“You shouldn’t smoke, anyway,” the blonde said. “It’s bad for you.”
Fain stared into her empty blue eyes. Then he looked down at her fine plump breasts bobbing happily atop the bubbles. He had to think for a moment to remember her name. Debbie? Candy? Sandi? That was it. Sandi. And don’t forget to spell it with an “i.”
“Honey, do me a favor,” he said, “stop with the medical advice.”
She worked on him down under the water with a practiced hand. “I just want to keep you well and strong.”
“Thanks, I’m touched.”
“Everybody knows cigarettes cause lung cancer,” she said.
“Will you quit?” he snapped.
The blonde withdrew her hand.
“Not that,” he said, replacing her hand, “nagging me about cigarettes.”
She was silent. Her wide blue eyes showed hurt.
“Anyway, nobody lives forever,” he grumbled.
Actually, Fain had given up smoking eight years ago and only recently took it up again when his nerves began jumping. With a sigh he grabbed the rest of the pack from the tub ledge, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it into the trees.
“There, satisfied?” he asked.
“It’s really better for you not to smoke,” she said.
This from a girl he had watched snort about two-hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine to get herself going that morning. Fain shook his head and reached for the Bloody Mary.
The French doors opened behind him, and Warner Echols came out onto the terrace. “I’ve got to talk to you, Mac.”
“Does it have to be now? I’m getting a health lecture.”
“Yes, it has to be now. It’s important.”
“So talk,” Fain said, shifting his position gently so as not to dislodge the blonde’s hand. “You know Debbie, don’t you?”
“Sandi,” said Sandi.
“Alone,” said Echols.
Fain edged around to look at the agent. “Can’t this wait?”
“No, goddammit.”
Frowning, Fain pulled Sandi’s hand free and gave her a squeeze. “Take a hike,” he said.
“Are you going to want me later?”
“I don’t know. Stick around in case I do.”
Sandi climbed gracefully out of the tub, giving Echols an opportunity to behold her gleaming ass before wrapping herself in an oversize towel.
Echols paid no attention to the naked girl. He stood shifting his feet impatiently, glaring alternately at Fain and at the newspaper in his hand.
When Sandi had strolled on into the house, Fain said, “All right, what’s the problem? Every time somebody comes at me with a newspaper in his hand, it’s trouble.”
“Have you read the Times?” Echols said.
“No.”
“You’d better read it.”
Fain hoisted himself up onto the tub seat so that the water level was at his waist. He reached out, and Echols handed him the paper.
“‘New Setback for Tax Program,’” he read. “So what?”
“Not that. The left-hand column on page one.”
Fain held the paper carefully up out of the water and read:
BACK FROM THE DEAD — B UT BACK TO WHAT?
By Dean Gooch
(F IRST OF A TIMES INVESTIGATIVE SERIES )
He read quickly through the story, which was continued twice on the inside pages, and looked up at Echols.
“What about it? This Gooch character has had a hard-on for me since day one.”
“If I were you,” Echols said, “I’d be a little more concerned.”
“Why? I’ve had bad press before.”
“I know, but this time it’s not the L.A. Insider. This is the Times.”
“The Los Angeles Times can be wrong, you know. It’s not the Bible.”
“I don’t think they’re wrong this time,” Echols said. “I’ve had Gooch’s story checked as far as I could. We sent private investigators to see all three of those people — Leanne Kruger, Miguel Ledo, and Kevin Jackson.”
“And?”
“And they’re all missing. The Mexican kid and the basketball player for sure, Leanne Kruger probably. Kruger wasn’t talking, but our man sounded out her maid. All three people just walked away.”
“So they’re missing. That doesn’t mean all this shit of Gooch’s is fact.”
“He says in there you were ‘unavailable for comment.’ What does that mean?”
“It means I gave orders that Dean Gooch was not to be allowed anyplace close to me. That SOB dumped on me when I was nobody. Now let him get his news by reading the Herald.”
“That’s not a good attitude, Mac. Gooch swings a lot of weight down at the Times. And his column is syndicated around the country.”
“I will not kiss up to that asshole. So he writes one critical story. That’s not going to kill me. Overall the media has been favorable.”
“And it’s important we keep it that way. If you don’t think the media can turn on one of its darlings, think about what happened to Jesse Jackson.”
“I’m not running for office,” Fain said.
Echols drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Damn it, Mac, don’t you see what kind of effect this will have on our whole program? The book, the movie, the public appearances — everything depends on keeping a positive image in front of the public. A thing like this could blow us right out of the water. We’ve got to do something to counteract the bad effect this has already had, and we’ve got to do it fast.”
Fain hauled himself out of the hot tub and pulled on a thick terry-cloth robe. “What do you expect me to do about it? Apologize for bringing people back to life? I’ve got a power; I use it. I can’t be held responsible for what happens to these people once I’ve revived them.”
“Maybe you can,” Echols said darkly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m thinking of the Oriental custom where you save a man’s life, you become responsible for him from then on. You went a lot farther than just saving these people’s lives; you brought them back from the dead.”
