Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  I gazed back down at the long line of tourists happily climbing the hill behind us. ‘Merlin Jones doesn’t seem to have lost his popularity over the years either.’

  ‘And that’s exactly why J. Edgar Hoover hates him,’ stated Carole. ‘The Guild could be a potent political force again … if they only had the balls!’

  By now we’d wound our way far enough up through the foothills to be able to see a ridgeline with lights above us.

  ‘So tell us about the séance that’s supposed to happen at midnight,’ said Honeycutt, cutting to the chase.

  ‘Tonight, for the first time, the Guild is going to contact Merlin.’

  ‘They didn’t contact him before this?’ I said, a little surprised. ‘I thought that’s what spiritualists did?’

  ‘Normally, yes. But before he died Merlin instructed the Guild not to contact him until this year.’

  ‘Is it true that only the Guild Council is going to be present at the séance?’ interjected Honeycutt.

  ‘The council executive will attend the séance tonight. That means probably only five people … They can’t fit any more in Merlin’s tomb and that’s where they’re holding the séance.’

  ‘Where’s this tomb?’ Honeycutt’s features were now sharp with intent.

  ‘It’s in the middle of the Guild Cemetery. See that red-brick wall?’

  Up ahead and off to our right was a large flat area surrounded by a high wall.

  Honeycutt and I exchanged glances.

  ‘I’d like to have a look at the tomb,’ said Honeycutt.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I think we should definitely pay our respects to Merlin Jones.’

  At least a third of the crowd ahead of us was peeling off the road and in through the cemetery gates. They were all carrying cushions and blankets, and a few even had picnic baskets.

  ‘Why are so many people going into the cemetery?’ asked Honeycutt.

  ‘They want to see what happens at midnight,’ replied Carole. ‘And they want a good seat. You see, before he died, Merlin Jones told the Guild that if they waited until this year he’d find a way to provide incontrovertible proof that there is life after death.’

  34

  THE BLIGHT DOLL

  The sallow moon hung over the Guild Cemetery like a Gouda cheese jack-o’-lantern.

  When we looked through the open harp-shaped gates of the Guild Cemetery, Carole jerked to a sudden stop and wailed, ‘That unconscionable bastard!’ She was loud enough to make the visitors steer a wide path around us.

  It was a normal enough cemetery … There were tombstones, crosses and statues of angels interspersed with some stranger shaped monuments depicting creatures and symbols I didn’t recognise.

  But Carole was focused on what lay in the middle of all the masonry. It was a construction you were more likely to see at a sporting event. Six tall grandstands had been erected to form a hexagon … and half of the seats were already taken.

  ‘What’s with the grandstands?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s Osgood Quincy Bumstead, the Guild president,’ said Carole. ‘That lying son of a bitch has turned the séance into a frigging circus. I cannot believe that man!’

  ‘You said the séance was supposed to be private,’ I replied, confused.

  ‘Well it’s not going to be now,’ muttered Carole. ‘Merlin’s tomb is right in the middle of those stands.’

  I glanced at Honeycutt. He shook his head, disgusted at the sight. How the hell were we going to break into anything with that kind of audience and no prep time?

  ‘I think I want a closer look at the tomb,’ I said.

  Merlin’s mortuary precinct was slap bang in the centre of the hexagon, illuminated by four huge floodlights. Whatever was going to happen tonight, Guild president Bumstead was making sure there’d be plenty of witnesses. A massive searchlight shone up from the top of one of the grandstands and into the night sky, as though signalling to the entire city that a miracle was at hand.

  Merlin Jones’ mausoleum was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, embellished with an image straight off the Welsh national flag — a red dragon, passant. The fence enclosed a plain marble vault with one door and weeping angels mourning on each corner of the roof.

  I walked up to the wrought-iron fence … there was no easy way we were going to get in there. As I studied the tomb, in turn the three uniformed security guards inside the fence studied me.

  ‘Why are there guards here, Carole?’ asked Honeycutt from behind me.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said, perplexed.

