Jove Brand is Near Death

by J. A. Crawford

  Stern came for me, dropping into a shove that sent me into a vintage Jag worth more than I was. She pinned me with a straight arm, her rear hand resting on her weapon. “Did you threaten that old man?”

  I was too stunned to talk. When Stern processed my genuine bewilderment, she backed off. Having made it all the way through Near Death, she knew I wasn’t that good of an actor.

  “What did Bryce say?” I asked.

  “Not a damn thing. In fact, he is leaving for England immediately. A car is on the way.”

  My stomach churned. “No way. He saw the guy. He can clear me.”

  Stern blocked my path as I stepped toward the elevator. “You aren’t going anywhere, Allen. You want to explain why you stole that motorcycle?”

  Somewhere, Mercie Goodday was scolding me. I kept my mouth shut for the half hour it took for the limo to arrive. The minute it did, Bryce Crisp strolled out of the elevator. He was positively disheveled, with a loose cravat and crooked buttons.

  I stared a plea at Bryce. He looked away with a hint of apology. The driver opened and closed the door for him. The limo began to pull away, then stopped. I dared to dream as the rear window slid down.

  Bryce handed me a State of California Certificate of Title. “The Stag is yours.”

  Stern wasn’t sure what to make of it all. I didn’t blame her. I barely believed it myself. Together we watched Bryce Crisp embark eastward. Stern asked me before I asked her.

  “You want lunch?”

  One of the best things about California culture was how gracefully waitstaff endured fad diets. No meat or all meat. No fats. No, wait, no carbs. No wait. Extra butter but no nuts. Fruit instead of fries, and no nightshades. If cavemen didn’t eat tomatoes then neither would I. Hold the dairy and how many grams of sugar was in your Greek yogurt? Could I substitute sweet potatoes for rice?

  I was finishing up a tasty sausage-and-cabbage stew, skipping the beans. Stern’s ahi tuna, nothing on the side, was long gone. She wanted to smoke, but was worried if we got up I would leave. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the White Stag, parked next to her unmarked.

  “Going method, Allen?”

  “Against my will. None of this was my idea.” I waved the server over. “Cheese plate, don’t bother with the fruit or crackers, and coffee for us both.”

  “Excellent,” said my server.

  California servers were also top notch at faking approval. I could have ordered a turd sandwich, hold the bread, to my waiter’s enthusiastic endorsement.

  Stern broke the stalemate. “I think you cracked. Getting humiliated by Collin Prestor and Niles Endsworth in front of millions was the thread that unraveled your sweater. You get away with the first murder and here comes Layne Lackey, harassing you for the umpteenth time. Except now he has something on you. You walk on two murders, so what’s next? Kill the last surviving Jove Brand.”

  The server set down the cheese plate and took his time pouring the coffee. He’d overheard enough to want the rest. Stern watched me for tells while I downed a wedge of Tillamook. After the coffee was poured, the server left the carafe and fussed around with the settings of nearby tables.

  I wet my whistle before responding to Stern’s charges. “So why didn’t I kill Bryce? If I wasn’t chasing anyone, why run? I had him right where I wanted him, according to your Ken Allen Goes Method theory.”

  “How the hell should I know?” The coffee made Stern go for her pack, but she beat her monkey. “Maybe you had a change of heart, or maybe you’ve got two people bouncing around in there: nice-guy Ken Allen and Killer Brand.”

  I almost spilled my coffee laughing. “The old ‘you don’t even know you’re doing it’ bit, huh? What’s next, the ‘we have the footage from the convention lounge’ move? Or maybe the ‘did you know Bryce Crisp had a state-of-the-art security system’ rap? You’re barking up the wrong tree, Stern. I wish those little lies were true, because then you could go after the real killer.”

  Stern picked up a wedge of something creamy, smelled it, then tossed it back down. “So this is you playing vigilante?”

  I poured another cup. “If no one is going to fight for me, then I’m going to have to fight for myself.”

  Stern sat back and crossed her arms. “Not all by yourself. I checked your financials. You can’t afford Mercie Goodday.”

