Sunday night
When he’d first jumped from the chamber and hit the ground deep below, Bruce had been all but blinded.
The floodlights above shone down, but they created a small pool of light just below the now open hole, and all beyond that was shadow, moving into a darkness that was so deep in pitch, it seemed that no light could penetrate its shade.
He’d entered an obsidian pit. That was his initial assessment. But Bruce carried a small flashlight on his key chain that was actually brighter than the one on his phone, and while it couldn’t illuminate far, it provided a path before him.
As he looked at the construction of what had once been a giant foundation, Bruce was sure that an enterprising priest or engineer had seen to it that the web of tunnels that stretched from the church and out to the Johnstone catacomb had been sealed—they must have become increasingly dangerous, after the quake of 1920, and perhaps even some of the smaller ones that had followed.
He was equally sure that come Prohibition, some equally enterprising person—mob connected, perhaps?—had seen to it that some of them became useful again. Walls were shored up here and there with large planks of wood; some areas that had caved in had been left.
He squatted low to the ground, shining the light over it.
Someone had been there. Recently.
Bruce pulled out his phone, determined to report his find immediately.
A blinking light informed him that he had no service. He pocketed his phone. He’d just go back up and call in a minute, but he needed to know one more thing.
The answers were here. He shone his light down the hall. He stood and kept moving, slowly, closely scanning all around.
A low arch off the hallway led to another little room. Bruce ducked in.
Boxes that had stored liquor decades ago remained in the little chamber.
They were right next to a number of tombs.
Liquor box, corpse, liquor box...corpse.
But that was just one of the rooms that led off from the first tunnel where he had come down, deep into the earth. There were many more.
The main tunnel veered off in a few directions. Bruce, however, followed it in what he was certain was the direction of the old church.
He reached a larger chamber. The side walls were lined with tombs. There were massive old containers made of some kind of metal; Bruce thought that they might well have had something to do with the storage and movement of alcohol—they were covered with dust and spiderwebs, as if they might well go back to those days when speakeasies hid from the law and even the average working Joe was willing to pay a high price now and then for a drink.
One of the round cylinders had no top of any kind. Bruce moved over and looked into it; there, at the bottom of the rusted and decaying cylinder, was a cache.
A cache of knives.
He trained his little light down and saw that they were encrusted in red.
Blood. He moved a little closer, shining his light downward.
Among the objects was a bone saw.
He took out his phone again. Still no service. But he quickly snapped a few photographs of his find. He’d located almost everything.
The water to wash the bodies... Where had the killer washed the bodies?
He kept moving and hit a wall. He searched for an opening. It was no easy task with just the small light, but he was convinced that the wall he’d hit was a divider—after the earthquakes, whoever had decided that the underground should just be cut off had walled up what were the most important graves belonging to the church. Someone had long ago decided that it just wasn’t necessary for people to crawl below the ground to visit the dead.
He pushed, pressed and prodded.
There didn’t seem to be an entry.
He ducked down, feeling something under his feet give.
Touching the ground, he saw that it was wet. And the water had to be coming from somewhere.
He followed the wetness on his hand to the wall. And there, finally, he found the break.
Once upon a time, a flap door had been made by men who were bootleggers. They might have been cold and calculating; they might have been gangsters or mob men.
He doubted if any of them could have imagined that in their drive to provide a commodity and make money, they had provided a killing ground for an incredibly sick psychopath.
He opened the sliding door flap.
It led into a small chamber.
Once upon a time, the “chamber” had been a wall of crypts for interment of the dead.
The dead were no longer neatly aligned in their coffins; they had become a pile of bones and scrap, all but crushed into a pile in a corner.
Water dripped from a converted pipe; looking up and trying to figure his position beneath the church, Bruce reckoned that he was near the back, where the office area would be above—along with the kitchenette and bathroom.
As long as water moved smoothly—and a toilet didn’t back up—no one would investigate.
Only a plumber might one day find the diversion of the pipes.
Their killer hadn’t just known about forensic detail and the Dahlia’s death. He had known about the historic church and graveyard here, and the history of the underground after the 1920s quake—and the history of gangsters or desperate parishioners using the underground for bootleg booze.
He threw his light over the whole of the corridor. It glanced off something shiny.
A large metal tub.
Still filled with putrid, bloody water.
He walked to the other side of the tub. There was another set of the sliding doors there—one that seemed to blend right with the earth and stone of foundation.
