Shelby knelt amongst the leaves, some freshly fallen and others busily becoming part of the forest floor detritus in the process of working its way into the woodland’s ecosystem. All of it was dusted with new snow, which Shelby brushed carefully away from the area he was examining.
“How’s that Odawa training treating you?” Mack asked. “Anything standing out?”
Mack was referring to the teachings of Old Tom, an ancient Odawa Indian who had served as something of a mentor to Shelby in the latter’s younger days. The old man had been rumored to be over a hundred years old and spent his entire life in the woods of the upper Great Lakes region. Shelby started hanging around him in high school, even playing hooky to pass his days in the wild. Most of what Shelby now knew about the forests and nature had come from the tutelage of Old Tom, and a younger Shelby had pestered him constantly to teach him more about the northern woods and water.
Shelby squinted at the forest floor and used a twig to move a few freshly fallen leaves aside.
“The most obvious characteristic of the sign I’m seeing is the absence of said sign.”
“Okay, that’s as clear as mud,” Mack said.
“Hmm. Opaque, huh? Well, if someone hauled a cannon in here for the bizarre purpose of blasting a hole in some cabin façade, you would assume there’d be some pretty obvious tracks in the ground. Cannons aren’t easy to sneak around, after all. Especially one beefy enough to make a hole that size.”
Mack nodded. “Makes sense to me. And even my untrained eye can see that the ground is pretty undisturbed.”
“At least in that drastic sense, yes,” Shelby agreed. “However, there are some signs of people moving about. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to read with any certainty. After all, apart from the ‘park rangers,’” and here Shelby made the quote sign by curving the index and middle fingers of his right hand, “there were people here to build the set, take lighting measurements, and do whatever other black magic they do in the movies. So, the footprints are a godawful mess. Really no way to tell what’s what.”
Tom Cook gave a grunt of disappointment. “So, you’re saying this was a big waste of time?”
“Not at all,” Shelby said. “I would have wanted to see the site even if I’d known the state of the trail sign. But what I’d really like to see is the house. Would it be possible to get up there today and get a look?”
Cook grimaced. “Not sure. They’re shooting today, and Gagne is pretty protective of the schedule. Since it’s you and he specifically requested your assistance, he might be willing to bend a little ... but I have to admit that I’m a little hesitant to ask.”
“The sooner the better,” Shelby pressed gently.
“Oh, very well.” The second unit director sighed. “But I hope you know that you may be forcing me to dig my own grave.”
“We’ll leave daisies.”
Cook gave the men a pained, wry smile then pulled out his phone and punched at the screen before holding the device up to his ear.
“It’s Cook. Give me Gagne.”
Pause.
“I have Mr. Alexander here and he wants to see the house today. I told him you probably wouldn’t want to be bothered, but he—”
Pause.
“Oh! Okay, that’s—”
Pause.
“Yes, sir. Very well. Bye.” Cook hung up and shot Shelby a dark look. “I was worried that he’d be upset that I bothered him but instead he was upset that I hadn’t brought you up sooner. Apparently, he’s a bigger fan of yours than I realized.”
“Well, good,” Shelby said, smothering a smile. “Let’s get moving then.”
Within twenty minutes, they were pulling up at the front entrance of the towering Victorian structure that was the Murder House. Mack looked up at it, then at Shelby.
“Cheery joint. You ever been in there?”
“Not since I was a kid,” Shelby said. “My school came here once on a field trip.”
“You went to a murder house on a field trip? School really has changed, hasn’t it? These days parents would probably sue the school district for subjecting their kids to emotional and psychological trauma.”
“To be honest, it probably wasn’t a good idea back then, either,” Shelby admitted. “Damn place gave me the creeps. I don’t remember much detail about the inside, but I sure as hell remember the horrifying sense of evil that came over me the moment we went inside.”
“Evil?”
“Absolutely. If you have any doubt that evil exists in the world, you have only to step inside this hell of a house and those doubts will flee your mind in an instant.”
Mack gave the house another look. “I mean, it certainly looks creepy, but I think most Victorian houses look at least a little haunted.”
“We’ll see how you feel once we’re inside,” Shelby said. “It’s always possible that my perception will have changed over the years. I certainly hope that’s the case anyway.”
“Okay, fellas,” Cook said. “I can’t pull up the drive because they’re getting some shots and we can’t have a vehicle parked in the way. But we can walk up quickly while they’re on break.”
“Oh, great,” Mack groaned. “More exercise. I’m going to have to practically bathe in pasta to make up for all this healthful activity.”
Shelby visibly shuddered. “Now that is an image I could have lived several lifetimes without and never regretted missing.”
“You mean my glorious naked body covered in pasta and tomato sauce?”
“Oh my god, stop it!”
Tom Cook had to stop walking for a moment to contain his high-pitched, squealing laughter. “You two are just a riot. I feel like I should pay admission every time I hear you have a conversation.”
“I take cash, credit card, and the phone number of your most attractive sister,” Mack said.
“Sorry,” Cook said, grinning. “Only child. And I don’t use credit cards.”
Mack shrugged. “Cash, then.”