  “Have you interviewed anyone who actually knows me?”

  “Sure.”

  “And?”

  Stern rolled her eyes. “You’re a hell of a guy.”

  “Look, this is bigger than your psycho jealous wannabe theory. Someone is trying to tank the Brand franchise.”

  “And you’re the only who one can save it.”

  I didn’t take the bait. “Doing something sure feels better than doing nothing. And this isn’t about me.”

  Stern’s self-satisfaction bothered me. I had given her something.

  “Whoever is holding Mercie Goodday’s lead is holding yours too. You on a quest, Allen?”

  “Not everyone is out for themselves,” I replied.

  Stern sensed she had hit a nerve. “And I think when someone asks you to jump, you ask how high. If someone needs you, you’ll do anything, no matter what it costs. I saw Near Death. You were willing to die for that heap.”

  “Someone did die for that heap,” I snapped. Stern was damn good. She almost had me spilling. “You got me. We all have our flaws. Look at you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Stern said around biting her nails.

  “You’re on me for playing vigilante, but here you are, chasing me around all alone. I wasn’t sure when we met, but now I know. Growing up, other girls dreamed of a white dress, but you wanted the white hat. How’d your parents take it?”

  Stern looked bored. Looked. She started tapping an antique lighter on the table.

  “You haven’t smoked in what, three hours? Why not make it four?”

  “Let’s not talk about me,” she said.

  I tried to decide what to tell Stern. It was bad having her behind me, but having her ahead of me would be worse. “Layne Lackey was onto something. He was trying to tell me about it, but was too paranoid about being hacked to leave a message. I thought he was angling for an exclusive over Sir Collin’s death so I never picked up. Did the convention center end up having cameras?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well that’s good news for me. You’ve seen the Black Knight.”

  Stern toyed around with her lighter, flicking it open and closed. “Guess your lawyer will tell you anyways. Lackey disconnected the cameras in the VIP lounge when he came in. He also had the room cleared prior to meeting you.”

  And also prior to meeting the Black Knight. I fumed over my coffee. “Layne came to that con to chase me down, but the killer got to him first.”

  “Why you?” Stern leaned in, all ears. She was back playing ally. I liked that she hadn’t given up on long hair. It was hard to find anything I didn’t like, and I was trying.

  “I wish I knew. Maybe he wanted to know if Sir Collin said anything to me, or maybe he thought I had a piece of the puzzle. Maybe he wanted me to throw in with him, now that I was a victim of the plot.”

  “I’m not the conspiracy theory type.”

  “Neither was I, until I got cast as Oswald.”

  Every time Stern looked at me I was already looking at her. I didn’t want to get up either, so I found a new topic of conversation. “How up are you on the local private security operators?”

  “You turning me into a source, Allen?”

  “Look, do you want to be able to use all these words against me later or not?”

  “I’m familiar,” Stern admitted. “Having your own little private army is the new fad. There’s no shortage of ex-military floating around, or guys pretending to be.”

  “Any of them drive green Range Rovers?”

  “They white guys?”

  “Half of them.”

  “Not the Daredevils then. Sounds like Chevalier.” When Ster
n pronounced the word, she left off all the right letters.

  “How do they rank?”

  “Top five. They know what they’re doing. Former French Foreign Legion. Use a lot of nonlethals. So far they’ve managed to avoid any felonies.”

  Then it was Chevalier. The demographics, vehicles, and use of nonlethal weapons matched, if hundred mile-an-hour sandbags counted as nonlethal. “They must do okay. Range Rovers aren’t cheap.”

  I got up and dropped some cash on the table. All play and no work would make Ken Allen a convict. Stern walked me to the Stag. I climbed on and patted the seat behind me. “Care for a spin?”

  For a second there I thought she was going to say yes. Instead she pulled out a cigarette case. “Get a helmet, Allen. It’s illegal to ride without one.”

  I was thinking of a parting line when my brain clicked on. “You were at Bryce’s property lickety-split.”

  Stern shrugged while she lit up.

  “Maybe you should be wondering who’s tipping you off and how they know where I am.” Instead of patting myself on the back for my delivery, I should have been asking myself the same thing.

