CHAPTER ELEVEN

The drive to Gallows End took Ella and Luca deep into the Oregon wilderness, down winding roads flanked by towering pines that swallowed the sky. Ella's mind churned with the implications of Luca's early morning detective work. Isabella Thorne, with her bad blood and her creepy teddy bears, had rocketed to the top of their suspect list.

The woman seemed a real piece of work if the lawsuit was anything to go by. Entitled, narcissistic, probably thought she was the queen bee of this twisted little hive. But murder? It seemed a stretch. Then again, Ella had seen people kill for far less. Wounded pride was one hell of a motive.

Beside her, Luca fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station that wasn't static or country music. He'd given up on conversation twenty minutes ago, right around the time Ella had started grinding her teeth.

They pulled up to Gallows End just after nine AM. Ella strained her to neck to take the whole place in. The architecture was a mishmash of styles and eras, Victorian gingerbread nestled up against brutalist concrete, Gothic spires jutting up next to Art Deco domes. It was like someone had taken a normal haunted house and fed it after midnight. There was a solitary red Camaro in the lot.

‘Bates Motel much?' she asked.

‘Close enough,' Luca said. ‘Covers some serious ground, doesn't it?'

Ella killed the engine. ‘Sure does. Ready?'

‘Yup. Got our teddy bear?'

She tapped her handbag. ‘He's safe in here.'

‘Then let's go.'

Ella stepped out of the car. The air was different here, laden with the scent of damp earth and something a little subtler. She breathed deep, trying to place it, but it remained elusive.

They approached the entrance, a massive oak door that looked like it could withstand a siege. Intricate carvings covered its surface – scenes of torment and damnation straight out of Dante's Inferno. Ella raised her fist to knock, but before her knuckles could connect, a disembodied voice crackled to life from a hidden speaker.

‘Sorry, we're closed. First spine-tingling tour begins at two PM.'

Ella rolled her eyes, already feeling her patience wearing thin. She never had much time for the carnival barker crap. ‘You're not closed for us. FBI. Looking for Isabella Thorne.'

Silence stretched for a beat, then two. Ella was about to speak again when the voice returned, dripping with forced cheerfulness.

‘FBI? What can I do for you?' A British accent. Possibly put-on for show.

‘You can open this door.'

Another pause, longer this time. She glanced at Luca, who gave her a slight nod. Ella had voluntarily taken up the bad cop role already.

Finally, a series of clicks and thuds as locks disengaged. The massive door swung open with a groan.

Ella and Luca stepped into a colossal lobby that seemed more like Satan's torture den than a waiting room. Crimson wallpaper peeled at the edges, revealing glimpses of what looked disturbingly like human faces pressed against the plaster. A threadbare Persian rug led the way to a raised dais, upon which sat an antique reception desk. Behind it, encased in a glass partition that wouldn't have looked out of place in a maximum-security prison, sat Isabella Thorne. Even from a distance, Ella could tell this woman was trouble. She wore a blood-red pantsuit that screamed power and a smile that could cut glass.

She approached the partition and said, 'Miss Thorne. I'm Agent Dark, and this is Agent Hawkins. We need to ask you a few questions.'

Isabella's eyes flicked between them, then landed on Luca for a jealousy-inducing amount of time. Ella began counting down from five in her head. Just before she reached zero, Isabella buzzed them in through a side door.

‘Please, come through.'

Ella followed around into a box-room office that doubled as a ticket counter. The walls were lined with framed newspaper clippings and awards, all singing the praises of Gallows End and its illustrious owner. Isabella Thorne seemed to be anything but modest.

‘Take a seat,' Isabella continued.

Ella waved off the invitation and instead stood beside the door. Luca positioned himself a few feet away. Two guards blocking the only exit.

‘We prefer to stand,' Ella said. She kept her eyes on Isabella, watching for any tell, any crack in that perfectly cultivated facade. The woman's body language was open, relaxed – almost too relaxed, like someone who'd practiced looking innocent in front of a mirror.

‘So, the FBI make house calls now?' Isabella asked.

Ella ignored it. She started with a softball to test the waters. ‘We're investigating a series of incidents at some of the local haunted attractions. Thought you might be able to shed some light.'

Isabella's smile flickered. If Ella had blinked, she'd have missed it. 'I assume this is about Greg at the Screamatorium?'

‘Heard about that, have you?'

‘Everyone has. Terrible business. We're all very shaken up,' Isabella said as though she was reading out a list of ingredients in a shampoo bottle. Ella placed her accent around southern England. Refined at first, but slipped into something rougher when the mask wore thin.

‘You don't seem too upset about it,' Luca said.

Isabella clasped her hands together, all business-like. ‘Should I be? Gregory Van Allen was a parasite. A bottom-feeding hack who built his entire business on the backs of others.'

Ella asked, ‘How'd you figure that?' There was something here, buried beneath the surface. She just had to keep digging.

Isabella's eyes hardened, like chips of green ice. ‘Van Allen was wealthy. Old money. He swooped in, throwing cash around like confetti, poaching talent, undercutting everyone else in the game. He didn't care about the artistry of this business.'

Ella glanced beyond the glass partition out to the skinned faces in the lobby. ‘Artistry? That's what this is?'

‘Yes. You can't just slap a few props in a room and hire people to act like lunatics. Some of us take fear seriously. Van Allen was what us Brits would call a grifter. He'd ruin a hundred lives to make a dollar. If the rumors were anything to go by, he used to secretly film his haunts. It gave him a thrill, apparently.'

