Ethan watched as a tear ran down his father’s cheek. He’d never seen his father cry. He didn’t know what to say.
“Take a couple of days. Do some walking. But go back and set the world on its ear. Christa’s spirit won’t leave you. She wouldn’t want you to quit.”
Ethan didn’t respond. He could not remember ever seeing his father in such a light. His grief was muted, replaced by something like hope. He turned and looked at a woman sitting alone two tables over, surprised he hadn’t noticed her earlier. The teased brown hair looked familiar. Almost simultaneously, the woman turned in his direction and caught his eye.
Mila? Here? She smiled as only Mila could, knowing its effect. Her lips parted as if to say something, but then her attention was drawn to something else. She rose to reveal a tight yellow-silk dress and looked at him again, motioning to him with her red-nailed index finger to follow her. It wasn’t possible, yet he followed, leaving his father at the table without saying a word. She disappeared out the front entrance. When he got there, she was gone. The maître d’ didn’t know what Ethan was talking about; no woman dressed in yellow had passed by him.
Ethan returned to the table, with his father looking for an explanation.
“It’s nothing,” Ethan lied. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Wow, she must have been something.”
“She was,” he heard himself reply, somewhat distant.
For a moment, he was somewhere else but slowly returned. He knew he had to go back. For Mila and now for Christa.
There was no answer for why they’d been taken. He would respect and uphold their memory. He would not give up, just like his father hadn’t.
His father’s pain was of lost dreams—the pain of choices made long ago, not the pain of success that sat before him. Ethan made his decision; it took but an instant. He wasn’t going to be an actor. He needed to find Christa’s killer.
Chapter 49
Ethan’s Timeline
November 1991
Ethan went back to Redondo Beach, intent on following through with his decision to leave Hollywood. His father’s words were etched into something deep inside him. He would move on, just not in acting.
He booked himself into the Holiday Inn for the week. He couldn’t go back to the apartment. His heart could not bear it. There simply was nothing there for him. The hotel was comfortable and gave him a home base.
Most of what he owned was at the apartment and was required for the police investigation. All he took with him were a few photos of Christa, what remained of his book of Homes and Cars of the Stars, and some clothes. The rest he didn’t care if he ever saw again—it could all go to charity.
On returning to California, he didn’t see or hear from Robbie at all. He left several messages, but Robbie wasn’t good at returning them.
He called Lou Royson at Columbia, as well as calling Cushman. He told them both he wasn’t returning; he had something else he needed to do. Lou tried to talk him into a pre-rehearsal, just for fun, but Ethan declined. Later on, in his hotel room after a couple of glasses of Jack, he found the script in his bag. He’d been carrying it with him since bringing it home after the meeting with Royson. He ruminated on what his father had said: “Don’t let it go, son.” Two hours later, he put the script down and called Lou. He was in.
As the rehearsals began, he found his way back into his character’s personality—as well as finding a reprieve from his grief. The intensity he gave the character skyrocketed.
The afternoon before the first shoot, he received a call from the LAPD’s Officer Barnes, the officer assigned to the shooting incident with Christa’s ex.
“I’ve finally tracked you down,” Barnes said after identifying himself.
“Yes, you have,” Ethan said, suddenly interested. “Has something happened? Have you found Christa’s …” His voice trailed off. His throat was tight and his face hot. He sat down on the duvet covering his queen-size bed. The air had been knocked out of him as he anticipated what he might hear.
“No, Mr. Jones, we haven’t,” Barnes replied, “but I have an interesting discovery that I’d like to share with you. Can I come by in an hour or so?”
Ethan’s tongue felt like a rock in his mouth. The image of Christa’s limp, bloodied body lying face down in their bed rushed to take him down. He struggled with coherency.
“Mr. Jones? Hello?” said Barnes. “Are you okay?”
Ethan stiffened, unable to speak. Only his breathing was audible over the open phone line.
“Mr. Jones, is something wrong?” Barnes asked.
“No!” Ethan blurted into the phone. “I mean, yes—come on by.”
Ethan hung up and fell back onto the duvet, his hands cupping his face. What had they uncovered? A growing rage returned to his gut, making his face hot and dark. What would he do if they’d found the monster?
In less than an hour, Barnes was at his door. Ethan let him in and directed him to a chair.
“How are things, Ethan?” Barnes asked with genuine concern. “Pretty tough, I imagine.”
“I’m working on it,” Ethan replied, taking a beer from the room’s refrigerator. He offered one to Barnes, who declined. “You sounded like you had some information.”
“Not sure at this point,” Barnes answered, watching Ethan closely. “How long have you known Robbie Johnson?”
Ethan looked up at Barnes; his hazel eyes narrowed. “Why is that important?” he asked.
“It may not be. It’s just a question.”
“We were roommates in college. We’ve known each other for years; he’s probably my closest friend. Why are you asking?”
“Ethan, from what we know, Christa was dead before she ever received a blow.” Barnes watched Ethan’s reaction closely as he spoke. Ethan shifted on the bed uneasily and gulped his beer. Barnes added, “Are you okay to hear this?”
