by Lisa Jackson
“Don’t know.”
“Why were you?”
“It’s a place where I thought I was less likely to be recognized, I guess. Certainly I would be less likely to run into paparazzi. And I heard they have a great little microbrewery overlooking the falls. So I drove down there and went in for a brewski.”
“And there she was?” Cassie didn’t bother hiding her incredulity.
“Not in the brewhouse, no. But I was in a booth by the window and I looked out, it was just about dusk, and I saw her walking along the promenade that runs above the river, right over the falls.”
“You’re sure?”
“Fuckin’ A!” He threw up a hand in disgust that she didn’t blindly trust him. “You know where I’m talking about, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been there,” she said, still processing his words. “As a teenager.” She remembered sneaking out with friends in the summer and taking the elevator that connected the lower part of the town to the upper, and then running down the stairs. The falls were a little farther upstream, past an old paper mill. They’d gone up there, too, balancing on the stone railing overlooking the falls. She could almost smell the spray, hear the thunder of water rushing over huge boulders and cliffs that made up the falls.
“So you talked to her?” She found that hard to believe.
“She was too far away and, as I said, I was inside. But I ran out of the place and took off after her.”
“And?”
“She was gone. Disappeared.”
“You didn’t catch up to her? You didn’t speak to her? You didn’t even see her up close?”
He glowered into the night. “It was Allie.”
Cassie felt cheated. “Everyone thinks they catch sight of her. Here, there, in Portland, or in LA, or wherever. People call in, I know. Mom told me. I even thought I saw her a couple of times, but she was never close enough to talk to or to catch up with.” Disgusted and deflated, she added, “It’s probably just what people want to see, or a trick of light. You really think Allie, who’s been missing all this time, is going to just take a stroll along the riverfront in Oregon City? Does that make any sense?”
He leaned back against the seat. “I don’t know. Does anything?”
She stared through the window and through the foggy glass, watched as a man and a woman linked arm in arm, both wearing jeans and bundled in thick jackets, crossed against the light. He suddenly grabbed her hand with the swiftness of a striking snake, opening her fingers and plucking the key from her before she could even cry out.
“Hey!” Heart thudding, she scrabbled for the door handle as he jammed the key into the ignition. He switched on the electrical system without engaging the engine and rolled his window down a crack just as she got her door open. Then he clicked open the glove box and reached inside. As he did a large plastic bag fell out of the crammed compartment. The clear sack tumbled onto the floor at Cassie’s feet.
Cassie scooped it up and tried to make out the contents. “What’s this?” she asked, shaking the bag and seeing small makeup bottles, false eyelashes, and small prosthetics often used by makeup people to change an actor’s appearance.
He hesitated, then grinned sheepishly as he plucked the plastic bag from her fingers. “Sometimes I need a disguise.”
“False eyelashes?”
“Whatever.” Again the smile, one used to distract her. “I like to go incognito.”
“As a woman?”
“Or a very pretty man.” He shrugged, chuckling a bit, then stuffed the bag into the box, where he scrounged around and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. Then he slammed the box closed and locked it. “I told you. I just need a cigarette.”
“Fine,” she said, not really caring what his secrets were. It was late and she was getting more irritated by the second. “But I drove all the way down here to talk to you. In the middle of the damned night. And all you tell me is that you think you saw Allie from a distance. Be sure to tell Whitney Stone so she can blow it up, make a story out of nothing.”
“I know. I know. Stone’s been on my ass, too,” he muttered. “Along with about a million other reporters.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “But there’s more.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice tight. She was starting to think he was completely full of shit.
A car rounded the corner and she yanked the door firmly shut. The sports car roared past, music blaring, bass throbbing.
“Check out this text,” McNary said, pulling out his cell phone and tossing it to her.
“From Allie?” She didn’t believe it, but glanced down at the phone.
“Yeah.” He drew deeply on his filter tip. “Think so.”
The screen message said: I’m okay.
Disbelieving, she said, “This isn’t Allie’s number.”
“It’s no one’s number, I tried to call it back. It’s a phone with a different SIM card or a prepaid burner phone or something. Untraceable.”
“To you, maybe. But the police might have ways. But still . . . just a text that says ‘I’m okay’? Anyone could have sent it.”
“She wanted to let me know she’s all right.” He didn’t believe it, though. His expression was of uncertainty and bewilderment, but then, he was an actor.
“Why text. Why not call? Or leave a decent message explaining where she is? Why not use her real phone, or better yet, if she can text, why doesn’t she just show up so everyone who cares about her isn’t worried sick!” Cassie was getting angry now, the smoldering rage that had been with her since before she’d admitted herself to Mercy Hospital beginning to catch fire again.
“I don’t know!”
“Have you gone to the police?”
He shot her a look and blew a stream of smoke out the cracked window. “They’d laugh at me.” His lips tightened. “Kind of like you’re doing.”
“I’m not laughing at you, McNary. I’m trying to figure out why you called me up so late at night.”
