The Prada Paradox

by Julie Kenner

  It’s not Mel’s e-mail that I see, though. Because right there at the top of my in-box is a message from Play.Survive.Win.

  Oh, God, no. Please, not again.

  The blackness threatens to pull me in, but I beat it back, my hands so tight on the edge of the bar that the tendons hurt. I kept myself together throughout this whole ordeal—there is no way in hell I’m losing it now.

  I take deep breaths, slowly and carefully, until I’m sure that I’m back to myself. Then I stare at the computer, wishing I could just toss the whole thing in the trash compactor.

  I know what I have to do, but I don’t want to. Even so, I use my finger to move the cursor over the e-mail. Two taps, and it opens, revealing a message containing only a hyperlink. I click on the link and wait for the Web page to open. When it does, it takes everything I have in me to hold in the scream.

  CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR WIN

  BUT NOW IT’S ROUND TWO.

  SO BE QUICK, QUICK, QUICK AS A FOX

  AND TYPE THE ANSWER INTO THE BOX.

  THE LAST CLUE YOU FOUND,

  THE KEY’S WHAT IT SAID

  TYPE IT IN HERE BEFORE YOUR

  BOYFRIEND’S DEAD.

  Same rules as before: No police. No help.

  Let the games begin.

  Chapter 56

  Iwill hold it together. I will. I will. I will.

  My instinct is to call Mel or Andy, but the warning on the message is too much to ignore. As for Blake, I hope the threat is some vague warning of something horrible that will happen in the future, but I don’t really believe it.

  Blake’s too late for our date. And in my heart, I know he’s in trouble.

  I stare at the little box, waiting for me to type in an answer. Some sort of code that will tell me how to save the man I love.

  Focus, Devi. Think and focus.

  Right. I can do that. Because I don’t have a choice. Screw this one up, and it’s Blake that pays. And that’s not something I can live with.

  The last clue you found, the key’s what it said.

  Okay, fine. I can figure this out. After all, it’s not like I don’t have practice.

  I think back to our adventure. The last clue was the note and the CD. So I type Universal into the text box on the Web page and get…nothing.

  Frustrated, I try it again, this time in lowercase.

  Still nothing.

  I try Universal Pictures, Universal Studios, and each of the movies and stars listed on the clue.

  Not a damn thing.

  I’m just about to lose it when I remember: Oscar.

  The last clue didn’t send us to Universal. The last clue held the antidote. We just didn’t have to follow it because we took Janus down.

  I frown at the thought, because we did take Janus down. More specifically, I did.

  So who’s now playing the game?

  It’s not a question I’m going to ponder too long, though, because the answer doesn’t matter. Not at the moment. All that matters is typing the clue into that box.

  My fingers fly over the keys as I type in Oscar, and then I scream in frustration when nothing happens.

  I’m about to try it in uppercase, when I remember the imprint on the base of the statue. I hold my breath, because if this isn’t the answer, I’ve run out of ideas.

  Hollywoodland, I type. And sure enough, the screen hums with life, linking finally to an image of the Hollywood sign.

  Hollywoodland Realty, I think. Because years ago, they’re the folks who placed the famous sign. The “land” has been lost, but “Hollywood” has stayed a landmark. A protected landmark, too. It’s not like it’s a public park that you can walk around in. I was given a tour once, and the security is insanely tight. The only access is via a small service road, and the place is watched over by L.A. Park Rangers and guarded tighter than the White House, with dozens of security cameras watching over it 24/7.

  So what exactly am I supposed to do?

  Actually, the thought of the security cameras reminds me, and I click over to Google and do a quick search. I remember a Web site that ties in to the security cameras so tourist-geeks can see what’s going on at the sign any time they want to. (This is, quite literally, like watching grass grow.)

  Not a damn thing going on up there. The sign. A news helicopter in the distance. The sign. Another view of the sign. Yet another view of the sign.

