Night of the Pentagram Page 2

  Inside she groped for the wall switch. The room came alive with light.

  At first she was unable to comprehend what she saw. It was something off of the set of a horror movie, but instead of the elegant artistry of black and white tones, this was a blazing white nightmare drenched in Technicolor blood. Sven’s twisted body was hacked and slashed in what seemed a thousand places. A swath of blood outlined the path where he had crawled across the floor before he died. Spatters of blood littered every surface of the room. Above the couch was the most evil thing she had ever seen, a pentagram, the blood used to paint it running in fresh rivulets down the wall.

  Later the neighbors would say her screams could be heard echoing throughout the canyon.

  The police said they had found her with her arms wrapped around the corpse, wailing and babbling incoherently. They grilled her relentlessly while she was in the hospital. Did Sven have any enemies? Where was she while the murder took place? Did she have a history of mental illness? Was her husband having an affair? Was she having an affair? Did they use drugs? Were they involved with witchcraft? On and on until it became unbearable.

  The doctors pumped her full of Lithium so that she could make it through the funeral without another breakdown. The cops stood at the periphery of the cemetery, suspicious eyes watching her from behind black sunglasses. Did they suppose she was going to make a run for it? She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. She felt like a criminal.

  When the screenwriter Scottie Ferguson was also murdered with a similar pentagram painted in his blood on the walls of his Beverly Hills apartment, the cops finally backed down. When cinematographer Peyton Mills was also killed, the cops realized they had a serial killer on their hands. The press had given him a nickname: the Pentagram Killer.

  Gavin was instrumental in having the house on Mulholland Drive redecorated. “You’ll hardly recognize it,” he promised. The walls had been repainted, the carpeting replaced, new furniture replaced the old in a dramatically different arrangement. When Elizabeth was finally released from the hospital, she thought she was strong enough to continue living in the house by herself. Within a matter of days she found herself in the sterile hospital surroundings once again with no memory of how she had gotten there. She learned from the doctors that she had been found curled up beneath a palm tree beside the swimming pool on a neighbor’s property.

  She spent two weeks in an extended stay motel off of Ventura where an eighty- year-old bodybuilder with cracked leather skin lifted weights by the pool. Elizabeth watched him from behind the drawn curtains of her room. He was there from sun-up until late in the evening. If he wasn’t pumping barbells, he was swimming in that obscene white Speedo he wore. At least the sight of him kept the tourists and the kids away from the pool.

  After two weeks pacing in her little room, her friends Diane and Camilla insisted that Elizabeth come stay with them while she searched for a new place to live. Six months later the house on Mulholland Drive was still on the market. It might be years before anyone forgot it had been the site of the gruesome Lindstrom murder.

  As pre production on Masquerade began in early fall, the blackouts came less and less frequently, as did the awakenings in hospital rooms. Now there were only momentary pockets of darkness when Elizabeth would suddenly snap to awareness with a sense of confusion and lost time. Both Gavin and Kirk were concerned about the state of her mental health, but in the end she was able to convince them that being able to tap into the horror she had experienced discovering her husband’s murder was exactly what was needed in the part of Roxanne to make it as realistic as possible.

  “Unfortunately, the news hit the papers this morning. There were plenty of reporters hanging around the set and you made quite a scene when they hauled you back to your trailer. Elizabeth York Cracks Up On Set.” Gavin exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air. “The studio is talking about finding a replacement.”

  “No!” Elizabeth said. “They can’t do that, can they? I mean, I’m under contract.”

  “They can and will do whatever they want. It’s always been that way. Maybe they’re just making threats, but let’s face it, Elizabeth. You’re becoming a liability. This is the second time you’ve flaked out on set. Of course, if they do pull you off the production, we’ll take them to court. Two years down the road we’ll get a nice settlement from the studio from profits made on Masquerade, but taking them to court won’t bring back the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  And that was the worst of it.

  “Have I told you yet that you look like hell?”

  “Thanks, Gavin. You’re a real sweetheart.”

  “I’m worried about you, Elizabeth.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s what you said the last time.”

  “I can’t lose that part, Gavin, you know that.”

  “I have a meeting with Bancroft and the producers tomorrow morning. Production has temporarily shut down, but they’re scrambling to rearrange the shooting schedule to continue on without you until you return to the set. Or until a replacement is found. I hear Faye Dunaway is available”

  “Oh no, not Faye Dunaway!”

  “Lucky for us, budget restraints are in our favor. Faye will cost a hell of a lot more than you, plus there will be the added expense of re-shooting every piece of footage already filmed with you in it.”

  “This can’t be real. I have to keep working, Gavin, or –”

  “Or what?”

  “I’ll lose my mind.”