Ethan sat very still. He wasn’t sure how to answer Barnes’s question, afraid of what he might learn. His heartbeat was racing in his temples. He’d need his Jack soon. He nodded his head slowly. “I think so,” he said, unsure of whether he really was.
Barnes leaned forward as if preparing to whisper something to him. He looked at the floor and then straight up at Ethan. “Christa wasn’t murdered from the blows she received,” Barnes stated plainly, keeping with the facts. “She died from asphyxiation.”
Ethan didn’t move; his heart pounded in his ears. A fog clouded his thoughts. Blotchy red images began to flash into his head. He saw Christa lying face down in their bed. A red handprint appeared on the wall. Blood was splashed around much of the ransacked apartment. The images came on like still photos flashed up by a slide projector, but he couldn’t control the projector. Each photo displayed another bloodstained image in chaotic order, causing him to relive the nightmare. The intensity of the images tore at his emotions, adding rage to his overloaded circuits.
He forced himself to breathe slower and tried to relax. “You mean she was strangled?” he breathed, his mind trying to grasp what Barnes had stated. An image of thick, giant hands squeezing Christa’s smooth, slender neck that his lips would never kiss again flashed before his damp eyes.
“Yes,” Barnes replied, his voice unwavering. “We’ve found no trace of this other man you’ve talked about—her ex-boyfriend. We think he’s out of state. No one’s seen or heard from him in months.”
“That’s because he’s hiding, waiting for the right moment!” Ethan cried out, angered by Barnes’s apparent lack of belief in who the killer was. “Which he found. I’m telling you—he did it.”
“Ethan, you’ve said you’ve never seen him.”
“And why exactly is that important?” Ethan shouted. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The whole thing was ludicrous. Ethan stood up. He’d had enough. It’d be days before he got over this meeting as it was.
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“Ethan, please sit down,” Barnes requested, his voice even-tempered and controlled.
Ethan hesitated and stood beside the bed. “I’ll sit down when you fucking guarantee me the hunt for Christa’s killer doesn’t stop until her ex is brought down.”
“Ethan, you’ve got my word,” Barnes replied without hesitation. “We’re getting closer.”
Ethan sat back down. “I thought you just said you couldn’t find the killer.”
“No,” Barnes interrupted, “I said there’s no trace of her ex-boyfriend.”
“But he’s the one,” Ethan insisted, squinting his eyes, trying to understand the homicide detective.
“Ethan,” Barnes concluded, standing up, “we’re doing all we can. We’ll find who killed Christa. Count on it.”
Chapter 50
Ethan’s Timeline
November 1991
After Barnes left his room, Ethan stepped out into the dreary rain, lost as to what to do next. Emotions boiled inside him. Rage to kill was building. Confusion and turmoil over the killer overwhelmed him. Alone, he couldn’t hold back his tears.
His head was overflowing with what Barnes didn’t say in the course of their twenty-minute discussion.
The questions didn’t stop, and most he couldn’t answer. Was he in danger himself? Barnes indicated nothing of the sort. Was Christa’s ex no longer a suspect?
Ethan walked several blocks from the hotel. When he stopped to get his bearings, he didn’t recognize anything. Tears blurred his vision. As they cleared, he came upon a gray brick building fronted by two wooden doors with large, black wrought-iron handles. Not knowing why, he stopped and pulled one of handles. Fully expecting the door to be locked, he was surprised when it swung open.
Inside was a small foyer with another set of large white doors that were partially open. Pushing one of the doors further, he was amazed at what stood before him: an expanse so great that it caused him to question his sight. His footfalls announced his entrance as they echoed through the cavernous hall, which he soon recognized as the interior of a wondrous cathedral. The ceilings were vaulted high overhead, with paintings and sculptures lining the walls. The depth of quiet was awe-inspiring. His initial disquiet turned into fascination and shifted his thoughts. He walked across the marble floor toward a wooden pew, staring wide-eyed at the grandeur of architecture that surrounded him.
He sat down in the pew with his eyes fixated on the altar. The significance of the moment was not lost on him. He was not religious in the sense of attending church, but his need was apparent. God, how he missed her. His eyes absorbed the sheer magnificence of what he saw. Exalted by the immensity of the structure, he was aware of a pervasive inner strength. Unsure of what he should do, he caught himself speaking quietly, asking questions on what to do next—who or what was he to believe? He asked that Christa might hear him and tell him what to do. The pew was surprisingly comfortable as he slid against the wood back and listened to the loud silence, hoping for an answer. Whispered prayers of others drifted through the air around him, creating a sense of tranquility. Motionless, he sat with his eyes closed, lost in the serenity.
It’s your turn, Ethan. I know it is. I’ll be with you, but it’s bigger than that.
The words came from someone nearby. He was certain he could feel her light breath on his cheek. He turned to see a woman stand up, a familiar brown head.
He closed his eyes. It couldn’t be. Not again. She was real. But her voice was again beside him, that voice he would never forget.
It is your turn. Take it for me, for you, for us.
