16 Millimeters

by Larissa Reinhart

  I mean, holy frig, I could have eaten chocolate peanut butter pie with a side of window cleaner. Knowing me, I would have popped half the slice in my mouth and swallowed before registering that it even tasted like chemicals. Maybe even finished the whole thing. And Big Jim had left me a mongo piece, like a quarter of a pie.

  That was just pitiful. Jerry was right about carbs being the death of me.

  My chest hurt, and I clutched the trash can against it. I needed out of the trailer. It felt stuffy and reeked of near death and Orlando's cheap cologne. I would run for the warehouse where people were still meeting. Then I'd join security and wait for Nash. Or better yet, get on Lucky and drive home so Nash could stay with Cam-Cam.

  Although how to carry a trash can on a dirt bike was a real puzzle.

  I took a deep breath, skipped the Tae Bo stuff so I wouldn't dump the can, and slipped out the front door. The quicker I got away from the trailer, the better. In the dark, every shadow seemed to move. Every sound was amplified. Footsteps rang somewhere in the distance. A golf cart whirred. Clutching the garbage in one arm, I edged along the trailer, shining my phone light beneath the trailer and into dark crevices.

  At the edge of Cam-Cam's trailer, I was sure I could hear someone strolling the parking lot. Hopefully, a security guard, but I wasn't taking the risk. I ran for the studio building. My feet slapped the pavement, and the can smacked my torso. The metal door loomed ahead, a security light shining above it like a beacon. I slammed to a halt before the door, jostled the can and phone, and grabbed the big handle.

  Jerked. Knocked. Beat on the metal.

  Okay. I'd been locked out. Security didn't know I was in the trailer lot. And I skipped the sign-in on purpose. I'd just have to cross back through the dark (and scary) lot full of trailers, then the grassy field surrounding the big parking area, and see if the tall metal fence had a gate in the back. I mean, it'd have to have a gate, right? This was once a warehouse with tall garage doors for unloading trucks. Although the gate was probably locked. Just like this door. Lots of expensive equipment and accoutrements around here. Best to keep things locked tight.

  Friginometrous.

  I sank against the warehouse door and squinted into the gloomy trailer lot. Chain link fences had been a specialty in the Julia Pinkerton: Teen Detective repertoire. Particularly in city scenes. She could scale a chain link lickety-split. But I didn't remember Julia ever carrying a garbage can up a fence. Even a short, non-kitchen trash variety.

  Nothing to do but go back to the trailer and wait for Nash's rescue. Which would be princess sexy except it was self-defeating. Self-defeat was not sexy. And if I was trapped in the lot, so was Orlando.

  Fear was also not sexy.

  "Nice target you're making under this light, Maizie." Julia Pinkerton's snark whispered in my thoughts. "Haul ass back to the trailer. And maybe take a different route in case you're being followed, braniac?"

  Fear did weird things to me. But if it took a Three Faces of Eve moment to motivate me, so be it.

  I tip-toe ran toward the trailers. Took a right at the second row. Jostling the can, I found my phone, ready to shine its light beneath the trailer and expose any hidden monsters.

  And found one.

  * * *

  I had little memory of making it back to the trailer. But after locking the door and almost vomiting into the trash can (remembering at the last minute why I couldn't), I leaned against the door and thanked my lucky stars I'd made it. Stumbling up the stairs, I deposited the trash can on the floor, shoved the EMT mess aside, and sank onto the couch. I stared at the ceiling for a long minute, willing the last few days to disappear from my mind. When they didn't, I dug out my phone and kissed it. Flipped it open and cursed it.

  The charge was almost out.

  Quickly, I pressed Nash's hot button. "I'm in the trailer."

  "You're finally listening to me. Good. My buddy will be here in a minute."

  "Not totally. I made a run for it. And was locked out of the studio building. And ran back."

  "Miss Albright—"

  "And found Orlando Feelzen."

  "Shit. Did he see you?"

  "No."

  "You'll be alright, hon. Just stay calm."

  "I'm calm. Super calm. Like, so calm I can't analyze my emotions because I have none. I think that's called shock." I took a deep breath. "We have a situation."

