16 Millimeters

by Larissa Reinhart

  "What in the freakistan was that?" I rubbed my neck and stared at the door. "Ed, what are you doing?"

  Behind me, the floorboard creaked. "Nash?"

  I half-turned. An object loomed in my vision. Before I could identify it, an intense pain shot into my shoulder, rocketed through my neck, down my arm, and reverberated along my spine. I screamed. My knees buckled. My head thunked the floor. Bright spots speckled the darkness.

  Like the stars on my L'Agence, I thought and blacked out.

  Thirty

  #NoChipmunks #NotaNashInSight

  I woke up with the worst hangover in my life. An awful combo of grogginess, dull pain, and dizziness. Reality darted in like a piercing arrow. "Holy hellsbah." I was alive. I'd take the hangover. But I wasn't sure if Ed Farmer, Cambria, or Nash lived to say the same.

  I stifled a sob.

  Fighting through my despair, stupefaction, and weird pain in my neck, I realized my right arm lay beneath me, numb. I rolled off my arm and sat up. I still couldn't feel my arm. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. My curled legs stretched and my heels hit a barrier. A wall.

  Hang on. Dark. Enclosed space.

  For shizzle's sake, I was in another closet.

  With no arm.

  I shot to my feet, slammed into a bar, and fell to the ground in a litter of clothing. Tentatively touched the space where my arm had been. Still there. I continued to pat. No feeling.

  OMG. How can my left hand touch skin and muscle and still not make a sensation in my arm? It was there, wasn't it? Was this a phantom limb thing?

  "Happy thoughts, Maizie. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe…Okay, too much breathing."

  Dizzy, I sank my head between my knees. I couldn't turn my head.

  "But you have a head. Happy, happy thoughts. Let's get out of the closet. And find some ibuprofen."

  Someone moaned. How big was this closet? Wait, the moan was faint. Like it came through the wall.

  I placed my left hand on the door, slid it up to the knob, and turned. A slice of light fell on the closet floor. I hungrily scooted toward it. The air rushed in cool and fresh. I saw a bed and heard beeping. Cambria's closet.

  Was Cambria in the bed? Ed? I pushed on the door, slid forward. No Ed. Debris littered the floor. Scrunched wet newspapers. Ziplock bags. Pill bottles. And Dahlia's bong?

  I scooted back inside the closet. Obviously, pain had made me delirious. My poor brain had recreated some long forgotten party from my youth to compensate for my dead arm. Was my subconscious telling me to crawl out and smoke a bowl to numb my mind to the horrors of the previous week? Or to deaden the emotional pain?

  Was I that emotionally connected to Nash, that I could subconsciously know he was dead?

  Tears streamed. I couldn't pinch my thumb with one hand to stop them. I swallowed hard and wiped my nose with a fallen dress. Nash had been scared for me. That was why he had kissed me on the sidewalk. And had given me a gun. Although the kiss resonated more.

  Lamar had warned me, and I had gotten Nash killed.

  Beyond the closet, the moaning continued.

  I choked on a sob, held my shoulder with my good hand, and pushed to my feet using my elbow. Letting the arm dangle, I found the light switch and ripped a Dries Van Noten scarf off a hanger. Using my teeth and the working arm, I managed a sling. Then remembered my other accessory. Where was my purse? Frantically, I tossed fallen clothes, seeking my gold chain bag. No purse.

  I couldn't even do the simplest things right. How hard was it to keep a gun clutched in your hand?

  Although I might have shot Ed.

  Or the person who attacked me. That would have been helpful.

  I pushed the closet door and stepped into Cambria's room. No sleeping beauty. The moaning continued. In the bathroom, I found Ed Farmer. His face was bruised and bleeding, his clothing torn. Someone had beat the crap out of him. Kneeling next to him, I used my left hand to feel his pulse. Beating steadily. "Ed?"

  No response other than a low moan.

  I rinsed a washcloth and wiped his face. A bruise darkened his eye and blood had dried beneath his nose. I slid a towel beneath his head and found a handful of pills that had rolled under his chin.

  Taking a deep breath, I reentered the bedroom. The room stank of chemicals. Ran to the bedside and found the emergency call button. Pressed it. Was it working? Pressed it again. Phone? Cambria had a phone. I pawed through her bedside table. No phone.

  Glancing around the room, I tried to make sense of the drugs and Ed and no Cambria. Maybe I was on drugs, too. Maybe this whole week had been some weird trip. I was back in California having taken something without asking because a friend had said it would make me feel good.

  If Nash wasn't real, I had an awesome imagination.

  "Nash," I said. Then quieted. The bedroom door was closed. I didn't know who was on the other side. I stole to the door and laid my ear on the wood. Cracked the door. Saw a pair of bare feet dangling from the couch.

  And smelled more funky fumes.

  "No." I pulled the door wide and rushed out.

