DARK THRILLERS-A Box Set of Suspense Novels

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  He tried to shake his head, but it hurt too much. "No, I'm going home. No one's going to run me out of my house. Whoever this is, she's not going to win. Not an inch."

  Lisa turned left onto his road. "If she kills you, I guess that means she wins."

  "No one's going to kill me. I'm going to start carrying my gun."

  "That won't help much when you're in your car being bumped off the freeway."

  "It'll help." Karl felt stubborn enough to hold out against any logic she might try on him. He wasn't moving out. He wasn't running. He wasn't going to give up his life or his career or his future over this.

  He turned in the seat so he could see Lisa. "Have you talked to the garage that towed my Jag?"

  "They left a message at your office. It's going to cost about six grand to repair the body damage. You wound up with two flats on the rear, too."

  Karl kept silent, seething. He loved that car so much. It wasn't worth all sorts of body work, really, except for a sentimental old fool like himself. He'd rather have the older Jag than a new one. He'd have to pay the money for repair. If he said anything about this right now, he was afraid he'd start yelling and that would scare Lisa, the way he had scared and hurt Catherine last night. Unlike Catherine, who he suspected might be his stalker because it seemed to him she had the most motivation—as wrongheaded as it was—he really didn't want to upset Lisa any more than he had to.

  "I'll need a loaner."

  "I already handled that for you." She turned into his driveway and parked next to a blue Chevy Caprice.

  "That?" he asked, indicating the Chevy.

  "It's all they had."

  "But it's so big and American looking."

  She grinned over at him. "It's a Chevrolet, Karl, it's supposed to look like an American car."

  "Well, I guess it might be more protection in freeway mishaps," he said, not quite kidding. "It was great of you to go to this much trouble to get me wheels."

  She reached into her purse and produced the keys. He took them and held onto her hand, drawing her over to kiss her. For just a few moments the pain in his head went away and he felt at peace. "Thanks," he said. "Without you and Jimmy, I don't know what I'd do."

  "Jimmy said he'd come by later, see how you are. He's working on the lot at Universal."

  Karl kissed her again and opened the car door.

  "You sure you should stay here, Karl? You won't reconsider?"

  "You worry too much. I'll be fine." He didn't know if he believed that, but people had to lie sometimes just to keep everything square.

  He let himself into the house before Lisa left the driveway. He shut and locked the door, engaged the alarm system.

  His head hurt again and he needed to take one of the Tylenol 3 tablets prescribed by the doctor he'd picked up at the hospital pharmacy. He needed to call Lois and see how the office was doing. There would be a lot of calls to make.

  And he needed a nap. He hadn't slept worth a damn in the hospital bed, nurses checking on him all through the night.

  He touched the bandage around his forehead and then gently probed the swelling on his cheek.

  He had to be so careful now. He had to watch his back at all times.

  This must be what it felt like to be a foot soldier in a guerrilla war. You had to notice every leaf movement, the sound of every breaking twig. An enemy might hide in the shadow. Your life depended on being observant.

  He had never been a soldier. He had never before been under attack. But he was learning fast what it took to survive.

  When he went to open the cabinet in the kitchen to get a glass for water so he could take a pill, he saw the note.

  He withdrew it and stood reading the words, heavy apprehension seeping into his bones.

  I hear you survived. I'm so glad. I don't want to hurt you, Karl. You're my life. If something happens to you, I might as well be dead too.

  Will you take me back now? Can you honestly tell me you're sorry for past transgressions and love me again?

  Think about this before you answer. I'll be in touch to let you know what to do.

  Karl ran his thumb over the string of Xs and Os that ended the note.

  Perhaps this was his chance. If she let him meet with her or if he could leave a message somewhere, then he could watch to see her pick it up.

  He'd have her. He'd have her good.

  31

  "In love, unlike most other passions, the recollection of what you have had and lost is always better than what you can hope for in the future."