  I’m just about to give up and assume that I misinterpreted the clue when I see the news helicopter again. Exactly where I’d seen it before.

  What the—?

  I stare at the screen, thinking that surely it was a trick of the eye. But, nope. There it is again. Nothing, nothing, and then poof. A news helicopter.

  The security cameras are running on a loop!

  Which makes me wonder what I’d see if I could see the real live feed from the sign.

  I don’t have to wonder, though. Because I know.

  I’d see Blake.

  And it wouldn’t be good.

  Chapter 57

  It’s pitch-black by the time I make my way up the winding road to the section of mountainside on which the Hollywood sign is perched. A tall wire fence extends across the road, disappearing into the wilderness.

  The moon is full, but the foliage is so dense that it hardly makes a dent against the shadows. With the flashlight’s narrow beam to guide me, I pick my way up the hill, climbing parallel to the fence as it circles around the sign.

  I stop to get my bearings, looking down toward the lights of the city. It’s so dark up here that it almost feels like I’m floating in space. I’m not, though. Right now, my feet are more firmly rooted on the ground than they’ve ever been.

  In front of me looms the Hollywood sign, the white-painted wood glowing eerily in the moonlight. Even from the back, it’s majestic, and so much bigger than it seems from down below.

  I’m still dozens of yards away, and even with the illumination from the moon, I can’t see clearly, but I squint at it anyway, trying to find Blake. It’s too dark for me to see anything, and I feel a sudden rush of fear that I’m wrong, and wasting valuable time. That this whole nightmare will just go on and on.

  No.

  That thought is way too much to bear, and I force it out of my mind.

  One step at a time, Devi. Just go one step at a time.

  Since that’s damn good advice, I shine my light near the bottom of the fence, moving slowly until I see a place where the fence doesn’t quite reach the ground. It’s rough and rocky, and I’m going to get scraped up from head to toe, but I’m sure I can wiggle through.

  I’m a little worried that the fence might be electrified, but there aren’t any voltage signs, so I try to quash the fear. Instead, I lie down and push my bag through the hole, then try to make myself as skinny as possible as I slide through after it. I get hooked on part of the fence, but manage to free myself. And then, with one more squirm, I’m through.

  I stand up, brushing dirt off me, then bend over and grab my purse. I’m using the Prada bag because it was handy and I hadn’t wanted to waste time. But I dumped my usual accoutrements out, and now the bag carries only two things: a gun and a knife.

  Just what every fashionable young celebrity needs.

  I give the bag a pat, and press on. The ground is getting rougher, descending at a steeper angle as I approach the huge standing letters. So far, there’s no sign that there’s anyone here but me. I look around as I walk, trying to find the security cameras I know are out there. I can’t find them, though, and I wonder if my tormentor is watching me now. I suspect that he is. And I wish that the park rangers were.

  I don’t hear any sound from in front of me, and I finally decide I’ve been sneaking around long enough. “Blake?” I call out in an overloud whisper. “Blake? Are you here?”

  I stand still, silencing the crunch of my feet, and listen for a response. I don’t hear anything, though, and a bubble of worry rises in my chest. “Blake!” I call again, louder this
time. Why the hell not? If the rangers find me, great. And I know that whoever lured me here already knows what I’m doing.

  This time, I’m rewarded with a sound. Not a word, just a sound. A small rustling. I know it could be an animal, but I don’t believe that. It’s Blake. He’s okay. And all I have to do is get to him.

  I rush forward, desperate now, stumbling over rocks, scraping my fingers on the ground as I try to keep from falling. I cover the distance quickly and find myself behind the giant H. He’s not there, though, and so I move along the letters, finally finding him at the far end of the sign. At the D.

  He’s hanging there unconscious, suspended on the curve of the letter, his wrists bound together in front of him and his feet bound tight at the ankles. I’m not entirely sure what’s holding him up.

  Not that I really care about the engineering; all I care about is getting him down.

  “Blake?”

