by Cassie Miles
"I don't know," she said.
He handed her a cell phone. "Try."
After a series of calls, she finally contacted Alex. His voice was low, filled with dismay.
"It's Jenna," she said. "Are you feeling ill?"
"I'm as well as any man who has consumed his body weight in alcohol," Alex said. "What do you want?"
"I'm concerned, Alex. You know about the virus that killed Eddy. Is there any chance that you might be infected?"
"No one has injected me," he said. "Nor have I petted any of your nasty pigs."
"My pigs aren't spreading the disease." But the Montclair pigs might be a whole different story. She thought of the symptoms she'd seen in Eddy and in Frank. "Are you running a temperature?"
"Afraid not. My brow is not fevered. My hands do not shake. I called in sick because I needed a mental health day. Leave me alone."
She still wasn't convinced. Frank hadn't thought he was dying until the last stages of the illness. "Where are you, Alex?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm staying with my brother in Sepulveda. Sean is also a picture of health."
She glanced at Rafe. "He's with his brother in Sepulveda. Is that anywhere near where we're going?"
"It's one of our destinations," Rafe said. "Sean Hill is on the list. He has one of the Montclair pigs."
She informed Alex that they would be coming to see him and his brother, then rang off. To Rafe, she said, "He says he's not sick. How would we know until the last stages?"
"I'm not sure," Rafe said. "We'll give Alex the antidote, and we need to move fast. It's going to take a while to gather up all these pigs. There are six of them."
"I don't suppose they're all in the same area."
"They're all over southern California. From looking at the map, I think we can pick them up in a loop. We'll start in the north with Sean, then we'll need to swing far south to Compton, then Irvine, east to Riverside, circle back to Pomona and end up where we started, near Olvera street."
"Shouldn't we stay close to the Montclair estate? In case the police need your help?"
"Detective Metz has the number of that cell phone. He's promised to call when they're ready to enter the estate with a search warrant. Right now, he has a couple of men posted outside, ready to follow Hugh if he takes off."
It was one-thirty-seven in the afternoon when they found the address. Sean Hill lived in a small adobe house, surrounded by palm trees on a double lot. There was a ramp leading to the front door. Two cars were parked in the breezeway—a van with a handicapped license plate and a BMW.
When Rafe knocked, Alex answered the door. "I can't believe you've bothered to track me down."
"Frankly, Alex, I'm more interested in the pig than in you."
"The pig?"
On cue, a brown-and-white spotted Vietnamese potbellied pig waddled toward them, making contented grunting noises. Like many of his species, he was curious. His piggy little eyes seemed to squint, and his mouth turned up in what looked like a grin.
"Come here, Hambone. Don't be rude."
The speaker was a dark, handsome, broad-shouldered man in a hand-pushed wheelchair. His British accent gave a dignity to his words, but a devilish grin curved his generous lips, and Jenna couldn't help responding with a smile of her own.
"You must be Jenna," he said. "I'm Sean."
"Pleased to meet you." She liked him immediately. He had a boyish aura of mischief, a common trait among stuntmen who never got over playing "double dare" with each other. But there was also a maturity and solidity, a sense of true courage. Sean Hill would be a good friend—solid and fun at the same time.
Jenna understood why he was so popular with the flightly, shallow Hollywood crowd. True integrity was so rare that they tended to be drawn to those few individuals who had it.
"Dinah says you like snakes," he said.
"And pigs." She pointed to Hambone.
"Come in," he said. "May I offer you a drink? I'm afraid my brother has laid claim to the vodka, but I have wine and beer."
"Water," Jenna said. "I'd love a glass of water. Or bottled, if you have it."
"You're like Frank," he said. "I've never seen anybody drink as much water as he does. You know him, don't you? Frank Vincenzo?"
"Yes," Rafe said, following her into the room. "We'd like to talk to you about Frank."
"Don't say anything to them," said Alex as he flopped into a chair by the front window. "I have reason to believe that this gentleman—Rafe the stuntman—is actually a cop."