  As we watched, a fourth uniformed guard on the outside of the fence rolled up to me. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but could you step back, please?’ He was polite but firm.

  I took a pace back and came even with Honeycutt and Carole. ‘This is all very serious.’

  Carole scowled. ‘Bumstead has a lot riding on the séance. He claims Merlin came to him in a dream and said that he’ll give the Guild a special message about their future. Bumstead believes there’s oil in the land the Guild owns in Glendale and wants to start drilling for it. But it’s sacred land … land Merlin tilled himself.’

  I glanced back at the security guards.

  Maybe Bumstead didn’t want anyone too close to the tomb because he’d set up a few little surprises for his audience. I mean, how hard could it be to rig a séance?

  ‘There’s Hubert Humbolt over there,’ said Carole with ire. She pointed at a short, plump man about to enter the tomb precinct. ‘He’s the vice president of the Guild Council and I’m going to give him a piece of my mind!’

  ‘I want to meet him,’ said Honeycutt. He knew we had to get a legitimate place at that séance; there wasn’t really any other way in.

  ‘You two go ahead,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take a look round.’

  They hurried off to catch Humbolt.

  I strolled around the fence line but couldn’t see anything of particular use. That was, until I studied the ground.

  In the past month or so, someone had dug out a thin channel that went from the tomb, under the wrought-iron fence and off to somewhere beyond the grandstands. The sod had been very carefully dug up and then equally carefully replaced.

  I checked around for guards then pulled up one of the grass clods. Beneath was a high-voltage electricity cable thick enough to light up a city block let alone a couple of light bulbs for the inside of the tomb.

  Osgood Quincy Bumstead was planning something. I wondered briefly if I could use that to blackmail our way in.

  The back of my neck began to prickle.

  I turned.

  A family shuffled past me, excited parents hauling already exhausted kids and laden with mats and …

  Then I saw it.

  A sinister black-clad figure crouched feet away, perfectly still amongst the milling throng of bright costumes. It was radioactive with hate.

  Its head was a huge chalk-white snake skull covered with a black wig.

  One of Earl’s malignant dolls had come to life … and its deadly black orbs had me in their sights.

  I instinctively took a step forward …

  The doll wheeled around and crashed its way through the throng, sending people flying.

  I swung back, searching for Honeycutt, but he was nowhere in sight.

  I tucked my long skirts into my waistband, ready to take off after the doll …

  Carole stepped into my path. ‘Kay, Daniel asked me to tell you …’ She took a look at my face. ‘What’s the matter, Kay? Are you all right?’

  Over her shoulder, I watched the doll streak out through the cemetery gates.

  ‘I have to go! Tell Daniel I’ll meet him up at Guild Hall.’

  ‘But …’ she wailed.

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  I sprinted to the gates, in time to see the black figure running up the slope towards the top of Mount Mortimer and the Guild Hall. I kept it in sight and steadily shortened the distance between us.

  The doll stopped, panting,
to check where I was. When it saw how close I’d come it veered off the cobbled main road and down a steeply sloping dirt track leading into the bushes.

  The sign next to the dirt track said, ‘Visitors are not permitted in Dead Horse Canyon. Do not enter without Guild permission’.

  There was only the moon to light the way and the steep track was pitted and windy as it descended into the canyon. I tugged out my torch and switched it on, but the track was so overgrown with bushes and scraggly trees that I quickly lost sight of the doll.

  I hit the bottom of the canyon running … And came to a confused halt.

  It was full of bonfires surrounded by chanting devotees.

  What the hell was going on here?

  There were hundreds of them. And they certainly didn’t look anything like the innocent tourists I’d seen on the cobbled road in.

  They were all in black. And God knows what they were crooning about into the flames … but it put a chill up my spine.

  I spun around, scanning the bonfire-lit canyon. The doll had disappeared …

  Stinking son of a bitch!

  They had answers … and I wanted them now!

