The Unholy. Heather Graham

      1

      Madison Darvil wasn’t really awake when the phone rang. She was in that delightful stage of half sleep, when the alarm had gone off…but the snooze button was on and she had a few minutes to lie lazily in the comfort of her bed before rising. Her phone was loud and strident. She rolled over groping for it, swearing softly as it dropped to the floor and she had to lean down to get it, banging her head on the bedside table.

      “Shit!” she muttered, and was further humiliated when she realized she’d hit Answer as she’d picked up the phone—and the caller had heard her.

      “Hello?” she said frowning. Seven thirty-three. Who was calling this early?

      She could hear a soft chuckle, and then someone clearing his throat. “Madison?”

      Inwardly, she groaned.

      “Yes, Alfie?” Alfie Longdale was her assistant at the studio. She loved the fact that she had an assistant and she loved Alfie. One day, he was going to rule the world, his eye for detail was so exceptional.

      “You don’t have to come in this morning. In fact, you can’t come in.”

      Her heart seemed to sink to her knees. Had someone suddenly decided she was really a fake? That, despite her training, degree and experience, she was just a kid who played at working on the movies?

      “What…what—?”

      Alfie’s voice became hushed. “There was a murder last night! In the tunnel. Lord, Madison, Alistair Archer was arrested for murder! Some little starlet he had the hots for—they say her throat was slit from ear to ear. She’s dead, Madison. And Eddie Archer’s kid is saying that an Egyptian mummy—you know, the priest in the original Sam Stone movie, a monster—came down from one of the tableaux to commit the bloody carnage!”

      Alfie was being dramatic. He was dramatic. But right now, what he’d said wasn’t registering.

      A mummy? A monster? Alfie had to be making it up. Monsters were what they did, what they created, quite frequently. Well, superheroes, giant rats for commercials, cute little pigs and other such creatures. But horror was big; horror movies could be reasonable in cost and make massive amounts of money.

      “Alfie, is this—”

      “No! It is not some kind of joke. It is not a movie script. Madison, it’s real. A woman was killed in our tunnel. Anyway, the crime scene units are there today, and Eddie Archer’s closed the entire place. No one goes in until the police have finished with the tunnel, the security tapes, the studio—you name it. Anyway, I was up last night when it all hit the news. And Eddie Archer looked white—I mean, white as a ghost!—when they showed him on film. He said he wants the police to have complete access to everything because he’s going to find out what really happened—his son is not a murderer!”

      Alfie was telling the truth. As shocking as it was, she knew he was telling the truth.

      Madison felt her heart break for Eddie Archer. He was such a good man.

      Alistair was a good kid, too. Could he have snapped and killed someone?

      No.

      She couldn’t accept that. He was too nice and decent, even shy.

      “A monster,” she repeated. “You mean—the Egyptian priest, the killer from Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum?”

      “Exactly! Is that movie stuff or what? Everyone suspects The Unholy is a remake of that movie, but most people don’t know for sure. And now, right in front of that tableau…a real murder! Anyway, I thought I’d call because if you show up at work, you’ll be sent home. This way, you might be able to get some more sleep.”

      Madison wrinkled her face at the phone, as if she could convey her expression to Alfie. What? Go back to sleep now?

      “Thanks, Alfie. Thanks for letting me know. I’m sure I’ll get tons of extra sleep.”

      “Keep me posted if you hear more,” Alfie said. He seemed not to notice her sarcasm.

      “Ditto,” she said, and ended the call.

      She crawled out of bed, drawing an indignant meow from Ichabod, curled up at the foot of the bed. “Sorry, my friend,” she told the cat, hurrying out to the parlor of her old rented bungalow and switching on the TV, going from channel to channel until she found a news station covering the murder.

      The information Alfie had given her was true. The news showed the crime tape blocking off the cinema and the studio, then cut to an earlier interview with Eddie Archer in front of the courthouse. He denied his son’s culpability, and swore that he’d learn the truth behind the shocking murder.

      Mike Greenwood, creative head of the studio and Madison’s supervisor, stood beside him. When Eddie finished speaking, Mike stepped up to the microphone. He reasserted what Eddie had said, that the truth would be discovered and, while Alistair had been arraigned for the murder, the D.A.’s office had acted only on what appeared to be the case—not what was. They would work toward his release, and by the middle or end of the week, when the police had gone over every inch of the place, Archer’s Wizardry and Effects would be back in business. They would move forward with their various projects while the investigation continued. Mike spoke so earnestly, he silenced the spate of questions that should have arisen. He seemed concerned, but in control.

      Mike was a steady man, excellent in stressful situations. Whenever they were on a tight deadline, Mike was the one who calmed down everyone at the studio, assuring them that, step by step, they’d get it all done.

      Eddie had acted with his usual composure, but Madison felt so sorry for him.

      Eddie, nearing fifty, was still fit, but his face bore the tension of sorrow. As Alfie had said, he looked white as a sheet. He’d run his fingers through his graying hair repeatedly as he spoke, his words calm but determined.

      She was still staring at the TV in disbelief when her phone rang again. She’d left it in the bedroom, and raced to retrieve it, thinking it would be Mike Greenwood giving her the message that Alfie had already conveyed.

      Her “Hello?” was breathless.

      “Madison?”

      The caller wasn’t Mike Greenwood. It was Eddie Archer himself.

      “Eddie!” she said. “Oh, Eddie, I’m so sorry.”

      “Then you’ve heard.”

      “Yes.”

      “Alistair didn’t do it.”

      “I believe that, Eddie. With my whole heart.”

      “Thank