Elvis Has Not Left the Building

by J. R. Rain

  I wasn’t even entirely sure of the Mace’s range. Something like that might have been a good thing to know.

  Too late to worry about it now.

  I took a deep breath, held it. More ragged breathing from around the corner. More scraping footsteps. And now I could smell faint traces of alcohol. And sweat. Lots of sweat, and it wasn’t my own.

  I remembered his words: “I have a gun.”

  I still had the element of surprise, which meant I had to move now. But I didn’t want to move now. The guy around the corner had a fucking gun, and all I had was a fucking little can of Mace, which might as well have been a can of spray deodorant.

  But I had the element of surprise. And the Mace wasn’t deodorant. I had seen the effect it had had on the rottweiler.

  Just get him straight in the face, King. The eyes. And don’t expose your body.

  When I saw the barefoot appear from around the corner, I dropped to a knee, swung my arm around the corner, and fired the Mace.

  Ladd was there, completely naked, holding a hunting rifle. He had also been looking to his right, which was good for me. By the time his peripheral vision caught movement to his left, the Mace had already hit him straight in the face. Granted, my first shot hit him somewhere in his disgusting, jiggling torso, but I moved the powerful stream up and into his face.

  He swung his weapon around, but it was too late. Screaming, he flung the rifle aside and clawed at his eyes like a wild animal, cursing and spitting. I stood and moved around the corner and kept on spraying him until he lay curled on the ground, whimpering and moaning.

  And even then, I continued spraying until the canister was empty.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Hopping on one foot and dragging the other, I retrieved Ladd’s rifle. With the producer currently incapacitated and whimpering feebly—and the dog nowhere to be found—I headed over to the guest house. I actually used the rifle as a cane. Once at the door, I paused to gather what little wits I had remaining, and tried the handle. Locked, of course. The keys were with Ladd, perhaps still clutched in his hands, but he was currently writhing and thrashing and not being very accommodating.

  Sobbing from within the guest house.

  Lord, Jesus.

  Maybe if I had two good legs I could have kicked the door in. Or tried to. Instead, I found a fist-sized rock in a nearby flower garden, and proceeded to bash the doorknob until the fucking thing fell off, making enough racket to wake the dead. I didn’t care about the dead. I cared about the person crying within.

  Blood pounding in my ears, adrenalin surging through my veins, I pushed the badly damaged door open, and stepped inside, holding the rifle out before me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  I was greeted by an overwhelming stench. No, nothing rotting. Just filthy human waste. Sweat and excrement and piss and anything else that could come from a human body. Bile rose sharply in the back of my throat, but I held it together. I stepped deeper into the room, holding the rifle out before me like a bayonet.

  “Hello,” I called again. “I saw you earlier, looking at me through the window.”

  No response, although I heard something close to whimpering now coming from down a small hallway. The guest house was probably one bedroom, one bathroom. I was currently standing in a small, dark living room. The room was decorated modestly with a couch, love seat and reading chair, but I had a sense that it wasn’t used much.

  I crossed through the room and headed slowly down the short hallway. The whimpering was growing louder. The stench was growing stronger, too. I fought to control the gorge rising up in my throat.

  There was a light on in the room at the end of the hallway. Along the way, I took a peek inside a small and disgusting-looking bathroom. Towels and clothing were every where. So was fecal matter, as if whoever had tried to use the bathroom had no clue what to do or how to do it.

  My stomach heaved. I fought through it.

  I came up to the bedroom. The door was cracked open. Yellow light issued out. Anything could be beyond that door. Anything at all. How do you prepare yourself for the unexpected.

  You don’t. You can’t.

  I pushed the door open with the tip of the rifle. The room was small, made smaller by a massive four-poster bed sitting squarely in the center of the room. Leather straps hung from the bed’s crossbeams. Next to the bed, close to the door, was a low bookcase. Lining the top shelf were whips and chains, ball gags, dildos, anal plugs, and every other type of kinky toy known to man.

  On the corner of the bookcase was a small pile of pills—roofies, no doubt. Ladd had probably kept her drugged and high for the past two weeks.

  Speaking of her, in the center of the bed, partially hidden by what could only be described as a very disgusting comforter, was a human figure. A lithe figure who was crying softly.

  I stepped deeper into the room, confident that there was no one else in here. I moved over to the bed, reached down, and pulled up one corner of the comforter. There, shaking badly, naked and curled in the fetal position, covered in cuts and bruises and sweat and tears and stink, was Hollywood’s newest starlet, Miranda Scott.

  I covered her back up and used the phone in the guest house to call Detective Colbert.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  I stood with Detective Colbert in Ladd’s spacious kitchen. We were alone, looking out through the sliding glass door. The sky beyond the distant rolling hills was purple and eternal. Less eternal, and a lot closer, the guest house was a beehive of activity as crime scene investigators did their thing. Earlier, with sirens blaring and lights flashing, Miranda had been rushed off to a nearby hospital. All indications were that she was going to be fine, at least physically.