The three men approached the gates that stood at the beginning of the main drive toward the house, and then Shelby suddenly stopped, causing Mack to walk straight into him.
“Jeez, Shel, get your brake lights replaced.”
“Sorry.” Shelby dug into his pocket for a moment, finally coming out with the pictures that Tom had given him of the vandalism. He flipped to the one of the spray paint job, stared at it for a minute, and then looked at the gates again.
“You notice something?” Mack asked.
“Yeah. Take a look at this.” Shelby handed him the picture.
Mack did so, then looked up at the gates, then back down at the picture, and then let out a low whistle.
“I take it you see it now?”
“Hell, yeah, I do. The insignia on the gate, the initials MP, are identical to the spray paint job, at least when you hold the picture sideways. Same font and everything. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“If it is, then I’m headed out right now to buy a lottery ticket, because the world’s gone crazy,” Shelby said. He took the picture back and stuck it into his pocket. “I knew there was something oddly familiar about it when we were at the site, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
The men continued walking and were soon heading up the inclined drive and around to an overhang that jutted out from the back of the house.
“This was where the carriage would wait for the family,” Cook said. “They say that before the new asphalt for the drive was laid down, you could still make out the ruts from the carriage wheels.”
Shelby nodded. “If they were deep enough and protected from the elements, I can believe it. Hell, there are still some places out West where you can find wagon wheel ruts from the old Oregon Trail.”
Cook approached the double doors and eased one side open. He poked his head inside and spoke with someone in low tones. He turned and waved to Shelby and Mack, who came forward and then followed the tall, thin man into the house.
Immediately upon stepping inside, Shelby began to experience the same creeping sense of foreboding that he’d felt as a young student. A chill ran up his spine, and he glanced over at Mack to see if he could detect any visible signs of discomfort. The ex-detective was looking around with great interest but didn’t appear overcome with dread.
“How are you doing?” Shelby asked.
Mack shrugged. “I mean, it’s certainly creepy, but I’m not feeling a sense of evil or anything. Maybe I’m desensitized. I saw some pretty fucked up things in Detroit.”
“Maybe,” Shelby said, not quite convinced. Yes, Mack had seen some horrifyingly graphic scenes in his day—and that had almost certainly hardened both his heart and stomach—but if anything, it had also sharpened his powers of intuition and awareness of both his surroundings and the various elements at work.
Another man, this one as short and broad as Tom Cook was tall and thin, came rumbling toward them from an adjoining room.
“Monsieur Shel-bee!” he crowed. “It ees so good to have eyes upon you!”
“Director Gagne, the pleasure is all mine,” Shelby said.
“Please, name me only Andre. None of zees ‘director’ nonsense. I am so happy you ‘ave come. How may I assist you in getting the, how do you say, reclining of the landscape?”
“You mean the lay of the land?” Shelby had to grin at the Frenchman’s enthusiasm. “Right now, I just want to look around a bit.”
“Ah, yes,” Gagne said, nodding profusely. “Always very important. I will stay out of zee way. If I may be of any assistant, please do not hesitate to ask. Otherwise, I shall be nothing more than a wall bug.”
“A fly on the wall,” Tom corrected.
“Ah, yes. Of course,” Gagne said, smiling broadly. “I shall be a wall fly.”
And with that, the director bumbled away and disappeared into the room that had originally belched him out.
Shelby watched him go, then cast a knowing look at Mack, who returned it with alacrity. The director was, to put it mildly, quite a character.
Shelby moved into the next room, a large room furnished in classic Victorian style, featuring a large fireplace with a mantelpiece containing a number of knickknacks and photographs. He moved toward it, his eye drawn to one particular photo on the far left of the mantel. He picked it up and heard Tom cough behind him.
“Oh, was I not supposed to move this?” Shelby asked.
“Well, just be sure to put it back exactly the way it was. There should be a mark. We want to maintain continuity from shot to shot and having pictures move around on their own wouldn’t do much to support the suspension of disbelief in the film.”
“Sorry,” Shelby said, feeling a bit chastised. He mentally shrugged it off though, because when he looked down at the picture he felt his heart rate increase. “Mack,” he said, the mere tone of his voice communicating his sense of urgency.
Mack moved closer. “Find something?”
“This picture.”
Mack look at it. “Looks like a solider. Civil War era, maybe.”
“Yes. I recognize the man. It’s Michael Parré. A younger version than the pictures normally used of him, but most definitely him.”
“So, he was a soldier?”
“Apparently so. I don’t remember hearing that before, but this picture would suggest exactly that. But that’s not the thing. Do you see the insignia on his forage cap?”
Mack peered closer. “Yeah, I see it, but I have to admit my knowledge of Civil War era uniform insignia is sparse at best. You’ll have to interpret for me.”
“The insignia shows two crossed field guns.”
“Okay.”
“Field guns, Mack. Artillery. Cannons. Things that make holes in walls. Michael Parré was an artilleryman in the Civil War.”
Mack stared at the picture a moment longer and then looked back at Shelby. “Okay,” he said. “I take it all back. I’m now officially freaked out.”