  "Just hang on. I'll call security to get you out of there. And we'll get police backup. I don't care what Shackleton says."

  "I don't trust security. I don't trust anyone here. I don't even know if I trust the police at this point." I gulped, pinched my thumb skin, and a tear leaked out. "I did it again."

  "Did what?"

  "Orlando Feelzen is dead."

  "What?"

  "I think I'm cursed." I stared up at the ceiling and counted mahogany panels. "Orlando was here, and now he's dead. But this time I know how he died."

  "Maizie…"

  "He was stabbed."

  "Oh, Maizie. Hon." Nash's voice cut away and he called out to someone in the distance. His comforting baritone returned. "Stay where you are. I'm leaving now."

  "Someone's out there. I'm stuck in this trailer and someone's out there. I feel like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Just waiting for them to find me. That's three victims, Nash. Four if you count Cam-Cam and that one was meant for me." My voice warbled and slid into a whisper. "I take it back about Rear Window. I'm that teenager in every slasher flick who's just found her horny boyfriend dead in the closet. Except I'm not Jamie Lee Curtis. I'm her dumb friend who tries to hide in the basement."

  "You're not stupid, and you're not stuck. I'm coming to get you. You hear me?" His hurried footsteps rang through the tinny phone line. A door clattered. "Just hold on."

  "Oh my God," I said. "I need the princess rescue. I'm pathetic."

  "You're not pathetic."

  "I am." I leaned over, feeling the blood rush to my brain. "I thought I could do investigative work. I wanted the excitement of field work, to get out from behind that desk. I forced your hand and took a chance on a client. And look where it's gotten me. I'm being hunted like a stuck pig. Like literally. I'm stuck here because of a piece of pie. And you have to unstuck me. If I were any kind of investigator, I'd rescue myself."

  "You listen to me, Maizie. I keep telling you, this is not normal investigative work. It's not your fault that our client has gotten involved in this kind of criminal activity. From here on out, if we ever take a client like this again — which I sincerely hope not — I'm vetting the crap out of them before I agree to a contract."

  I sniffed and sat up. Nash said "we" and "our."

  "And you're not a pig. You're an intelligent, beautiful woman. Who lacks confidence. And common sense. Sometimes. But I'm going chalk that up to your upbringing. Look how you defended yourself against Feelzen."

  "Poor Orlando. I think he was scared of me. And now he's dead."

  "Let's get back on track. You should—"

  I pressed the phone against my ear, straining to hear him. "Should what? Hello?" I pulled the phone away. Dead.

  Holy Frig. I was in a teen slasher plot. Had I pulled a Cabin in the Woods trigger, accidentally starting the slaying process? Knowing me, the trigger had been a donut. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember where this had started.

  With Cambria's villa. Seeing the body double who disappeared shortly after I saw it. Orlando was dead. Guy in Orlando's room, also dead. Hells, I had forgotten to ask Nash about him. But anyway, he was related to Orlando and Orlando was related to Cambria. And I had seen a dead Cambria. Therefore…

  This was some unholy word problem.

  Therefore, whoever had killed Cam-Cam's twin had seen me spotting her. There was the trigger. We, the hunted, were all six degrees of separation from Cam-Cam. More like a Will Smith one degree. I was The Man Who Knew Too Much.

  That's two Hitchcocks. Very foreboding for me. Except Jimmy Stewart always made it out ali
ve. This wasn't Psycho, the deaths were related, and not to his (or her) mother. If we could figure out the motive, we'd catch him.

  I breathed out a long sigh, stood, and did three Tae Bo side kicks. Then fell into a crouch at the sound of a key scraping the front door lock.

  Twenty

  #HotAndHeavy #JasonsKnife

  Halloween lessons learned, I only wished this trailer had a basement for hiding. Whoever was at the door was not Wyatt Nash, and I was not sticking around to see who it was. Staying in my half-crouch, I ran into the bedroom and examined my hiding choices. Bed. Closet. Bathroom.

