Outside the club they had to weave through a young crowd of gaudily clad night kids debating whether they wanted to stay to see the headliner or cruise some other place. A couple of the young Turks gave her a look that she appreciated. She smiled at them.
Karl had Robyn's hand, pulling her along behind him. She stifled the maternal urge that suggested she reach out and tuck in his shirt. He was no child. He wasn't even her husband anymore; what was wrong with her every time she got around him? He wanted to look like a slob, let him.
In the parking lot, Karl headed for a cherry red Mustang. What was he doing, having a flashback from the sixties?
When he reached the car, he turned around to face her. He took her arms just above the elbows and looked down into her eyes. "Jimmy's dead."
She knew she was slow on the uptake due to the alcohol, but no matter how she tried to roll those words around in her head she couldn't quite get them to come up lucky seven. Jimmy's dead, she thought, that's what he said. Jimmy is dead.
"Jimmy Watz?" She had known Jimmy almost as long as Karl. In fact the first time she ever met Karl, he was with Jimmy. They'd all been friends a long time.
"He took my Jag after I got it from the shop. He was going to get beer. The brake line was cut—I think it was cut. The police went over the car and say they can't be sure, but I say it was deliberately cut. Jimmy wrecked it on the freeway, the car rolled. Jimmy . . . he was . . . Jimmy was . . . Goddamnit, he was cut in two. They had to use the Jaws of Life to take out his legs."
Robyn felt the world drop out beneath her feet. Karl steadied her. She heard him say, "Whoa." She blinked a few times and understood then what Karl was telling her. Someone had rigged his Jag expecting him to drive it. But Jimmy drove it and Jimmy died. Jimmy was . . .
"Cut in two? Oh no. No."
"Robyn, you have to help me find out who did it. And there's something else . . ."
Robyn didn't think there could be anything else Karl could tell her that had the same importance as losing Jimmy. She and Jimmy kept in touch, even after the divorce. Jimmy knew how to love both of them without splitting his loyalties. He never said an unkind word about Karl when with her and she was confident he never uttered an unkind word about her when he was with Karl. Jimmy was her friend and she hurt all over right now. It felt like someone had just socked her in the chest.
"What else?" she asked, uninterested. All she wanted to do was go back into the Universe and get rotten, stinking drunk. She'd get flying-ace, falling-down drunk and go home to pass out so she wouldn't have to think another sensible thought for the next twenty four hours.
"Someone called me and said the body parts found all over Hollywood belonged to Marilyn."
Oh now, see, one unexpected body shot after another and the fighter goes down. Robyn dropped all the way this time. Her knees gave out and she collapsed. Karl eased her to the concrete parking lot until she was sitting, her legs folded beneath her. She hung her head crying silently.
"That's not in the script," she said. Hadn't everything followed the script? This didn't. The deaths of Marilyn and Jimmy had nothing do with the script.
"I know. I've read it."
"This wasn't supposed to happen."
"No. It wasn't."
She looked up at him where he squatted next to her. She noticed he held her hand and was patting it in an old-fashioned way, like a gentleman, like Errol Flynn in one of his Arthurian legend films.
"Someone cut Marilyn into pieces?" she asked. "And someone fixed the brakes on your car and killed Jimmy?"
"Yes, someone did. She killed Marilyn for telling me about the script. She killed Jimmy while trying to kill me. We have to stop her."
"Who?"
Karl leaned his forehead against the top of her head. He whispered, "I thought you could tell me."
43
"No more tears now; I will think upon revenge."
Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland,
Attributed remark, 9 March 1566,
after the murder of her favorite, David Rizzio
It was almost noon with the sun like a gold globe hung as a centerpiece in the sky. Karl stood grieving at the graveside service for Jimmy Watz. Karl wore a dark suit and a snow-white shirt. A small white carnation perched on his lapel. He hardly heard the minister's words or noticed the other mourners. The sun was too bright, the pain too sharp, the loss too deep.
More than forty miles away, oblivious to death and burial, Olivia Nyad slowly removed her secretary's bra and cupped the woman's small pointed breasts in both hands.