  9

  The opener built into the Stag got me into Bryce Crisp’s garage. In beating a hasty retreat, Bryce forgot to set his security system. It took me a long time to search his place. It was loaded with Jove Brand memorabilia, a lot of which looked like actual production props. In spite of his resentment over being typecast, Bryce had embraced his time as Brand. Then again, unlike me, playing the role had been a positive experience. The fandom loved him.

  Fortunately, Bryce’s beau had cleared out and saved me from making awkward excuses. From the state of the guest bedroom, it appeared they didn’t share a bed. Not nights, anyway. The guy was a stud, if the weights in the exercise room were to be believed. I didn’t find any secret rooms or hidden safes or discarded notepads to run a pencil over for clues. What I did discover was that poking around in Bryce Crisp’s private life made me feel gross.

  I transferred the balance of Ray’s cases—the reloads, batteries, and sundry—into the White Stag’s saddleboxes, then emptied my bags in my trunk and sorted through the remains of my life. There wasn’t much from before all this I cared to keep, but a guy needed underwear.

  My beater stayed in Bryce’s garage. It wasn’t like it was cramped in there. That old car had taken me a lot of places, but none I wanted to be. I wasn’t going to miss it. I found the helmet from Most Dangerous under one of the workbenches. The hood piece was a little scuffed up and Connor Shaw’s cigar smoke lingered on the mouthpiece, but it fit like it was made for me. Much to my surprise, Bryce didn’t have the matching gloves. Maybe Ray could make me a pair.

  The first motel I passed called out to me. I placed pencil cameras in strategic locations, sure to keep the Stag in frame in an attempt to alert me to any ambushes. I came out of the shower to my phone vibrating with a call from Missy. She skipped the greetings.

  “I got the flash drive.”

  “Don’t plug it in. It has a security thing.”

  “I don’t know any computer people.”

  I could hear her putting groceries away. “Do you ever stop shopping?”

  “Oh, I like shopping for produce. The colors, feeling them, smelling them, seeing the change of seasons reflected in them. There’s a wonderful farmers’ market up here.”

  Even if Stern had managed to make me suspicious, two minutes on the phone with Missy would have dispelled it. “How’s the Ashland place?”

  “Exactly the way I left it. After the break-in last year, I upgraded security. It was a scary one.”

  There were a lot of things to envy about Missy. Being able to rate all your break-ins wasn’t one of them. “What made it so scary?”

  “Nothing was taken.”

  I made a sound like I’d drank spoiled milk.

  “Now, who do we get to hack this thing?” Missy asked. “Is that what you do with these, or do you crack them? What’s the difference?”

  “I have no idea. Ray Ford might know a guy. The gadgets he gave me are state-of-the-art.”

  “I bet he was excited.”

  “Yeah, he finally has what he’s always wanted: a living, breathing crash-test dummy.” Missy’s sigh forced me to once again lie to her for her own good. “Don’t worry, I’m being careful.”

  “Okay.” Missy hung up without saying good-bye. They never did, those stars of the big screen.

  And Ray didn’t bother with hello. My phone didn’t even finish the first ring. “Tell me everything and don’t skip nothin’.”

  I swear he took notes while I gave him the play-by-play.

  “I’m putting cameras on your next coat and belt,” he said after I wrapped up. “And all over the bike I’m going to build you. I got this idea to use adhesive foam—”

  “Do you know any hackers? I need someone trustworthy to tinker with that flash drive I told you about.”

  “Have Missy overnight it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I texted Ray’s address to Missy, then fell into bed with the AC blasting. I wasn’t too worried about leaving the Stag parked outside. With his bugs on it, Ray could track it anywhere.

  Turned out car chases took a lot out of you. I slept like a baby for thirteen hours. The room was too cramped so I went through a stretching sequence in the parking lot. One of my custom, do-it-anywhere routines—think the martial-arts version of yoga.

  My ribs were sore where the third demon kicked me, but the soreness felt good, like a workout that broke a plateau. I was munching pecans and turkey jerky when a notification came in. The Super-Friends had posted the footage of our fight from the con in Fresno.