“Check the time on that message. It’s been a while. I’d just finished watching that miserable program with Whitney Stone and before the damned credits start rolling, I get this message. Bam! It freaked me the fuck out, okay? I knew you were looking for Allie and I called you.” He gave her a pointed look. “What would you have done?”
“I’m not sure I would leap to the conclusion that Allie was on the other end of that damned text. Anyone could have sent it. It could be a mistake, sent to you in error, or a prank or—”
“Or it could be Allie. She might do this for fun.”
“No way.”
“You know how she was . . . is . . . she likes to play mind games and you’re a liar. You would think it came from her, if you got it instead of me.”
She was about to protest again, but bit her tongue. Wouldn’t you have thought exactly the same thing? Wouldn’t you have leaped to that very conclusion? Especially after watching the episode of Justice: Stone Cold? After seeing images of Allie splashed all over the screen, and the text came through, wouldn’t you immediately think of her?
“So maybe I overreacted. Sue me,” McNary grumbled as he took a final drag on his cigarette then tossed the butt out the window, the red tip arcing to die in the rain.
“You should take this to the police.”
“I thought you didn’t think it was Allie,” he said with a bit of a sneer. Once again, she remembered why she didn’t like him. There was something supercilious about him, something shifty. McNary, she reminded herself, was always looking out for McNary.
“I don’t know who sent you the text, but still, you should let the cops know.” She frowned, thought about telling him about the warped mask she’d found in her suitcase, then reconsidered. She and Brandon McNary weren’t working together to find Allie, no matter how he acted. She owed him nothing.
“You could have just told me,” she said.
“I thought it would have more impact if you saw it yourself.”
She wrapped her fingers over the door hand
le, but before she could let herself out, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll drive you to your car.”
“It’s just around the corner.”
Did his fingers clench a little over her upper arm? Did his expression darken a bit?
“Only a couple of blocks. I need the air.” She opened the door and half expected him to try to restrain her.
He dropped his hand. “Oh, and Cassie,” he said before she slammed the door shut. “Give Cherise a break, would ya? I know you don’t like it that she’s working for me now, but it’s not her fault that Allie . . .” He let the end of the sentence slide and started the engine.
“That Allie what?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said under his breath as he rammed the Tahoe into gear. “I guess nothing does.”
She barely got the door slammed and had stepped away from his SUV before he gunned the engine, narrowly missing the car parked in front of him as he took off with a roar and chirp of tires.
What a waste of time. All she’d learned was that someone had texted McNary, or he’d done it himself. It wasn’t beneath him to use this as a ploy for publicity. The man ate up everything written about him, good or bad. He enjoyed being the Hollywood bad boy and it didn’t bother him a bit that his face was plastered all over the tabloids, and he was fodder for the gossip mills. He loved it. Once, she’d overheard him say to Allie, “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
She started walking away, half surprised no reporter had been purposely tipped off about their private meeting. It would be just like McNary to set that up, another way to keep his name trending on social media. Her stomach turned at the headlines: Star of Dead Heat Caught with Missing Costar’s Sister. No, make that Married Sister.
Yeah, she should never have come here.
As she hurried through the rain, she noticed the streets were now nearly deserted, the night thick, the glow from the streetlamps watery and weak. She pulled her cell from her purse and saw that Trent hadn’t called again. Nor had he responded to her text. She figured she’d call him when she was driving east. For now, she didn’t want to be too distracted, needed to be aware.
Her car was parked in a space she’d found near a hospital, only a few blocks from the restaurant. She half jogged along the sidewalk, not waiting for the pedestrian crossing lights to change, feeling suddenly anxious and alone. She considered calling Trent, just to hear his voice, but she didn’t want to go into everything with McNary yet.
Her breath fogged. Her head still ached. The park was eerily empty as she passed it, a stray dog sniffing a trash can, the distant sound of the freeway a steady hum. The storefronts were lit only by security lamps, a few of the apartments rising above showing warm patches of light or the flickering blue illumination of a television, though most of the windows were dark, the world asleep.
Jabbing her hands deep in her pockets, she felt the rain drumming against her hood. She turned a final corner and heard a hint of footsteps behind her. Someone else out this late at night? Her pulse leaped. The footfalls worried her a bit and she turned, trying to see around the edge of her hood, but she could see no one.
Still, she definitely heard steps running behind her through these empty city streets.
The hospital, a red brick edifice, was only two blocks away. If someone were really following her, she could walk inside. Sure, there were security people who would be questioning her before allowing entrance, but that would be fine. More than fine.
The footfalls seemed to increase over the insistent pounding of the rain.
Cassie broke into a run. Rain slid down her face and she kicked up water, her shoes sodden. But she didn’t care. The hospital was close. A behemoth of a structure that was, at its heart, over a hundred years old, though it had gone through several renovations to modernize and expand it over the past century. Now the hospital and surrounding clinics were connected by sky bridges and tunnels and sprawled over several city blocks.
Rounding a corner, she saw the red letters for the Emergency Room burning brightly through the curtain of rain. Thank God!
The footsteps behind her seemed to quicken.
From where?
