Ambushed

by Jill Williamson

  “Dang,” Kip said. “And I thought my house was big.”

  We didn’t find my dad’s address until the end of the street. And it was only the beginning of a driveway with a black iron gate blocking the way. Kip turned into the drive. A call box on top of a car-window-level pole stood on the driver’s side of the gate. Two miniature bottles of Evian sat on top. Kip stopped the car, rolled down his window, and pressed the button.

  “Yes?” a male voice said through the speaker.

  “Yeah, this is Spencer Garmond here to see his dad.” Kip looked at me and shrugged. I shrugged back.

  “Pull up to the front of the house,” the voice said.

  The gate started to roll aside. Kip grabbed the bottles of water and tossed one to me.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “That’s what it’s for. Thirsty guests.” Kip accelerated through the gate and down a freshly paved drive. Bright green hedges lined each side, perfectly trimmed. The drive gave way to a round decorative concrete courtyard in front of a Spanish-style mansion. Palm trees towered above, their shadows stretched long over the concrete. This was more than just a house. This was an estate. Sprawling green lawns stretched out on either side of the place. Behind the right side of the main building, I could see a tennis court and—

  “Look at the basketball court!” I said. “Sweet.”

  “Who is this guy?” Kip asked.

  “Supposedly my dad.” Supposedly. And maybe a bad person.

  “Great, but what’s he do for a living?”

  Good question. “We’re about to find out.”

  Kip stopped in front of the house and shut off the Bimmer. We both go out. The front doors, each two halves of an arch made out of glossy wood, loomed at the top of a half-dozen red clay steps. They were also smack in the middle of a fat turret, like some sort of castle. One side of the doors opened, and a man stepped out. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, and while he didn’t look older than forty, he was completely bald.

  “Your padre?” Kip asked.

  “Don’t know. Never seen him before.”

  “Crazy,” Kip said.

  I hobbled up the steps on my crutches. When I reached the top, I saw that the bald guy was wearing an earpiece.

  He held out his hand, and I tucked my crutches into my armpits so I could shake.

  “I’m Richard Locke,” he said, “estate manager. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Garmond and . . .” He looked at Kip, eyebrows raised.

  “Kip Johnson.”

  “Mr. Johnson, yes, of course.” Locke shook Kip’s hand. “Welcome to The Sanctuary, gentlemen.” He opened the front door. “Please, come inside.”

  Kip and I stared at each other, then grinned. The Sanctuary was the name of the castle where the Light Goddess lived in the Jolt movies. How cool was that?

  I hop-jumped through the open doorway and felt like I’d entered a palace. The ceiling of the foyer went all the way to the roof where a massive chandelier hung. The floors were hard white and shiny, maybe made of marble. I’m not up on my interior decorating terms, but everything looked expensive.

  When Kip got inside, Locke shut the door behind us. “If you’ll both follow me.”

  He moseyed across the foyer. A fat staircase curled along the tower wall. And the floor was sprinkled with a dozen statues of half-naked people without arms. We trailed the guy past a dining room on our right that had a table with twelve chairs and drapes covering all the walls. Apparently, the room was made of windows.

  “What’s an estate manager?” Kip asked.

  “It’s a fancy way of saying butler,” Locke said.

  “People still have butlers?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. Many wealthy individuals understand how beneficial it is to have professional help managing their property and their lives.”

  Clearly my dad had the money to help me out. But would he? The man might have murdered my mother in cold blood. And here I was in his house. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about walking into traps. I just didn’t think I’d have much of a life without basketball. Maybe that was melodramatic of me, but it was how I felt. I needed to get the best surgery possible.

  Kip’s and my sneakers scuffed over the floor as Locke led us through an archway at the back of the foyer and down two steps into a fancy, sunken sitting room. Everything was black and white like a real-life chess game. The far wall was all windows, open to a swimming pool, and divided by a double fireplace. I could see right through the center, over the logs and out to the pool. Awesome sauce.

