Realizing he had to get back to it sooner or later, he walked back to the office and his computer. Before beginning, he dialed into his home phone for messages. After two rings, Christa answered.
“Hello. Ethan Jones’s residence,” she said.
“Christa? Hi,” he said, his voice holding a note of surprise. He hadn’t anticipated a live voice answering his phone. “You’re there?”
“I think so,” she laughed. “Just got in. I thought you would be here too.”
“So did I, but some extra work came up—a bullshit job I have to finish before the morning. Found out about it a couple of hours ago.” Ahead lay a full night of work, his annoyance exacerbated by thoughts of his fucked-up audition. Adding a further kick to the head was having a beautiful woman in his apartment, someone with whom he wanted to spend time.
“Someone called asking for you,” Christa said. “She didn’t leave her name but said she’d call back later. How late are you going to be?”
The question sounded vaguely familiar to Ethan but the condescending expectation wasn’t there. It was just a question. There was something comforting in it. “I’ll be real late.”
“Oh.” Christa sounded disappointed. “That’s okay. I threw a few things together for … to eat. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll stick it the fridge.”
“That’s nice of you,” Ethan replied, further inclined to say fuck it all and leave. He had a dinner waiting, something he’d not experienced since moving to California.
“And just so you know,” she added, “I’ll be out of your way tomorrow. My friend from work offered to let me stay with her until I can get my shit together.”
Fuck, he thought. His disappointment was instantaneous, which surprised him. He didn’t want her to leave. “That’s great,” he lied. He wanted to retract his words as soon as he spoke, but to his own amazement, he added, “But there’s no problem if you want to stay longer. It’s not like I’m around much anyway.”
“You sure?” Her voice brightened as if she might have been hoping he would invite her to stay longer.
“Couldn’t be surer,” he replied.
“I don’t want to be in the way. You’ve done enough already.”
“It’s not a problem, Christa. Make yourself at home. It’ll be early morning before I’m back anyway.”
Suddenly, Ethan had a lot of questions he wanted to ask her. But they’d have to wait. There was work to do, and the sooner he got to it, the sooner he’d be done. Hanging up, he felt better, and his audition, for the most part, was forgotten.
After three hours, he took a break and picked up a couple of pizza slices from the all-night pizzeria down the street. Shortly after one o’clock, he decided he was happy with his design. Another hour, and he’d be on his way.
He was plotting the final drawings, when his phone rang.
“Are you coming back soon?” Christa’s voice whispered in his ear. His senses tingled. Just the sound of her voice turned him on. “I’m a little nervous, Ethan, all alone here. How much longer are you going be?”
“Just about done,” he told her, thinking he could manage the last few things when he came back later in the day. “Half an hour, tops.”
“Okay, but hurry. I don’t want to fall asleep without you.” She whispered a good-bye and hung up.
I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, buddy, he told himself. You can’t lose this job.
Of course he didn’t know what he was getting into—but did anyone? Besides, he really liked her.
He got to the apartment as soon as he could, unmindful of the time. Excitement overruled his exhaustion as he thought about what awaited him. He wondered what she looked and felt like under her clothes. Just the thought of kissing her lips made his heart beat faster; her soft skin beneath his fingertips; cupping her breasts in his hands; nudging her swollen nipples with his thumb—it all served to pull him over the edge.
When he arrived at the apartment building, he ran up the front steps. He pictured her lying on the couch, waiting for him, wearing only his Hugo Boss blazer. His hands were shaking as he unlocked the door and stepped into a very dark apartment. His hand sought the light switch on the wall, but he couldn’t find it. His movements slowed as he swept the darkness with his hands. His right hand brushed against the lampshade. He reached under the shade and pressed the switch.
Nothing happened. His heart came into his throat.
“Christa?” he called. His voice was quiet but broke the silence like a hammer hitting a gong.
In that instant, a numbing explosion split the air. Something rocketed past his head, sending him reeling in the dark space. His cheek burned as if a hot iron was pressed against it. He lost his balance and fell.
“Ethan,” slurred a vaguely familiar voice, wet with liquor, “if that’s really your fuckin’ name. It’s quite the habit you have … moving in on another man’s property. Did you like fuckin’ her?”
Ethan didn’t hear any more and passed out.
Chapter 20
Real Time
March 1984
Everything seemed white. Or white and black.
He was dreaming again and knew it, because Beth was there beside him. She looked tired. There were wrinkles—crow’s feet—dispersing from the corners of her blue eyes.
Again, he was locked to the bed.
“You haven’t spoken of Mila for a while,” she said to him, adjusting herself to sit on the side of his bed. “Has she not been by to visit?”
“Funny you should ask,” he said in a voice not his own—it was like his mouth was full of cotton candy. “But no, I haven’t.”
The mention of Mila brought a melancholy longing of something he couldn’t quite touch. It was a soft feeling, warm and comforting, like warming cold hands in front of a fire.
Beth put her hand on his. Her warmth was nourishing, yet her smile was missing something. How odd, he thought. Is it missing happiness? A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Mila hasn’t been back here to see you?” she asked again. She squeezed his hand.