  Cambria lay on the couch. More drug paraphernalia had been scattered on the floor. A smashed iPhone. Razors. Spoons. More wet newspapers. The fireplace had been piled with logs and newspapers, but a trail of logs led from the hearth to the Oriental rug. On the coffee table, a pile of broken lighters had been tossed on top of a pile of newspaper. I touched the newspaper. Soaked. My fingers smelled like lighter fluid. A rolled joint lay next to the newspaper.

  “They're going to set fire to the villa. The police will think it was some wild party gone wrong."

  I dropped to Cambria's side and slapped her face. "Cam-Cam, wake up. You're in trouble."

  She moaned and blinked, her words drowned in rough coughing.

  "Come with me. You need to get outside."

  I slipped my free arm beneath her shoulder, and a fireball of pain rocketed through me. I couldn't lift her. She flopped back to the couch.

  The tears started again. I slapped my cheek to stop them. Another shot of pain reverberated in my neck and sharpened in my right shoulder. I tripped over piles of newspaper and found my purse under the couch.

  The fifteen hundred dollar purse had been splashed with lighter fluid. But Nash's .38 Special was still zipped inside. I grabbed the purse and lurched into the kitchen. Open and spilled alcohol bottles littered the sink and floor. The tiny microwave was open and a metal bowl sat inside.

  Snatching the bowl from the microwave, I threw it in the sink, and unlocked the back door. Where was Nash? With one hand, I unzipped my purse and pulled out the revolver. I stumbled out the door, unsure where to look. The other villas were dark now. How late was it? Were Leonard and Dahlia asleep or dead? Where was Alvin Murphy? Boxing and Parkour-loving, hip-to-be-cool, let's-all-get-rich Alvin?

  Leonard loved Ed Farmer the way a rich patron loved his artist. Leonard might lose funding for his film, but the film industry was built on hope as much as dashed dreams. Every great producer had failures, and Leonard Shackleton had enough hits to ensure future investments. After all, China and Russia were still ripe for the picking. Leonard might not care about a wayward actress, but he'd never risk the life of his favorite director.

  An agent gone temporarily insane by the thought of losing his job and big money on a risky actress? That made more sense. Agents were notoriously high-strung creatures — as was everyone else in Hollywood — their lives depended on the whims of flighty creative types. Agenting was a game of herding fanciful, self-absorbed cats. How many times had Mickey’s eyes filled with pain when I explained my dumb reasons for blowing off an audition?

  More importantly, Alvin had also put money down on Cambria's insurance bond.

  Plus Alvin could schlep bodies, bang heads, and KO Ed Farmer easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Didn't he do some kind of boxing?

  Treading lightly, I circled the villa, stopping before I reached the porch. I made my way around the other side. No Nash. I couldn't see a damn thin
g in these crazy dark woods. How was I going to find him?

  Should I leave him and get help? I chewed a thumbnail and paced the surrounding woods behind the villa. Stopping by the pile of logs where I had found my original spy stool, I spotted a pair of boots. I ran to Nash's fallen body. A broken piece of wood lay nearby. He lay face down, the back of his head wet with blood. I felt for his pulse. His neck was too thick.

  "Nash, please wake up." I leaned over him.

  Not risking moving his head or neck, I flopped my bad arm to the side and flattened myself on the ground. Wiggled closer and snuggled my face near his. Felt his breath on my cheek. I sighed in relief then kissed him on his temple.

  An eye opened. Then fluttered closed. He moaned.

  It was enough for now. I pushed off the ground with my good arm. Patted Nash's pockets. No phone.

  I had to find Alvin before he set fire to the villa. If he planned on burning the cottage to the ground with everyone inside, he still needed to lug Nash's muscle-bound body inside.

  Alvin was strong, but he'd need help for that. All that dead weight.

  Don't think that.

  I raced toward Alvin's villa. Next door, close enough to keep an eye on Cambria. He'd probably heard the same pounding music I did that fateful night. Knowing Cambria had been on an intense workout, he'd gone to check it out. And found someone who looked exactly like Cambria cavorting for a camera. She was nude. Recreating Cambria's love scene? Alvin had probably gone ballistic. And something happened. They argued? Or Alvin had simply knocked her down in anger. Billy and Orlando had escaped. Probably passed me on their golf carts.

  Alvin had heard me come to Cambria's door, had seen me looking in the bedroom window, then met me at Leonard's big dinner. Where I questioned Cambria about playing dead in her villa.

  Idiot.

  Alvin knew he had to get rid of me before I figured out what had happened. He sat across from me at No Sleep, sipping coffee and asking if I wanted back in the business.

  If I had said yes, would this have turned out differently?

  I climbed Alvin's porch. His door stood open. A plastic jug of lighter fluid had been tossed in a corner. A loud beeping broke the silence. I whirled around. Red lights flashed from the golf cart pad, the beeping cut off, and the lights disappeared. The whirring motor accelerated. Alvin was using the golf cart to haul Nash's body to the villa. He had probably done the same with Orlando in the backlot and with poor Stella on that first night.

  Taking the porch stairs two at a time, I tripped, righted, and ran toward the wood pile. My arm sling banged against my ribs with each step. It felt like some random object was knocking my side.

