Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(74)
Another group of people came out, among them that cute DP, everyone toting camera equipment. The muscle-bound bastard who had pushed him in the restaurant loaded it in the back of a second van and slammed the doors. They all piled inside, laughing and talking.
Wellstone’s curiosity went up a notch. They were going on a shoot. But at this time of night? Why the hurry? Nothing like a new murder had happened…at least, not that he knew of.
Almost without thinking, he started the car. The vans went off in a screech. A moment later, Wellstone’s car eased away from the curb and began to trail them.
49
WELLSTONE FOLLOWED THE TWO vans through the narrow streets of Savannah, negotiating a snarling mass of detours and police barricades caused by some political rally, until at last all three vehicles were moving freely along Skidaway Road. He realized they must be heading to the cemetery, and sure enough, within minutes the vans took the turn onto Bonaventure Road and pulled into the parking lot at the cemetery welcome center. Wellstone drove past the stone gates, then parked on a nearby side street. He grabbed his Canon with its 200mm telephoto lens and walked back to the cemetery entrance. The vans had left the parking lot and were inside the cemetery now, heading slowly down one of the graveled lanes. They disappeared among the oaks, but Wellstone wasn’t concerned: he was certain they were heading to the same place as before—the site of the boy’s abduction.
It was a pleasant evening in the cemetery, the dying light throwing long shadows over the silent tombs. But Wellstone was in no mood to enjoy the peace. This was his last chance. He was going to bird-dog those bastards, Betts and Moller, until he had proof of fraud.
The cemetery was large, and it was close to half a mile to where he finally spotted the vans: parked where he expected at the far end of a lane, in the old part of the cemetery. He approached cautiously. As far as he could tell, there were no tourists or other visitors. The place was deserted. Normally it closed at sunset, but it looked like Betts had obtained permission to film past then.
Moving closer, he saw there was no one in or near the vans. The crime-scene tape had been taken down from the area, and this corner of the cemetery had been restored to its former desuetude and abandonment. So where were they? He located the tomb of the angel with upraised arm, where the abduction had occurred—but there was no one there, either.
He paused to listen. And now, in the gathering silence, he heard faint voices coming from the overgrown area beyond the angel. He moved closer. Crouching and peering from behind a tomb, he realized the group had penetrated the abandoned section of the cemetery. Keeping out of sight, he worked his way closer until he had a clear view of the crew. They were busily setting up lights and a generator near an old mausoleum, overgrown with vines, door partly open. The generator fired up. And there was Moller, the charlatan: suitcase open, black velvet spread over the ground, laying out his bogus equipment.
Wellstone settled down behind a large tombstone, camera in hand, and waited with anticipation. Since they thought they were alone, they might feel freer to engage in open fakery. The 200mm f/2 telephoto lens on his Canon R5 would be able to capture almost anything, even in low light. And there was always the chance they might have some other plan in mind that would, even temporarily, leave Moller’s camera exposed. If he had the chance, this time he’d just take the damn thing and run—later he could work out any necessary excuses.
The golden light disappeared from the upper tree branches and the cemetery filled with twilight. Now they began filming. It was obviously just B-roll at first, establishing shots among the gravestones. Moller was still messing around with his equipment. Betts and the muscleman were pushing on the door of the mausoleum, trying to get it to open farther. He watched as they tapped on the hinges with hammers and tried to force it using a crowbar—a disgraceful violation of the privacy of the dead. Their faint curses echoed through the tombs. But the door refused to be forced.
Having no success, the two of them went deeper into the abandoned area while the rest of the crew remained behind, shooting B-roll. Rising, camera in hand, Wellstone followed the pair at a cautious distance. He looped around, then drew closer as it became easier to stay hidden in the thick brush. Here the tombs were even older and unkempt, many listing or broken. Looming through the vegetation ahead, he could now see a semiruined mausoleum, incongruously large. As he crept closer, he saw that it was constructed in the Gothic style, surrounded by a wrought iron fence of spikes, gate open. The bronze door that once shut up the mausoleum lay on the ground, leaving a gaping rectangle of darkness in its place. The mausoleum had been neglected even by the standards of this decayed region of the cemetery: its granite construction was cracked, streaked with damp and covered with splotches of lichen. Ivy climbed up its face. High on either side, the mausoleum had windows that, instead of glass, were covered by a grillwork of bronze. Marble urns had once decorated the pediments on either side of the door, but they had fallen and were scattered about the ground in pieces.
Wellstone watched as Betts and the muscleman ducked through the hanging vines and went inside the mausoleum. For a few minutes, he could see their flashlights flicking around. Then they came out, looking pleased, and began walking back to where the crew was filming. Wellstone followed at a distance.
The B-roll shooting was apparently finished. He could hear Betts talking enthusiastically about the location they’d just found, giving orders to break everything down and move it to the new site.