  Stendhal, De l'Amour

  Robyn made reservations at the Phoenix restaurant in the Algonquin Hotel on Sunset for a party of four. The Phoenix used to be the hot spot for Hollywood stars, but these days it had been supplanted by trendier places like the House of Blues, Planet Hollywood, and the Universe. The Phoenix's lack of notoriety meant they could talk without a lot of interruption.

  She wasn't sure she knew what she was doing, calling this meeting. But she owed it to Karl. She still loved him, though she couldn't live with him; no, of course not, never again. She needed to investigate how the others felt about him to see if she could ascertain a clue as to who was doing the stalking. She owed him that much.

  As she drove through Hollywood, she thought of the time when she and Karl talked about the pressures on a person trying to make a career in show business. He had said, "Half my clients can't take it. They go a little batty. They can't take the discipline and the dedication it requires to make something of themselves in this town. Either that, or their dream is bigger than anything they might reasonably hope to come true. I don't have to tell you how many thousands come out here every year just to get disappointed. Some of them become eccentric or distant. They divorce themselves from reality in order to live with the rejection. It's why I'm in this business. To save as many of them as I can from that kind of black nothing of failure."

  She had admired him so much for his belief in the possibility he might be a savior. But now she remembered what he'd meant when he'd talked about how rejection and despair turned some seekers after fame into ruined individuals. "What happens to them," she had asked Karl, "when they don't make it, say they've tried for years and they still don't get a break? What do they do?" This was her naive question before she herself tried to put together her first film project. Afterward, she knew all the answers.

  "It's back to the salt mines," he had said. "If their dream was strong, losing it might kill whatever happiness in life they had hoped for. They'll go back home and nurse their wounds the rest of their lives. They're our Could've Beens and some of them are Should've Beens. But once they're off the treadmill and they've given up, it's over."

  "No more hope for their names in lights," she had mused. "No more hope, in some cases, for anything meaningful ever again."

  Perhaps that was what had happened to Karl's stalker. Maybe it was someone on the set besides the women she had invited tonight to the Algonquin. Someone who never really made it. It could be a grip or a gofer or a light director. It could be one of the cinematographers, editors, sound people. Women did many of those jobs on the set of Pure and Uncut. One of them might be a discarded lover Karl hardly remembered now. Most of them got copies of the script scenes. And the ones who didn't could have stolen one somewhere. A nondisclosure form didn't keep the script completely inviolate from the curious eyes of people working on the picture. She suspected even a few of the extras had found a way to weasel a look at the script.

  She arrived at eight PM and took a table more or less out of the route of foot traffic. She was the first arrival. The Algonquin was a tiny place with a white exterior and not a lot going for it. The Phoenix was quiet and nearly empty on this weeknight. She ordered a pink Russian, just for the hell of it, and sipped while waiting for the others.

  Olivia was the first to arrive. She was made up too heavily so that even the dim lights couldn't disguise that she was an older woman trying to pass for a younger version of herself. She wore a
n unflattering magenta-colored pants suit with wide legs and a plunging bodice jacket. She didn't look very pleased when she took a seat across from Robyn.

  "I need to be getting ready for bed. Tomorrow's going to be a rough scene."

  "I know and I appreciate you coming. I'll try not to keep you long." Robyn motioned for the waiter to take Olivia's drink order.

  Marilyn and Catherine came in together, probably having arrived at same time in the lobby. They took their seats and gave their orders to the waiter who still stood around in a slight daze, recognizing Olivia's famous face.

  "I haven't been here in ages," Catherine said.

  "Well, I've never been here." Marilyn looked around appreciatively. "It's nice. Small. Quiet, but nice."

  After they were seated and settled in, Robyn said, "I don't know how much all of you know about what's been happening to Karl, but I thought we needed to get together and talk about it." She decided it was best to launch right into the reason she'd called them together. They all really did need to get home to make it an early night. There was not much energy left over after working on the set from five in the morning until sundown.

