, and might give everything away. Alistair was locked up, and there would be nothing clever or devious about a kill tonight; killing tonight would be against the plan.

  The plan was everything…at least it had been. It still was, yes, it was. It had to be.

  But…

  The damned girl! There was something about her, something that made Vengeance uneasy. It was as if she had extra eyes. She kept silent, but there were times when…

  Times when it seemed that she saw what others did not.

  Maybe she was just crazy. Yes, that was it. Vengeance had seen her when she appeared to be talking to someone…. Someone who was no longer alive.

  Like at a funeral…

  And Vengeance had seen her walking in the cemetery, as if she was visiting old friends….

  Vengeance had felt compelled to come tonight. Because of Madison. She shouldn’t have been part of this. And Cameron was back. Vengeance didn’t like it at all—none of this was part of the plan.

  Control, careful organization and control. And yet, angry, frustrated, Vengeance still felt power in watching.

  There was nothing to see. Madison Darvil’s house had gone dark except for the night-light on the porch and a pale glow within. The television. The damned television ran night and day. But maybe that would be good. Noise to cover up whatever might happen.

  Now…

  No, not now.

  Now was the time to watch and wait. Time to devise a clever way to rid the world of Madison Darvil and her enormous blue, all-seeing eyes. Such a waste; such a talent; such a beauty.

  But this was Hollywood. Hollywood could steal beauty.

  And Hollywood could kill it.

  Outside the plan. Too soon, too close—and outside the plan! Vengeance was not a cold-blooded killer!

  Vengeance was…vengeance.

  6

  Sean was glad that Eddie was rich. No matter how hard a city, county, state or the federal government tried, it was difficult to fund decent hospitals on public money.

  Alistair Archer was free on bail but required to remain under mental health authority and wear an ankle cuff. Thanks to Eddie’s hard work and resources, Alistair was at the Churchill/Dunlap Treatment and Therapy Resource Center. It was an exclusive hospital where many a Hollywood mogul had come, whether to overcome drug or alcohol abuse—or await trial in a high-profile criminal case.

  L.A. could be a brutal place, Sean knew. The county was home to some of the wealthiest people in the country—film stars, producers, directors and those who made their money behind the scenes. It also included East L.A., gangs, violence and drugs. In the prisons, habitual criminals often ruled the roost, and men and women accused of certain crimes might not survive to come to a fair and equitable trial. People in the county tried. Not only did the richest and most famous of American royalty live here, but the place was steeped in an artistic temperament and an egalitarian ideology. However, sheer weariness could whittle away at those benevolent impulses.

  Technically, Alistair was out on bail, despite the stipulation for the ankle cuff and psychiatric care. But Eddie was smart to see to it that Alistair was in a respected—if exclusive—hospital with a wing for those who might be dangerous to themselves or others.

  Had he been someone else’s son, Alistair might have ended up in a hellhole.

  Instead, he was in a facility where the security guards wore designer uniforms and a valet parked every car that arrived. The lobby, where Sean and
Madison checked in, was marble and chrome, and even the metal detectors were high-end. Security was tight, and it took them several minutes to be allowed through and then escorted to Alistair’s wing and down a long corridor to his room.

  Madison had been polite and quiet through most of the drive and Sean sensed that she was anxious. Her eyes were wide as they neared Alistair’s room.

  “Looks like a spa,” she murmured. “With Uzis.”

  “They’re not packing Uzis, but, yes, it’s staggeringly expensive, and while you’re awaiting trial for some terrible crime, you can have a massage,” he said, a bit cynically. “We may all be equal, but it’s true that money talks—and very loudly, too. Eddie managed to get Alistair arraigned almost immediately and his attorney offered this solution while they wait for a trial date. He could be at home, but Eddie thought this was better and safer.”