Larry laughed when he addressed Shane. “So, where’s your noisy little Coppelia?”
“Dead. Remember? You killed her.”
“Obviously not well enough to shut her up. Or you, either. I wasn’t terribly efficient back then, was I? Didn’t make sure you were both dead. Something I plan to rectify tonight.”
Angela shivered. It occurred to me that she’d never actually witnessed her brother murder someone in cold blood before. “Larry. Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
Neither could I.
Larry reloaded the gun and pointed it at Shane’s head. It was over unless…
Plan D.
I grabbed the wooden peace symbol around my neck and squeezed it against the script under my jacket as I heard a shot ring out.
And everything went black.
Chapter Thirty-One
12:30 a.m. April 9, 1973
Shane placed the faux leather necklace with the wooden peace symbol over my head, and then lifted my hair from my neck so the strap wouldn’t become tangled. I smiled up at him. “I love you, Shane Halloran. And not just because you buy me cool gifts.”
The Gypsy vendor who’d dangled the necklace in front of me like a charm as we’d headed toward the Elysium Theatre nodded, obviously pleased we’d purchased this particular item.
The woman was dressed as though she should be in a dark room conducting a séance with a crystal ball. She wore a peasant blouse with a fringed vest and a long skirt over laced-up granny boots. The two of us had admired each other’s taste in clothes for a few moments, and then she’d shown me the peace symbol. There was a mystical quality to the piece and it drew me like a snake to a wicker basket.
Shane smiled, said, “We’ll take it,” and pulled out seven dollars. We thanked the vendor, who’d said she was glad she’d caught us when she did, since she was about to close for the night.
The odd thing though was as she handed me the piece she whispered, “You can fix it.”
I must have misheard her. There was nothing wrong with the peace symbol or the strap. But she’d been so adamant her words stuck in my mind.
Shane and I walked hand in hand toward the front entrance of the Elysium. I gave him a quick kiss and held up the necklace. “This is so cool. I love it. It’s got that whole ‘connect to the earth’ thing going for it and it’s also quite beautiful. Thank you!”
“Well, since your engagement ring still isn’t ready, consider this a token of my everlasting love. Besides, it suits you and brings out your gorgeous eyes.”
I stared at Shane for a long loving moment. “Are you still going to be this full of Irish blarney and charm when you’re old and gray?”
“Worse.” He grinned, and then muttered, “Which may happen soon if we have to keep waiting. Midnight, right? For an impromptu discussion to plan Rob’s memorial. Crazy. What exactly did Derek say?”
“Nothing. I mean, I didn’t talk to him personally. Alice somebody who said she was the new stage manager called. I told her midnight was a screwy time for a meeting, but she said Derek will be out of town for the next two weeks so this was the one chance the cast had to get together and decide what we need to do. Rob doesn’t have family except for Frannie and she’s also dealing with her mother being sick. So it’s up to us to help.” I reached inside my bag. “Hang on. I wrote the time down on the script.”
I pulled out the pages I’d brought from my dad’s place earlier, Rob’s script, which I’d been working on almost non-stop since his death. I stared at the first page, experiencing one of those déjà vu feelings that had been cropping up the last few months. “Shane, this is weird.”
“What? Wrong time?”
“Good question. There’s no time here at all. This script doesn’t look like the one I copied earlier. No carbon stains. What is wrong with me these last few days? I can’t remember stuff and there are times when it feels like I’m redoing entire days. It’s eerie. A bit scary, too.”
Shane hugged me. “Holly. Rob died only two days ago. You were more than co-writers. You were friends. Grief this strong gets anyone off his or her game. I wish you’d at least give me a hint about what Rob told you.”
I shook my head. “It’s too dangerous. I’d rather wait until the proof shows up along with the final script. God, I hope Rob actually sent it. Anyway, in the meantime no one knows what I know and it’s staying that way.”
“I can’t agree, darlin’. I’ve got to say remaining silent will have the opposite effect.” He smiled. “Ah, what the hell, I don’t care if you go bats on me. I’ll still love ya forever.”
He kissed me with such gentleness I began to tear up. I was so blessed being loved by someone so understanding—who also happened to be a damned fine kisser.
Finally we separated. “Well, I love you as well, but I still feel bats. Could I have been wrong about the time? Looks like it’s just us. Am I losing my mind and memory?”
“Want to call your da and ask him to check if you jotted down anything on the other script? How many of the blame things are out there?”
“I’m not sure. They seem to be multiplying.” That odd feeling, like a premonition I couldn’t pin down, returned. “Do you suppose the pay phone at the end of the block works?”
“Well, it didn’t last week and I’d bet my bike it’s still out of order. We need to find a way inside and use the phone there. And where did this freaky April snow come from? It seems to be getting stronger and colder, and I have no desire to freeze out here.”
Shane tried the front door of the theatre, which, of course, was locked.
“Want to try the back door?” I suggested. “The police were probably the last ones here after Rob died…maybe they forgot to lock it.”
“We can always try.”
We walked around to the back of the theatre. The police had been efficient. The door was padlocked.
“Around to the front again.” Shane scowled. “At least there’s an awning there. We can stay moderately dry.”