"I'm glad you're not needed on the set today," Janice said, pushing back Olivia's hair.
"I'm glad too." Pat Connors nuzzled Olivia's spine just at the base where her hips began to swell. He then reclined easily on the bed, assessing the two women who would be his playthings for the day. Connors worked as a masseur for Hollywood stars. Olivia employed him periodically to come to her house. Sometimes, like today, he had a chance to do more than massage sore, tired muscles.
"You don't mind sharing?" Olivia asked Connors. She moved from Janice's breasts to the erect nipples on Connors' chest. Her tongue flicked out again and again until she felt him shiver.
"Not a bit," he said. He pulled Olivia onto his chest. "Threesome's are a turn-on." He felt Janice slide a hand up the inside of one thigh. "Two birds in a hand, as they say."
Olivia gave her husky laugh. "First time I've ever been called a bird. A bitch, I understand. A bird, though . . . That's British, right?"
The trio spent the day sweating and rolling around on the bed. Fueled by any kind of drug they wanted to sample from Olivia's stash box, the three fell into a sexual frenzy. Positions were tried, sex toys were dragged out of the closet, and in another part of the house the telephone answering machine took a seemingly endless barrage of calls.
During a break when Olivia wandered to the kitchen for more champagne, the phone rang again. She swore and picked up the receiver. Interrupting her playtime was never a good idea. She barked, "Who the hell is this and what do you want?" into the phone.
Karl said, "Whatever you're doing, stop it. Meet me in Burbank in an hour."
She started to protest, but Karl overcame all her objections, as usual, and gave her the restaurant's address.
She hung up, mumbling to herself about how her chain was always yanked by Karl, the bastard. All he had to do was tell her to drop everything and come running and what did she do? She came running.
Her head swirling with crazy images, her thoughts zinging along a high wire with a feeling of accelerated speed, she stumbled toward the bedroom and her companions. "Okay, holiday's over. I have to make a run. Get dressed, get out, it was lovely. We'll do it again sometime."
Janice was used to Olivia's abrupt commands, but Connors, zoned out now on downers, said in slurred speech, "My bird's flying away. I want my bird."
Olivia threw his clothes across his naked, glistening body. "I said get out, honey. You want your bonus, you'll do what I say."
Janice kissed the back of Olivia's neck where she was bent over to start the water running in the shower. "See you later."
When Olivia exited from her bath, Connors was gone, the bed rumpled but empty. God, until now, the day had been a thrill ride. She hoped Karl wasn't on the rag.
~ * ~
Karl knew she was wired the minute she came through the door of the restaurant. She walked in a jittery stop-and-go fashion like some hophead kid hunting the next crack high. Her wide-eyed stare flicked here and there, searching him out. Once he was spotted, she fairly flew over. The perfumed breeze from her quick slide into the seat across from him wafted past his face.
He studied her dilated pupils. "What are you on, Olivia?"
She stretched her head back and flexed her shoulders. "Nothing much. Is that why you wanted me to meet you? To give me a lecture on the evils of drugs? If so, I have a bulletin for you. It's none of your business, Mr. LaRosa. In fact, your ass wouldn't be in such a tight pinch
if you tried some yourself. A little recreation might get rid of that frown on your old Gloomy Gus face." She laughed, thinking herself right clever.
"This is important," he said, not wishing to be drawn into a debate. Olivia could be a hellcat if she felt the least bit threatened or put down. "I needed to talk to you sober."
"You think I'm not sober? Shit, Karl, since when did you get up on this high horse to see the rest of the world? I'm fine. You wanna talk, talk. You don't wanna talk, I'm out the door. I left a splendid hard-on lying in my bed to come here today."
"Fine." He had never been fond of Olivia's vulgar manners. "Someone cut the brake line to my car, my Jaguar. I'd just gotten it out of the shop. My friend Jimmy Watz—remember Jimmy?"
She nodded.
"Jimmy drove my car to buy some beer three nights ago. He had a wreck going approximately seventy miles an hour. No brakes."