Silence reigned. She said what she needed to say. He turned again. Mila was waiting, dressed in white silk, at the end of the pew. Abruptly, he rose to follow her. Back through the entrance doors and outside, he kept her in sight. Sun was breaking through the tired rain clouds. Time was not present as he watched her cross the street. His world was returning. He had to get back. There was a lot to go over before the morning. His lines still needed work.
He followed her for several blocks, not knowing where she was headed, and then he recognized first one building and then another. Walking a little further still revealed the top half of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. In the pew where he’d sat in awe of his surroundings, he had whispered a cry for help. He realized with the suddenness of a thunderbolt that his plea was being answered.
Oblivious to those around him, he stepped into the street, and a passing motorist locked up his brakes to avoid running him down. The screeching tires served only to push him on faster. There was no hesitation in his step as he crossed the street, walking quickly to catch up with Mila this one time.
A gray cloud passed in front of the sun, threatening more rain as he lost sight of her.
Ethan approached the front of the auditorium as he had on previous occasions. Although only a few people actually were in the area, he saw hundreds. They were packed along the street and on the sidewalk, in the building alcoves, the open windows, and other niches surrounding the entrance. People and fans were everywhere. Camera flashes exploded like a Fourth of July celebration. Television cameras and handheld microphones were everywhere. Most eyes, however, were focused on the luxurious stretch limousines arriving with their famous passengers. Ethan turned and saw the red stretch BMW he’d just exited, the door held open by a young brunette driver who smiled and waved a white gloved hand. Christa stood beside the open door, waiting to take his arm. He imagined a loud cheer erupting from the crowd as he stepped onto the red-carpeted sidewalk, engulfed by the throng of hysterical movie-goers. Scanning the crowd, he searched to see who was inspiring the applause. Everyone seemed to be staring at him. He nodded his head and winked at a teenage girl, who held out a black marker, with her white T-shirt stretched out for him to sign. Christa was at his side as he continued toward the entrance, signing more autographs while giving and receiving handshakes and kisses.
As he approached the auditorium’s entrance, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass doors. He wore a black tuxedo jacket with an expensive Armani black mock turtleneck. His black Gucci shades ignited screams of delight when he removed them. He saw Christa’s reflection in the glass—or was it Mila? He was alarmed at how similar they looked to him. Despite the unseasonable heat, he felt good, even cool. Inside, he searched for his father in the mass of ticket-holders.
Then suddenly, the nominations for best actor were being announced. He heard his name. A moment later, the crowd was standing. All eyes were on him. In a blur, he was on the larger-than-life stage receiving the gold statue and waving to the crowd. It was then he saw his father beaming near the front. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He was there.
It’s yours, honey, came the sweet sound of Mila’s voice. You are the one. The world is waiting.
Without warning, something hit him from behind as he waved.
“Mr. Jones, it’s time to wake up for your …” came a voice from somewhere beside him.
Something turned inside his head, and he found someone was shouting, “Hey, sonny! Where the hell are you?”
Ethan looked around to find a woman speaking to him. She was dressed in white with matching hat and shoes. It wasn’t Mila.
The crowd and stage were gone. He found himself on the sidewalk with a few people milling around.
“Sorry,” he said, feeling disoriented.
The woman glared at him like he was a stray dog who had pissed on her leg. She walked away, shaking her head.
Ethan smiled as he looked at the building in front of him. The answer to his question was here right before his eyes, as vivid and clear as any reality. He understood what he had to do. It was time. He started walking and then looked across the street. Mila was standing at the curb, dressed in white and waving. He waved back as a taxi pulled up in front of him.
There was a lot of work to do.
He saw her
mouth open and heard her words.
It’s yours, babe. Always has been.
Chapter 51
Ethan’s Timeline
May 1992
In short order, Ethan’s life turned into pure craziness. Nothing excited him like the production of Browning Station. Scheduled to be completed in five weeks, they were only halfway there in six. Despite being well over budget, after the producers screened some of the early footage, financing ceased to be an issue.
None of it worried Ethan; it was a special film. The story enthralled him, as did his character, William Avery. If there was one thing that all great films had in common, it was a great story. For Ethan, what added to the excitement was his character’s evolution and how he was able to capture it. The picture was transformed, as was the story, as Avery’s character developed, and Ethan pushed the envelope. From the smaller supporting role he’d signed on to play, he became a major character in the story, and his already unbalanced world was turned even further upside down. As with most great projects, no one knew how it would turn out, but the cast and crew bonded and knew they were on to something special.
Ethan’s character, William Avery, was a madman in Mr. Average American clothes who assimilated well within societal norms. With two children and a beautiful wife, Avery had never learned to deal with envy or, for that matter, life. A chemical imbalance in his brain intensified his sickness.
The character seemed weak on first analysis, but Ethan and Cushman saw potential in what the role could be—if Ethan could pull it off. But something else drew Ethan to the story. Browning Station was the novel he’d picked up, coincidentally or not, at the bookstore before meeting Ben Lui. He couldn’t help but think that forces much larger than himself were at work. In reading the novel, he was engrossed by William Avery’s character.
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