“Agreed.”
We waited another ten minutes under the awning, watching a few other individuals on West 16th scurry for cover or run toward the nearest subway entrance.
Shane grumbled, “Enough. This is rude. Late is one thing. Late in a surprise blizzard is another. It’s past twelve thirty. I’m considerin’ leavin’ the bike here. We can take the train home. Or I can ride it back while you stay dry and warm on the A.”
The twitchy, nasty feeling grew stronger. “I’m not leaving you. Neither of us will melt in the snow nor freeze to death. Let me scribble a note for Derek in case he shows up. I can slide it under the door.”
I took out the script again, since it was the only paper I had with me. I grabbed the last page, which should have had plenty of room to spare. What I found instead made no sense.
I was looking at what appeared to be Rob’s final script. There were two notes on the bottom, written in my hand. I read through them, stunned.
Rob was in a support group with Hemming—recognized him as Angela’s brother, Larry Olson. Collaborator. Sniper. Arms dealer. Killer.
When had I written this? Where had this copy come from?
I glanced down at the beginning of a second note and read Wooden peace symbol. Hang on to Shane! Okay. This fell into the category of odd, bizarre, and plain freakin’ weird. Of course I’d hang on to Shane. For the rest of my life, and for all of eternity, assuming spirits got to hang out with loved ones on the other side.
Then I saw the next part of the paragraph. Henry Hudson Bridge. April 9th. Don’t let go. Don’t let him crash on the other side.
I quit reading. April 9th? Tonight. I looked up and cried out, “What the hell?”
“What’s wrong?”
I started to hand him the page but my bag slipped off my shoulder and I bent to pick it up. I heard what sounded like a ricochet
coming from the front door of the theatre.
“Shane!”
“Run!”
We ran to his motorcycle. I slung my bag over my shoulder and held on to the script with one hand. I was desperate to figure out how I’d written a note to myself without knowing I’d done it or when I’d done it, and what the second part meant, but there was no time. That sound I’d heard whizzing by was a bullet.
Shane started up the bike and I jumped on right behind him, putting my hands on the grips on either side, crumpling the script. I sensed rather than heard another bullet go by. The snow was making it almost impossible to see or hear but thankfully it was also making it harder for the gunman to fire with any accuracy.
Then we were off, charging down the street toward the West Side Highway. I kept repeating, “Hang on to Shane. Don’t let him crash,” to myself like some mad mantra.
I assumed Olson was the shooter and I also assumed he was firing from a car, because a black sporty convertible began to follow us. I’d witnessed Larry dropping his sister Angela off in a very similar car two weeks ago, and admired the car’s sleek, seductive lines. I’d been almost glad Shane hadn’t arrived yet, since I knew he’d want to run out and grab an identical model, although in a flashy red. When Angela told me the price I’d nearly fainted with shock.
That same car now easily kept up with us as Shane began to weave between the few other cars heading up the West Side Highway. I’d ridden on the back of Shane’s bike often enough to have some idea of its awesome speed, but not even the fastest motorcycle could outrun a vehicle Angela had said could reach 195 in seconds.
There was no chance to tell Shane who was trying to kill us. He had to focus. Shane was doing an amazing job keeping some distance between the bike and the car but this couldn’t last. I whipped my head around, looking for any police vehicles on the road, but didn’t spot a single black-and-white anywhere.
Shane slipped between two cars and zoomed up toward Inwood Hill Park and the Henry Hudson Bridge. We were going fast but I still managed to turn around to check for the black sports car. When I didn’t see it, for a brief second I rejoiced. We’d lost him!
Then it hit me how stupid I was. A ruthless killer in a swift car was not going to let a little thing like other cars on the road stop him. As I was about to turn and face front again, a vehicle overtook a small truck that had been blocking my view. Within seconds our pursuer had closed the gap to about three car lengths.
Shane was almost at the bridge. For one insane moment it seemed Larry wasn’t going to follow us. Then I realized he’d slowed down in order to take a steadier shot. I’ve always been clueless about guns but it seemed to me shooting while driving a speeding vehicle was complete lunacy. But then, Larry Olson was desperate. Someone else must be driving. Angela?
We were on the upper level of the Henry Hudson Bridge. I knew Olson was going to take a last shot and I was going to die. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
Just like before.
In the strongest wave of déjà vu yet, I could feel the effects of the bullet hitting the tire, sending me flying into the air and tumbling through a tunnel of nothing until I hit the water. And then…
My déjà vu merged with present and past. If I didn’t follow my instincts nothing would change. Nothing.
Hang on to Shane!
It wasn’t meant as a lover’s cry for any future breakups. It was a warning. A command.
I released my hands from the side grips and grabbed Shane. The script flew into the air. Pages swirled in the wind and snow. I kept my arms wrapped around Shane’s waist and hung on for what was literally my life.
I heard the shot and felt the bullet pierce the rubber in the tire. I held on. Shane fought to control the motorcycle through the ice and wet snow and the busted tire. We careened and weaved and spun and then we were across the bridge, making it another hundred yards down the road with Shane steering to the side of the highway without crashing. No other cars were in sight. We were about to run when I heard screams from the bridge. I turned.