  They didn’t come off too good in it, but hey, channel hits were channel hits, and Street Justice could always rebrand themselves as a comedy troupe. The video was good news for me. They acted first and I responded with minimal reasonable force, even when confronted with a deadly weapon. I hadn’t hit anyone in the face or the girl anywhere. Equality aside, people react differently to a man punching a woman than the other way around. Myself included.

  The girl had honored my request to tag me, and now my channel of poorly sound-mixed instructional videos had a hundred thousand new hits. Only about 75 percent of the commenters called me a murderer so that was an improvement.

  Hearts and minds, baby.

  A rare good idea passed through my head. I started the video at the beginning, where they were detailing their surveillance with our table behind them. I cringed through me chopping away at my “fans” until I found what I was looking for.

  There he was, the Black Knight. The cheeky bastard had paid forty bucks for me to chop him. I texted the time-stamped link to Stern and went to get cleaned up.

  Missy had a knack for calling when I was showering. Her voice mail informed me Dina Calabria had an opening today around brunch. I wondered if Missy had talked to Dina, or if the scheduling was done through intermediaries. Neither of them had taken Kit’s death well, with Missy so close and Dina on the outs.

  The next voice mail was Ray telling me what the White Stag drank to keep running, along with the station closest to me. It was no surprise he was tracking me, probably through my new watch.

  I fed the Stag rocket fuel and headed south towards Big Sur. My heart rate rose as the distance closed. I hadn’t seen Dina since Kit’s funeral. As far as Kit and Missy knew, I’d only met Dina briefly, when she paid an unwelcome surprise visit to the Near Death set. Neither of them knew that she hung around after the blowup, or about how much time we ended up spending together. And how we spent it.

  Then Kit died before he and Dina could heal their rift. It didn’t make sense to blame me, but emotions and associations didn’t have to make sense. Dina lived less than an hour from Missy and they hadn’t spoken in eighteen years.

  The wall was the first sign I’d passed onto the estate. Ten feet of tapering stone frosted with jagged quartz. You couldn’t see Calabria Cove from the road,
and even modern satellite views wouldn’t reveal much.

  By the time the fifth film was released, the Jove Brand franchise was a worldwide phenomenon. Life imitated its art, from fashion to design to architecture. Everything on screen was real—the gadgets, the vehicles, the sets. When the audience sat down in the theater, they were staring into the future.

  Endless Watch was Big Don Calabria’s magnum opus. He tapped into his network of ex-privateers to carve a castle into a cliffside. Crews drilled for weeks while a constant stream of ships delivered materials. The lighthouse at the top was only the tip of the iceberg, with dozens of glass-walled rooms facing the sea and a private marina nestled into his very own beach.

  Endless Watch was the highest-grossing Brand film yet. The investors were over the moon. No one minded much when the Calabrias moved in after filming wrapped. Big Don had built his dream home on the movie’s dime and used its massive cost to absorb any recorded profits. When the tax men showed up, he drowned them in shipping invoice after shipping invoice. To this day, Endless Watch was still in the red, on paper.

  An unseen gate guard raised the portcullis. The path looked like gravel but rode like silk. Neither helipad was in use. Airborne toys waited behind the open hangar doors. A branch broke off the main drive, curving down to the beach. I stayed the course toward the lighthouse.

  It looked like something out of a fairytale, three stories of rounded white stone, its top crenellated like a battlement. The sea breeze hit me hard, filling my ears. The waves were high. Good surfing, if you liked that kind of thing.

  The girl coming out of the lighthouse was the picture of Mediterranean beauty. She still had the tautness of youth, not old enough to have either developed or mistreated her body, firmly in those golden years where she was sure she would look the way she did forever. Everything about her face was generous, with an unapologetic nose and dark eyes that didn’t shy away from the sun, even on a day like this.

  She walked like she was trying out her curves but knew exactly how far away to stand to be heard over the ocean. Brushing wet curls braided with seaweed behind her ear, she asked “Returning our bike?”