  After twenty minutes of searching the canyon floor I realised the doll had managed to slip away. That, or they’d taken the snake-skull headdress off, hidden it and were now standing around one of the bonfires with all the other black-clad chanters.

  I studied the nearest fire. Two men were arguing, watched nervously by the rest.

  ‘No, that’s not true, Stanley!’ growled the much younger one. ‘Bumstead doesn’t have the right to stop us, just because he doesn’t agree.’

  ‘But that’s not my point, son,’ implored the other man. ‘It doesn’t matter what Bumstead thinks or says. I’m talking about what you want to do tonight. You can’t practise death magic and expect that it’s going to do you any good in the long run …’

  Stanley quit speaking as I strode up to him, intent on finding that bloody doll.

  At least he looked like he could answer my questions.

  Unlike everyone else the older man was not wearing pure black; instead he had a short brown tunic over an ordinary pair of pants and a neatly ironed shirt. His voice had been gentle but his face told a different story. It was deeply lined and pockmarked but the worst was a scar that bisected his left jaw and twisted that side of his mouth. It hurt to look at it.

  Someone, or something, had come close to ripping Stanley’s face off.

  ‘What do you need, my child?’ His eyes were as soft as his voice.

  I glanced around the fiery circle. Now that the argument had ceased, everyone had turned back to their own furtive whispers.

  ‘Sir, I’m looking for a person who just arrived in this canyon. They were in black and wearing a snake-skull headdress with a black wig.’

  The soft expression wavered. Stanley searched the other bonfires with fear. ‘There’s a Blight Doll here?’

  ‘I don’t know what they’re called, but I need to find them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my child, I haven’t seen them.’ His tone said he didn’t wish to either.

  I scanned the crowded bonfires. My chances of finding the doll now were minimal. ‘What’s a Blight Doll?’

  ‘Why on earth are you looking for one, my child, if you don’t even know what they are?’

  I studied his kind face. ‘Someone’s been sending miniature ones, anonymously, to a friend. We’re not sure what they mean. When I saw this person wearing the exact same costume tonight I wanted to find out what they were.’

  And who the hell they were!

  ‘Please don’t chase them, my child.’ He was keen to put me off my search. ‘I’ll help you instead.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’d lost them anyway. ‘So, what’s a Blight Doll?’

  ‘Blight Dolls are a modern adaptation of ancient Mayan practices …’

  ‘Mayan?’ Was this the link I was hunting for to explain Earl’s Jaguar tattoo?

  ‘They’re embodied curses, my child, vehicles to carry the maker’s spite. Someone wants to destroy your friend.’

  Hmm.

  ‘Why were you worried before … that there was a Blight Doll here in Dead Horse Canyon?’

  ‘A Blight Doll infers a serious intention to harm, to destroy. There’s already too much evil here in this canyon, my child.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s going on? Who are all these people?’

  ‘They’re here to have the séance at midnight.’

  The séance … I brightened. ‘But I thought it was to be held in Merlin Jones’ tomb … in the Guild Cemetery?’

  ‘That’s just President Bumstead’s choice of venue. The people gathered here don’t believe Merlin Jones will appear at his tomb, so they’re holding their own separate séance.’ He gazed around. ‘Besides, they have their own private agenda for what should happen.’

  Two séances?

  Which one was Renfrow actually going to? Carole said no outsiders could get into the official one, so was Renfrow coming here?

  These black-clad outsiders seemed more his kind of people anyway.

  ‘Why do they want to hold the séance here?’

  ‘It’s where Merlin Jones was murdered … And it’s the most psychically active part of the park.’ He saw my confused expression. ‘It’s haunted.’

  ‘Haunted … Sounds more like a reason to stay away.’

  ‘Not if you want to communicate with the spirits … The Guild tries to discourage anyone from coming here but the local Indians come to pay their respects to the dead, so it’s difficult to keep people out.’

  ‘So Merlin Jones is supposed to haunt this place?’ Carole never mentioned he was murdered.