“Do me a favor, Warner. Knock off the Oriental philosophy. If you think we’re in trouble here, let’s have some positive input.”
“I know we’re in trouble,” Echols said. “We started getting calls at F-A early this morning. You must be the only person in town who didn’t read Gooch’s story.”
“I got up late.”
“What I thought we might do,” Echols continued, “is have you make public appearances with some of the other people you’ve brought back. The more recent ones. Sort of a reunion showing that you’re okay and they’re okay.”
“If you really think it’s necessary,” Fain said.
“I do.”
“Then go ahead and set it up.”
• • •
In the days that followed, Warner Echols became increasingly worried. The people he sent out to contact Fain’s recent “clients” came back with troubling reports. So troubling that Echols went out to see for himself.
His first stop was at the home of Glenn Meiner, the heroic fireman killed in the nursing-home blaze. He was taken into the living room by Meiner’s pregnant wife. The Venetian blinds were tightly closed, locking out the sunlight. A moist, unhealthy smell permeated the room.
Meiner sat slumped in a frayed easy chair. He did not look up when Echols came in. His wife hurried over to take a position behind him. The fireman responded to Echols’s greeting and his questions in a voice that had been drained of life.
“I don’t want to be on any TV show,” the fireman said.
“You wouldn’t have to go into a studio or anything,” Echols said. “We could do the interview right here. As a matter of fact, it might be better that way.”
“I don’t want them coming here. Too much fuss, too many people, too many lights.”
“We could make it as simple and quick as you like,” Echols persisted. “Just a short conversation between y
ou and McAllister Fain.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
Echols leaned forward, trying in the dim living room to read the face of the man sitting across from him. “Mr. Meiner, I’m not asking a lot of you, and it could be very important to Mr. Fain.”
“No.”
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t want to, that’s all.” He raised his head to face Echols for the first time. Something dangerous glimmered in the shadowed eyes. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”
“He doesn’t mean that,” Meiner’s wife said quickly.
“I mean it,” the man said. “All I want is to be left alone.”
Echols rose from the chair and walked stiffly out of the living room and through the front door into the sunshine. Mrs. Meiner followed him.
“I’m sorry about Glenn,” she said. “That isn’t like him at all. Not the way he used to be. He was always a kind, laughing man. We were always having people in and going places. Now all he does all day is sit there in the dark. He won’t see anybody. He won’t do anything. He won’t go back to work; he doesn’t hardly eat anything. We don’t laugh anymore.”
“Is it something physical?” Echols said. “An aftereffect from the fire?”
“I don’t think so. The doctor checked him over and said he was fine right after. He was fit to go to work if he’d wanted to. But I don’t know … he just keeps sitting there. He won’t let the doctor near him now.”
• • •
Sharon Isaacs, the would-be suicide in the Valley, was even less encouraging to Echols than the fireman. He learned from her parents that Sharon had been in a more or less constant state of hysteria since her revival. The psychiatrist that the Isaacses called in recommended putting the girl in an institution, but so far the parents had resisted. They kept her upstairs in her old room, hoping she would come around, but so far Sharon was in no condition to talk to Echols or anybody else.
Paula Foster, the actress who had died during what was supposed to be minor surgery, was welcomed back to River Falls by a cast party. Her return a mere three days after the ordeal was considered miraculous. The day after the party she returned to work. The reports of what happened then were sketchy and guarded, but Echols managed to piece together a rough scenario.
Paula, who was known as a delight to work with, had immediately picked a fight with her costar and refused to do a kissing scene. In rapid succession she argued with the director, the producer, the writers, the network, and anyone else who crossed her path. She walked off the set and was placed on an indefinite leave of absence while her part was “temporarily” written out. Now she was reported to be holed up in her Malibu beach house, seeing no one and refusing to answer the phone. Not even her longtime personal agent at Federated Artists could reach her.
• • •
Barney Quail, the homeless man who had inhaled the lethal chemical fumes, had simply dropped from sight. Since his release from the hospital, he had been absent from his old haunts. There were no known relatives, and no one much seemed to care, so the trail ended.
• • •
John Corely was the clean-cut, well-liked young policeman who had been shot through the head while thwarting a robbery. Echols discovered he was currently in custody in the hospital ward of L.A. County Jail. One week after McAllister Fain brought him back, Corely had emptied his .38 special into the body of his wife.
• • •
Ada Dempsey, the mangled hit-and-run victim, had stayed in the hospital after her vital signs were restored. Then one night she somehow pulled together the torn flesh and shattered bones and dragged herself out of the hospital. No one saw her go. No one had seen her since.
• • •
The next time Warner Echols met with McAllister Fain, there was no blonde, no hot tub, no Bloody Mary. The meeting took place in one of the rooms of Eagle’s Roost appropriated as an office by Federated Artists. The secretary was dismissed, and the door was closed as the two men faced each other.
“What we have here, Mac, is a crisis situation,” Echols said.
Fain lit a Marlboro with a shaking hand, took a puff, ground it out. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating the problem?”