"Fine with me," Sean said. "I've got nothing to hide. Rafe? Can I get you something to drink?"
"Nothing, thanks." He turned to Alex. "Why do you think I'm a cop?"
"Hugh said so."
Rafe took a seat beside Alex. His blue-eyed gaze was cool and steady. His posture was casual, and his manner suggested easygoing conversation as he and Alex discussed the progress on Alien Age.
Jenna knew Rafe would shift his tone, that he intended to probe Alex for information. She admired the skill with which he passed smoothly from chatting to questions.
Rafe's arrogance, she thought, was justified. Not only was he a natural leader who had instigated action on the homicide investigation and with the Los Angeles coroner's office, but his manner was persuasive. People wanted to tell him everything.
He became direct. "When was the last time you talked to Hugh?"
"Late last night. He called and told me that he wanted changes in the script. Also, he had some concerns about the casting."
"Did you go to the estate?"
"Yes, I did. And Hugh, that interfering old bastard, wasn't even there. I ended up talking with his assistant."
"Nick?"
"An annoying twit. When I left, I was fuming. I came here for a brief discussion with my brother, and our thoughts flowed deep and melancholy as we jointly contemplated the demise of my brief Hollywood career."
Sean returned from the kitchen with Jenna's bottled water which he tossed to her. "He got blitzed."
"I had reason," Alex protested.
"Last night at the estate," Rafe continued, "did you talk with Taylor Wannamaker?"
"Who? Oh, Wannamaker. That SPCA idiot. Actually, he was there, poking his gargantuan nose where it didn't belong."
"Was he with Hugh?"
"He was waiting in the front room while I enlightened Nick Vincenzo on why I didn't care to stay and listen to opinions from Hugh Montclair."
Alex took a long sip from a crystal tumbler half filled with clear liquid. "I require complete artistic control. I told him that Hugh could take his noxious aliens and shove them."
"You quit?" Jenna asked.
"I did," he said with a dramatic flourish.
Sean added, "Then he spent the rest of the night wishing he hadn't. Might have been a bit hasty."
"It's all your fault," Alex said to Jenna. "As soon as your mother showed up on set, Hugh had to start showing off, flexing his muscles."
"You're better off without this job," Sean said. "It's an unlucky show, what with Eddy being murdered. Poor old guy. He never forgave himself for what happened to me."
"But you forgave him?" Jenna asked.
"Life's too short to be bitter." His expression turned contemplative, but just for an instant. Then the sparkle returned. "What did you want to know about Frankie Vincenzo?"
"How long have you been friends?" Rafe asked.
"Since before my accident. Frank was trying to be a stuntman, but he wasn't the type. Not crazy enough."
"What do you know about his brothers?"
"Danny's a good kid. A little rough round the edges, but basically okay. Nick is the typical domineering older brother. He's even more of a control freak since their father died. He tries to take care of everybody. Even Hugh."
"How so?"
Sean gestured. "My pig is a prime example."
"Your pig?"
"Hugh was using the pigs for experimentation with some kind of virus that would
cure ADDS."
"Do you know that for certain?" Rafe asked.
He shrugged. "That's what Frank told me. Anyway, that kind of experimentation is illegal. Somebody found out about it and threatened to report him."
"Do you know who that someone might be?"
Sean rolled his eyes toward his brother.
"Not me," Alex said. "I'm an artist. I don't need to blackmail my way into a job."
"You blackmailed me," Jenna said.
"And aren't you glad that I did? Those sequences of you two frolicking together, almost naked, are the best bits done for this stupid film."
"Naked," Sean said. "I'd like to see those rushes."
"They're very tasteful," Alex informed him. "You'd be disappointed. Go on with your story, Sean."
"Right. The story of Nick and the pigs. Anyway, Hugh said that he couldn't care less about being reported. He's a wealthy man and nobody is going to bother him. But Nick got all worked up and decided to disperse the pigs. So, Frank showed up on my doorstep with Hambone under his arm and asked if I wanted to give the little beast a good home. Luckily, we hit it off."