  Under the bed was certain doom in all horror movies. The bathroom was bigger than a closet and would give me a fighting chance. Also, hiding in a closet was a good way to bring about hyperventilation and fainting, leaving me unable to defend myself. I slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked to make my hiding not-so-obvious, and listened. The snick of the front door shutting told me someone was intent on keeping their entrance private.

  The perp crept up the stairs and into Cam-Cam's living room. And seemed to be waiting. For me to come out?

  They knew I was in here.

  I was going to die.

  No. In the mirror, my eyelids narrowed, and my mouth drew into a tight sneer. Julia Pinkerton's green eyes stared back at me, and in my brain, she whispered in fierce, unrealistic but brave teen speak. "You may be cornered, but bitch, we fight back. You battle until Nash arrives. This is no princess rescue. This is you surviving. Make it happen."

  "The posse is ready," whispered Kung Fu Kate.

  I switched back to Julia, who was more resourceful than kung fu quips. With the stealth of a teenager opening the liquor cabinet, I opened Cambria's bathroom vanity and retrieved items I'd already explored in my earlier poison hunt. Hairspray, a lighter, Band Aids, and a metal nail file. Cam-Cam was low on weapons. I bandaged the nail file to my inner left wrist, set the hairspray in easy reach on the counter, and palmed the lighter. Then shoved a bunch of Band Aids in my pockets.

  Just in case I needed them later.

  Shifting to the balls of my feet in a slight crouch, I readied to spring forward with my homemade torch. Julia Pinkerton had done this in Season Three, Episode Five, "Death's Got My Six." Or was that Episode Seven? Facing down an arsonist with an ironic twist (or a clichéd twist as one writer had argued), Julia gave him a taste of her version of medicine. He'd doused her in gasoline and held the lit flame in one hand while he taunted her. She grabbed a can of hairspray from her purse and shot a chemical spray at the flame. Which miraculously didn't burn her. And backflipped out of the room before he could get to her.

  I could no longer do backflips, but I could shoot him (or her) with fire and use the surprise as a getaway. Anyway, that was the plan.

  Listening for footsteps, I realized I'd heard a faint rustling that had just stopped. Holding my breath, my pulse pounded beneath my nail file shiv. Goosebumps pebbled my skin. A hollow, dull thud proceeded the footsteps, but they were retreating. The feet pattered down the stairs. The door clicked. And the trailer became tomb-like once more.

  Were they gone? Or tricking me? My heart now thudded at the base of my neck. I shifted my feet, bouncing lightly. Flicked the lighter in preparation. Glanced in the dark mirror and made out Julia's pissy countenance. Put the lighter out. Grabbed the hairspray and snuck around the bathroom door. Placed the hairspray on the dresser and moved toward the bedroom door. Flattened to the wall and listened. Hard.

  Nothing.

  I edged closer to peer out the crack but could only see the hall's opposite wall. Flipping around, I put my eye to the crack. No movement. No sound.

  They were either über patient — like the lion waiting for the gazelle to resume grazing — or they'd left. I didn't want to be the gazelle, but — like the girl with the dead, horny boyfriend — I needed to check the basement. I understood the horror girlfriend now. You could only stand this sort of suspense for so long. Were they going to kill you or not? Bravery included a certain amount of stupidity, but also a willingness to be in control of one's destiny.

  I picked up my hairspray and readied my lighter, preparing for my destiny. Slipping through the bedroom, I snuck down the hall and peered into the living room. Empty. Just to be safe, I released a pent-up screech — like something once heard on Braveheart — and leaped into the living room. I raced around the room, screaming, my lighter flaming and my index finger trembling above the hairspray button, itching to press and torch the terrorist.

  The door flung open. I spun toward the stairs, shooting a flame toward the front door.

  "Maizie," shouted Nash. "Hold your fire."

  * * *

  After examining dead Orlando, Nash escorted me to his truck. I could barely walk with the adrenaline rush I'd spent in almost torching him. He loaded my bike in the back. At the security gate, the guard waved us through the front gates. Nash pulled through, hopped from the truck, and entered the guard booth. A few minutes later, he returned.