  He doesn’t answer, but he does moan, and that little sound gives me hope.

  It doesn’t, however, give me any ideas. I desperately wish he’d wake up. Not only because I’m terrified that he’s seriously injured, but also because I’m afraid I can’t do this by myself.

  He’s not coming to, though, and I’m all on my own.

  I edge closer, trying to get a feel for the situation. As far as I can tell, it’s just him and me, but that can’t be right. There’s some sort of trap here, too. I just haven’t found it yet.

  What I have found is what’s holding Blake to the sign. I can just see it as I stand below and shine the light up. A cord tied around the thick girders that support the sign and wrapped around Blake’s waist. Cut that, and he should drop free. It’s a long fall, but if I can unbind his hands and legs—and if I can wake him up—I know that he’s got the training to make the jump.

  The support girders form a sort of scaffolding to which each letter is attached. Every few feet, there are little wooden outcroppings, which I have to imagine are to hold cans of paint when the letters are in need of repair. Small cans, I think, since the ledges are tiny. They will, though, provide some foothold.

  The letters themselves are seated into the ground with posts at the bottom, keeping them secure through wind, rain, earthquakes, and the like. I guess it’s worked. The sign has been here for decades.

  I was a pro at monkey bars in my youth, so I leave my purse on the ground but tuck my knife in one back pocket and my gun in the other. Then I start climbing. It doesn’t take too long to reach Blake, and for the first time in my life, I’m truly glad that I don’t experience vertigo. Because this is very high. And remarkably windy. As if we’re on a magnet for all the winds that blow from the ocean to the desert.

  Blake’s eyelids are fluttering, so I start talking to him. Basically narrating what I’m doing as I use the knife to saw through the cord binding his ankles. When I move to his wrists, he opens his eyes. “Good morning,” I say, trying for light, but probably not managing. I’m sitting on a girder, one arm hooked around a vertical bar for support and my legs hanging over another, as if I were sitting in a very small chair.

  My free hand has the knife, and I’m starting to work on the cords on his wrists.

  “Where—oh, God.”

  “Do you remember anything?” I’ve got his wrists free, and now I start massaging them.

  “Devi,” he says, his voice harsh and serious just as I shift back a bit to reach his waist. “I was giving him a ride, and he stuck me with a needle. I was out in seconds.” He meets my eyes, his expression grave. “Devi, it was Andy.”

  Chapter 58

  His words shock me so much that I quit sawing at the cord around his waist. “What?” I say, but even as I voice the question, I can see how it has to be true. So many little things fall into place. The person from the movie who ordered the bags. Someone with access to Tobias’s stationery. His intense crush on me.

  I flash with a sudden memory of him on his Treo right after I spoke with Blake about the Greystone Mansion. Right before Mac was killed.

  “Oh, God. Is Andy the reason Mac is dead?”

  “What do you think?” comes the harsh reply from below. I turn and look down to see Andy staring up at both of us. “Because you should know that you’re the reason she’s dead. You broke the rules, after all.”

  “You son of a bitch. You played us.”

  “Not at all. I played the game.”

  “Played for me to lose, you mean,” Blake says. “The Hollywood Bowl. The carousel horses. All those were wrong, and you knew it. Yet you pushed for us to go there.”

  “What do you expect?” Andy says. “You weren’t even supposed to be in the damn game. You brought it on yourself by eating the strawberry. If Devi had eaten it like she was supposed to, I promise you I would have interpreted those clues like a pro.”

  “So instead you tried to slow us down,” Blake said. “Tried to make it take too long. So that I’d die, and you could step in and help Devi work her way to the last clue.”

  “You’re smart, Blake,” Andy said. “I don’t think I gave you enough credit.”

  “And Janus?” I ask. “Was he—”

  “Very real,” Andy says. “I’ve loved you for years, Devi. And I had to prove I was worthy. So I did my homework. I saw how the protectors and targets who survived ended up together. Mel and Stryker. Jenn and Devlin. And I thought, why not me?”

