15 Amityville Horrible (5 page)

When the cameras turned off, I tracked down Mike. He saw me coming and tried to evade, but I cornered him outside the makeup trailer. Well, actually, Jeremy cornered him, coming out the other side.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

Mike lifted his hands. “I know, I know. You’re not happy with our cast of regular folks.”

“It’s a reality show that doesn’t even have a prize attached. You risk public humiliation for sub-SAG rates. Of course they’re stupid and self-centered. Who else would apply?”

“Well, actually, we did have some—”

“Strike that. Others may apply, but you’re sure as hell not going to cast them. For a haunted house show, you don’t want anyone who’ll stop worrying about their close-up long enough to notice the effects are all faked.”

“We are not going to fake…” He shook his head and waved us into the trailer.

“Can’t even finish that sentence, can you?”

He muttered under his breath. When we were inside, he shooed the one remaining makeup artist out, then collapsed on a chair and motioned for us to do the same. I took the one beside him; Jeremy opted for the one nearest the door.

“All right, so what
do
you want to talk about?” Mike asked.

“The girls we’re supposed to summon—”

He cringed. “Of course. Yes, murdered young women is a blatant ratings grab and feeds a disturbing cultural psycho-sexual interest. The beautiful victims, brutally murdered and violated. The stabbing only makes it worse, with the obvious sexual overtones. I knew you wouldn’t be happy. I remember the lecture I got after
Death
.”

It wasn’t a lecture. Just a forcefully stated opinion, when we’d met to celebrate the success of
Death of Innocence
. He’d lamented the fact that the victims were children. It helped the pity factor, but also hurt sales, turning off those who found children’s deaths too disturbing. If only they’d been young women…That would have sold much better. Particularly if they were young and attractive. That’s when he got the “forcefully stated opinion.”

A few years ago, I’d have kept my mouth shut. Hell, I’ve made a career out of using my femininity—and, yes, sexuality—to my advantage. But that doesn’t mean I’m not bothered by movie and television cameras lingering lovingly on half-naked, blood-spattered beautiful dead girls. There’s no law that says you can’t be a feminist and embrace your femininity. Or, if there is, I missed the memo.

So I let Mike blather on about how they were going to keep this tasteful, no graphic re-enactments of the alleged murders. When he was done, I said, “Good. And I’ll hold you to that. But it isn’t actually what I wanted to talk about.”

He paused, then cursed under his breath as he realized he may have sacrificed viewers, jumping the gun to placate his star. That dismay lasted about five seconds—as long as it probably took him to realize he’d only promised no re-enactments on the
show
. DVD extras were a whole other matter.

“I’ve checked all our correspondence on this show,” I said. “And there was no mention of these girls or their murders. There was certainly no suggestion that we were focusing on a specific crime connected to this house.”

“That’s the idea. You and Gregor knew nothing about the crimes until today, which means you had no time to prepare. Anything you say, then, will be an honest communication with their spirits.” He winked. “Or with your Internet connection in the next twelve hours.”

“Which brings me to point number two. Obviously I did my research on the house as soon as I got the address this morning. There was no mention of anything more than a domestic disturbance call in the Seventies. If Polly Watson was living there when she went missing, I’d have found out about it.”

“Er, well, she wasn’t actually living there at the time…”

“When did she live there?”

“The summer she was seventeen. She had some disagreements with her parents and went to stay with her aunt and uncle for a few weeks.”

I stifled the urge to comment. Of course, it was a ridiculous stretch, but it didn’t matter to me. Even if I’d been planning to contact the girl—which I’d never do mid-show anyway—she was no more likely to respond if I was in a place where she’d lived her entire life than if I used a place she’d spent a single summer. It doesn’t work like that.

“Gregor’s script said these girls vanished, never to be found. So what’s this about them being murdered? Some letter? I did a Google search after the taping and there was
nothing
online about that letter.”

He leaned back with a smug smile. “Because it’s a closely-guarded town secret. One that we are about to expose.”

“Uh-huh.” I beckoned for details.