  ‘Not just Merlin … There used to be an Indian village here, but many of them were massacred when the Spanish took over. Then the land passed into the hands of a Spanish soldier called Jose Felices.’ He shrugged. ‘But in the long run it didn’t do his family much good either.’

  ‘The remaining villagers fought back?’ I said.

  ‘No, another predator moved into the neighbourhood when California became US territory … Carlos Felices, the family patriarch, ran into trouble proving his land title with the new authorities. He had to hire a Yankee lawyer. Carlos won the case but five years later the whole Felices family was found slaughtered … here in Dead Horse Canyon.’ Stanley pursed his lips.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘The Yankee lawyer also drew up Carlos’ will … and got the estate.’

  He nodded. ‘The locals reported seeing the ghosts of the Felices family in the canyon. After that no one would come here … That was, until two years later when the lawyer’s own wife went missing.’

  ‘And they found her body here.’ What the hell was wrong with this place?

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You said Merlin Jones was murdered …?’

  ‘When the Yankee lawyer’s wife was found dead the local sheriff refused to do anything about it. Said she’d killed herself. Merlin Jones spoke out against the lawyer and … his battered body was found here, just like the wife’s …’

  I scanned the strained visages lit by the bonfires — every now and again one of them would surreptitiously search the shadows behind them.

  Yeah, it felt wrong. These people shouldn’t be here.

  Stanley was right. This was bad karma.

  ‘So how will this séance be held?’ I said. If it was out in the open that solved my access problem.

  ‘They’ll gather in a circle around that.’ He indicated the largest bonfire. It was unlit, standing ready. ‘That’s where Merlin’s body was found. They’ll summon his spirit at midnight.’

  ‘Will people be able to ask questions?’ If they couldn’t Lewis Renfrow wouldn’t be interested.

  ‘Yes, anyone can.’

  Bingo!

  If Renfrow was coming to this séance we were going to be fine.

  I turned to go, then stopped.

  ‘Stanley, when I arrived you were
arguing with that other man about death magic. What exactly are they planning to do?’

  ‘They all believe Merlin Jones was a powerful wizard … with many secret rituals he could pass on. If he doesn’t appear at midnight these people are going to use death magic to raise him. They will use a living sacrifice.’

  35

  THE GUILD BALL

  Honeycutt and Carole were waiting next to the signpost for Guild Hall.

  ‘Kay!’ Carole waved. ‘Over here.’

  Honeycutt smiled and made politely relieved noises. He was so furious the smile showed his canines.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said to Carole, then gave Honeycutt a meaningful glare. ‘I saw one of Earl’s friends from Paris in the cemetery and just had to talk to them.’

  ‘Which particular friend are we talking about, Kay?’ said Honeycutt through clenched white teeth.

  ‘The one that keeps sending Earl those cute little black dolls I told you about.’

  Honeycutt got the reference and shut up.

  I took his arm. ‘I’ll tell you about them later.’

  We walked on in silence, then Carole said, ‘There it is … Guild Hall.’

  The road had spiralled around and there was a sprawling old Gothic Revival stone edifice, part Norman castle, part medieval church, ahead of us.

  You didn’t know whether to murmur prayers in it or lay siege to it.

  Guild Hall had false battlements and deep-set windows cross-hatched with iron frames. The steep pitched roof was covered in stone spires, carved pinnacles and tall thin chimneys that made the building seem to stretch up into the night sky. Every light in the place was on except for the far end of the east wing.

  It was a huge monstrosity and looked like it should have a stormy, lightning-filled backdrop, screaming bats in the belfry, and at least one resident ghoul that came out to complain at the stroke of midnight.

  Well, the park was very close to Hollywood …

  I peered up at the winged gargoyles crouched on the roof ready to pounce.

  They didn’t. So we went in.

  We showed our invitations to the doorman; they were cards engraved with a harp-playing angel on the top right corner. He gave Honeycutt’s uniform a quizzical glance but let us through without comment.