by Lisa Jackson
Around a corner, across a street against the light, faster and faster she tore along the sidewalks and paths, feeling the exhilaration of rain against her face, listening to an up-tempo song from Katy Perry as she cut through the park. The thought of a hot shower, good book, and tumbling into bed were her incentive. That, and needing to have a personal best in her next race.
Soon.
She had her eye on her next marathon. Okay, really if you wanted to get technical, a half marathon, but still. Thirteen-plus miles was nothing to sneeze at, even if her never-going-to-commit boyfriend, Jeff, thought the race was child’s play. What a jerk. She called him a running snob to his face and something a little harsher behind his back. She should break up with him. But after she’d finished her full marathon. Only then. Take that, Jeffrey-Boy!
To train for the upcoming race she was into power walking, racewalking, and, of course, running, which was her workout for tonight though she would have rather avoided this section of town where that damned near-murder took place on the set of Dead Heat. Dodging a crazy-ass bicyclist who streaked past, tires zinging in the rain, caused her to veer, shorten her stride. She nearly stumbled, then caught herself and swore. “Bastard! Jerkwad idiot!” Seemingly oblivious, he sped off, gliding away, leaving her seething as she turned down the street where one of the key scenes in Dead Heat had been filmed, the very spot where the terrible accident had taken place. Her guts clenched as she thought of the day. She’d been there as an extra in the movie. She’d seen Lucinda Rinaldi stagger and fall, and had immediately sensed something was seriously wrong.
Now, as Brandi found her stride again, she thought about that accident. The police had quickly deduced that Sig Masters, the actor who had fired the gun, hadn’t known the weapons had been switched. Brandi wondered. She’d never liked Masters, considered him a bit of a bully. And he was an actor, so he could probably fool the cops. The only problem was why would he do it?
Motive, motive, motive!
Dead Heat’s last scene had been changed so many times, who could tell who the intended victim was? Maybe Lucinda Rinaldi, another A-one bitch, had just been caught in the crossfire, literally in the wrong place at the wrong time. At one point Cassie Kramer’s character was supposed to be the second runner, then Allie’s, in a reversal of the sequence during the reshoot. Maybe Sig hoped to kill Cassie or Allie. God knew the two sisters were insufferable in different ways. Cassie, not much of an actress and a mental case to boot, now fancied herself to be a scriptwriter. As if. Then there was Allie, an egomaniac’s egomaniac. It was as if Allie had to prove to everyone else, or maybe herself, that she was a certifiable star.
Brandi turned her head and spit at the thought, never breaking stride. Thinking of the Kramer sisters made her grimace. She didn’t like either one. Having both Allie and Cassie on the same film, in Brandi’s estimation, had been a recipe for disaster. And she’d been right. What had Karen Stenowick been thinking? Casting the two siblings in the same film had been a colossal mistake. Brandi thought the idea of putting the two women in the same film had been a ploy for publicity, as Cassie couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. There had been rumors Dean Arnette had wanted to lure Jenna Hughes back to the screen by offering her the bit part of psycho aunt to the heroine. Jenna, another head case, had refused and the part had been written out.
All in all, Dead Heat might end up being a complete disaster and Lucinda Rinaldi almost paid the ultimate price.
Well, it was all water under the celluloid bridge now.
Brandi kept running.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
But thoughts of the accident kept coming to mind as she now was on the same flippin’ street where it had all come down. During the filming she’d sensed the electricity of the set filmed in a real storm, though the lightning and thunder had been faked, of course. But the Portland drizzle, enhanced by sprinklers, had added to the dark mood.
Tonight no one, not one damned soul, was on the street, yet she suddenly had the eerie sensation that someone was watching her. She glanced around quickly. Saw no one. Nonetheless the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. As much as she tried to convince herself that her fears where hyped because of the horrendous accident on the set, that her mind was playing tricks on her, she was still unnerved.
Something was wrong here.
Something evil lurked in the darkened facades of the stores and shops, she could feel it.
The skin on the back of her arms prickled.
Turning down the music, she listened hard. Nothing out of the ordinary. All she heard were raindrops splashing on the ground, water gurgling in gutters and downspouts, her own breathing and . . . were there other footsteps? Quick-paced? Running? She swept her gaze anxiously side to side.
The street was empty.
Just as it was supposed to have been when Lucinda Rinaldi was shot.
A cold stone settled in the pit of her stomach. She kept moving, kicking it up a notch, her shoes hitting hard against the wet concrete. Only about a mile and a half to go. Then she’d be home where she’d lock the door behind her, tear off her wet clothes, and hit the shower.
Maybe she’d indulge in one glass of wine. Maybe two. Just to calm her jangled nerves.
The night closed in around her, streetlamps glowing ethereally in the dampness, the air heavy in her lungs, but despite the cold, she was sweating, moving through the city. Gritting her teeth she started up the slight hill, felt the strain in her calves and thighs.
Work through it. Push yourself. Show stupid smart-ass Jeff what you can do!
Again she heard the sound of footsteps but she attempted to ignore the ridiculous feeling that someone was following her. Come on, who could keep up with her anyway? She chided herself for her case of nerves.
