The Unholy

“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 Stone 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 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 swing 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 death 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 illusion. 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 reminding 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.

She winced inwardly.

It didn’t look good for Eddie Archer. And it sure didn’t look good for Alistair.

“Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum,” Bogie said. “You know, the costuming and effects for that movie were done where you work. The place was Claymore Illusions back then.”

“I know,” Madison told him. “That’s why it seemed so perfect that the studio was hired for the remake. I think the fact that the place was used for creating props, costumes, illusions and whatever was needed for film noir is half the reason Eddie Archer loves it so much.”

“Eddie appears to be a talented man with a real appreciation for the past,” Bogie said, not for the first time.

Madison let out a little cry, startled as something pounced onto the sofa beside her. She laughed at herself.

As if he knew she was upset and needed some warmth, Ichabod meowed and settled his furry body next to hers.

“Hey!” Bogie said softly. “It’s going to be all right. Don’t go getting all jumpy on me now.”

Madison forced a smile despite feeling a sense of dread.

It wasn’t going to be all right.

* * *

Sean Cameron arrived in L.A. in the afternoon, when the sun seemed to spray down light like a fountain, and the bustle of the city was as frantic as ever. This might be Tinseltown, and massive movie deals might be taking place in any coffee shop, but it was also where he’d learned that it was often the B-lister who had to put on pretensions, and where the working moguls could be as down-to-earth as their gardeners.

Such was the case with Eddie Archer.

Sean had spent five formative years working under Archer. The man was a genius when it came to creating creatures and special effects. To this day, Eddie loathed straight CGI or computer-generated imagery. Of course, effects were effects, but in Eddie’s view, to create what looked real, you had to start with something real. Thanks to Archer, Sean had learned a great deal about physical illusion as well as computer-generated magic. He’d worked with Eddie in many capacities, learning to create costumes and attachments, build creatures, as well as work with computers.

Archer certainly enjoyed his income and the fact that he was customarily sought out by the most important and influential names in the business. But above all, he still loved his art, and he loved sharing that excitement and enthusiasm with promising young artists, wide-eyed and in awe of the chance to work for him.

Sean had gotten a frantic call from Archer an hour before he’d gotten the call from Logan Raintree, head of their Krewe of Hunters unit, telling him he’d received an official request that they be brought in. He assumed that Eddie Archer had used his influence with someone above the local police and even the state police, because just when he’d been about to tell Logan Raintree that he had to go to L.A. one way or another, Raintree had asked him to head out on the first flight and look into the situation.

“Remember, if something’s impossible—then it’s impossible,” Logan had said. “I know this man is an old friend of yours, a mentor. And I know you don’t want his son to be guilty of murder. But our job isn’t to hide things, fix things or help with creative defense mechanisms. Our job is to discover the truth.”

“I’m aware of that, Logan,” Sean had been quick to reply. He hadn’t taken offense. Whenever a team member had any personal involvement in a case, it was important to note what priorities had to be maintained. He’d gone on to say, “But I knew Alistair when he was a kid. Nice boy. He’s trying to figure out how to be his father’s son and his own man. And no, murder wouldn’t be how he’d plan to make his name. From what I understand from Eddie so far, the kid loved this girl. She used him, but he was crazy about her. And he’s a basket case now. He was immediately arraigned, and he’s out on bail—Archer money and pull, I imagine—but he’s basically locked up, anyway. He’s wearing an ankle monitor and he’s at a mental hospital that deals with dangerous and suicidal clients. A posh place, I understand. Apparently it’s where the A-listers go when there’s some kind of serious question about rehab, sanity…or possibility of a criminal offense.”