Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(12)
The crew had arrived in Savannah several days ago to shoot an episode for their new, high-profile Netflix documentary mini-series, provisionally titled America’s Most Haunted Cities. It had sounded like an interesting project when she’d signed the contract, in a town she’d always wanted to visit. Betts had a reputation for being difficult to work with, but that was true with most directors, and Gannon prided herself on getting along with just about anyone. The town was indeed fabulous. It was one of the few places left in America that had retained a special local flavor, and had resisted the numbing effect of fast-food chains, gas stations, and big-box stores. It was a DP’s dream, a wonderful place to shoot, with mists rising in the early morning among the oaks draped in Spanish moss, the soft light in the evening gilding the grand old mansions, cobbled streets and charming squares—all on a bluff above a slow-moving river. The idea of the show was pretty intriguing, too. They were going to investigate the six most haunted places in Savannah with none other than Gerhard Moller, the famous medium, paranormal researcher, and founder of the Institute for Perceptual Studies. Moller was the inventor of the Percipience Camera—said to be able to capture pictures of ghosts or, as Moller called them, “spiritual turbulences”—as well as other spook-detecting devices. Each segment of the show would be devoted to investigating a single haunted locality to see if there really were ghosts and, if so, to document them using the Percipience Camera and other gadgets.
Gannon was pretty sure this was all a big steaming load of horseshit, but you never knew. She wasn’t even sure whether Betts bought into it, although he seemed to. But if there really were ghosts, this was the place they’d be hanging out. She might even capture one on video. What a coup that would be.
Barclay Betts…She’d worked with egomaniacs before, but she had to admit that he was a good director and anchor. He knew what he wanted and was on top of everything. His directions to her were clear, and he had an overall vision for the look and feel of the show that meshed with her own. True, he was a narcissistic asshole with a long memory and a penchant for lawsuits. But if the truth be told, she’d rather have a guy like Betts than a nice director who didn’t know what he wanted and had no clear vision. She’d worked with plenty of those, and they were far worse than a loudmouth jackass like Betts.
The annoyed noises came to an end, and a moment later Barclay Betts strolled into the studio, followed by the talent, Gerhard Moller. The two together were quite a sight, Abbott and Costello reborn. Moller was tall, silent, and handsome in a cadaverous sort of way. He looked a lot like Peter Cushing, with an expression of deep seriousness, as if pondering the end of the world. Betts, on the other hand, was round. Everything about him was rotund, from the spectacles and head to the deep, plump voice. He rarely stopped talking and moving, as restless as a large round rat in a small square box. But he had that thing all anchors must possess: charisma. Even though he wasn’t physically prepossessing, when he walked into a room, you could feel it right away.
“These dailies, there’s a problem with the exposure,” Betts said, launching into more criticism. “Look, darling, I want you to expose half a stop lower, so that we can get more saturation and a darker feel. It’s too bright. This isn’t a Travel Channel informercial, this is demon-haunted Savannah. You understand what I’m saying?”
This annoyed Gannon, because she was of the philosophy that exposure manipulation was best saved for later, that it was better to give post properly exposed video. But it wasn’t something worth disagreeing about—not with Betts.
“Right,” she said. “Noted. Good point.”
He patted her knee. “Good girl.”
It was almost laughable how retrograde he was. Frankly, she didn’t give a shit about being called a “girl” or having him pat her knee: Betts wasn’t a harasser. In fact, his sexuality was quite mysterious—he could very well be gay, straight, bi, asexual. Which was maybe a good thing, since all his energy went into making the provocative and controversial documentary films for which he was both infamous and renowned. The critics, of course, hated him.
Barclay Betts now turned to Moller. “Don’t you agree? Demon-haunted Savannah. I like that. Let’s use that phrase tomorrow. In fact, that could be our new working title for the series.”
“Mr. Betts,” said Moller, his voice carrying with it a faint Teutonic accent, “may I ask when we are going to investigate a haunting? We have been here for days and have yet to inspect a single locality with spiritual turbulences.”
“Don’t worry, Gerhard, your star turn is coming soon. We’re scheduled at the Hamilton-Turner Inn on Friday. Right now, we’re shooting B-roll and background, just ironing out the kinks. We’d be further ahead if it weren’t for that damned murder investigation and the blocked streets.”
Moller didn’t respond.
“Crazy thing. Two people with their blood stolen,” Betts went on, flopping down in a chair. “Really sucks, you know what I mean?”
If he expected a laugh from Moller, he was mistaken. Gannon figured the man hadn’t laughed once in his entire life. But she obliged with a chuckle.
“Thank you,” said Betts. “I mean, I did overhear somebody mention something about a ‘Savannah Vampire.’ You know anything about that?”
“No,” said Gannon.