He didn’t like it when she did that and tried to move away, but his wrist was bound by something. He shook his head.
“I don’t believe you, Ethan Jones,” she said, leaning forward, her face right in his. “You’re lying to me.” She wasn’t angry or even excited. Her voice was flat, as if she was describing how to apply makeup.
“I’m not lying to you,” he said, even though he was. “She hasn’t been here.”
“Where did she go?”
“How would I know?”
“Because she told you. Because she wants you to believe her.”
“Believe her? What do you—”
But before he could finish, a doctor—or at least someone who wore a white lab coat—interrupted. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said in a loud, friendly tone, looking at Beth and putting his hand on her shoulder. “Ethan is ready for some rest.”
Ethan looked at the doctor but didn’t recognize him. The doctor stepped away. “I don’t need any rest,” Ethan said, looking at Beth. His words now came out stronger and louder. “Believe her? Believe what?”
Then he saw Mila at the end of the bed. Her pointed index finger was raised to her lips. Mila shook her head. She mouthed the word no.
Beth was standing beside him. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her cheeks were wet.
He tried to hold on but like most retreating dreams, he was powerless to keep it going.
The white sheets and white coats faded away.
Chapter 21
Ethan’s Timeline
April 1991
“Ethan? Ethan, oh please, wake up.”
Christa was crying as she pleaded with him to open his eyes. Something cool and wet was on his forehead. He could smell her hair.
On hearing this, Ethan opened his eyes.
“Ethan!” cried Christa, “Oh God. You’re okay.” She kissed his face and squeezed him tight. “I’m so sorry.” Her slender body shuddered against his chest as emotion seized her.
Disoriented and not knowing where he was, his hand slid across her back. It was the first time he could remember touching her. “Christa, it’s okay,” he whispered.
As she lifted her head from his chest, he could see her eyes were swollen and red from crying. There was a white bandage above her left eye.
“What the fuck happened?” Ethan asked, concerned. The dream of Beth faded as he tried to figure out what had happened with Christa.
“He’s gone, Ethan,” Christa whispered, placing her hand on his chest. “He thought you were dead. He’s probably halfway to Pasadena by now.”
Ethan tried to sit up. “Who’s halfway to Pasadena?”
“Hey there, big guy,” the paramedic interrupted, putting a firm hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “You gotta rest easy for a bit. You’re not ready to go anywhere.”
Ethan eased back onto his sofa, guided by the paramedic’s hand.
“The police have already put a search out for him,” Christa said.
“For who?” Ethan asked again, impatient that he was not getting an answer.
“The bastard I used to live with!” Christa hissed.
Ethan caught the movement of a police officer in his peripheral vision as he recognized his apartment. The cop was looking at something in the wall. Ethan’s hand moved to the side of his head, and he touched a gauze bandage. He suddenly recalled coming into the dark apartment.
“Was I shot?” he asked. His head was sore.
“Yes,” answered the paramedic. “The bullet grazed your cheek, sir, and looks to be in the wall over there.”
“But the side of my head is sore,” Ethan said.
“You sustained a contusion on the left side of your head when you fell,” replied a second paramedic from somewhere behind Ethan.
“You bumped your head a good one,” the cop added. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Jones.”
Christa was sniffling beside him, with a wet tissue in her hand. Even upset and crying, Ethan thought she looked beautiful and was glad to have her by his side.
“Are you okay?” he asked, seeing a red welt on her already bruised cheek. Anger simmered inside him. How had a woman like Christa become involved with such a piece of shit? He reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek. Her skin was so soft to touch.
She smiled, keeping her lips together. “I’m fine.” Her smile faded.
“What happened?” he asked
“Stalked me at work. Followed me to your place. Waited for you to show and when you didn’t, decided to give me a visit.” She pointed to the bandage. “I knew he was crazy but not psychotic. He’s a killer, Ethan. God, I can’t believe it.”
Then he remembered. “He was here when you called, wasn’t he,” he said—it wasn’t a question; he knew the answer.
“He said if I didn’t call you, he’d kill me.” She started to cry again but kept talking. “When you dropped to the floor, he said you were dead, and he ran. I dialed 911 as soon as he was out the door. I thought you were dead too. I saw your cheek and the blood … you weren’t moving at all.” Her voice trailed off, sobbing. Then she added, “But you were breathing. They were here really fast.” She stopped and wiped her nose. “Ethan, I thought you were dead. Can you ever forgive me?” Her head fell to his chest again. She cried into his shirt. His hand touched her long brunette hair. Not knowing what to say, he just held her.
“Sir,” the paramedic said, “we need to get you to the hospital. It doesn’t look like you have a concussion, but we need to run a few tests to be sure.”
“I’m going to stay here,” Ethan replied. “I’m fine.”
There was a pause, and then the paramedic beside him spoke. “We can’t make you go, sir, but ma’am, you need to observe him every two hours, waking him up if necessary. If he feels dizzy or starts vomiting, get him to the hospital.”