  "I know he's been getting notes and stuff," Marilyn said. Olivia cleared her voice and said, "His house was broken into and everything in it torn up."

  "Really?" Marilyn turned to her. "I didn't know about that. Poor Karl's got a crazy on his hands."

  "Catherine, have you talked with Karl yet?" Robyn asked.

  She sat staring down at the napkin in her lap. "I didn't want to come here," she said. "Karl isn't a part of my life anymore."

  "Well, he's not part of any of our lives as far as I know, but the circumstances surrounding what has happened to him force this meeting," Robyn said, pausing to look around at the other three women. "You know someone's following the script, stalking Karl."

  Catherine now glanced up and her face was stony. "I noticed it. I went to see him in the hospital, thinking I could let him know I was sorry about his car accident, but I didn't know I'd have to stand there while he accused me for it. How many of you think I'm harassing Karl LaRosa?"

  Her question was a challenge. Her voice had risen as she spoke and the others were staring at her.

  "Look," Robyn said, "let's not get into a hissy fit about what Karl does or does not think. He's working without all the facts, isn't he? He doesn't know the stuff happening to him follows the script almost to the letter. He doesn't know the four of us, women who used to be in his life, are working on that movie."

  "Someone has to tell him," Marilyn said. She was about to say more, but their drinks were delivered. She drank from her glass of beer before continuing. "I hadn't heard about his house. Why was he in the hospital?"

  Robyn looked at her uneasily. "You don't know he was run off the road and almost killed?"

  "Well, god, no, I didn't know that! How bad was he hurt?" The other three women exchanged glances.

  "Hey, you don't think I'm the one doing stuff to Karl, do you? I swear I didn't even know all of it."

  "I didn't call us together to throw blame. I was hoping to be reassured that none of us would do these horrible things to Karl. He could have been killed in that wreck." Robyn didn't want this to turn into a guilt fest.

  "Then why did you call us together?" Olivia asked. "It wasn't to treat us to dinner, I imagine. Although I'm starving. That handsome waiter making googoo-eyes at me comes back over here, I'm ordering hors d'oeuvres. Who likes stuffed mushrooms?"

  "I wanted to discuss what we're going to do about it," Robyn said, directing the conversation back to Karl and ignoring the mention of food.

  "About what?" Catherine asked. "He acted like I was the one who ran him off the road. And I didn't do it!"

  "Now calm down, don't get excited," Robyn said. "I didn't want us to sit here and accuse one another. I just want to know what you think's going on. It has to be someone working on the film. Someone who gets a copy of the script scenes every day."

  "I don't know what's going on, but I say we have to tell him." Marilyn lifted her head, ready to argue about it. "Are you sure it's following the script? You mean his house was torn up just like we filmed? And he was chased and run off a freeway, just like in the script?"

  Robyn sighed and twirled her glass on the table. "That's exactly what is going on, Marilyn. Every time we film a scene, it happens to Karl. Or maybe sometimes it happens before we film it, but soon after the scene is handed out. And we can't tell him. I don't see how we can do that. I just don't think we can. We have to think of something else."

  "Why can't we tell him?" Marilyn turned to Catherine, sitting next to her.

  "Leave me out of it. He made me into the bad guy, remember?"

  "Don't you think we have to tell him? He might even need a copy of the whole script so maybe he could stop this." She turned back to Robyn. "You have the whole script. You've seen it and we haven't. You could give it to him."

  Olivia said, "Cam would kill us if we let the script out. We signed those nondisclosures. We'd be breaking contracts."

  "That's why we can't tell him. You do see that, don't you, Marilyn? Cam would never forgive us. I've already talked to him about it and he said no way do we tell Karl," Robyn said.

  Marilyn protested, "But what's wrong with you? Is Cam nuts? Karl might wind up murdered if we let this go. He has to be told. It's not like we're giving it to the gossip columnists. Karl's not going to tell anyone about the movie."