  Colbert said, “The screaming you heard. We figure she was having a bad trip. There weren’t any fresh wounds. At least, none that we could see initially. Probably gave her too much of something, or gave her something she couldn’t handle. Either way, she isn’t coherent right now, so we don’t know the full extent of what he’s done to her.”

  “But she’s alive,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You think he was going to kill her?”

  “Hard to say. We’ll go through the place thoroughly. But so far, looks like he kept her here for his own sick pleasure.” Colbert still wouldn’t look at me. Jaw rigid, he kept his gaze on the guest house outside. “I’ve got more news.”

  “Go on.”

  “Dana Scott confessed to killing Flip Barowski.”

  I nodded. We both looked out through the glass door. The early night sky was now mostly black now, with a smattering of stars. If not for the L.A. smog there would have been more than just a smattering of stars.

  Colbert continued, “I approached Dana myself, asked her what she knew about the killing, and she broke down instantly. Told me everything. She has a pistol at home, owned by her deceased husband. She calls the kid up and tells him she hears that he’s seeing her daughter again. He says yes, and she tells him to stay away from her daughter. He says no, that he loves her. She says fine, let’s talk about it, and he agrees. They were supposed to meet in a parking lot, but she comes up behind him and puts a bullet in his head.”

  “Just like she promised she would do,” I said.

  “Okay, fine. I get that. The mother warned the kid to stay away, and he doesn’t stay away. That doesn’t explain how Miranda ends up here, in this sicko’s house, being sexually abused for the last two weeks.”

  “I think he was following her,” I said.

  “Then kidnaps her? Not even your bum claims he heard her resisting.”

  “I say he approached her in the van as she came out of the store. Made it seem like a coincidence. Probably offered to buy her dinner. Maybe talk about a movie deal.”

  “Not to mention her boyfriend had just been murdered,” said Colbert. “Maybe she was looking for a friend to talk to.”

  “So he entices her inside his van. She has no problem getting inside,
thinking of him as a friend, an ex-boss, the person who gave her her first big break.”

  “So she gets in the van....” added Colbert.

  “And he takes her back to his place. Maybe offers her a drink—”

  “And the sick fuck slips her a roofie,” said Colbert.

  “That’s the way I see it,” I said.

  “Well, we’ll know more when she comes down from her high. Luckily nothing appears to be permanent. Physically, she’ll come out of this fine. Emotionally....”

  “Emotionally, she’s going to need a lifetime of therapy.”

  We were silent, contemplative. I had taken some pain killers that I found in Ladd’s cupboards. The pain in my ankle was still there, but it had been reduced to a dull throbbing. I can handle a dull throbbing.

  I’ll take some Vicodins later. Knock it right out.

  I said, “Some people obsessed over her, sometimes even for years. Some people just followed her around like lovestruck puppies.”

  “And this sick fucker takes it a step further.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We were silent some more. The purple was gone from the sky, and more stars came out. The crime scene crew was still going in and out of the guest house. I wondered if Ladd had any buried bodies out here, or if this had been a one-time thing? Hard to say, but I suspected Ladd had been obsessing about her for years. Much like Flip Barowski. And perhaps many other males Miranda came into contact with.

  “You found her, King,” said Colbert.

  “Not bad for an old man,” I said.

  “Not bad for anyone.”

  Chapter Sixty-four

  The lights were bright, just the way I remembered them.

  The Pussycat was packed, just the way I remembered most of my concerts. The crowd was older, which was fine. So was I.

  Seated in the back, behind the dance floor at a small round table, were four people. My personal guests for the night. Clarke was there, nearly drunk. I could just make him out. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me all night long. Kelly my on again/off again was seated next to him. She looked elegant and sophisticated and damn beautiful. I also noticed she had accepted a drink or two from some other men, talking to them, laughing with them, touching them, flirting with them. Sigh. It’s hell being in an open relationship, but there you have it. The gal sitting next to her often had my full and undivided attention. My therapist, Dr. Vivian. She kept her eyes on me and ignored the attention of the other men. I loved that about her. The last guest was, of course, Miranda. The young starlet looked beautiful and captivating, easily the most beautiful girl here tonight. Everyone knew it. But she seemed impervious to the attention, completely unaware. She also looked dead, lifeless, although once or twice I had caught her tapping her fingers and bobbing her head to the music. She was coming around, slowly, but the healing process would take a lifetime, if ever.

  I had spent the weekend alone, trying to sober up. Now I was down to just five Vicodins a day, but I wanted more. Many more. It was a start.

  Becky and I worked well together. Smooth transitions from one song to the next. She was a talented pianist, versatile, and I am an old pro, although a little rusty.

  As I sang, as I did my groovy thing, I noticed a crowd was gathering at the nightclub’s main entrance. Someone was there. Someone important, obviously.

  I used to be important. Maybe someday I would be again. Maybe. But then again, I had given all this up before. Did I really want it all back again?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  Anyway, whoever was causing the commotion was now making their way towards the stage area, towards me. The crowd was following, forming and reforming, a sort of moving huddle. I kept singing, but I also kept my eye on whoever was approaching.

  And when the crowd finally parted, when I saw for the first time who was causing all the ruckus, I gasped.

  It’s nearly impossible for me to be star-struck, but I was this evening. It was the brightest star of them all.

