Heathen/Nemesis

Seventy-Four

Marilyn Monroe gave him no clues. John Wayne offered no help. Neither did Marlon Brando or any other member of the Corleone family.

Paxton stood in the middle of the tableau entitled:

THE GODFATHER

and moved between the figures of James Caan, Al Pacino and Marlon Brando, all of them identified by name plates at their feet.

In the display the Godfather’s desk had a number of books on it; the waxworks owner reached for them one by one. They were encyclopaedias or dictionaries with the dust jackets removed. Not wax but real books.

The figure of Robert Duvall was holding a briefcase; he glanced inside but found nothing but a sheet of blank paper. He moved on, past Indiana Jones and Rambo until he came to a display of THE EXORCIST.

It featured a bedroom and figures of Max Von Sydow, Jason Miller and Linda Blair in her possessed incarnation. The waxwork of Von Sydow held what was supposed to be a Bible but Paxton wondered if Ward might have substituted the Grimoire for the Holy Book. After all, he had no idea how big it was. He stepped in amongst the figures, moving around the bed until he reached the kneeling wax effigy.

The book it held was indeed a Bible.

Paxton moved on.

It wasn’t just the silence Julie found overwhelming, it was the claustrophobic atmosphere of the place. The solitude and the almost palpable darkness combined to create the feeling that they’d been drapped in a blanket. The carpeting of the floors served to enhance the illusion; they could not even hear their own footsteps as they moved around.

Julie walked quickly, keeping within two or three feet of Donna. Even so, her sister was a barely glimpsed shadow most of the time.

They passed through an archway into a display of great sporting figures. The waxworks were arranged in groups beyond a rope, which was supposed to separate them from their admirers. In a mock-up of a boxing ring stood Henry Cooper, Mohammed Ali and Mike Tyson. At the edge of the ring Joe Louis and Rocky Marciano glared glassily at her. Julie found herself drawn almost hypnotically to the blank stares. She could see herself reflected in the glass orbs, a distorted image.

Ahead, Donna was standing beside Pelé and George Best. Kenny Dalglish and Eusebio looked on impassively. Johan Cruyff, one foot perched on a football, regarded her with the same emotionless expression as the rest.

Further along there was a model of Sir Francis Chichester; on what was supposed to be the deck of his yacht lay a number of books. Donna climbed into the exhibit and began inspecting them. She found to her annoyance that they were all books about sailing.

She pressed on.

Julie followed, her passage unnoticed by Lester Piggot and Willie Carson.

A flight of three steps led up into another gallery, this one depicting great artists.

They moved on.

Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Roger Moore and Timothy Dalton stood around Paxton as he searched through the drawers of M’s desk, but the James Bond tableau was no help to him either.

So many places to look. So many places Ward could have hidden the book.

As he walked among the figures Paxton wondered what could be so important about this missing book. What could be so vital to send him and two women trekking around the place?

Opposite him a display showed Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers all dancing together, watched by a group of admiring figures. One of the figures was of a child; at its feet were a set of school books. He strode across to it, climbing into the little set-up. The child was Shirley Temple and the books were spilling from her satchel. He began sorting through them.

Danny Kaye, Liza Minnelli and Judy Garland looked on blankly as he sifted through the books. Again he found nothing.

The hand grabbed his hair.

So surprised by the movement he felt as if his vocal cords had frozen, Paxton hardly moved as his head was yanked hard backwards.

The knife flashed in the spotlight, glinting viciously before the razor-sharp blade was drawn across his throat.

Blood erupted from the wound that opened like a grinning mouth, spewing crimson over the lifeless figures.

Peter Farrell held tightly to Paxton’s hair, careful to avoid the jetting blood. He heard the soft hiss as the waxwork owner’s sphincter muscle collapsed. Then he allowed the body to drop to the floor, watching it twitch for a second before stepping back into the shadows from which he’d emerged. He pulled a two-way radio from his pocket and flicked it on.

‘I’m on the ground floor,’ he whispered into the machine. ‘Paxton’s dead. Split up and find the other two.’ He paused a moment, still looking down at the body, the head in the centre of a spreading pool of blood. ‘Keep them alive until I get there,’ he added as an afterthought.

He put the two-way back in his pocket and slipped away, swallowed by the gloom.

Behind him, Paxton’s body lay amongst the frozen dancers and entertainers smiling down blankly as if welcoming him.

Blood from the hideous wound washed over the title plate of the tableau, which proclaimed happily:

GOTTA DANCE.