  A half circle of white sofas faced the fireplace. There was a TV built into the wall above the hearth. Glossy black coffee tables and end tables here and there. A baby grand in the corner. A thick red and black rug over most of the white marble floor.

  “Please sit and make yourselves comfortable,” Locke said. “I’ll let Mr. MacCormack know you’re here.” And the butler left.

  “MacCormack?” Kip said to me in a low voice.

  “Yeah, Ving MacCormack is what he goes by on Facebook. That’s not his real name though.” Just like Spencer Garmond wasn’t my real name.

  “Yeah, but . . .” Kip raised his eyebrows. “The Sanctuary? Pacific Palisades . . .?”

  “What?” Kip was hinting at something that, clearly, I was too dumb to grasp.

  “Who directed the Jolt movies, Spencer? Hello?”

  “Irving Ma—MacCormack.” No way. “No way!”

  Kip huffed, a big smile on his face. “I don’t know if you’re pulling my leg about that whole witness protection thing, but this place is money. Those movies are money.”

  So Kip and I sat there, awed over the décor and the mere idea of Kip’s hunch.

  “Mr. Garmond and Mr. Johnson,” Locke said.

  At the sound of his voice, I turned my head to where he stood at the top of the two steps to the sunken room.

  “May I introduce Mr. Irving MacCormack.”

  Kip stood up, like he was in trouble or something. I reached for my crutches.

  A soft voice said, “Please, don’t get up.” A man walked past Locke, down the steps, and straight towards where I was sitting. He wasn’t what I was expecting. Me, six-foot-four with freckled skin and orange hair. I’d expected someone more like me or Kimball.

  But this guy was shorter than Kip, maybe five ten. He looked like he’d gone to Harvard or something. Maybe it was the paisley pattern on his button-up short-sleeve shirt, the thick creases down the front of his beige slacks, the way the ceiling lights reflected off his shiny brown shoes, or the way his black hair was slicked back over his head.

  He held out his hand to shake. I accepted. His handshake was firm. Hand a little sweaty, but so was mine.

  He sat beside me on the sofa and pulled me into a one-armed side hug. “It’s great to finally see you face-to-face, my son. To talk with you. Thank you so much for coming.”

  His eyes were glossy as if this was emotional for him. I felt nothing. Okay, that’s not true. I felt . . . awkward. None of this seemed real. Maybe I’d wake up on the couch at Kip’s house any moment and this would have been a weird dream.

  MacCormack released me and motioned to the sofa beside mine. “Please sit, Mr. Johnson.”

  Kip sat, staring at the man, eyes wide. Locke remained standing in the archway to the room.

  “Let’s waste no time before discussing your needs,” MacCormack said. “You reached out to me, so clearly this is important to you.”

  I felt like a leech, coming for money. I decided to be honest about it. “I want to play college ball, but I don’t think the surgeon at St. Vincent’s is the best man for the job.”

  “I’m sure any surgeon would do his best,” MacCormack said.

  “Yeah, but let’s just say, I’m not convinced this guy’s best is good enough.” Man, that had sounded cocky. I couldn’t help it, though. This was my career. My life.

  “I see your point,” MacCormack said. “Yours is an injury that can’t be trusted to just any surgeo
n—at least not with your aspirations. After we hung up, I made a few calls. If you’re interested, James Landry is willing to take care of you.”

  I glanced at Kip. “The guy who worked on Alcott Moss?” My voice did a high-pitched squeaky thing. Landry had done knee surgery on more than one of the Lakers over the past decade.

  “Yes. And many other well-known athletes. His offices are here in Los Angeles. He’d like to see you this week to schedule the surgery. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds. I was anxious to see that you receive the best possible care.”

  Wow. “Uh, no. That’s cool. But, uh, there’s a bit of a problem. I already have a surgery scheduled with that guy from St. Vincent’s. Also, I didn’t tell Grandma about you and I—”

  He lifted his hand, palm facing me. “Say no more. You’re wise to keep our visit a secret for now. If you’ll tell me the name of your surgeon and your appointment time, I’ll have Mr. Locke take care of it.”