He moved forward. “When we were planning the show, we were looking for some crime or scandal at any of the properties we were considering. We sent emails to local historians, reporters, bloggers. Finally, we got the Polly Watson link. That seemed the best we could do, so we bought the house, got things underway and then, a month ago, we get an anonymous tip from someone who used to work at the
Amityville Record
. He said a journalist there received a letter after each of those three girls went missing. A letter from their killer, confessing to the deed.”

“And what does the
Record
say?”

“It denies all knowledge of the letters. Threatens legal action if we accuse them on air.” He rolled his eyes. “Our lawyers are already on it. We just need to be careful what we say before we can prove a cover-up. Until then, the story is that we’ve been told someone at the paper received them—we don’t claim it went beyond that person.”

“What does our informant say?”

“Nothing. He sent copies of the letters and disappeared into cyberspace.”

“Maybe because he’s the one who received the letters. Or he’s a relative.”

Mike’s eyes gleamed. “You’re right. Driven by a conscience plagued with guilt—”

“Save it for the voice-over. Tell me more about the letters.”

As Gregor’s script said, they contained details about the victims only their killer could know—birthmarks, underwear and so on. A handwriting analyst confirmed all three were penned by the same person. Given the time span, that opened a whole lot of questions, none of which Mike could answer. So I got everything he did know and left.

…

We were walking from the trailer when a ghost dashed over. It was a middle-aged man dressed in modern garb, and I’d never have guessed he was a ghost if he hadn’t run right through two set workers.

“Ms. Vegas,” he said. “I need a message sent to my business partner.”

I kept walking. Jeremy glanced over at the ghost. He’d say he was just responding to my reaction, however slight, and I’m sure that’s part of it, but his kitsune blood gives him a few psychic powers, which I believe includes the ability to detect spirits. He can’t see them or hear them, but he seems to know they’re there.

“Necromancers do not appreciate being approached in public,” Jeremy said, his voice conversational, as if chatting to me. “If you wish to speak to her, you’ll need to contact Eve Levine.”

“It’s just a message. And it’s urgent. He’s going to sell my shares to my son, and that lazy good-for-nothing will ruin everything I built—”

I lifted a hand to silence him.

“You’ll need to speak to Eve,” Jeremy said.

“Bitch,” the ghost snarled and stalked off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone else had turned from a conversation and was gaping at us. I looked over. Gregor was staring at the spot where the ghost had been. He looked confused.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Jeremy murmured.

“He saw something,” I said.

“Necromancer blood?” Jeremy said.

“It’s possible.” I paused. “Either way, we are co-hosting a show together and I haven’t said more than a few words to him. Do you mind if I ask him to join us for a drink?”

“Not at all.”

…

Gregor seemed pleased by the invitation. Relieved, too, as if he’d been unsure of his welcome. It wasn’t his fault I’d been duped. He wasn’t Bradford Grady and he wasn’t Angelique. I shouldn’t shut him out because of what happened to them.

As for whether Gregor had necromancer blood, it was hard to tell. He’d seemed to react to the ghost earlier. It’s also possible that I’d reacted to it myself, and he’d been looking confused about that. He didn’t mention it and there was no easy way to broach the subject.

There was no easy way to broach the subject of his “gift” either. You’d think there would be. After all, we’re professional spiritualists. I should be able to say, “So, how did you start seeing ghosts?” But it’s a tricky topic, because most spiritualists
don’t
see them. Of course, no one admits that openly. Some wouldn’t even confess it to their therapist. Others will do a little “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” with colleagues. There are some, though, who genuinely believe they have “the sight.” And they might.

I know a few spiritualists who seem to have necromancer blood. That’s still no guarantee of actual powers, and even then, it comes in varying degrees, from “I catch glimpses” to “I hear voices” to my full-on “I see dead people.” Most real necromancers know what they are, from their families, and wouldn’t dream of entering the business professionally. That’s just crazy…as I’ve heard many, many times.

Then there are the people who are, well, crazy. Or, more likely, had a breakdown at some point and saw ghosts. Non-supernaturals can detect spirits when the barrier between reality and fantasy is thin, during a mental break or in early childhood. In those cases, I think spiritualists honestly did see the dead once and never forgot that or stopped believing they had the power, lying dormant within them.

