The Unholy

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 there 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.