“Exaggerating? Hell, if anything, I’m underplaying it.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “First we have disappearances of the original three people — Leanne Kruger, the Mexican kid, and Kevin Jackson. No word, incidentally, on any of them.”
“Are the police in on it?”
“Only with the Mexican kid, officially. Elliot Kruger has his own security people looking for his wife. Jackson’s mother won’t have anything to do with the cops. Something about a roust of her neighborhood a couple of years ago.”
Fain slumped in his chair, looking glum.
“Now we’ve got a man who sits and mopes in a dark room, a girl who screams all night, an actress who’s locked herself away from everybody, a missing bum, a cop with a hole in his head and a murdered wife, and a bag of bloody bones that once was a woman out on the streets somewhere. If all that doesn’t add up to a major crisis, you’ll have to show me what does.”
Fain ran fingers through his thick black hair. “Okay, Warner, we’ve got a problem. What do you suggest we do?”
Echols hitched his chair closer. “That’s what I came to talk about.”
Chapter 25
“What we want you to do,” Warner Echols said, “is drop out of sight for a little while.”
“Drop out of sight?” Fain repeated.
“Until this situation smooths itself out.”
“How long a time are we talking about?”
“Say, a year.”
“A year? Jesus, you’re asking me to disappear for a whole year? I won’t do it.”
Echols tapped the desktop with a forefinger to emphasize his point. “Mac, I am not asking you to do anything. If you’ll read your contract with Federated Artists, you’ll see that the agency has final control over all decisions that affect your professional career. This decision has already been made, and what it is, is for you to vanish. Believe me, this has been kicked around at the highest level, and it’s the best possible move for you, considering the situation.”
“To run away,” Fain said.
“If that’s the way you want to look at it, yes. Any other course would be foolhardy.”
“What about all our plans? My commitments?”
“Let’s be honest here,” Echols said. “Your career is dead in the water.”
“But there’s the book,” Fain protested. “The movie.”
“The book is on hold. Bookstores have canceled orders to the point where it wouldn’t pay to set the thing in type. And frankly, the publisher is not anxious to be associated with your autobiography with all the bad publicity going down. As for the movie, M-G-M is out, and there isn’t a producer in town who will touch you, the way things are.”
“All of this because of what that sleazy SOB Dean Gooch wrote?”
“All he did was break the story. It would have come out anyway. Hell, Mac, you can’t hide what’s happening to the people you worked on. They’re turning into zombies. Dead meat. Carrion.”
Fain looked around as though for a jury to hear his side of the case. “It’s not fair. All I ever did was try to help people.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Echols said.
Fain jammed his hands into his pockets and strode back and forth in the office. Finally, he came to a stop in front of Echols. “I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t run away. There’s got to be some way to fix things.”
“Do I understand that you’re refusing to abide by the agency’s decision?”
“Bingo.”
Echols withdrew a thick number-ten envelope from his breast pocket and laid it on the desk in front of Fain. “In that case, I have to tell you that Federated Artists is severing all professional connections with you as of this date. You’ll find the legal papers to that effect in the envelope. You can sign them
when you get around to it.”
Fain’s eyes narrowed to silvery pinpoints. “This is what you wanted me to do, isn’t it. You came all prepared to dump me.”
Echols put out a hand toward Fain’s shoulder. Fain pulled away.
“Mac, I’m truly sorry about this. On a one-to-one basis, I like you, but you can understand that we have to leave personal feelings aside. We didn’t have a long time together, but you weren’t too hard to work with. At first. But over the weeks I’ve watched you turn into something else. And in my heart I started having doubts about the whole project.”
“Just what the hell does that mean?” Fain said.
“Honest to God, I don’t know what you did to those people, and I don’t think I want to know. Maybe it’s a trick; maybe it’s some weird kind of folk medicine. Or maybe it’s magic. Whatever it is my gut feeling is that you should never have started. I’m not a religious man, but I think you stepped across a line that men should stay well back of.”
“I cannot believe I’m standing here listening to a sermon from the same guy who was so eager to jump on the bandwagon when it looked like I would make a bundle.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t take it like this, Mac. I know there are no hard feelings on my part. Speaking for myself and for the agency, I only want to say good luck.”
“Gee, thanks, Warner. That warms my heart.” He picked up the envelope and turned to go.
Behind him, Echols said, “Uh, how soon do you think you can be out?”
“Out?”
“Out of Eagle’s Roost. I mean, there’s no need to keep the place open any longer, and the agency would like to button it up.”
Fain stared at him. “Will this afternoon be soon enough?”
“That’ll be fine, we’ll have a truck here for your personal things. Agency expense.”
“If you do me any more favors, I may cry.”
“It’s a tough business, Mac.”
• • •
The staff of servants and the agency personnel cleared out of the huge old house so fast it seemed to Fain he was watching a time-lapse film. At noon, the Bekins truck came for the things that Fain had brought with him from Echo Park — a pitifully small grouping in the big van. When the driver asked him for a destination, Fain realized he had no idea where he was going.
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