Ella exchanged a glance with Luca. That explained the hidden cameras.

‘Sounds like you two had quite the rivalry going,' Ella said. Regardless of Van Allen's duplicity, this was starting to sound an awful lot like motive. The kind of grudge that could fester and turn murderous.

'Rivalry implies we were on equal footing,' Isabella scoffed. 'Van Allen was a pretender. It's really sad someone finally got to him, but I'm not going to lie to the cops. I won't miss him.'

Ella hung on every word, trying to peer through the cracks. ‘What do you mean – someone got to him ?'

‘Ha. You think I'm the only person who hated Van Allen? He pissed off half of the people in this town. Not just in the scare trade either. The man was always swindling.'

Ella subtly processed all of Isabella's microsignals. No twitchy body parts, no makeshift barriers with her arms and legs. Her eye movements and facial ticks were that of a textbook truth-teller.

And she didn't like it one bit.

Time to change tacks, see how Isabella reacted to a curveball.

‘And what about Natasha Langston? Was she a pretender too?'

Isabella's expression became a mask of polite confusion. 'I'm sorry, who?'

‘Natasha Langston. Special effects artist. Worked on a lot of haunted attractions in the area, including Shadowland.'

‘Oh, Shadowland. That place looks promising from what I've heard. But I'm sorry, I don't know anyone named Natasha.'

Luca asked, ‘You know Shadowland? Been there?'

‘No. One of my actors was supposed to work there. He told me about it.'

‘Name?'

Isabella spun to her desk, pulled a few sheets of paper out of her drawer. ‘I can give you a whole list of my actors if you want. I'll star the ones who might have gigs at Shadowland.'

This transparent co-operation was wholly unexpected. A sign of innocence? Or a guilty mind trying to misdirect attention?

‘Yes. We'll need that.'

‘These actors,' Luca jumped in. ‘How does it work? Doesn't every house have exclusive actors?'

Isabella rifled through a stack of papers. ‘No, honey. Far from it. These actors are just that – actors. Freelancers. They might be Macbeth one day and Psycho Clown the next.'

‘Ella stamped down the gut-punch that came with another woman calling her boyfriend honey. ‘So, what if you need an actor but they're tied up elsewhere?'

‘There are more actors than there are gigs. We're never short.'

Ella's eyes bored into Isabella like diamond-tipped drills. She decided to cut to the chase. ‘Where were you on Saturday and Sunday evening?'

Isabella didn't flinch. ‘Right here. Burning the midnight oil 'til the wee hours. Just me and the ghouls.' She waved a manicured hand at the security cameras perched in the corners. ‘My all-seeing eyes can vouch for me. I'm married to this place, for better or worse. Mostly worse.'

Ella's eyes flicked to the cameras. Digital eyes. If Isabella was lying, she'd need one hell of a hacker in her corner.

‘We'll need to see that footage,' Luca said.

‘I can get it for you now.'

‘Before we get there,' Ella said. Time to play the ace up her sleeve. She reached into her bag and pulled out the cuddly piece of evidence. ‘Recognize this?'

For the first time, a crack in the porcelain. Isabella winced like Ella had waved a crucifix in her face. The color drained from her face so fast that Ella thought she might keel over.

‘Uh, shit,' Isabella cried. Her accent slipped from posh Brit to Cockney in less than a second. ‘That's... that's his . That little wanker.'

‘ His? Who do you mean?'

Isabella scooted back on her chair, putting some distance between her and Ella's fuzzy friend. ‘One of my old actors. Roland Pierce. That bear was his, uh, signature.'

Ella's neck snapped to attention so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash. Now they were getting somewhere. ‘How do you mean, signature?'

‘Roland was insane. Took this horror schtick way too seriously. He used to glue that bear to the back of his head, like a Siamese twin or whatever.'

Luca perked up like a bloodhound catching a scent. ‘Wait a second, Roland Pierce?'

Ella turned to him. ‘You know the name?'

'He was on that list of actors at the Crematorium. The one I went through this morning.'

‘Of course he was,' Isabella laughed. ‘Van Allen poached him off me, but he was welcome to him. Roland caused me a ton of problems. He used to get very handsy with the punters, especially the women. Called himself a method actor, but he was just using these haunts to get his rocks off.'

Ella and Luca exchanged a look. This Roland Pierce was sounding more intriguing by the second.

‘And he used this exact teddy bear?' Luca asked.

‘Looks pretty damn similar to me,' Isabella said. ‘The nutcase used to dress up as a giant bear. That's why I hired him. To use him in my creepy cuddly room. But the dickhead didn't know where to draw the line.'

The gears in Ella's head were at smoking point. Obsession? Delusion? Psychosis? Whatever the case, she needed to find this man.

‘Any idea where Roland Pierce is now?'

‘Beats me, sweetheart. Could be anywhere.'

Ella compiled everything into her mental catalog. First, she needed to verify Isabella's alibi. Then she needed her list of actors for her records. Then she needed to track down Roland Pierce.

Isabella swung back to her desk and began typing. ‘I'll give you footage of my camera feeds from the past week. Just tell me where to email it.'

Luca gave her his address. Ella scrutinized Isabella one last time. Height, build, mannerisms. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn't fit the physical profile of the masked killer in the footage.

Time to focus on the next turn in the maze. Roland Pierce. The man behind the bear.

Game on.