  “That’s the problem, baby. You’re already losing your mind.”

  “Look, can’t you tell them something? Anything? You and I both know I can’t lose that part.”

  Gavin tapped ashes into a vase filled with flowers.

  “Elizabeth, I’ll be frank with you. The studio heads are recommending that you be committed for observation.”

  Elizabeth’s voice rose in pitch. “Committed? You mean to an asylum? I’m not crazy, Gavin.”

  “Consider their point of view.”

  “I won’t do it, I won’t. Gavin, you know how I feel about those places. I’ll start seeing a psychiatrist, if that’s what they want.”

  “One hour a week won’t facilitate a speedy recovery.”

  “Speedy recovery from what? I may be having a nervous breakdown, but that doesn’t mean I am…” she sputtered, unwilling to release the word, “insane.”

  “Stop yelling, Elizabeth. I’m on your side. At this point I may be the only person who is.”

  “What about Kirk?”

  “He’s rooting for you as well. He doesn’t want Faye Dunaway. He wants you. But the studio pulls the strings on this picture and Kirk Bancroft will deliver the film no matter what. That’s the bottom line, baby.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and breathed slowly and evenly, willing herself to be calm. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “There is one possibility. You may not like it, but at least hear me out before you start jumping to conclusions.”

  “Tell me. What is it? I’m willing to try anything.”

  “Have you heard anything about the Abernathy Clinic?”

  “No. What is that?”

  “It’s a new clinic that some hot shot young psychiatrist established that specializes in treatment for Hollywood insiders and other high profile celebrities. He has a successful track record in curing everything from common phobias to deeply rooted psychopathologies.”

  “That’s half of the industry right there.” Elizabeth managed a weak laugh.

  “This Abernathy fellow apparently has some connections to Hollywood, but his credentials are mostly European. From what I gather he was born in the States but did most of his studies abroad. They say he uses a number of unorthodox therapies and medications in his treatment.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s some sort of dope fiend.”

  Gavin cocked an eyebrow. “His client list is highly confidential, which I’m sure you can appreciate. But I am aware of a handf
ul of people in the business who have returned from the Abernathy Clinic fully recovered from all sorts of psychiatric disorders.”

  Her curiosity was aroused. “Are any of them your own clients?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  Elizabeth’s fingers pinched her bottom lip. “Tell me more.”

  “There’s not much more to tell. The clinic is in an old mansion called La Casa del Mar, one of those Spanish things you see crawling all over the place around here. It’s out in Malibu, right there by the beaches. It’s got a fantastic view. As I said, Dr. Abernathy’s methods are somewhat unorthodox. You won’t find any padded cells or hydrotherapy baths there. The place is run like a hotel. You would feel more like a guest than a patient.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “I have. I found it charming in an old fashioned sort of way. It’s somewhat isolated and a little bit spooky after dark, maybe, but that’s part of its old world appeal.”

  “How long would I have to be there?”

  “I can’t say at the moment. Let me get back to my office. I’ll make a few phone calls this afternoon, and meet with the big bosses first thing in the morning. We’re having lunch at Chasen’s, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll come here as soon as we’ve finished and let you know their decision. What do you say?”

  “If I can keep the part, then yes, I’ll go to this mystery house by the sea.”

  *****

  That was Thursday evening. The following morning Gavin returned as promised. The deal was set. He had made arrangements for Elizabeth to be accepted for treatment at the Abernathy Clinic for six weeks, based on the doctors at Cedars-Sinai’s diagnosis that she was suffering from nervous anxiety punctuated by intermittent trauma-induced amnesia. The production schedule for Masquerade would be rearranged in order to continue principal photography without her, using a body double whenever possible. The crew would take an extended break for the holidays at the end of December anticipating that Elizabeth would rejoin the production fresh after the first of the year.

  The taxi pulled into the driveway of Camilla and Diane’s home late Monday morning. Elizabeth said goodbye to Camilla, hugged Diane, and slid into the backseat of the cab, a pair of large black sunglasses on her face despite the fact that the late November day was gray and overcast. As the car turned from the Santa Monica Freeway onto the Pacific Coast Highway, she felt her heartbeat quicken. She squeezed a wadded handkerchief in her fist. This was it. There was no turning back now.

  As the cab continued along the coast highway the driver attempted several times to make idle chatter with Elizabeth, commenting about the weather and the view. Elizabeth was deep in thought. Besides, the ocean was nothing new, and the overcast day did little to heighten its appeal. It was not a good day for tanning along the beaches, but the waves were high and there were dozens of surfers in skin tight body suits riding the waves. The drive wound along the scenic coast-line for twenty some miles, and then with a sharp turn to the right began its ascent into the hills. Elizabeth closed her eyes, willing herself to relax.