"Good grief." Olivia put a hand over her eyes and looked down at the table. When the waitress came for her order, Karl asked for hot tea.
"Olivia, you need to help me. I was supposed to be in the Jag. Because of me, Jimmy's dead. And he isn't the only one. Marilyn, the actress missing from the script you're shooting? The killer called me and said the dismembered parts found all over Hollywood belonged to Marilyn. I don't know if that's true because forensic homicide came up with zilch when they ran the fingerprints. And as far as I know they haven't found . . ."
"Her head," Olivia said.
"That's right."
"My god. You think someone on the set is the killer. I can see why you think that. It's the only thing that makes sense because most of what's happened to you has followed the script. Or is it you think it's me? You really called me down here because you wanted me to confess. Is that it, Karl?"
"If you did this, Olivia, it's time to confess, yes, it's high time."
Before he knew it was coming, her hand reached out and slapped him soundly across the cheek. He came up halfway out of the booth and felt like crawling over the table. He sat back down, breathing hard. His cheek burned like charcoal in a brazier. "I'm not taking any more bullshit, Olivia. What do you want from me? Isn't it enough two innocent people have died?"
She pushed from the seat and stood shakily. "That dog won't hunt," she said. She looked down at him and gave a grim smile. "You need someone to lay the blame on, look somewhere else. What about Robyn? She's the only one you ever fucking married. She always had the whole script. What about Catherine? Of the four of us—me, Marilyn, Robyn, and Cathy—she'd be my bet." She turned away and began to leave but turned and came close to him. She spoke in a low, steely voice. Her breath was sour from alcohol and whatever pills she had been taking all day. Just for a second or two, he was afraid of her.
"If you ever accuse me of murder again . . . if you ever accuse me of anything again, I'll never speak to you the rest of your lousy, fucking life. I might have slept with you, I might have an old flame still burning for you, but I mean this. Don't do this to me again, Karl."
Karl watched her leave. He brought his hand up to his hot cheek. The waitress brought over the pot of tea and he poured himself a cup. They served good green China tea strong enough to open his nasal passages. He breathed in the bitter scent before sipping the tea. He felt too alone. Stranded without a friend in the world.
What was he to think about Olivia? He had ruled out Robyn. He had lived with the woman for several years. Would she kill him? She didn't even miss him from her life, why would she bother to hurt him?
Besides, unless she had taken a crash course in computer technology, she couldn't be the one snooping in his files, making changes that disrupted his whole life. She couldn't have disarmed his alarm system so many times, much less found and cut the brake lines on the jag. He knew her. Or he used to. She was about as mechanically talented as a crippled hedgehog.
No, Robyn had come to the point that she had everything she wanted out of life. The life she cultivated didn't include him. She had nothing to gain in hurting him. Nor would she have chanced Jimmy's death. She certainly didn't fake the shock she felt when told he'd died.
Maybe it wasn't Olivia either. It didn't seem to be Olivia. He knew she was a great actress, that at any time she might be acting, but the slap she had given him came out of deep hurt and heartfelt indignity. She couldn't have rehearsed that.
He had to admit though, he could hardly believe Cat might be the stalker either.
And if those women involved in the script didn't fit a stalker's profile, who did? What unknown enemy had he unintentionally harmed so badly that his death was decreed?
He looked over the rim of his teacup and watched a family being seated not far from him. Mother, father, two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was blond and thin with wire-rimmed glasses which gave his eyes an owlish stare. The little girl was around three and she wore a party dress, all pink ruffles and bows. For the first time in a long while he envied the family life and wished he had made one for himself. Robyn hadn't been able to have children and she didn't want any anyway. Since his divorce, he had put away thoughts of a family. Could he settle down with Lisa, make children, grow old and gray and become a grandfather one day?
Well, he could, that's what Lisa wanted. He could if he could stay alive long enough.
After one more go-around with Catherine, he'd have to try to reorganize his thoughts. He might have to throw out all earlier presumptions and start over again in another direction. Perhaps it wasn't a past lover at all, despite the mash notes. The phone call he'd received still nagged at him. It might have been a man. What if it was a man trying to set all the evidence up to make it look like a woman was stalking him?