There was darkness beyond. He threw his light on it and saw that the opening was right into the church catacomb. He was in a tomb—where the dead had been tossed aside for expediency’s sake. To all appearances he was standing in the final resting place of five of the church’s deacons and priests, including, at chest height, “Father Sebastian McDonald, beloved by his flock.”
He pulled out his phone again, forgetting he had no signal. He dropped the phone, swearing at himself, and reached down to get it. To his surprise, over here—far beneath the church itself—he suddenly had coverage.
He called Sophie’s number; it rang, and then went to voice mail.
The ringing seemed to echo strangely. As if her phone weren’t far away.
No great mystery there; she might have come to the graveyard; she might be there now already.
Then, he heard a strange laugh. In the eerie underworld, he couldn’t tell if it was male or female, or where it had originated.
The tunnels were a twisted web.
The laugh came again.
Diabolical.
A ghostly laugh in the realm of the dead.
He turned quickly toward the exit to the main tunnel, putting out his light, casting himself into pitch darkness.
Someone was out there.
It must be another cop or someone from forensics—or even Sophie. She might well have come here if she’d finished at the station.
Bull. He didn’t even believe himself.
Sophie didn’t laugh like that. Everyone was gone, except for the patrolman out at the gate. And he didn’t know about the deep underground, or that there was more than one way to enter the catacombs, that the kingdom of the dead stretched farther than they had ever imagined.
He needed to call Jackson and get him or Brodie there, fast.
He tried to adjust to the total darkness as he felt in his pocket for his phone.
“No! Bruce...no, you need to come now. Now!”
The sudden ghostly voice at his ear caused him to jump. He thought of himself as a pretty tough guy, but the urgent whisper in the dark was alarming.
“Bruce, no...he could panic, kill her... God, help me, I know why I’m here! He’s going to kill her, and I have to help you stop it!”
He realized that it was the ghost of Michael Thoreau at his side.
And the “her” to whom he referred was Sophie.
Despite himself, he felt a shudder streak through his body, and fear tear into his heart.
* * *
Sophie awoke.
It was a slow awakening; she had a thudding headache. She was awake, she realized, because she had heard laughter. It seemed such a strange sound.
Like a witch’s cackle.
Then someone started speaking.
“They really are such idiots. To be honest, I think it’s better this way. If it had worked as you wanted it to...they’d have figured it out eventually. As it was... I just slipped out the back. Right out the back, with no one having any idea!”
The voice seemed close, and yet far away.
It seemed to echo, and yet...
She tried to move—and realized that she could not. She was stretched out, arms pulled high over her head, feet tied together, tied down. She felt as if she was on a medieval rack...
A torturer’s rack. An executioner’s rack.
A light suddenly shone, straight into her eyes.
“Sophie, you’re awake.”
This voice was male; the first had been female.
She was blinded; she couldn’t see a thing.
Lee Underwood! He had followed her down, but...
He’d been behind her; he couldn’t have struck her out of the darkness.
An accomplice?
“Even you! Beautiful, smart Sophie. A tough detective, but such a nice girl. Always, though, a nice girl...it’s really not with maliciousness that I’m doing this. It’s to prove a point, you see. The LAPD, the FBI—all of them talk a tough trade. But they know nothing. They still know nothing.”
Her head was still hurting; she couldn’t place the voice. And then, with a bit of a twist of the light, she realized that the voice was off because the speaker was wearing a mask.
A Greek theater mask.
Like the ones used by the Hollywood Hooligans.
Her mouth wouldn’t work; she was trying to talk. It took a moment.
“They’ll find you. They’ll find everything now. I’m not the one who discovered that there was another level down here,” she managed to say at last.
It occurred to her that she was going to die. In a horrible way. He was going to put her into ungodly agony, slashing her face, cutting into her again and again...
And when she was dead, cutting her in half, leaving her to be found in a barren field. And the Black Dahlia copycat killer would be gleeful.
See? I can even kill a cop, and you can’t find me!
“Sophie, come on. I saw you slip through the opening on your own.”
It was the female voice. Sophie gritted her teeth, feeling fury tear through her.
She knew the voice.
“And I thought I’d saved your life, Grace. Hmm. Well, this isn’t very original—one of the theories about the Dahlia suggested a female killer. And a cover-up. Nothing so elaborate as this, but... Well, this is just not original.”