  "Did you tell him about Orlando?" I asked.

  "I asked to see the logs."

  "I'm leaving a lot of bodies for people to find."

  "You want to tell that to your probation officer?" He checked my quick head shake. "Mowry wants to call your probation officer anyway. He's worried about you. And he should be, considering someone wants you to eat Windex."

  "Her." I sighed. "My probation officer is a her. She already doesn't like my job and doesn't care about my dreams. But I can't keep leaving dead bodies around for some poor security guard to stumble upon. I should have stayed and faced the music."

  "We don't know if whoever killed Orlando is still there. Which puts you in danger." Nash rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. "I'm taking you home. I'll tell Mowry I found Orlando. I'd feel better if you stayed at the cabin."

  "Forever?"

  He rolled his eyes. "I know that's not going to work."

  "You're protecting me."

  Nash flashed me a venomous look. "Somebody's got to. I swear you don't have a lick of self-preservation."

  As we sped toward the other end of town, Nash's clenched jaw eased and I gave conversation another try.

  "How's Cam-Cam? Did she wake up?"

  Nash shook his head. "Hell, I've been staring at her, willing her to wake up. Not that she can talk. The doctor said her throat is burned by the chemicals. I'm struggling to feel sympathy for her. She holds the key to this mess. My buddy will keep an eye on her tonight."

  "What about Giulio?"

  "I've got less sympathy for him." He cut his eyes toward me. "Sorry. Resort hasn't seen him. Not much we can do there."

  "I hope he's okay."

  "Yes," Nash said stiffly.

  I changed the subject. "They returned to the trailer to get the evidence. And I stupidly left the trash can at the top of the stairs, super easy for them to find. They killed Orlando, and they took the garbage but didn't look for me. They didn't search the trailer at all. Why?"

  Nash pursed his lips. "Presumably, they found what they wanted but didn't know you were there. I think they planned to get rid of the evidence in the trailer when no one would see them. But we don't know if they knew Orlando was hiding in the trailer or if they just got lucky."

  "Anybody stand out in the security logs?"

  "That booth records license plates, and all these California people rent their vehicles. That's going to take some time to research. We might be quicker than the police, except Black Pine PD will confiscate the security video footage. And they'll see you and that damn bike."

  "Don't get mad at Lucky." I examined Nash's grim look. "I'll be brought in for questioning, but we're working for Leonard. Hopefully that will be enough to satisfy them and my probation officer. Leonard's not going to be happy about this at all."

  "Imagine how Orlando feels."

  I shuddered. "And what about the other guy? Did you get any info from Detective Mowry? What about the film?”

  “Don’t know.
And no ID on the vic. Mowry doesn't think he's local, but he could be from Atlanta. He looked vaguely familiar to the resort staff, but they couldn't place him. If he's not local, he must have been staying somewhere in Black Pine. They're checking with the other hotels. Unless he was staying with Orlando without the resort's knowledge." Nash paused. "Mowry sent me a picture of the crime scene. What you didn't see was the considerable dent in the back of his head."

  "Oh." I crossed my arms and shivered. "A dent."

  "Mowry thinks the perp opened the hotel door for this guy. The victim walked in, and the aggressor walloped him on the back of the head, drug him into the bathroom, and rolled him into the tub. Wiped up the mess. He left the towels in the hall and resort staff picked them up. They weren't bloody enough to raise an eyebrow. The police did bag the room's iron. There was a hair on it."

  "Orlando looked strong."

  "Yeah, but I don't think Orlando gave himself a fatal contusion." He glanced at me. "Orlando was also caught by surprise. Not stabbed. The blood you saw on his neck came from the back of his head."

  "You rolled him over?"

  "Didn't touch him, of course. It was hard to see him under the trailer, too. I just knew what to look for after hearing about the other victim. Now I wonder if the same happened to the woman you saw. You said she was facing you, right?"

  "Yes." I thought about those blank eyes, staring at me. Between the eyes, her nudity, and the birthmark on her hip, I hadn't noticed if the back of her head had been flattened. "Her hair had fallen forward. I guess the back of her head could have had a….dent."