Hell. A man!
Hadn't the voice on the phone been asexual, an indefinable gender with the voice tones low, but neither definitely masculine nor feminine?
It could be anyone trying to kill him. Anyone at all.
The thought lodged in his brain and would not go away. It was more frightening than the thought an old wounded lover was out to ruin and kill him. If his stalker was a man, then how could he ever determine the reason behind it? Nothing so easy as a woman scorned to make the motives clear. But a man? What had he ever done to deserve such an elaborate plan? This seemed to be a mystery that was growing like a box of poison mushrooms in a cellar; undercover, silent, and deadly.
A headache bloomed just up from the back of his neck and he rubbed his scalp there over the rounded ridge of bone. He would see Catherine again and try to rule her out. One step at a time, methodically, he would find out who had killed Jimmy and Marilyn.
44
"She's gone. I am abused, and my relief
Must be to loathe her."
William Shakespeare, Othello
The Body woke in the closet. It was black as darkest night though it must be early morning for the mind to feel so alert. A breeze from the overhead fan stirred the air. Reaching out both arms, The Body's fingers just brushed the walls on either side of the mattress on the floor. It was understood that sleeping in a small cramped space such as the closet in the child's room was tantamount to returning to the womb. However, understanding a psychological motivation did not always clear up the source of the underlying need. The closet provided safety, enclosure, and comfort, of course. A bed in an open room did not. Why the small net of safety was so needful might have to do with seeing Michelle's ghost (she never came to The Body in the closet) or it might be that a return to wombness preserved the mind that was attacked from all sides out in the wide, dangerous world. There was nothing and no one in the closet to betray The Body. There might be a stray single spider weaving a web in one of the corners or around the base of the ceiling fan, but other than that the closet belonged to one living being and no other.
It was time to sit up, crawl to the door, and greet the day. There was nothing more refreshing than a full night's rest in perfect surroundings to prepare a body for the ultimate scene.
On the chair sitting before the computer
in the nursery the script lay open and face down. The Body took it up and flipped it over. Here was the climax. When acted on the silver screen, it would be a stunning piece of work. When carried out in reality, it would surpass the screen image by a hundredfold.
Karl LaRosa might have succumbed in any scene leading up to this one, yet he had survived. It was preordained that he survive until the end shot, the culmination scene, the denouement of the tale.
When the phone rang, The Body placed the open script on the white desk next to the computer and wandered into the kitchen where a wall phone hung next to a framed picture of a hummingbird frozen in flight over a bright red feeder.
"Hello?"
"Hi, glad I caught you at home."
It was Olivia. Bright as a cottontail bunny this morning, her voice sparkling with cheer.
"I just got up. What do you need?"
"You sound cranky."
"I'm not."
"Well, shake a leg. We have that scene today and I was wondering if you'd meet me early on the set so we could rehearse. I want to do it right."
"I guess I can go in early. When?"
"An hour? We'll have the place mostly to ourselves before catering gets there."
"Sure, okay."
The Body hung up carefully. Olivia, the hated one. Not as hated as Catherine, but no one was as hated as Catherine. Olivia was too damn pitiful to hate that much. She was talented, but ditzy and on top of that, a heavy drug user. Not that half the people in the movie didn't use drugs, but none with such uncaring abandon as Olivia. She had sometimes shown up for a shoot with her eyes so glassy Cam had to put off the filming until he had plied her with two pots of coffee and whatever drug might counteract the one she'd taken. If she was on tranqs and lethargic, Cam got a few hits of speed for her. If she was high flying on cocaine or crank (or twice lately, when she admitted to having cooked just a little bit of smack, just a little tiny bit), he found something to bring her down. Not without cursing like a bandit whose treasure had been stolen. And stomping around and threatening to fire her off the film, but no one believed that, not even Olivia, who continued to abuse herself to the detriment of the project. Silly old bitch.
DARK THRILLERS-A Box Set of Suspense Novels Page 39