Page 12 of Devil's Riches

After I had the key safely tucked away in my pocket, I went out to the biggest garden shed and rifled through it, hunting for useful tools. There was no way I’d be able to waltz right into the mausoleum and open up a grave on the wall. I’d need a crowbar, at the very least, and possibly a hammer too.

I loaded up my arms and dumped the stuff in the back of the car before peeling down the driveway and turning left on the road beyond. The Arcadia Bay cemetery lay on the outskirts of town, about twenty-five minutes away from the estate. By the time I got there, it was almost half past five, and the sun was just beginning to slip up the horizon, spilling fire over the clouds and tinging the fog with shades of pink, orange, and purple.

A large wrought iron gate and ivy-covered stone wall guarded the cemetery, and ancient trees lined the main path inside, so tall and wide that their gnarled branches acted as a canopy. Gravestones were visible all around me in varying shapes and sizes—small stone crosses barely peeking above the frosted grass, hulking slabs of marble with carved names, towering statues of angels.

I took a left halfway down the main path, heading for the cemetery’s private section, where the family plots and mausoleums lay. The path here was slightly narrower and lined with thick shrubs, along with a handful of cast iron lampposts. The light from them cast an eerie yellow glow over the lingering mist.

The Lockwood mausoleum rose up in the dim light ahead of me; a hulking marble and granite sepulcher with a steeply-pitched roof, fluted columns, and intricately-carved sculptures. At the front was a bronze door with a stained-glass window.

I unlocked the door and went inside, bracing myself against the freezing air. The huge space beyond was dark, but enough early morning light filtered in through the small window at the front to make it possible to get around without a flashlight.

A columbarium with niches for urns lined the back wall, for members of the family who chose cremation after death. The rest of the walls were lined with much larger nooks for coffins. Those in use were covered with stone, engraved with the details of whoever was interred there.

I spent the next twenty minutes searching for my uncle’s grave. I eventually located it in the middle of the left wall. Gregory Carson Lockwood. April 4, 1970 – December 7, 2009.

I used the tools to pry off the stone covering, and with gritted teeth, I pulled out the large tray that was wedged in the slot. Uncle Greg’s casket was made of dark polished wood with golden ornaments and handles.

As expected, there was no body inside. Just a couple of large boxes, exactly as Colette described. I hauled them out and dropped them on the floor, desperately hoping that some sort of clue about Greg’s life and habits would present itself from the material inside.

When I sliced open the tape on the first box, my brows shot up. There wasn’t a wide range of personal effects inside. It was just stacks of what appeared to be DVD cases. Each one had a first name and date on it, printed in small, messy handwriting.

Frowning, I opened the second box to find more of the same. There were a few old-fashioned VCR tapes in amongst the DVDs as well, all marked with the same handwriting.

I frowned and stepped back, wondering why the hell my mom put this stuff in here. Was Uncle Greg secretly into filmmaking, and these tapes and DVDs were his personal projects? Or were they sex tapes? If so, why the fuck would my mom know about them and leave them in his grave?

I closed the boxes, carried them out of the mausoleum, and carefully placed them in the back of the car, figuring I needed to take the tapes home and watch a few of them before I jumped to any more conclusions. If Greg actually made them, there could be hints in some of them that could lead me to his current location.

When I finally arrived back at the mansion, I took the boxes up to a spacious room right next to my bedroom. It had been converted into a personal home theater for me years ago, and there was an old DVD player in one of the cabinets. I found it, hooked it up to the huge flatscreen TV, and selected a DVD at random from the first box. Then I slid the disk in and hit play. This one was titled ‘Sarah – April 17, 2006’.

Nothing happened for the first couple of minutes. It was just a blurry shot of a room from a low angle. Then came the sound of shuffling feet, and a pair of black shoes appeared in the frame. A man stooped to pick up the camera. When he pulled it back slightly, ensuring that his whole face was on the screen, I realized it was Greg.

Now that I was finally seeing him again, the way I remembered him from the few times I saw him as a kid, I couldn’t believe I’d ever forgotten what he looked like. Colette was right—he looked quite similar to me. The only major differences were his nose, which was more of a hooked shape than mine, and his mouth, which was slightly thinner than my own.

The camera moved to a new location. Greg’s forehead creased as he tilted it until it was in the exact spot he wanted. Then he stepped away and left the room.

It was a large space with multiple fluorescent lamps that threw glaring blueish-white light over everything. The walls were dark beneath the plastic that had been hung up to cover them, and a stainless steel cabinet stood against one of them. Beyond that, in the center of the room, was a large black and gray operating table. A smaller table stood next to it, and on top of that was a silver tray laden with medical instruments and bottles.

On one of the other walls, a wide rack displayed saws, knives, and cleavers. Near that, a collection of chains, hooks, and shackles hung from the low ceiling, right over a large drain.

My chest tightened as I stared at the screen. I recognized the room. It was the place I tortured Alexis in when I had her down in the Blackthorne tunnels.

A sick realization began to dawn on me as I let the film play, but I tried to push it aside. It wasn’t possible. There was just no fucking way.

Somewhere offscreen, a plaintive cry echoed through the air. A few seconds later, a girl came into the shot, pushed along by Greg. She was naked and dirty with bruises on her body and blood caked around her nose. Her dark eyes were wide with terror, and her thin mouth drooped at the edges as she took in her new surroundings.

“What is this place?” she asked. There was a distinct tremor in her voice.

Greg smiled at her. “It’s time for you to go, Sarah. This is where it happens.”

The girl shook her head. “Please. No. You can’t do this.”

Greg let out a sigh, as if he were a parent dealing with an errant child. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. You knew you weren’t getting out.”

“I… I can get you money. I can get in touch with my parents. Please, just give me a chance!”

“You’re worth a lot more to me dead than alive, sweetheart.”

The girl choked up as tears streamed down her face, and she tried to wrench herself out of Greg’s grip. “You can’t do this!”

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