  I looked to where Locke was standing at the top of the steps and wondered if the guy was packing. “The surgeon’s name is Dr. Kapitankoff,” I said. “I was supposed to go in Monday the twentieth. Of February. I can write it down.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Garmond,” Locke said. “My memory is quite good. If it’s all right with you, sir, I’ll take care of this right away.”

  “Thank you, Locke,” MacCormack—err, my dad—said.

  So weird.

  Locke walked away. To “take care of it.”

  “Are you Irving MacCormack the director?” Kip asked.

  The man smiled, and his teeth were so white, they glowed. “What gave it away?”

  “Besides that fact that you live in a mansion called The Sanctuary?” Kip said.

  MacCormack chuckled, and we laughed with him. He seemed like one of those people who everyone wanted to suck up to. He laughs, we laugh. Funny or not.

  “You’re too shrewd for me, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “Are you boys fans of the films?”

  “I’m planning a Jolt Revolt.” Kip gasped and floundered a bit for words. “You—d-d-do you know Brittany Holmes?”

  A slow grin filled MacCormack’s face, and he turned it on me. “Would you like to meet her?”

  Um . . . duh. “Sure.”

  “Me too,” Kip said. “I want to meet her too.”

  “You know what?” MacCormack said. “Why don’t you boys come to the premiere next week?”

  “The premiere of Jolt IV?” Now I knew I must be dreaming.

  “I’d love for you to be my personal guests. It’ll be at the Dolby Theater. Where they host the Oscars. I’ll have Locke give you tickets and see that you’re put on the list. You can meet Brittany there.”

  “We can meet Brittany,” I said to Kip, grinning.

  “Is that the one in the mall?” Kip asked.

  “On Hollywood and Highland, yes. It starts at six, but you should come a half hour early.”

  “Could we have three tickets?” I asked, thinking of Megan. “Kip has a girl—”

  “No,” Kip said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “Shut up,” Kip whispered, then raised his voice. “So, Mr. MacCormack, how’d you get into making movies? You go to film school or something like that?”

  “No. After my first wife died”—he glanced at me—“I moved out here, got hired on a film crew. I worked my way up to directing and eventually started my own studio.”

  First wife. “My mother?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “That’s right.”

  My face flushed. Would I finally get the truth? “What happened to her? They said you killed her.”

  MacCormack took a deep breath. “That’s not how it happened, Son. I was set up.”

  “By who?”

  He shook his head. “I never found out.”

  “Come on. Then what have you been doing all these years? Why aren’t you trying to prove your innocence?”

  “I did try. I failed. Life isn’t always like the movies. Sometimes the bad guys win.”

  I searched his eyes, trying to figure out if he was for real. I didn’t see any signs that he was lying. But he’d been trained as a field agent, so he probably knew all those tricks.

  “Your mother was an amazing woman. I never could have hurt her.” His eyes were glossy with tears. “I tried to find out who did it, but I hit dead end after dead end. Son, whoever did this, they covered their tracks. All the evidence implicates me. And they have enough to convince a jury.”

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  We all looked to the entrance of the room. Locke was standing at the top of the steps.

  MacCormack sniffled. “Yes?”

  “The matter with Mr. Garmond’s surgery has been settled. Mr. Landry’s office will contact Alice Garmond regarding the changed appointment.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Locke.”

  “Of course, sir. And, when you’re ready, dinner is served.”

  MacCormack looked back to me. “We good?”

  Uh, not really. Even if I bought his story about Mom, there was still the fact that he’d ignored me all my life. But I was going to stay on his good side for now. Get me a new knee and an introduction to Brittany Holmes. Then I’d pull the abandonment card. See what he had to say. But not yet.

  So I shrugged, which was enough to get him off my back but wasn’t an admission of anything “good.”

  “Then let’s have dinner.” MacCormack stood and fetched my crutches. He turned back to me and held out his hand.

  I grabbed hold and let him help me up. “Thanks.”