Even if someone else was running, big deal.
It was the damned city, right?
People were out at all hours doing all sorts of things, including getting their miles in. Unless the other runner had a machete or a gun, he had the right to tear up the streets just as she was doing.
Yet, she was edgy.
Something seemed off.
She looked over her shoulder.
Again, nothing.
No one.
She swiped the rain from her eyes and told herself she should have taken an alternate route. Unable to shake the sensation that whoever or whatever was following her was getting closer, she yanked the earbud from her ear.
Nothing but the steady drip of the rain.
You’re crazy, she told herself, and fumbled to put the wet bud back into her ear.
As she poked the earpiece back in, she saw something out of place in the shadows a half block ahead. Movement.
Her heart clutched.
It’s nothing.
Again, a quick flash of shadow and darkness . . . someone stepping from around the corner of a building, lurking? She squinted. Another jogger? A woman?
Brandi felt a moment’s relief. Just another night owl, maybe out to walk her dog, or have a cigarette or whatever. Nothing to get worried about. Still, she decided it might be wise to cross the street. The woman could be a crackpot or—
Holy shit! Was it . . . ? Wait a second . . . She couldn’t believe her eyes. Was the woman out here in the middle of the damned night really Cassie Kramer?
Rain collected on Brandi’s eyelashes. The night was blurry and wet. But the person looked like . . . no, no, no. Wait! Not Cassie. The woman in the shadows was Allie effin’ Kramer herself!
Brandi raised an arm. To convey that she recognized Allie, which was ridiculous. But now that she was getting closer . . .
No . . . she was just a woman who looked like one of the Kramer sisters. Her imagination, spurred by adrenaline and her own fears about this damned street, was running amok. She was mistaken. The darkness had confused her.
Nonetheless, the woman was closing the gap between them, coming nearer. As she passed under a streetlamp, she was more visible.
B
randi’s heart nearly stopped.
Something was off with Allie’s face. Or Cassie’s face. Or whoever’s damned face. Whoever this woman was, her visage seemed to be melting off her damned skull! Panic burned through Brandi’s blood. She lunged to the side, intent on crossing the street. Frantically, she unzipped a pocket on her running jacket, reached inside for her can of pepper spray, felt the metal cylinder. Good. Still running, she pulled the can from her pocket and it slipped, rolling off her fingertips to clatter to the street.
“No! Shit!”
She kept running, didn’t have time to try to find the canister or chase it down.
Your phone. Grab your phone. Dial Jeff or nine-one-one or someone!
But the woman was too close. Brandi couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t risk dropping her cell.
Spurred by her own fears, she increased her pace, shooting past the other woman and watching from the corner of her eyes, as if in slow motion, the disfigured monster spin, raising her arm, a long-barreled pistol in her hand.
Jesus, no!
What? NO!
Brandi was sprinting now, her lungs burning, her legs aching. She cut to the sidewalk between two parked cars. If she could just reach the corner—
Pop!
Her body jerked.
Her legs gave way.
She flew forward, twisting to land hard on the rough street. Her hands scraped, her skull hit the asphalt with a loud crack, the skin ripping off her cheek. Burning pain screamed through her face and everything on the darkened street seemed to turn upside down. Overhead the light was still shining, but there was darkness beyond, the thrum of traffic on the freeway somewhere in the far distance. She heard her own breathing and her heart pumping as she tried to fight the blackness overcoming her and climb to her feet.
Her legs wouldn’t move.
Deep inside she was cold, so very cold, yet she felt a warmth oozing from her. In a distant part of her brain she realized it was blood and wondered vaguely if anyone would come to help her, if she would survive. Then she remembered Lucinda Rinaldi lying on this same street.
Help me, she thought desperately, and tried to yell, to scream over the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching.
The assassin!
No, oh, no!
With all her strength, she managed to get her feet beneath her and push, scooting backward on the asphalt, hoping to find some kind of cover or that, please God, someone would come to her rescue.
Bam!
Her shoulder rammed into a parking meter, jarring her. But she didn’t give up. Wrapping her fingers around the cold metal pole she attempted to pull herself to her feet, over the curb and out of the gutter where water was gurgling in a rush.
She was wobbly, her hands slick and unable to do what her brain commanded.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, tasting salty blood on her lips.
And then the would-be killer was there. Standing in front of her. The woman who had leaped from the shadows to attack her.
Allie Kramer with her weird face. No. Now that her stalker was close she realized the disfigured face with the black eyeholes wasn’t Allie Kramer at all, but the twisted face of Jenna Hughes.
What the hell?
Brandi’s eyes rolled back in her head and as she passed out, she felt her head being lifted, something slick and cool being placed over her face and then there was nothing but blessed, silent darkness.
ACT IV
She pocketed the gun and ran, afraid that someone had seen her. Adrenaline fueled her, spurred her on. She spied a woman looking out the window and turned quickly down an alley. Without the mask she could be recognized, identified. No way could she let that happen!
Not here. Not now.
The air was thick, rain pummeling down from the starless sky. Her legs ached and her lungs felt as if they were on fire, but she needed distance, more distance, so she pressed on.