  "Maybe not," Robyn said, having thought this out previously. "But he might have to tell the police. There was a report filed when his office was broken into . . ."

  "All that blood," Olivia added.

  Robyn continued, "Or he might tell Jimmy. Jimmy's his best friend. Or he might tell his girlfriend, what's her name . . ."

  "Lisa," Catherine said.

  She bit her lip and Robyn saw it. Marilyn and Olivia were both surprised, watching her.

  "You know his girlfriend?" Robyn asked.

  Catherine shrugged. "My husband bought our house from her. He told me she was dating my old . . . that she was dating Karl."

  "Nevertheless," Marilyn said, "Karl wouldn't let the script out. He just wouldn't do that and you all know it. We have to tell him, no matter what Cam says. I mean, we're not going to sit around and let Karl go through this, are we?"

  Robyn thought about her years with Karl, about how much she had adored him. She finally nodded. "I guess you're right. He can't be kept in the dark. This kind of secret could get him killed. One of us has to tell him what's going on so he can protect himself."

  "I'll tell him then." Marilyn, satisfied now, drank down the rest of her beer and waved for the waiter for a refill.

  "That doesn't solve the problem of who it is connected with the film doing this," Olivia said. "Once Karl knows what's going on, he'll be in a better position to save himself from whoever this asshole is, but that doesn't stop it, does it?"

  Robyn ordered another Russian from the waiter and after he'd departed she said, "Who else but the four of us might be playing this dangerous game?"

  "Well, it has to be somebody else. I know it's not me," Olivia said.

  "Or me," Marilyn chimed in.

  "It's definitely not me," Catherine said harshly. "I guarantee you. It's not me."

  32

  "Forsake not an old friend; for the new is not comparable to him."

  Ecclesiastes 9:10.

  Marilyn didn't have time to make a trip to Karl's house to talk to him about his troubles. She called from her house instead, the moment she returned home from the Phoenix.

  She hadn't turned on many lights in the house, being in a rush. It scared her to be alone when too many rooms were in darkness. She turned her back on the doorway leading from her studio to the rest of the house, trying to ignore it. She stared at the painting she was in the process of finishing. As Karl's phone rang, she picked up a dry brush and went over some of the brush strokes in the paint, smoothing them out in her mind.

&
nbsp; Karl's answering machine switched on and she frowned. She was saying, "Karl, it's Marilyn, I have to talk to you, it's impor—" when Karl picked up the phone.

  "I'm here," he said. "Just monitoring the calls. What's up, Marilyn?"

  "I wanted to come over and tell you this, but I don't have time tonight. We have to be on the set early tomorrow so I have to get some sleep. Why do you live so damn far out of the way?"

  He laughed. "I might ask you the same thing."

  "Anyway, I've just come from the Algonquin. Robyn, Olivia, Catherine, and I had drinks together."

  "Yeah?" He sounded interested.

  "They told me about your house and the wreck. I was really shocked. We all decided we had to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?"

  "Karl, everything that's been happening to you is from the script we're shooting. It's called Pure and Uncut, you know, Cam's special film processing that will make the movie sort of 3-D?"

  "Wait, what do you mean, it's in the script?"

  "Well, the script's about a man being stalked by a woman. Olivia's playing the part and Jackie Landry's the lead. The man in the movie works in the entertainment business and the stalker, Olivia, is a former actress."

  "Okay."

  "Everything we film seems to be happening to you. You know how your office was broken into and blood thrown all over the place? We filmed that already."

  "Oh, that's just great . . ."

  "Wait, there's more. You're getting notes, love notes, and the man in the movie's getting the same kind of notes. His house was broken into and all his furniture destroyed, just like your house. And Karl?"

  "Yeah?" His voice was hardly audible.

  "The last scene we shot was out on the freeway. Jackie's character was run off the road. Just like what happened to you.”

  "Unbelievable. Who's doing this, Marilyn?"