  My baby girl Lisa took a seat in a booth against the far wall, surrounded by a small entourage of men and women and bodyguards. She signed a dozen or so autographs before her bodyguards closed in around her. Most in the crowd got the hint and dispersed, although some still buzzed around her.

  I stopped singing. Hell, I couldn’t sing. Becky glanced over at me from the piano, eyebrows raised. I quickly gave her the thumbs up. She shrugged and went on playing.

  And when I looked back at my daughter’s table, I saw her looking at me. No, staring at me. My breath caught. I think her breath caught, too. And then, slowly, slowly she smiled. A big, beautiful smile.

  Did she know who I was? I think so. Recognition seemed to have dawned across her face. Perhaps she had known who I was before coming, and so the shock to her wasn’t so great.

  I didn’t know, but I did know one thing: someone had set this all up. Someone who had known about her and me. Someone who had known where I lived. The anonymous watch. The CDs. The CDs that weren’t even available on the market yet. CDs that were privy to only a select few, including entertainment attorneys.

  I finally put it all together.

  I looked at Clarke. He was grinning like a schoolboy, or a drunkard. He winked at me, looking pleased as hell. I would kill him later.

  No, I’m going to kiss him later.

  I found my voice again, which came stronger and clearer. Becky nodded at me and continued hitting the keys and doing her groovy thing, and when the song was over, I spoke into the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have a special guest here tonight.” Most in the crowd stopped dancing or looked up from their tables. I continued, “She’s a beautiful little thing who makes her daddy so proud.” I sounded like Elvis. I knew it, but didn’t give a damn. “Lisa Marie Presley, ladies and gentleman.”

  I pointed to her, and the crowd turned—especially those who were unaware of her entrance—and a massive cheer erupted. From her seat, she blushed mightily and waved, but never once did she take her eyes off me.

  “Come up here, little lady, and sing a song with me.”

  She didn’t budge. Not at first. The crowd cheered louder and urged her onward. She finally gave in, as I knew she would. She slipped out of the booth, smiling shyly.

  With a bodyguard trailing behind, she made her way up to the stage. The big guy held out a hand and she used it to step up onto the stage. The crowd cheered harder.

  She ignored them all and kept her eyes on me.

  I ignored them, too, and held out my own hand. She crossed the stage and stepped into the light and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. She took my hand, and I pulled her into me, as if we were dancing. There were tears in her eyes and I think she was shaking.

  “Daddy?” she asked me, although I could barely hear her words. Mostly I read her lips, and, I’m sure, others did as well.

  “It’s me, little darlin’.”

  I looked over at Becky, whose mouth was hanging open. I motioned for her to play something, and she finally did, something by Elvis. “Love Me Tender.”

  Bill the manager with his blue shades came running out on stage. He placed an extra mic in front of my daughter, sneaking a peak at the two of us together, shock on his face. He quickly dashed off the stage. Those on the dance floor had quit dancing. Those drinking beer had quit drinking beer. A very surreal quiet descended over the Pussycat. I sensed all eyes on us, and I sensed many open mouths. And then I heard the whisperings of “Elvis.” And then the whisperings grew louder and louder, until they were chanting my name.

  “Are you ready, baby?” I asked her.

  “I’m ready, daddy.”

  “Follow my lead,” I said. “Like old times.”

  “Like old times,” she said.

  The End

  The Lost Ark

  by J.R. Rain

  A missing professor.

  A mysterious map.

  The archaeological discovery of a lifetime.

  Amazon
Kindle * Amazon UK

  Audio Book * Paperback

  Also available :

  Dark Horse

  A Jim Knighthorse Novel

  by J.R. Rain

  (read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  Charles Brown, the defense attorney, was a small man with a round head. He was wearing a brown and orange zigzagged power tie. I secretly wondered if he went by Charlie as a kid and had a dog named Snoopy and a crush on the little red-headed girl.

  We were sitting in my office on a warm spring day. Charlie was here to give me a job if I wanted it, and I wanted it. I hadn’t worked in two weeks and was beginning to like it, which made me nervous.

  “I think the kid’s innocent,” he was saying.

  “Of course you do, Charlie. You’re a defense attorney. You would find cause to think Jack the Ripper was simply a misunderstood artist before his time.”

  He looked at me with what was supposed to be a stern face.

  “The name’s Charles,” he said.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Glad that’s cleared up.”

  “I heard you could be difficult,” he said. “Is this you being difficult? If so, then I’m disappointed.”

  I smiled. “Maybe you have me confused with my father.”

  Charlie sat back in my client chair and smiled. His domed head was perfectly buffed and polished, cleanly reflecting the halogen lighting above. His skin appeared wet and viscous, as if his sweat glands were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

  “Your father has quite a reputation in L.A. I gave his office a call before coming here. Of course, he’s quite busy and could not take on an extra case.”

  “So you settled on the next best thing.”

  “If you want to call it that,” he said. “I’ve heard that you’ve performed adequately with similar cases, and so I’ve decided to give you a shot, although my expectations are not very high, and I have another P.I. waiting in the wings.”