Was this wise, she wondered blearily, taunting Grace? She tried to remember all the classes she had taken on the psychology of killers, how to keep them talking, and how to disarm them.
She didn’t know if she was saying the right words or not—foolish, but she was even more angry than scared.
“Oh, Sophie, I’m not going to kill you. Ugh. I don’t do the killing. I just...well, okay, I did do a little cutting on their faces, and I may do yours. But honestly, none of this was my idea.”
“I didn’t think so. You’re not that bright. Oh, and you’re not that good an actress, either.”
“I fooled you last night.”
“So you did,” Sophie admitted.
“Great show, don’t you think?” Grace asked her. “I got to be exactly where I wanted to be, thanks to the killings,” she said.
“You’re just as culpable. You’ll go to prison for just as long,” Sophie said. The light was still in her eyes. She knew now that Grace Leon had struck her on the head.
“I’m not going to prison. I’m going to be a big star. You saw—it will happen.”
It would happen. Sophie thought—I will die, and this little witch will get away with all, and yes, become a star.
She tried to move; the ties really weren’t that good. If she could free just a bit of herself...
She managed to adjust her position a little. And she could feel that her Glock was still in its holster; they hadn’t thought to look for or take her gun.
How the hell had she let this happen? She would be dead...
And Grace would have what she had wanted so badly; what she had become involved in murder to achieve.
No, that wouldn’t happen. Because she hadn’t been the one to find the opening in the catacombs.
Bruce was there. Bruce had found it. And he had to be there...somewhere.
But who was the man above her? Lee Underwood? Maybe Bruce wasn’t there; maybe Grace had set it up so that she would only think that Bruce was there. Maybe Bruce was there somewhere lying dead or injured. And if the man above her wasn’t Lee Underwood, then who the hell was it?
“I’m sorry, Sophie, but it really is time to get started. There really is a great deal to do. I can’t wait until you’re found, until I’m called to the crime scene!”
There was absolute glee in the voice.
Grace Leon spoke up again. “I hear something.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I stopped by and saw the cop in the car. He can’t hear anything. I brought him coffee. He’ll sleep like the dead for three hours now.”
“No. I hear something!”
The man swore. The light was suddenly gone. “All right, all right. I’ll show you—the entry is closed. No one knows this is here. Even if her screams carry out a bit, the stupid bar patrons think there are ghosts.”
“There is something wrong,” Grace insisted.
Sophie opened her mouth and took a breath to scream.
“Shut up—shut up—or I’ll put my knife through your heart right now,” her tormentor said. “Call for help? Whoever hears you will die, too. Oh, Sophie, live on hope for the next few minutes. We’re such tragic creatures—always grasping at any hope!”
The light disappeared.
Sophie heard movement.
Her captors were moving away.
* * *
Bruce knew that he had to keep to the wall, and keep to the dark. There were chambers and niches and holes everywhere.
The long dead, the smell of the earth.
The smell of blood.
All seemed to haunt him.
“Michael, where?” he whispered.
“Shh! I’m trying! Ann Marie is here...she’s going to find the right place. We just have to move carefully. It’s a maze down here. One tunnel leads to another and to another. We just found it ourselves.”
Bruce froze; he heard a scuffling down the hall.
It could have been rats.
It could also be human rats.
He flattened against the wall, and a crumpled piece of coffin fell.
Little pieces of old bone seemed to dissolve and follow.
It was nothing much, but he’d made a noise.
He ducked into the next room.
Then he heard a scream.
Sophie.
“Bruce, they’re coming for you, they’re coming for you! Two of them! Grace Leon, and someone in a mask!”
He drew his gun and felt every muscle in his body tighten.
He would follow her voice.
They might be ready for him. But he was ready for them.
Sophie screamed again. And he ran.
* * *
“Sophie, oh, man, Sophie!”
She’d screamed—they weren’t going to kill her and get away with it. At least, they wouldn’t take Bruce by surprise.
They would go down.
But even as she clenched and prayed, she heard that voice.
“Oh, jeez, Sophie... I’m trying, I’m trying...”
It wasn’t the person in the mask. She realized, incredulously, that it was Lee Underwood at her side, trying to help her.
It was dark. So dark...
And yet his face came closer.
She saw that it was bloody and bashed. He didn’t look much like the studly beach boy at all at the moment, but it was Lee Underwood, trying to untie her.