As for figuring out which type Gregor was, it wasn’t as hard to get him on that subject as I feared. He started it, asking me point-blank about my own powers, when they started and so on, as if it was a normal topic of conversation.

I gave him my usual story, about first spotting a ghost when I was twelve. It’s a funny little anecdote, one that suits my persona—more “stumbling over my powers” than having the finger of God show me the way. It’s mostly true, even. Embellished, of course, particularly the “stumbling” part. I come from a family where most inherit the power. My father killed himself when I was little, but I was close to my paternal grandmother, who’d prepared me for the day when I might start seeing people who weren’t there.

That doesn’t mean it was a breeze. There’s nothing that can truly prepare you for a lifetime of pleading and demanding ghosts. Most of my tales were nowhere near as funny as the one I told. But the horror stories are mine; the world gets the slapstick version.

Once I’d told my backstory to Gregor, it left an obvious opening for me to ask his, which wasn’t nearly so cheery.

“My wife and I lost a child,” he said. “Our oldest daughter. She was three. She became very ill and did not recover.”

Jeremy and I offered sincere regrets for his loss, which he accepted with a nod, before continuing.

“After Liliya passed it was…not a good time for me. I was with her when she became ill. I worked from our apartment, as a tutor. My wife taught at a school. So I was with Liliya and I was the one who did not think her illness was serious. I told my wife it was just a childhood ailment. When it became more…” He fingered the side of his glass. “The doctors said it would not have made a difference if she was brought to them sooner, but I did not believe that. I blamed myself. That is when I started to see ghosts.”

“Her ghost,” I murmured.

“No, that is what was odd. I did not see her. I saw others. Glimpses, mostly. Never her. I spoke of it to no one. I knew what they would say. ‘Gregor is mad with grief.’ I tried to make the ghosts go away. When they would not, I went to doctors. It did not help. They said I was punishing myself. I was imagining other ghosts to tell myself I was not worthy of seeing my Liliya.”

He drained his drink, then shook his head. “That is the start of a very long story. It was five years ago that my daughter died. It is only a year ago that I began to offer my help to others who are grieving. In the middle, I told my wife and she was the one who said I was not going mad, not imagining it. She asked me to stop seeing the doctors and instead speak to others like me, like you. To help understand. So I did and now…” He spread his hands. “I am here..

By the time we returned from drinks, I had emails from Elena with links and attachments, along with a note to call her to discuss it. The kids hadn’t gone to bed easily, so she and Clay were still up.

I checked a few of the links, then called before they headed off to bed. Elena ran me through the cases. In the background, I could hear the faint pop of the fire and the occasional clink of a glass or murmur of Clay’s voice as he commented on something. I could picture them, on the sofa in the study, Clay sitting at one end, reading journals or research books, Elena stretched out, her back against him, fingers tapping on her laptop. It was a scene I’d witnessed many times on my visits to Stonehaven.

Elena hadn’t found much more to the cases than I’d heard. Three young women had vanished from Amityville over the years. They’d been going someplace and they never arrived and no one ever saw them again. No notes. No witnesses. Nothing.

She did find photos. Were they the girls I’d seen? That should be an easy answer. But the pictures were old newspaper shots, whatever the family could grab at the time, rendered into black and white. They certainly looked like the same girls.

All three were over eighteen, with seemingly good family relationships and solid jobs. So they didn’t appear to be teen runaways. There were no angry ex-boyfriends or wannabe boyfriends. The second girl, Polly Watson, had been seen leaving her dance with a guy, but he was later found and exonerated. As for where Polly had gone…that’s where the connection between the girls and my ghosts fell into place.

Polly hadn’t left with a “boy.” She’d left with a man—a thirty-five-year-old chaperone at the dance. He said he was driving her home, but the investigation found they’d made a pitstop at the inn where I’d seen her ghost. He’d admitted they’d stopped there, but only because she needed to use “the facilities.” Which didn’t explain the witnesses who’d heard them arguing because Polly changed her mind about getting a room. They fought. She took off. She was never seen again. Her “date” was questioned, but it seems that after the fight, he’d gone straight to the inn’s lounge, gotten plastered and passed out. A half-dozen witnesses attested to it.

