Bloodless

48

Wellstone sat in his car in the last of the gloaming, outside the three-story brick warehouse that Betts and his crew had leased the top floor of. He had found himself driving there, with no plan in mind, no goal, just a simmering anger mixed with feelings of frustration and humiliation. The son of a bitch had gotten the better of him at every turn: not because he was smarter, but because he had the sort of low cunning of a natural-born bully.

The warehouse was a charming old building — as far as warehouses went — in an old part of Savannah about half a dozen blocks from the Ye Sleepe. How nice for Betts that he could afford both sleeping quarters and a studio setup. It aggravated Wellstone to think of Betts getting this level of financing, or for that matter any financing at all. It was a sad commentary on how gullible people were — the ignorance, lack of education, and credulity that allowed a cynical fraudster like Betts to rake in the bucks.

Thinking about Betts brought to mind the feel of soufflé sauce sliding down his neck, and the memory offered up a fresh surge of outrage. If he’d gotten his hands on the SD cards with the fake, preloaded images, that would have finished Betts forever and exposed Moller as the charlatan he was. It was almost unbelievable, how those three would-be demons Moller Bluetoothed to the press had gone viral. If he’d been able to expose them as fakes, showing those SD cards of creepy images before they had been superimposed on freshly taken photos, that would have gotten him on every morning show in America.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that Fayette would screw up. Of course she would. He was annoyed at himself for thinking otherwise. But then, his own plan to access Moller’s camera — so carefully thought out — had failed as well. He couldn’t imagine how another opportunity would arise. He was out of options.

His thoughts were interrupted by some people coming out of the building. Among them were Betts and Moller. They got into one of two white rental vans parked in front — no Ubers this time. Maybe they were going somewhere to shoot. Seeing Betts and Moller and their self-satisfied faces only sharpened his feelings of shame and anger. Those SD cards were his ticket, and they were so close — Moller was toting his briefcase — that Wellstone could practically touch them. Was he falling into that journalistic trap of becoming personally involved in the story?

Another group of people came out, among them that cute DP, everyone toting camera equipment. The muscle-bound bastard who had pushed him in the restaurant loaded it in the back of a second van and slammed the doors. They all piled inside, laughing and talking.

Wellstone’s curiosity went up a notch. They were going on a shoot. But at this time of night? Why the hurry? Nothing like a new murder had happened... at least, not that he knew of.

Almost without thinking, he started the car. The vans went off in a screech. A moment later, Wellstone’s car eased away from the curb and began to trail them.