“That’s okay,” Christa replied, perking up. “I can do that.” Then, turning to Ethan, she said, “Shouldn’t you go, just to make sure?”
“I’m fine. I bumped my head,” he said, not entirely confident himself but having no desire to go to the hospital. “Look, if I start feeling woozy, I promise you can take me in. What worries me more is the psychopath out there. What’s to stop him from coming back?”
Ethan watched as the officer approached them. The man looked huge from Ethan’s vantage point on the couch. His hair was crew-cut short but flat on top. Ethan guessed he was in his late twenties. Despite his short sleeves he looked warm. He’d not spoken up to this point.
“Mr. Jones,” the officer started, “I’m Officer Barnes, LAPD, and to answer your question, nothing. I do need to ask the both of you a few questions, if you’re up to it.”
The two paramedics packed their bags, their work complete.
“Can I get you anything?” Christa asked, kneeling beside Ethan.
Ethan could see the light of dawn through the window behind her. “Maybe some orange juice.”
She smiled. Hers was a beautiful smile—comforting and exciting at the same time. “Sure,” she said. As she got to her feet, she leaned forward to kiss him.
The paramedics left as another officer, a near copy of Barnes, came through the door with a plastic Ziploc bag in his hands. What looked like a small black stone was in the bag.
“Say, Rick,” he addressed Barnes, “I’m about finished here.”
“I’ve still got a few questions to ask these folks,” Barnes replied, “and we need something from the super.”
The building’s superintendent was at the door. Ethan hadn’t seen him yet. He spoke. “Yes, whatever you need.”
Barnes came back and sat down on the arm of the gray sofa. “You know, you could use a few more chairs in this place.” He smiled and shifted to find a comfortable position.
“Yeah, I know,” Ethan replied. “I need a few things, but furniture’s down the list a ways.”
“Mr. Jones, I need to get a few things straight. Tell me what you remember.”
Ethan started with Christa’s phone call and ended with coming through the door, unable to turn the lights on in his darkened apartment.
“You didn’t see this guy?” Barnes asked without expression.
“No, just heard his voice.”
Christa returned with a large glass of orange juice. Slowly sitting up, Ethan took the glass. It was cool compared to the temperature in the room.
“You must be sorry you ever met me,” she said, sitting down close to him, while Barnes wrote something in his notepad.
Not knowing quite what to say, he smiled, pleased still to have her beside him.
Before Barnes left, Ethan wanted assurance they would have some protection. “There’s no telling what that gun-toting maniac might do or where he might be.” It wasn’t as if Ethan could walk away from the situation either—and the guy knew his name and where he lived. Christa was afraid, but Ethan was the target.
The option of simply returning to Canada began to eat away at him. Any measure of success had eluded him. Was he ignoring the obvious and just not cut out for this sort of life? His job was shit, his best wasn’t good enough at the audition, and he’d nearly taken a bullet for a woman he barely knew—all in a span of twenty-four hours.
Still, he’d made a promise that no matter how bad things became, he wouldn’t give in. Really? He was really testing that promise. He’d come to LA to star in a major motion picture. Suck it up. He forced away the thought. He couldn’
t afford the luxury of even thinking about running away. Others had found a way; he would find one too.
Barnes spoke, returning Ethan to the matter at hand. “We’ll set up extra patrols in the area for the next few days,” Barnes stated, peering down at the street from the third-floor window. “Keep a low profile for a couple of days. Stay with a friend. We’ll issue a warrant for his arrest in the APB. There’s not much to go on outside of Ms. White’s description of him. A picture would be real helpful.”
Christa shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t have one.”
“Shit!” Ethan cried suddenly, remembering his meeting with Goldsmith. “What time is it?”
“Almost six. Why?” Barnes asked.
“I gotta get back to work,” he answered, turning on the couch.
“Ethan!” Christa exclaimed. “You’ve just been shot!”
“I know,” he replied, “but I have to at least let somebody know.” He paused for a moment, thinking, and then went on. “Officer Barnes is right—we can’t stay here.” He looked at Christa. “Who knows where he might be? I’ll stay at a friend’s. You call the friend you mentioned earlier. You can drop me off before you go over.”
“Okay,” Christa agreed reluctantly. Ethan didn’t know her well but could see she was on the edge of her emotions. The whole situation was wearing them both down. “I’ll pack my things.”
Ethan dialed Robbie’s number. It had been a while since he remembered last talking to him.
“Hello?” answered an unfamiliar, sleep-laden voice.
“Robbie?” Ethan offered.
“No.”
“Sorry. I must have dialed the—”
“Just a minute,” interrupted the groggy voice.
“Hello?” Robbie answered, his voice rough with sleep.
“Robbie, sorry about the time.”
“Eth? What the hell?” Robbie replied, coughing to clear his throat.
“Listen,” Ethan continued, “a couple of things have come up. I need a place to hang for a few days. Can you help me out?”
There was a pause at the other end, and then Ethan heard Robbie speaking to someone—but few words were coherent. Then Robbie said, “Yeah, no problem. When?”
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