Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

He paused, dramatically drawing in his breath as he raised his bushy eyebrows. “Not every night, of course, but often enough. Dozens of witnesses can testify to the horror of hearing the murder occur . All the recountings match. It always starts with a muffled scream, quickly choked off; then the sound of a person being dragged against their will along the passageway; next, the sound of a heavy rope being tossed over the beam; the unmistakable sound of cord tightening and sliding as the rope is violently drawn upwards. Next comes the sound of the rope swinging, accompanied by a strangled choking. Then...” He paused. “Then, after a few minutes, you can hear slow, heavy footsteps going back down the corridor; the opening and closing of a door; the creak of bedsprings — and then, all of a sudden, the wet gargling of a throat being sliced down to the neck bone with a straight razor.”

Gannon captured this recitation on both cameras perfectly, and Betts called for a cut. He seemed thrilled, rubbing his fat hands together. “Awesome! Awesome! Gerhard, you’re up.”

Moller nodded sagely. He had brought up to the top floor a large hard-shell roller case, which he now unlocked and opened. Inside, nested within foam cutouts, were the tools of his trade.

“Get a shot of that,” said Betts.

“No,” said Moller sharply. “As I already explained, Mr. Betts, I do not allow photographs of my equipment while it is inside the case. You may only photograph the equipment in use.”

“Right, okay,” said Betts, irritated.

Gannon kept the cameras still as Moller removed an old-fashioned-looking oscilloscope with a round screen; the camera in its box; a silver wishbone-shaped object that looked like a dowsing rod; a slab of semitransparent stone, allegedly obsidian, smoky and dark. He laid these things out on a sheet of black velvet. He nodded to Betts that it was now permissible to shoot, and Gannon nodded in turn to the camera operators.

Betts strolled into the frame, face lit from below, his skin pale. “It’s almost midnight: when the ghosts of the coachman and the maid are said to re-enact their grisly ends. Dr. Gerhard Moller is setting up highly sensitive tools and instruments — some dating back to the medieval period, some of his own devising — that can detect what specialists in the field call ‘spiritual turbulences’ — that is, ghosts and other paranormal forces. At midnight, our watch will begin. Are we ready, Dr. Moller?”

“Yes,” he said.

There was a pause. Finally, Gannon nudged Betts.

“We have with us,” Betts went on, “Savannah’s well-known historian of the supernatural, Mrs. Daisy Fayette.”

Now the cameras turned to the heavyset woman who had been standing near Moller. Offscreen, Betts scowled. He had intended, Gannon knew, to confine this unphotogenic person to several voice-overs, but she’d convinced him that the “historian’s” appearance — single, brief appearance — on film would help the documentary’s credibility. And, in a weird way, she was kind of frightful herself, all powdered up like that.

“The Montgomerie House,” Fayette said as she stepped forward, her voice unexpectedly musical, “is considered by historians of the supernatural to be perhaps the most haunted house in all Savannah. This, scholars believe, is due to the extreme horror and brutality of what happened. These two unfortunate souls are essentially trapped in a continuum of the afterlife: a hellish loop in which they mindlessly re-enact the murder, one as perpetrator, the other as victim. Because time as we know it does not exist in the spiritual realm, unsettled spirits can become trapped in an eddy, or whirlpool, that can go on for centuries—”

“And become vampires?” Betts asked. “As in the Savannah Vampire?”

The woman fell silent, thrown off her stride by the interruption. “Well, I don’t know. The Savannah Vampire is an entirely different legend, and—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Betts said. He turned to Gannon. “We can edit that down later.”

Gannon made a mental note to be sure Betts didn’t edit it out completely.

“On me in five.” The host’s features morphed once again into a smile as the cameras swiveled back in his direction. “And now,” he said as they once again started rolling, without bothering to thank Mrs. Fayette, “Dr. Moller will direct the extraordinary power of his equipment on the very place of the killing, at the very time it occurred, to detect and — with any luck — photograph the spiritual disturbance.”

Moller’s oscilloscope was now plugged in, a green sine wave lazily tracing across the screen. He picked up the silver dowsing wand in both hands, its high polish glittering in the lights. Slowly, with the two cameras following his every move, he walked in a circle around the area below the abraded beam. Meanwhile, the grandfather clock at the far end of the hall tolled out midnight.

A hush had fallen. Even Gannon, who was almost positive this was bullshit, felt a shiver creep down her spine. Between takes, the lighting had been progressively lowered and made indirect. It was a technique as old as nitrate film stock, but it was still effective. The setting was equally atmospheric, with ugly old Victorian furniture, cracked mirrors, and worn carpets. Both Grooms and Fayette were standing in the background, looking on. Fayette, obviously displeased at having been cut off so brusquely, had her phone out and appeared to be texting someone.

The twelve strokes of the clock echoed and faded away. Silence returned. Moller paced back and forth in the hallway like a sentry. After ten minutes he stopped, laid down the dowsing rod, and took up the slab of obsidian. He held it up and peered through it, looking this way and that, for what seemed an eternity. He finally put it back down on the velvet sheet.

“What is it?” Betts asked. “What have you found? Are you going to take photos?”

Moller did not respond. Instead, he said, “Take me to the room where the coachman cut his throat.”

“Right this way,” Grooms said. Moller took up the wand and obsidian while the assistants moved the lights. They all followed the proprietor down the hall, cameras still rolling, to a small bedroom at the far end of the attic. Inside, it was spare and close. Moller soon had his equipment set up, and the process resumed. Again he used the silver wand, walking slowly, hovering with special attention over the bed. And then he looked everywhere with the piece of obsidian. He allowed Gannon to take a brief shot through it, which made everything dark, blurry, and rather ghostlike. Moller’s got his shtick down pat , she thought.

Another fifteen minutes passed in silence as the cameras rolled. Gannon was eating up a hell of a lot of gigabytes, and it would be a pain to edit, but she couldn’t risk missing anything.

Finally, Moller stopped. With a long sigh, he turned toward the group.

Betts moved in. “Dr. Moller, we’re fascinated to hear what you found. Can you share it with us?”

Moller looked up. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?”

“This house is not haunted,” said Moller. “I detected absolutely no spiritual turbulence. There is nothing here.”

“How can that be?” cried the proprietor, his voice rising. “We have witnesses, scores of witnesses over the years, who have experienced the haunting!”

“Perhaps it’s the wrong evening?” Betts asked. “The spirits are, um, quiescent?”

“It doesn’t matter the evening,” said Moller gravely. “There’s nothing here. Even if the spirits don’t manifest themselves, the disturbance can be measured. My instruments measured no disturbance whatsoever. The spirits — if there ever were any — are long gone. This is merely an empty house — a tourist trap, perhaps, but nothing more.”