Now the scene was ready. Moller pulled out the silver dowsing wand. He began prowling the area as the cameras rolled, holding out the wand with shaky arms while the mists swirled about him. The wand seemed to pull him insistently toward the open door of the mausoleum as if possessed. “There is something evil here!” He could hear Moller’s expostulations. “Sehr teuflisch! Evil, evil! In the crypt!”
Almost trembling with glee, Wellstone got the whole thing on video, making sure to show the lights, the fog machine, Betts’s hand directions, the orders of the DP. Although Moller made a show of remaining independent, it was nevertheless staged—all staged. He then set up his wooden camera and took some photos, no doubt fakes like the previous ones. At this point, Wellstone realized that he might not even need the camera’s SD cards: this footage would be sufficient to expose what a sham the whole thing was. This might be the very story he needed, dropped right in his lap. His excitement and interest mounted when he realized that they were going to do a second take, and a third, shooting the same scene multiple times. If that wasn’t a demonstration of fraud, what could be?
After the third take, Betts seemed satisfied. Instead of packing up, he ordered the crew around, setting up another shot. This one, it seemed, was going to take place inside the mausoleum. The DP and crew moved the lights near the tomb’s outside wall, high up on their tripods, so that they shone through the grillwork windows, illuminating the interior of the crypt.
Wellstone shifted his position to get a better view. The lighting, coming through the grillwork, cast a patchwork of crazy shadows inside. Very effective. He took more photos and video clips while they set everything up.
Now the second shoot began. Moller allowed his wand to lead him into the mausoleum. This was accompanied by a lot of jerking and trembling. Pausing inside the door, Moller proclaimed Evil! Evil! in his deep voice, the silver wand jumping in his grasp. They did four takes—but of course, in the hands of a good film editor, it would look seamless and convincing. That didn’t matter: Wellstone had the goods, the smoking gun. He was capturing a record of bogus paranormal sausage being made. This wouldn’t just be a cap to his book, he realized. This footage could expose, on television and in the lecture hall, just how these phonies worked. More than that: it could itself make a fine documentary about paranormal fraud.
He wondered if Betts would appreciate that irony.
Now they broke down the set a third time, moving their shoot deeper within the mausoleum. Unspooling power cables from the generator, they brought the lights inside. A fogger was moved up to the door, pumping mist into the yawning cavity. Night had fallen: a black night, the moon hidden behind clouds. A chill wind began to blow. Wellstone wondered how they were all going to fit into the little stone temple. But when the lights inside grew fainter, he realized with surprise that the mausoleum must have a second level, with a passageway going down to a larger space below. This must be why Betts had been so pleased: it was like a ready-made set for his sham production.
When the entire crew was inside, Wellstone moved swiftly up through the trees, pressing himself against the rear wall of the mausoleum. Obviously, this was where the biggest fraud of all would take place: where Moller and his bogus equipment would film the fake vampire, or whatever other images he’d prepared for this evening’s work.
Standing on tiptoe at one of the windows, looking in at an awkward angle, he began shooting video of what was going on inside.
50
COLDMOON AWOKE FROM A nightmare involving large trees, toboggans, and lumberjacks in plaid work shirts chasing him with axes. A hand was gently shaking his shoulder. He came partially awake—Christ, he was tired—but was pleased to find it had been only a dream. The figure silhouetted in golden light, gently prodding him with soft fingers, was extremely attractive. Perhaps he could dive from one kind of dream into a very different one.
But the silhouette wouldn’t let him alone, and with a groan and a mumbled curse, Coldmoon became fully conscious. In the gloom, he could see that the sylphlike figure waking him was Constance Greene.
“Yes?” he croaked.
“Pendergast needs you,” came the contralto voice. “Both of us.”
Coldmoon checked his watch. “Now? I just finished two cross-country flights for the guy.”
“Get dressed, please, and come down to the hotel’s library.”
Coldmoon sat up, then flopped back down again with another groan.
“If you’re there in five minutes,” Constance said, “and sufficiently presentable, I’ll get you some pejúta sápa.”