Oh, God.
Breathing hard, Cassie craned her neck, this time looking behind her a little frantically.
Nothing!
Was she imagining the sounds?
Where the hell was the runner, the person following her?
Faster. Run, faster! You’ll be safe—the hospital, just a few more feet and—
“Hey!” a deep voice shouted.
She stopped short, tripped, pitched forward.
Her heart flew to her throat.
Meaty hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, and she shrieked as she nearly stumbled into a huge bear of a man wearing a long, black coat, hat, and boots. “Watch where you’re going!” he admonished as she fought back panic. His face too was wet from the rain, his eyes black as coal. “Hey, now, what’s wrong?” he asked, and she realized his expression, at first startled, had turned to one of concern. Six foot two, if he were an inch, and African-American, he peered down at her. “You in some kind of trouble, miss?” And then she saw the white clerical collar peeking out from under his jacket.
“No . . . no . . .” She twisted her head around to the empty street behind her. No one was there. No one, not even a jogger out for a night workout. She swallowed back her fear and cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she insisted, though her voice sounded weak and high-pitched.
Slowly he released her. “You’re sure? ’Cuz you look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I—I’m sorry. Really. I’m okay.” She was backing up, hoping she didn’t run into someone else.
Dark eyes studied her hard. His eyebrows pulled together and beneath the brim of his hat his forehead creased. “Hey. Wait a minute. Aren’t you that actress everyone’s looking for? Allie . . . oh, man, what’s her name?” He snapped his fingers as if to think.
She turned then and left him staring after her. She headed toward the bright lights of the hospital. He was probably putting two and two together, figuring out who she was, but, thankfully, he was harmless, a man of God.
She’d let herself get scared spitless over nothing. Slowly releasing the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, she dashed through the rain and heard no more footsteps chasing after her. She went past the hospital in search of her car.
The night, aside from a few cars on the street, was still. She’d been foolish, letting her imagination get the better of her. Again. If she wasn’t careful she’d end up back in Mercy Hospital trying to convince Dr. Sherling that she really was sane.
Still, she kept running until she spied her Honda, where she’d left it, parked on the other side of the hospital, closer to the main entrance. Unlocking it on the fly with her key fob, she heard the familiar sound of its beep and saw its lights flash as the locks released. Good. She was breathing hard by now. As she reached the driver’s side, she took a sweeping glance of the back seat, saw it was empty, no bogeyman lying in wait, then slid inside.
Chiding herself for her case of nerves most likely from being a horror film fanatic, she started the car, locked its doors, and tore out of the parking space. She’d call Trent once she was out of the city and she could talk in her normal voice again, once the panic in her bloodstream had totally dissipated. She’d have to cop to the fact that McNary had lured her for God knew what reason on a wild goose chase. She wasn’t looking forward to that.
As she wound her way to the freeway, she passed a coffee shop that was closed for the night. Her headlights reflected on the glass of the storefront and, for just a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman who looked like Allie tucked into the alcove of the doorway. But the woman’s face and upper body were in shadow, only her booted feet and bottom of her jeans really discernible. It was just an image, a thought, probably powered by the fact that she’d been talking about and thinking of her sister all night.
At the next
red light, she slowed and while the Honda idled she stared into the rearview mirror. Had it been Allie?
“Stop it,” she said aloud, but her mind kept circling back.
Had she even seen someone in the doorway?
If so, was it a woman?
And then the shadow moved, a figure slipped from the alcove and stood on the street in the pouring rain.
“Allie,” Cassie mouthed, dumbstruck. She rolled down her window. “Allie!” she yelled.
The light turned green. Behind her, a car was approaching. Fast. The driver laid on his horn, then blinked his lights, nearly blinding her, as a bus heading in the opposite direction rolled through the intersection.
Cassie froze. The bus slowed, exhaust pluming, obscuring the face of the building as the van behind her zoomed past, the driver shaking his head. Once the rig was out of the way, Cassie hit the gas and did a quick and very illegal U-turn.
Overhead, a traffic cam flashed.
Crap!
Well, it was just too damned bad. So she got a ticket? So what? It didn’t matter if she could just get to Allie!
The bus, not expecting her to be suddenly upon it, rolled into the lane in front of her. Cassie stood on her brakes.
Her car screeched to a halt, sliding on the wet pavement as the lumbering city bus rolled away, gathering steam and belching exhaust.
Her pulse on overdrive, her headache throbbing, Cassie glanced into the shadowy alcove of the doorway to the coffee shop.
It was empty.
The woman who’d been waiting there had vanished.
CHAPTER 26
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Brandi Potts’s new running shoes pinched her toes a little and were getting wet as she ran through the city streets. It was later than she liked to run, as it was after midnight. If she weren’t so fast and didn’t always travel with her small canister of pepper spray, she might have been worried. But tonight, pounding through the Portland streets, music pulsing from her iPhone, she felt invincible, just as she always did when her endorphins kicked in. Right now, with the rainfall increasing and only a couple of miles left on her run, those little feel-goods were definitely horse-kicking in.