  I took my crutches, and we went to the dining room, the same one we’d passed on our way in. The table was now set with white dishes, crystal glasses, and three times as much silverware as a guy like me could ever learn to use. The curtains were open, and the room really was made of windows. It was darkish out.

  A woman was sitting across the table and didn’t get up when we arrived.

  “Gentlemen, meet my wife, Diane,” MacCormack said.

  Second wife? I checked her out. She looked mid-forty, had chin-length blonde hair with black highlights that made it look striped, and was wearing a silky white shirt, a pair of frameless glasses, and a strand of fat pearls around her neck.

  “Hey,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  Her voice was really high, like she had mouse DNA, and I didn’t like her smile. It looked fake. And her teeth were fluorescent white too, which kind of creeped me out. Wicked stepmother or just my imagination?

  Locke pulled out the chair at the end of the table, and MacCormack sat down. Then Locke pulled out the chair to MacCormak’s right, the seat across from Diane. “Mr. Garmond?”

  “Yeah, okay.” I took my crutches in both hands and propped them against the table, then sat. I couldn’t bend my leg in its brace and my foot hit something under the table. Diane shifted and glared at me, so I twisted my chair so that my leg angled away from her feet.

  Locke helped Kip into the seat next to mine, then picked up my crutches.

  “I need those,” I said.

  “I’m just going to set them in the corner,” Locke said. “I’ll return them when you’re ready to leave.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  “Fancy table,” Kip said to Locke. “Do you cook too?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Corbett is the MacCormack’s chef.”

  “Mr. Locke derives great satisfaction from setting the table,” Diane said. “It always looks magnificent.”

  “I usually eat out of a microwavable plastic tray on the sofa,” Kip said. “But it gives me great satisfaction too.”

  I snorted a laugh, but at Diane’s glare, sobered quickly.

  “Tonight we’re having apple and bacon stuffed pork chops with parmesan roasted potatoes, and asparagus. Does that sound acceptable to you both?” Locke looked from me to Kip.

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  “I’ll have tw
o.” Kip grinned. “Kidding. One is fine.”

  “I see. Could I get you gentlemen something to drink? Soda, lemonade, wine, beer? We have everything.”

  “Do you have hot cocoa?” Kip asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “I don’t want that. I was just wondering,” Kip said. “I’ll have a beer.”

  “No, he won’t,” I said.

  Kip raised his eyebrows at me. “I won’t?”

  “One beer and you’re a giggling moron. And I can’t drive your car with my knee.”

  “Fine.” Kip glared at me. “I’ll have a root beer.”

  “Make that two,” I said.

  “And I’ll have a Utpoia,” MacCorkmack said.

  “Very good, sir,” Locke said. “Can I get you anything else, madam?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m good with my coffee.” Diane slid her middle finger around the lip of her coffee cup. She had long, claw-like fingernails, like Isabel’s, that were painted light pink.

  Locke left us.

  “I invited the boys to the premiere next week,” MacCormack told Diane.

  “What a marvelous idea.” She seemed to already know who we were, and if she didn’t, she didn’t ask. “And the after party?”

  “Of course, you both must come to the after party as well,” MacCormack said.

  Oh, yes, I was so there. “How late will it go?”

  “Who cares?” Kip said.

  “Grandma won’t want me out past nine on a school night,” I said to him.

  “I understand,” MacCormack said. “If you can’t stay for the party, perhaps you—”

  “We’re staying for the party.” Kip flashed an “I will kill you” look my way. “We’ll work it out.”

  “Ah.” MacCormack glanced from me to Kip to Diane in a moment of uncomfortable silence. He cleared his throat. “My dear, Kip tells me he’s hosting a Jolt Revolt.”

  “Wonderful!” Diane said. “The Jolt Revolt campaign is vitally important to our cause. It’s the best way to reach the masses.”

  “What cause?” I asked.

  “The Free Light Youth,” she said. “We believe in young people. And the FLYs help teens everywhere find a voice in this world.”