"Mind if we take him for a while?" Rafe said. "We're gathering up all the pigs for a health check."
"No problem," Sean said.
He called Hambone, and the pig dutifully waddled over to him. Reaching down from his wheelchair, he scratched under the pig's chin. "You be good, Bacon Boy."
Rafe turned back to Alex. "While we're here, I'd like to give you an antidote to the virus. Just in case."
Nervously, Alex pushed his glasses up on his nose and stroked his goatee. "Do you think that's necessary? Eddy's death was murder. He was purposely poisoned."
"Do you have any idea why?"
Alex nodded toward his brother. "I believe Sean mentioned that someone planned to blow the whistle on Hugh's experiments. The someone might have been Eddy."
That made perfect sense, Jenna thought, especially since Taylor had been murdered after making the same threat.
Alex demanded, "How could I be infected?"
"Possibly by accident."
"That's rather bad news, isn't it? Are you suggesting that this virus might be running out of control?"
"Frank Vincenzo is dead." Rafe turned toward Sean. "I'm sorry."
"My God." Sean bowed his head. For a moment, he seemed to concentrate on his hands, laced together in his lap. A deep sigh lifted his shoulders. "I'll miss Frankie."
When he looked up, his jaw was tight. But Sean was in complete control. He wasn't the sort of person who would succumb to sorrow. "Did Frank die of the virus?"
"We believe so," Rafe said.
Sean spoke to his brother. "Take the antidote, Alex. I don't want to lose you."
Alex was already holding out his hand. "Nor do I wish to be lost. What should I do with this vial?"
Rafe handed him a card from the coroner's office. "If you start to feel ill, contact these people and tell them. They can inject you with the antidote."
Before they left with the pig, Sean spoke quietly. "I don't know if you're a cop or not, Rafe. But you've got to catch that bastard. Stop him."
Chapter Fourteen
Three men were dead. Eddy Benson. Frank Vincenzo. Taylor Wannamaker. Though Jenna hadn't known any of them well, she regretted their passing. A veil of sadness covered her thoughts, and she was determined to do anything she could to prevent other deaths.
Back in the truck with Rafe, she read the map and directed him from the Hollywood Freeway to the Harbor Freeway. Their drive to Compton took over an hour, when it felt like every minute should count. Another twenty minutes was required to locate the house.
The new owner of the pig—a woman who worked at home and cared for her three small children—quickly turned over their piglet when Rafe explained that there might be a need for health tests. He questioned her briefly, and discovered no suspicious connection to Montclair. She had responded to a small ad in a local newspaper offering free piglets. The next thing she knew, a nicely dressed man had appeared at the door with their free pig.
The second piglet joined Hambone in the rear of the truck as Jenna directed Rafe toward the Artesia Freeway.
"This is taking too long," Rafe said. "It's almost four o'clock. We're hitting rush hour."
"There's an airport in Compton," she said. "We could charter a plane to fly from here to the John Wayne Airport near Irvine."
"Excellent," he said.
"It might be a novelty for you to fly in a plane," she commented.
"I've flown commercial," he said. "Don't much like it. I'm always nervous when somebody else is at the controls."
After a few minutes on the cell phone, Rafe had made arrangements. Jenna noticed that he didn't inform the charter pilot that their cargo would be piglets. As they boarded the twin-engine Beechcraft in Compton, both Rafe and Jenna carried a pig under their arm.
"Whoa," the pilot said. "What's this?"
Jenna held up Hambone. "A pig."
"I can see that. Why are you bringing pigs on my plane?"
"We don't have time for a chat," Rafe said. He flashed his C.I.A. credentials. "This is a matter of national security."
The pilot rubbed his forehead. "Make sure your national security doesn't destroy my cabin, okay?"
After Jenna had found an appropriate crate for holding the piglets, she slipped into her seat across a narrow aisle from Rafe.