That was Polly’s connection to the inn. The other two girls had one, too. The first, Clara Davis, had been attending a wedding reception in a rival inn, a street away, now long gone. The third, Dawn Alvarez, had worked as a chambermaid in the inn, and had vanished on her way home.

Little had been made of the connection. Given the decades between the disappearances, that isn’t surprising. None of the three had actually been
at
the inn when they vanished. Maybe money changed hands to ensure the connection was left out of media accounts. People might like to stay in a haunted inn, but “resident serial killer” really doesn’t have the same marketing hook.

“Which is why the cases didn’t turn up the first time I searched,” Elena said. “There aren’t many references to the inn and, when there is, it’s usually just called a ‘local inn’.”

“Plus they aren’t crimes,” I said. “Just disappearances. I’d originally asked you to look for murders.”

She made a noise in her throat, as if this didn’t excuse the oversight. “Multiple missing young women is usually the first sign of a serial killer at work. Or a man-killing mutt.”

“Could that be what we have? That would explain the time frame. Werewolves live longer.”

I glanced back at Jeremy for his input. He was on the bed but didn’t hear me. He was too busy sketching. Which meant he was worried. He doesn’t only sketch when he’s stressed—that would be a hard way for an artist to make a living—but if he is, it settles his mind. It also takes him someplace not quite reachable, which is why he missed the werewolf comment.

I turned my attention back to Elena as she said, “It’s possible. A werewolf killer would explain the lack of bodies—he took them away to eat. But I can’t recall ever seeing a mutt kill with a knife. It wouldn’t satisfy the hunting instinct. They’re more…hands on. And a mutt sure as hell wouldn’t be sending notes to the papers. Again, that’s classic serial killer.”

“So what do you make of the notes?”

She paused. Clay rumbled something in the background.

“What’s his verdict?” I asked.

“He thinks they’re fakes. We only have one anonymous tipster claiming any knowledge of them, so that makes him suspicious.”

“You disagree?”

Another pause. “I would, if I could blame the TV studio. Those ghosts weren’t fake though, which makes it hard to reconcile with phony notes.”

“How does Clay reconcile it?”

“He doesn’t.” A low rumble and Elena’s voice faded as she moved the phone to speak to him. “Well, you don’t. You just say they’re obviously fake.”

He said something, again too low for me to hear.

“Yeah, yeah,” Elena said. “Get back to us when you have an actual theory.”

“Do
you
have a theory?” I asked.

“Nothing but the obvious. The killer sends the note. The guy who gets it is a young reporter, who decides it’s a crank and files it away. Second note comes thirty years later, and he does an ‘oh, shit.’ He can hand over both notes and take his lumps. Or he can just hide the second. He picks option B. The third note comes thirty years later again, which means our guy is long retired. Still alive? Maybe. He gets it, hides it, and after his death a family member finds it. When the call goes out for stories on Amityville, whoever has the letters decides it’s time to bring them out, maybe make some cash.”

Clay muttered something.

She spoke to him again. “Like I said, get back to us when you have a better theory. Until then—”

A clatter, phone falling. Elena retrieved it.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Flying pillow?”

“Yeah. I’ll pay him back later.” The sound of footsteps, as if she was crossing the room. A creak as she settled into Jeremy’s chair. “That’s all I’ve got. As for the killer, you have a sixty-year span between three murders. Not impossible if he started young and ended old, but that would be unusual. Real-world explanation? Father-son team, son faking the handwriting or getting Pops to write the last one. Supernatural explanation? Lots of possibilities there, none of them very plausible.”

“Vampires,” Clay said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard this time.

Elena made a rude noise in response.

“Could be,” Clay said. “Explains the timeline.”

“But not the stabbing. Beyond that? Demons, spirits, magic…the list goes on.”

It did. That was the problem.

…

When I got off the phone, Jeremy was still engrossed in his sketch. I watched him off to the side, so he wouldn’t notice. I’ve dated plenty of guys who, if they caught me looking, would have flexed and primped like a cover model. Jeremy was not one of them. He isn’t particularly shy; he’s just not good with direct attention.