“Shane!”
The black convertible must have lost control. The driver had been going way too fast and there was no way to stop the momentum. For one brief moment, the car was suspended on the edge, as though rooted forever in time. Its headlights continued to flash wildly, like a strobe light at a rock concert. Then the car and its occupants plunged into a dive to be consumed by the icy water below. Perhaps the pages I’d let loose into the air had hit the windshield, blinding the driver?
Shane’s held me close. I stared into the sky and suddenly spotted a bald eagle circling high over the bridge.
And heard the whisper of a Gypsy vendor telling me, “You fixed it.”
Epilogue
April 14, 2016
“Did you finish the new pages for Salacity City?” Addie asked. “And is it true one of the major networks is sniffing around, interested in airing it?”
“I did and they are and Jeff is going to love the latest storyline. Or fire me. I decided to add a mayoral candidate who’s having an affair with the deputy mayor and standing trial for the murder for hire of his other mistress, who was going to out him for being the leader of the worst gang in California before he changed his name and moved to the suburbs of Mendacity Mountain. Which could be a spin-off location one day if Salacity City gets overpopulated.”
“I love it. It’s beyond tacky and, for once, no one ends up with amnesia.” She handed me a mug of hazelnut coffee, then turned to Shane who was making no attempt to hide his amusement. “So, what are the boys up to?”
Shane answered, “Jordy’s still in Mumbai. There’s no breaking news in India to speak of—but he wants authentic cuisine. Your fault for spoiling my kids with samosas and tandoori every time they stayed with you. Oh, and Robbie’s flying home tomorrow. Says California is great and definitely having better weather than we are, but he needs his Manhattan fix of energy if he’s going to get any work done.”
Addie nodded but suddenly appeared distracted. “Right. Nice.”
I waved at her. “Yo, earth to Addie? Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “Yes and no. I’ve had a very weird day.”
“How so?”
“I found myself this afternoon at Penn Station wanting to buy burner phones and was worried that you and Shane were being threatened by goons and they were coming after Boo-Boo and me next.”
“Oh boy. Are you sharing my flashes forward?”
“Crap. I hope not.” She winked at me. “One wacko in the family is enough.”
Shane put his arm around me. “Did you have another one as well? You didn’t tell me.”
“I did. We were down at the old Elysium Theatre and Larry Olson was shooting up the place. Fortunately the vision didn’t last long.”
Shane kept silent for a moment. Finally he asked, “Do you need to see a psychic or something? You’ve been flashing forward for the past week now.”
I smiled at him. “Do you suppose our old Gypsy vendor is still working Sixteenth Street? I always suspected she did readings in her off hours.”
Addie coughed and changed the subject before Shane could respond. “So—you said Robbie is coming back from where?”
I answered, “L.A. He’s talking to a couple of producers about turning Time Lost into a film. Which reminds me, may I use your new computer? It won’t take long. Robbie was going to talk to Crimson, about directing. I gather one of the producers has been a huge fan of hers for years, both as actress and director, and she’s still a draw anyway, thanks to her old soap. Robbie’s supposed to email once he hears anything. So it looks like he’ll have an awesome creative team assembled. Still wants Mom here to do the screenplay. I’m charged and ready.”
Addie nodded. “So is the computer. Up and running on the desk in your old bedroom, which I keep changing from an office to an exerci
se room and back again. It’s an office right now, but the stair climber is still in there and don’t trip over the rolled up yoga mat.”
I muffled the snort I was about to make and casually asked, “Yoga?”
“Yeah. Daily. I do the most awesome Sun Salutation of any senior citizen on the planet. So, get over it.” She chuckled. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you mind printing out my column about Talia Atkinson? She’s the new fitness guru with the self-help bestseller. I want to take it with me today when I interview her boyfriend. It should be under ‘documents’ but it may be listed by her name rather than somewhere in my Guys and Dolls in the City folder. I finished it late and I don’t remember where I saved it.”
“We’ll find it.”
Shane and I went to the office and I plopped down in the ergonomic chair in front of Addie’s desk. She’d only bought the computer a week or so ago, but had already bookmarked about twenty news sites, five online card games, a word matching site, and about ten videos featuring songs from artists of the ’60s and ’70s. Addie’s dog, Boo-Boo, had followed us in and Shane started to play tug-o-war with the pup and her rope pull toy.
I pulled up my favorite Moody Blues song, “Nights in White Satin” from the Songfest site and let it play while I hunted for Addie’s file. After I found it I opened the attachment, checked the printer for paper, and hit Print.
I was about to log into my own email when I noticed the next item under the subject header, Trapped Holly. I opened the email. I started to read it, then sat back, stunned. Robotically, instinctively, I hit Print again.
“Shane. Forget about the dog for a sec.”
He looked up from his spot on the floor and let Boo-Boo take the toy. “What’s the matter, luv? Upset because thirty or so seconds of ‘Nights in White Satin’ has been playing and I haven’t yet taken you in my arms to dance?”
He rose and held out those arms.
“Enticing as you are, Mr. Halloran, I need to show you something before we get mushy and romantic.”
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