"Flying was a great idea," he said as he fastened his safety belt for takeoff. "We'll get these animals picked up before Hugh has any idea of what we're doing."
"Why would we be worried about Hugh?"
"If they're infected, they're evidence that can be used against him," he said. "More importantly, I'll be able to breathe easier only after I feel like we've got the virus under control."
She had the idea he was holding back. "Is there another reason?"
Sheepishly, he said, "I think Saint Francis would want it this way. If there's a cure for this virus, I don't want the pigs to suffer."
"I like the way you think."
Jenna leaned back in her seat. She hadn't flown on small planes too often, and this felt like a real adventure. The static from the pilot's radio in the cockpit mingled with alarmed squeaks from the pigs and the whir of propellers. When they swept into the skies, above the clouds, Rafe took her hand.
She remembered watching him in flight with his powerful wings spread, soaring majestically. Was he yearning for that angelic freedom?
"I'm feeling strong, Jenna. I might try the transformation, again."
"You are strong," she said. "The most determined, courageous man I've ever known."
"I'm an angel."
Tension prickled through her, alerting her to the inevitable moment when he would metamorphose and fly away. It was always so dramatic in the movies when the hero had to leave his darling. In Casablanca, she remembered Humphrey Bogart saying to Ingrid Bergman, "We'll always have Paris." In real life, such sentiments seemed less romantic, especially when she was the one being left behind.
"Do you have a choice?" she asked. "Could you decide not to change back into an angel?"
"I don't know." He turned his head to peer through the porthole window. "I miss it, Jenna."
"Suppose you could choose. Would you stay with me?"
"If I were an angel, I could have flown from place to place and picked up these pigs in an hour."
"Well, that sure puts me in my place," she teased. "Are you saying that it's more important to have a speedy pig pickup than to be with me?"
"No." He turned to face her. "No one is more important to me than you."
"Then don't go. Stay with me forever."
Over the whir of the airplane engines, he said, "I love you, Jenna."
He'd never expected to fall in love with her. In his angelic existence, he never contemplated what it meant to be blessed by the love of a good woman, to see the warm light shining from her and to know her happiness was a part of him. "If I were mortal, I'
d marry you. I'd want for you to be the mother of my children."
His children? Rafe swallowed hard. Could it be possible that he would sire children? The idea expanded within him until he was consumed by a vision of the two of them, together, raising a family, growing old together.
When he looked at her, he wanted that future, that chance for a gentle, peaceful life. He'd been a warrior for so many lifetimes. Was it possible that now, finally, he could hang up his sword?
"I love you, Rafe." With a contented smile, she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. "Everything's going to work out perfectly. I know it is."
"Are you tired, darling?"
"Exhausted."
"Get some sleep. I'll take care of the pigs."
In a quick hop, the plane sped to Irvine where Rafe and Jenna caught a cab and tracked down the next pig. Now there were three. Only three more to go.
By the time they picked up the next piglet in Riverside, the pilot had developed a fondness for the animals. He'd made makeshift leashes and took the herd for a walk while Rafe and Jenna made their run.
Four piglets. Two were left.
At the next to the last stop in Pomona, Rafe left Jenna resting in the cab as he approached an attractive home where a young woman with magenta-streaked hair sat on the front stoop.
"Is this the Ferdinand residence?" Rafe asked.
"Yeah."
"Do you have a Vietnamese potbellied pig?"
"Yeah. Her name's Punky. That's what my Dad calls me sometimes. He thinks it's funny."
So did Rafe, but he didn't say as much. He pressed the doorbell.
A harried-looking woman answered. She looked from her daughter to Rafe. "Now what?"
"Mrs. Ferdinand, I'm here about the pig you received from the Montclair estate. There's a possibility that the pig might be infected with a virus, and we need to take it for a health checkup."
"A virus, huh? Well, the pig seems fine, but my husband has been throwing up since early this morning."
Though vomiting had not been among the symptoms shown by Eddy or Frank, Rafe was alert. "May I see your husband?"