Keep moving!
Just one more block.
Then another.
Breathing was damn near impossible.
She rounded a corner and finally, gratefully slowed. Taking in huge gulps of air, she felt sweat slide down her back and prickle in her hair, but she was far enough away from the killing ground to avoid suspicion.
She hoped. Prayed.
Still, a little more distance wouldn’t hurt. As fast as her painful legs allowed, she walked, down two blocks, around another corner, getting ever closer to downtown Portland, where the city sprawled along the shores of the Willamette. There were more people out, the segment of the population who preferred night to day. She kept her head turned away and in the ghostly glow of streetlights in the rain, no one seemed to recognize her.
She was heading to her car when she spied the Vintner’s House, a cozy little bar Allie Kramer had been known to haunt. Discreet lighting. Private booths. Even a gas fireplace. No televisions, just soft, eclectic music.
A slow smile twisted over her lips.
Oh, yes, she remembered the place, had spent many hours within its walls and knew its idiosyncrasies. First though, she checked her reflection in a storefront window and though she was pale, she didn’t notice any dark spots staining her sweater, no blood spatter visible. Finger-combing her hair, she tossed it a bit, then slipped into her cool persona, the one most people who knew her would recognize. The other side of her personality, the hysterical, freaked-out portion, she managed to, once again, tuck deep inside. She only let it free when it suited her purpose.
Satisfied, she walked into the bar and reflected upon what she’d done, how, once again, she’d outwitted them all. She could almost taste the reaction and ummm, the taste was sweet.
She surveyed the small dining area. All good. Taking a seat at the bar, she inwardly smiled as she ordered a glass of Allie’s favorite wine. From the corner of her eye, she thought the bartender did a subtle double take. That was fine.
Did she get a few quizzical stares?
Oh, yes. Of course she did, but that was expected. Even necessary. Vintner’s House had a no cell phone policy, which was perfect, and, for the privacy of its customers, no security cameras, or so the management claimed. There was always a chance some yahoo who didn’t play by anyone else’s rules might sneak out his phone and risk taking a shot, if he thought he recognized her. But so what? It wasn’t a crime to have a glass of wine. That’s all it was. All anyone would know for now.
Besides, she thought, warming inside, she liked to flirt with danger.
Always had.
CHAPTER 27
From beneath her thick duvet, Rhonda Nash heard the ringing of her cell phone and groaned. She threw back the soft covers and felt the chill of the night. The window near her bed was cracked a bit, allowing a cold breeze that brought the steady plop of rain and the distant scream of sirens into the room. A glance at the clock on the night table told her the ugly truth—that it wasn’t quite four in the damned morning. Whoever was calling wasn’t the bearer of good news. Half asleep, she tried to pick up her cell and only managed to knock it from the night table.
“Damn.” Rolling to the side of the bed and hanging over its edge, she saw the bright display indicating that Double T was on the other end of the wireless connection. No surprise there. Scooping the phone from the floor, she clicked on and said, “Nash,” around a yawn.
“We got another one.”
“Another one what?” she asked, blinking herself awake.
“Another victim wearing a mask.”
She sat bolt upright. “A mask of Allie Kramer?” Suddenly completely awake, she flew out of bed and hit the switch for the bedside lamp in one fluid motion. As her feet hit the floor she started stripping out of her nightshirt on her way to the closet.
“Nope. This one’s of Jenna Hughes.”
She stutter-stepped. “The mother?”
“Right.”
Nash’s brain clicked into gear, dozens of questions forming. “Is it disfigured? Laminated? Same as the others?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Got an ID on the vic?”
“Yes, ma’am. The killer was kind enough to leave the victim’s license in her jacket pocket.”
“Great.” Shivering, she found the clothes she’d been wearing the day before, the pants and blouse she’d dropped on a bench when she’d been getting ready for her bath.
“Twenty-nine-year-old single woman. Brandi Potts. Lives in the Pearl. Got a couple of uniforms on their way over to the address now.”
“Good.” Already things were moving along. She poked the speaker button and set the phone on the counter in the built-in dresser within the closet. “Cause of death?”
“Won’t know until the ME arrives and—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” she said, bothered as she stepped into her slacks. “But is there anything obvious . . . ?”
“Aside from the gunshot wound to her chest?”
“Funny guy.” She wasn’t laughing.
“Looks like she was hit from behind. Not a through and through. Bullet’s got to be lodged in the body somewhere.”
She snapped her pants over her waist. “Eyewitnesses?”
“Already got a couple. We’re checking. Door to door.”
“Who called it in?”
“Bouncer from a club a couple of blocks away, on his way to his car.”
She zipped up, threw on a bra. “Give me an address.”
“Get this. The shooting took place on the very same street where Lucinda Rinaldi was hit.”
“What?” She went cold inside, her movements slow as she pulled on her sweater. “Where the movie was shot?”
“Not the exact location, but about a block and a half down the street.”
Nash’s mind was whirling. “Was the victim connected to Dead Heat?”
“Unknown. Yet. Workin’ on it.”
“Holy shit.” She yanked her head through the sweater’s neck and finger-tousled her hair.
“My sentiments exactly.”