  Without warning the taxicab took a sharp swerve to the left, knocking Elizabeth against the door of the cab. The driver swore and blasted the car horn several times in rapid succession. Elizabeth saw a sleek red sports car speed ahead of them.

  “Show off in his fancy foreign car,” the driver muttered. The cab had veered off into a ditch and the driver gunned the motor and spun the wheels several times before the car decided to right itself up onto the roadway once again and continue its ascent toward the Abernathy Clinic.

  And then she saw it: La Casa del Mar. It wasn’t much to look at. It was a great sprawling villa in the Spanish Colonial Revival style that was so popular in Southern California in the twenties and thirties. Elizabeth had been in any number of similar homes over the years, but she had never seen anything this imposing. The house perched above them, a deformed child, unloved and abandoned, doomed to live out its days on a lonely cliff overlooking the sea.

  Chapter Two

  The cab pulled up to an ornate wrought iron gate and the driver reached out to press the button on an intercom box. Elizabeth tilted her head against the window and noticed a camera mounted high on the gate post. She could not make out what the tinny voice was saying, but the cab driver announced the arrival of Miss Elizabeth York. A moment later she heard a buzzing sound and the gate swung open for them to enter the grounds of La Casa del Mar.

  Close up, the house looked even more imposing. A curved drive wound gracefully around an old fountain that was overrun by a wild tangle of bougainvillea. There was a small handful of cars parked along the driveway, among them the red sports car which had nearly run them off the road. Elizabeth fought back her annoyance that another visitor to the Abernathy Clinic would drive reckless enough to force someone else off the road. She reminded herself that this was, in spite of outward appearances, a mental facility, so she shouldn’t be at all surprised by anyone else’s actions, however rude or socially inappropriate they may seem. If this was the worst she would experience during her stay at the Abernathy Clinic, she would be very lucky. But she had a feeling this was just a taste of what was to come.

  She recognized the sports car as a late model Lamborghini, the red body paint and chrome buffed to a lustrous shine. She turned in her seat as the taxi crept past and observed a tall masculine figure rise from the driver’s seat of the Lamborghini. The taxi pulled to a stop opposite the portico that covered the entranceway to the house. More blood red bougainvillea dripped from the Spanish arches. The cab driver opened the rear passenger door for Elizabeth and, as she stepped out of the taxi, the driver of the Lamborghini came bounding toward them in a few easy strides.

  “That was you I nearly drove off the road back there,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. I almost missed the turnoff. I guess I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.”

  “Yes, I guess you should have,” Elizabeth sized him up from behind her black Foster Grants, hoping her tone did not sound bitter.

  The man was tall and dark skinned with a head of curly black hair. Elizabeth thought he might be European. Elizabeth definitely found him attractive. She supposed she would be seeing a lot of attractive people here, both men and women. Celebrity was not known to be accommodating to the plain and ordinary. He wore a burgundy silk shirt that was unbuttoned at his chest revealing a sculpted physique and a virile abundance of chest hair which he accented with a number of sparkling gold chains. The flared pants that rode low on his hips were flattering as well, the dark pinstripe against off-white fabric lending the illusion that he was taller than he was. Elizabeth estimated him at six feet including the tips of his dark curls.

  The dark haired man observed the taxi driver unloading Elizabeth’s luggage from the trunk of the cab. “You’re checking into the clinic as well I take it?”

  Elizabeth tilted her sunglasses down just a bit allowing him to see her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Far out. I was afraid this place might turn out to be a real loony bin, you know, shock treatment and all that.” He crossed his eyes and shook his hands in imitation of someone receiving an electric jolt to the brain. “But with patients like you around this could turn out be a really swinging place.”

  Oh, this one is a real clown. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, but what makes you certain I’m not certifiably insane?”

  The dark eyes swept up and down her body, evaluating, but with a hint of a smile at the corner of his eyes. “If you’re certifiably insane, then put me in a straitjacket. I’m ready to be locked up.”

  “If you’re trying to flatter me, you won’t get very far with that metaphor.” Elizabeth pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. “And I believe we are referred to as guests.”

  “Guests. You’re absolutely right. It’s nothing more than an extended stay hotel, right? Look, I’m sorry about my driving back there. I expected some sort of sign, but I su
ppose this sort of place keeps itself discreet. If we’re going to be, well, guests together, we may as well start off on the right foot. Let me help with your luggage.” Elizabeth noted he picked up the lightest bag, her makeup case, allowing the driver to carry the heavier American Tourister pieces to the door.

  “I’m Bryce Avondale.”

  She allowed him to take her hand. “You’re not the Bryce Avondale, the photographer?”

  “I am indeed,” he said and dazzled her with a smile that would make ice cubes melt in winter.