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.
“Gerhard, darling?”
The man shook his head.
“This camera of yours, does it photograph vampires, too?”
“The Percipience Camera should indeed be able to capture images of vampires, werewolves, and similar phenomena involving spiritual dislocation.”
Betts leaned back in his seat, rolling out a wet lower lip and placing a finger on his chin, which Gannon had learned meant he was thinking. He turned to her. “Wendy, while we’re at it, we might as well grab some footage on these murders.” He stared off into space. “The Savannah Vampire... who knows where it might lead?”
“Sure,” said Wendy. It did make sense, “demon-haunted Savannah” and all that.
Betts turned and yelled down the hall. “Hey, Marty! Come here!”
Martin Vladimirovich was the crew’s long-suffering researcher-assistant. He appeared a moment later from his cubicle down the hall. He always looked like he’d just woken up, his hair flattened along one side. Sleepy and disheveled seemed to be the style, Gannon thought, among twenty-somethings, perhaps as a way to show they didn’t give a shit. But underneath that veneer, Marty was a smart and capable researcher.
“Go find out everything you can about any local vampire legends,” said Betts. “You know — history, lore, victims, all that shit.”
“Yes, Mr. Betts.”
“And if you don’t find anything, or if it’s dull... well, you know what to do.”
“Yes, Mr. Betts.” And he shuffled back down the hall.
Betts went on. “You know, with this happening right in the middle of filming, it might even make for a great through-line. Maybe we could get a bunch of Percipience photos of ghosts or whatever at one of the murder scenes — right, Gerhard?”
“Perhaps.”
“Great! Hell, maybe we could even solve the case with that camera. Think about that. This isn’t some ghostly haunting that’s a hundred years old — this is something going on today.” He turned to Gannon. “We’ve got a police scanner radio, right?”
“Of course.” A scanner was obligatory equipment for a film crew in a city.
“Tomorrow, let’s shoot some footage of the cops and the investigation. When Marty digs up some background, we can shoot at some of those locations, too. Think about it, darling: two bodies, sucked dry of blood. You never know where this is going. It could be big, and I mean big.”
10
Francis Wellstone Jr., slowed his brisk walk as he eyed the numbers over the stately front doors flanking West Oglethorpe Avenue. Sixty-seven, sixty-three... there it was: a neocolonial manse with just the right amount of genteel craquelure over the stone façade. It could have been a film set lifted right out of Jezebel.
He adjusted his tie — damn, he’d forgotten how humid Savannah was — cleared his throat, and ascended the steps. As he rang the doorbell, he caught a reflection of himself in the frosted glass: the hair with just a touch of gray, the faint patrician lines coming out at the edges of his eyes: a visage that over the years had graced so many television interviews. Odd, he thought, that he wasn’t recognized more frequently on the street.
There was a bustle from inside, and then the door opened to reveal a well-preserved woman, perhaps seventy years old, makeup carefully done, white hair tinged a shade of lavender, clothes expensive enough to artfully conceal a good twenty extra pounds.
“Mr. Wellstone!” she said, her eyes running up and down his suit.
“Mrs. Fayette?”
“Please call me Daisy.”
“Only if you’ll call me Frank.”
“It’s a deal!” And with something between a curtsy and a passé relevé, she ushered him through the entryway, along a short hall, and into a parlor that instantly gladdened his heart. It was straight out of Tennessee Williams, down to the antimacassars, portraits of dead Confederates, and a mantle of dust. A bow window looked down over West Oglethorpe, its fringed curtains filtering the beams of morning light. An ornate bookshelf was set against the interior wall, and Wellstone gave it a habitual glance as he passed by. A moment later, as he took the proffered seat in an overstuffed wing chair, he realized he needn’t have bothered: the coffee table in front of him proudly displayed four of his books. Two, he was pleased to see as he set down his briefcase, were recent, published in the last decade; Malice Aforethought was there as well, of course; and the other, he noticed with annoyance, bore a remainder stamp on the text block.