  “Because you’re a damn freak?” Blake says.

  But Andy ignores him. He’s too lost in his tale. “When Mel wanted to get word out about her project, the movie seemed the perfect way. I was helping you, Devi. Helping you get your career back. I insisted that we would only sell the rights if you were attached to the project. I saved your career. And I knew that I could save you, too.”

  “No,” I whisper, because it’s the only word I can manage.

  “I’d met Janus online, years before. Not a difficult thing to realize he was susceptible. And when I began to investigate—when I realized he was the one who’d attacked you so many years ago—well, I knew that he had to be punished. And what better way than for me to kill him in the context of the game? To beat fair and square the one other man who believed he loved you as much as I truly do love you.”

  “You put him in the game? But…” I trail off as I remember Mel’s comment about how the body of Archibald Grimaldi—the genius inventor of Play.Survive.Win.—was never found. “Oh, dear God. Andy, are you Grimaldi?”

  “The one and only,” he says with a little flourish. “And I put Janus in as the assassin and myself in as your protector.”

  “Save the girl,” I say. “The knight on the white horse.” My stomach is churning, and I’m having a hard time grasping everything he was telling us.

  “And Devi would end up with you,” Blake finishes. “Not me.”

  “Never,” I say, shaking my head. And to think I thought this man was nice.

  “Why are you doing this?” Blake asks.

  “Because I can.” He looks only at me now. “I wish it could have turned out differently.”

  I shiver and try to fight my fear. We’re up on this scaffolding, trapped like rats, and certainly a clear target if he has a gun. Enough talk. Time to get the hell out of there.

  For that matter, time to get him the hell out of there.

  Without second-guessing, I reach behind me and pull out the gun. I whip it around in record speed, but I’m not nearly fast enough. A bullet whizzes by, embedding in the wood just beside my ear, the splintering crack loud enough to burst my eardrum.

  Startled, I grasp for the nearest girder, managing to keep myself from falling. The gun, though, slips from my fingers, banging down a bit before landing on one of those little wooden ledges. I reach for it, but it’s too far. Not without engaging in some serious acrobatics. And I have a feeling that really isn’t such a good idea.

  We’re sitting ducks up here, though, and I’m not sure what to do next. “Blake?”

  “He could have killed us if he wanted
to,” Blake says. “Go ahead and cut me down.”

  I’m a little nervous, but I scoot over again. I still have the knife, and I start sawing at the cord around his waist. It only takes a few good whacks, and then it’s free. I’ve pressed my back up against the wood, and I’ve got my hands on his waist. He’s heavy, but I’ve got leverage, and only need to help him ease down until his feet can touch.

  I’m almost there when Blake yells for me to stop. “My throat,” he croaks, his voice hard and pinched.

  “Oh, right,” Andy calls up. “I forgot to mention. If you cut the cord around Blake’s waist, his weight will bear down on the garrote around his neck. Should kill him almost instantly once the right pressure point is hit.”

  “Damn you!” I scream.

  “You move, and he slides down. Even half an inch is going to kill him.”

  I look around and realize he’s right. I’ve got Blake—and right now, his feet are balanced on my thighs—but there’s nowhere else for him to go.

  I move, and he dies.

  Dear Lord, what are we going to do?

  “Give me the knife,” Blake says. “I’ll just cut through the damn garrote.”

  Since that’s a perfectly brilliant plan, I reach the knife up, my fingertips brushing his as I pass it off.

  “Not a bad plan,” Andy says. “Except I should probably mention the C-4 I packed around this letter’s support beams. And that cord around your neck is part of the detonation system. Cut it, and three seconds later you’re falling through space.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Blake says.

  “Could be,” Andy retorts.

  And there it is. Stalemate.

  I really, really, really want that man dead.

  Blake must be having similar thoughts, because he whispers to me, “If I’m holding your wrist and dangling you, can you reach the gun?”