“Oh, Sophie, they hit me so hard...and I think my leg is broken,” Lee said. “These knots, there’s blood in my eyes...”
There might be blood in his eyes, but he had done something. It had loosed one hand enough that she could squiggle and squirm it and feel it loosening.
“Who is it, Lee? Who the hell is it?” she demanded.
“Don’t know, Sophie...just...”
He’d halfway freed her.
Then he collapsed.
* * *
Someone was ahead of him. And there were two of them.
And one was Grace Leon. Their supposed victim from the night before. That had all been done to get the police and the forensic team to search and search...
And then leave the place the hell alone.
Had the killer always wanted Sophie—just to prove how good he was?
How the hell had he involved Grace Leon? Or was she the instigator?
Sophie had screamed, but now he didn’t hear her.
There was a scuffling along the hallway. He thought that the two killers had ducked into another room.
He moved forward more carefully himself.
Then, out of the darkness, out of a corridor he had nearly missed, a man came lunging at him. A massive, gleaming, sharp butcher knife held high in his hands.
The mask and bone dust about him made him appear more eerie than anything the tomb could offer.
“Bruce,” Michael warned.
“I see him.”
And Bruce swung around. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
The man didn’t stop.
Bruce took aim and fired.
* * *
Sophie struggled hard, trying not to move in panic, but rather let the rope burns and agony she was enduring pay, at the very least.
Bruce was out there.
And the killer was out there, and Grace Leon was out there.
She kept at it, fearing for Lee Underwood. He had tried so hard to help, to free her.
Now he was down. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead. They would have intended to kill him.
Maybe they thought that he was already dead.
“Bruce!”
How had Grace gotten there, and gotten in? And how had the killer come?
She couldn’t worry about that now; she had to keep warning Bruce.
And she had to free herself.
Before they came back.
Suddenly, her heart seemed to leap. Gunfire. Not far.
Surely, Bruce had fired. There had just been one shot.
“Bruce!” she screamed. “Be careful, there are two of them. Grace Leon is out there—she’s in on this!”
Sophie worked on her bindings.
Then she saw a flood of light. A brilliant light beamed from the doorway.
“Bruce!”
“No, Sophie, you bitch, you’ve ruined my life!”
Grace was back.
With a knife in her hands.
“Let me tell you, Sophie, you’re going to die with one hell of a grin!”
* * *
The man was dead.
Bruce knew how to aim; he’d caught him center of the forehead, even through the mask.
He knelt down quickly to be certain, checking for a pulse, and pulling the mask from the man’s face.
He stared, pursing his lips.
Yes, they’d known it was someone close to the department.
“Bruce!”
Sophie, screaming again, crying out with warning. He could hear her fear for him. They had to have threatened her. And he knew Sophie; she wasn’t going down without a fight.
He stood quickly, trying to race for the sound of her voice.
Light!
There was light ahead, gleaming from around a curve in the catacomb tunnel, down in one of the spiderweb-covered directions he hadn’t chosen.
He sprinted, his heart and lungs on fire. The ghost Michael Thoreau came along at his side. Down the hall, he saw Ann Marie, beckoning to him from an archway.
He burst through it.
And there, tied down upon an old tomb, was Sophie. There was a crumpled body just to the side of it. A bloody, crumpled body.
And, racing toward Sophie now, her own knife held high, was Grace Leon.
He took aim.
He never had to fire.
Sophie broke free from her bounds at that moment and reached back.
Her attackers had finally made a terrible mistake; they had left her armed.
Sophie fired.
Grace seemed to freeze for a minute, as if it were a performance. As if she were a great, mythical heroine, dying with dramatic throes.
Then she fell flat to the floor.
He’d suspected that Sophie was a crack shot, too.
She turned to him, tears flooding her eyes. “Bruce, oh, thank God, Bruce, you’re all right!”
He rushed to her side. She threw her arms around him and he felt her terror, felt the fierce pounding of her heart.
“They’re down, Sophie, they’re both down.”
“Oh, God, they were going to cut me. Bruce, I can’t imagine what they went through, Lili and Brenda, and even Elizabeth Short...oh, Bruce! I’ve killed her. We need to call an ambulance. That’s Lee. He tried to help me. Henry is innocent. And so is Lee. And if so... Oh, God, please tell me that it isn’t...isn’t Captain Chagall?”
“No. It was the man who really did know how to cut up a body, Sophie. Dr. Chuck Thompson.”