He’d started undressing for bed. His shirt was off. His pants were mostly off, still on one leg, hanging over the edge of the bed, as if he’d been in the midst of removing them when he had an idea for a sketch. He was lying on the covers, which meant I had a very nice view of a very nice body. There’s nothing quite like werewolves for drool-worthy physiques. Even if, like Jeremy, they don’t work out beyond their weekly run on four legs, they have the kind of metabolism for which I’d seriously consider sacrificing virgins. Jeremy has a runner’s body, hard and lean and definitely worth some drool.

I slipped out of my dress, then crawled into bed on his other side, being careful not to disturb him. He seemed to have frozen there, only the scratch of his pencil giving him away.

I resisted the urge to reach up and brush the hair from his neck. There wasn’t much to brush anyway. Normally haircuts are one of those annoying necessities Jeremy skips as long as possible, but he’d gotten it done for my shoot. He always did, since a reporter once noticed him at one of my shows and used “bohemian” in her description. He decided that he was getting a little old for the shaggy look. I disagree. I love it when his hair gets a little long, dark locks threaded with silver, hanging boyishly in his eyes and over his collar. Sexy as hell. But if it makes him self-conscious on a shoot, I keep my mouth shut and wait for it to grow out again.

The stylist—or, more likely, the local barber—had left a bit in the back, just a small lock that curled up, as if trying to hide. I wanted so badly to tug it out. But I kept still, resting there, until the pencil scratches stopped. He lifted his head and looked around, then craned over his shoulder to see me.

“When did you finish with…?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I shifted up and leaned over him. “Can I see?”

He handed me the sketchbook without hesitation. I remember shortly after I met him, catching him drawing and asking to see it. He’d deflected and slid the book back into his bag before I could ask again. I’d been hurt by that. I’d come to realize, though, that I’d been rude to ask—it was a work-in-progress. He shared those raw beginnings only with his Pack, only if they expressed an interest.

This new sketch was of the twins, in a forest, watching a hole in a hillside. Logan lay stretched on his stomach in the long grass. Kate was perched over it, balanced precariously as she bent to look upside-down into the hole.

I smiled. “It’s adorable. Even if we know why they’re really looking in there. Sussing out a potential meal.”

“Actually, potential predatory competition. It’s a foxhole.”

I noticed the faintest outline of a snout deep in the dark hollow. “Seriously?”

“Yes. They found it when we were hiking upstate. A fox kit was in there. Cowering in terror, I think.”

I laughed. That only made the picture even more ironic. Kitsune are fox spirits. I imagine there were times, growing up surrounded by boisterous werewolves, when Jeremy felt like that fox kit, shrinking back into his hole before he got trampled.

The twins knew Jeremy and their parents were werewolves. Elena and Clay decided to tell them last winter when it became obvious Kate and Logan weren’t going to make it to teen-hood before realizing their family wasn’t quite like the other kids’.

Were they werewolves themselves? It was hard to say. Unlike Jeremy, Clay and Elena were both bitten, not hereditary werewolves. But having two werewolf parents wasn’t exactly normal either, and it was clear the kids had inherited at least some secondary characteristics. Even before they knew, they’d have been watching that foxhole, not quite sure why they found it so fascinating.

“You will do a painting of it, right?” I said as I scooted back.

“I will.”

“Personal or for sale?”

“I’d say personal, but Kate has started asking why I don’t sell any of her and Logan. I think she’s starting to feel slighted.”

“I can see that.”

“Then you’ll have to talk to her, because Mom and Dad cannot fathom why she’d ever want her picture hanging in a gallery.” He picked up the sketch. “But this would be a good one. It doesn’t show their faces, which is a must if I sell it.”

“It’ll amuse Elena, I’m sure. An adorable painting of her innocent little naturalists.”

He smiled. “Yes, she’ll like that. Perhaps I’ll use it for shows, put an exorbitant price on it, so it will never sell.”

“Oh, it will, and Kate will be thrilled that she’s worth so much.”

“She will.” He put the sketchbook on the table. “Now, if we’re done talking about the children…”

“You’re exhausted and want to sleep.”

His hand snaked over my waist, pulling me closer. “Not exactly.”

“Good.”

I slid into his arms.