Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

Wellstone swiped his way through a dozen more photos blurred by movement and out of focus. Then he came to a set where the phone, apparently, had self-adjusted for the environment. He saw a darkened corridor, two cameramen, that charlatan Betts... and some kind of cloth on the floor, covered with a bizarre array of tools and other objects. Beside it was something he was very familiar with, given his years in and out of television studios: a hard case with foam cutouts of the kind photographers and sound engineers used to protect their gear. When he zoomed in on it, he could see more items still inside the foam cradles: a jagged, lightning-shaped piece of silver; a metering device of some kind; a large box camera; a battered cross; an oscilloscope; and a piece of smoked glass.

These were Moller’s phony “tools.”

“I took pictures of his black suitcase with his equipment,” Daisy said. “Moller wouldn’t let them film inside of the case — only the equipment itself, only when it was being used.”

Wellstone suddenly realized he was gripping the phone so hard it hurt. “Daisy,” he said, “I believe you’ve struck gold.”

The elderly matron looked at him as if he’d just given her a pearl necklace. “Really?”

“Really. Twenty-four-karat gold. These photos of the equipment will be very useful.” He paused.

The memory of his lunchtime humiliation was still all too fresh — and, he realized, it had provided him with the incentive he required to investigate and write those chapters about Betts and his phony setup after all. No way was he returning to Boston until he had the goods on that mountebank Betts.

He was going to blow up those photos and study every little thing in that case, because he was sure that in there somewhere must be the key to exposing the quack. That large camera nestled in the suitcase, for example — he’d seen pictures of Moller wielding it in the past. “Would you be willing to go back to the set again?”

Her grateful look became a little worried. “But... why would I say I’m there?”

“Offer your services again, but not on camera — just to be a help, you know, with the research. You know so much. And of course you have an in with the local people that they don’t have. I’m sure you can make a good argument why you should continue helping them. Now that they’ve finished with the Montgomerie House, did they talk about what they were going to do next?”

“They mentioned shooting scenes involving the Savannah Vampire.”

“Perfect! Once I’ve made the preparations, I’ll call.” He paused. “You know, if you’re any more helpful to me, I may just have to name you coauthor.”

She blushed.

He waved the phone at her. “Would you mind if I sent these photos over to my phone?”

“Not at all,” she said, standing. “And might I perhaps warm up your tea?”

For a moment, Wellstone didn’t understand. Then he saw Daisy had walked over to a sideboard and was cradling a bottle of Woodford Reserve.

“Why, thank you, Daisy,” he said, taking his own phone out of his pocket and sitting back in his armchair. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

Toby Manning shimmied up the wrought iron fence and tried to swing his leg over the spikes, but his pants got hung up and he fell to the ground on the far side with a loud ripping sound. He lay there, a little shaken but otherwise unharmed, as his pal Brock Custis looked on, laughing uproariously.

“You bust ass like that again,” Brock said, “and half of the dead here are going to rise up and give you the finger.”

“Help me up, fagmeat,” Toby said.

Still laughing, Brock extended a hand and Toby grasped it and was hauled to his feet. He checked his jeans and found a two-inch tear along the side. “Shit.”

Annoyed, he slapped away the dirt and leaves and looked around. “Creepy place.” A full moon hung in the night sky. Strings of low-lying mist drifted through the twisted oaks and ghostly shapes of tombstones stretching in front of them.

Brock managed to stifle his laughter long enough to pull a pint of Southern Comfort from his pocket. “Here, take a shot of this.”

Toby grabbed the pint and sucked down a couple of mouthfuls before handing it back. He could feel the heat of the liquor spreading through his gullet, and it restored his mood. “The grave is supposed to be at the far end, by the river,” he said.

“Lead the way, asswipe.”

Toby pulled out his cell phone — relieved to find it intact — and turned on its light. It cast a feeble glow over the white gravel path that led off into the misty darkness of Bonaventure Cemetery. He had a momentary shiver. “Gimme another hit.”

Brock handed him the bottle. Toby drained it and gave it back. Brock stared at it, frowning. “You bogarted all the Sudden Discomfort!” he said, flinging the bottle over his shoulder. Toby heard it shatter against a tomb and winced.

“Three points.” With a grin, Brock slipped out another pint. “Go easy on this one.” He cracked the cap and they each had another swig.

Now they walked down the path, lined on either side by massive trees hanging with moss, the gravel crunching under their feet. Toby had never seen tombs as elaborate as these: miniature Greek temples, life-size marble angels, huge obelisks and crosses and urns and slabs of marble. They passed a statue of a little girl with the saddest imaginable look on her face, seated next to an ivy-covered tree stump, all pale, glowing marble. Her name, Gracie, was carved on the base.

Brock lurched to a stop. “Will you look at that,” he said. “You know why she’s so sad?”

“No,” said Toby.

“Because she’s fucking dead!” And he howled with laughter as he continued staggering down the path.

“Jesus,” Toby murmured, shaking his head as he followed. He wondered if this was such a good idea after all.

Soon they were deep in the cemetery. Toby silently went over the directions he’d been given: Go to the far end, where the river is; turn right; count three alleyways and take another right. The tomb he was looking for would be on that path, just a ways down.

Or was it four alleyways?

“What’s the name of that statue we’re looking for again?” Brock asked.

“Bird Girl.”

“Bird Girl? What the hell does that mean?”

“Because she’s holding two bird baths, one in each hand. It was on the cover of that famous book.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“It’s interesting, that’s all.” He paused. “We don’t have to find it. We can just wander around.”

The path they were on came to a T, with a mass of trees beyond. The mists were thicker here, and Toby thought he could smell mud. They must be close to the river.

“Here’s where we go right,” he said.

They were moving into a more out-of-the-way section of the cemetery, where the tombstones were smaller and plots unkempt, with weeds and cheap vases of plastic flowers, some toppled over, spilling their sad contents. That was all right with Toby: less chance of coming across a caretaker or, worse, a cop.

“Sure you know where we’re going?” Brock asked.

“Yeah.”

They passed the bottle back and forth again. Clouds had covered the moon. Now the flashlight of the cell phone barely penetrated the murk.

“Think we’ll see a ghooooost? ” Brock said with an exaggerated moan.

Here was the third path. It was almost invisible, covered in grass, and it wandered behind a row of tombs into a still more overgrown section of the cemetery.

“This is it,” Toby said with a confidence he didn’t feel.

The path was hard to follow. They had to step over a few fallen tombstones. The Bird Girl was supposed to be on the right, but there was nothing like that around: just more broken tombstones.