  I tried not to think about the loss of my dominant arm and focused on keeping the grip on Nash's Smith & Wesson. With the hand that had never previously held a gun.

  Thirty-One

  #SouthPaw #HoldOnLoosely

  Spotting the golf cart lights ahead, I stopped near a tree. The headlamps cast a glow on the woodpile and Nash's still form. The golf cart jerked to a stop, inches from Nash.

  I shoved the gun's grip against my hip and pushed the release latch. The cylinder flipped out. Wiggling my fingers through the opening, I shimmied my palm toward the grip. Raised the .38 to eye level and checked for rounds. Flipped the cylinder back. Experimentally shoved it into my right hand.

  Like trying to get a dead fish to hold a gun.

  I whimpered. I had no plan. I didn't know if I could aim with my left hand. I didn't want to accidentally shoot Nash. I didn't really want to shoot Alvin.

  Okay, maybe I did. A little.

  "Stop." I stepped from the tree and yelled, "The police are on their way."

  The golf cart lights illuminated Alvin who hunkered over Nash. He looked up. Too dark to judge his reaction. He cupped a hand above his eyes and squinted into the dark. "Who's there?"

  "Maizie." I backed against the tree for support, but my target felt too far for safety.

  "Maizie? How? I fed you Vicodin. You should be out like…"

  "Like Ed Farmer and Cambria?" Vicodin. No wonder I felt like I was skimming above reality. “I think it's working pretty well for me right now." I giggled. Then stopped.

  This wasn't funny at all. Was that shock?

  No time for shock, Maizie.

  "Christ." Alvin stared into the tree tops. "Why does this keep happening to me?"

  I ran for the next tree. Closer. But not close enough to trust my aim. If I could coax Alvin to me, he might rush me. Knock me down and out. But that'd be close enough to shoot him. Before the "out" part. Hopefully.

  God, I did not want to shoot a person. I didn't even like shooting deer, and I was a Spayberry. They lived off venison most of the year.

  Focus, Maizie.

  Ignoring me, Alvin bent over Nash and slid his hands beneath Nash's shoulders. Grunting, he jerked Nash up and hauled him toward the golf cart.

  I jogged forward on my heels and balanced the .38 against my dead arm. "I have a gun."

  "Classic." His nervous laugh was much better than mine. "She can't be poisoned, felled, or drugged and pulls guns out of thin air. Maizie, you're a marvel. Wish I had signed you myself."

  "Put him down. Gently."

  Alvin propped Nash against the cart and strolled a few steps away. He held up his hands and studied me. "Do you know how to use that handgun? Your arm looked pretty messed up last time I saw you."

  He was probably right. The revolver felt backward in my left hand. "You should trust my aim, Alvin. I was born in Black Pine. I've been loading buckshot since I was four. Why do you think I've mostly gotten action roles?"

  "Right." Sighing, Alvin bent to sit on his haunches. He placed a hand on an upright log for balance and regarded me. "You know, I don't think you'll do it. Babe, you may have been born here, but I know where you grew up. On studio lots. You don't have it in you to shoot me. If I had that gun, I would have already used it. And why doesn't this guy have a gun? I looked but no gun."

  "I have it."

  "Aha. Not yours." Popping up, he swung the piece of wood and rested it on his shoulder. "Maizie, do you remember I'm from Chicago? We know baseball. As kids, we used sticks, brooms, whatever was handy."

  I adjusted my stance. My mind felt fogged, and I focused on keeping Nash out of the .38's range.

  He took a practice swing, then pointed the log toward me. "Drop that gun, or I'll cave his head in. What's one more smashed head at this point, am I right?" He gripped the wood with both hands and swung it high.

  "No, stop," I screamed.

  "Drop the gun. You fire, I'm coming for you. I'll risk your aim." The wood sped toward Nash's skull.

  The revolver thunked on the ground.

  "Good girl." The wood smashed into the golf cart behind Nash. His head flopped to his chest.

  I shrieked.

  "Now kick the gun toward me and walk forward."

  My big toe thudded against the gun, and I hopped in agony. The revolver scooted a foot across the hard-packed ground and stopped in a pile of pine straw. I walked forward, kicked again, but used the side of my foot. A flurry of pine straw rained on my toes. The .38 slid across the ground and landed ten feet from the golf cart.

  Alvin raised the log. "No improvising, Maizie. Follow my directions, or your boss gets whacked in the head. I didn't use a log this size the first time I got him. He went down like a rag doll with a stick."

  "I understand." I hobbled forward and kicked. The gun zipped across the bare earth. It disappeared into the golf cart's shadow, stopping with a soft thud. "It's on the other side of the cart."

  "Get over here."

  Reaching the golf cart, I dropped next to Nash. He sat slumped against the golf cart, shoulders bowed and chin resting on his chest. I laid my hand on the back of his sticky neck. Through the tight, thick cords, I felt a tremble. I slid my hand around to his face and felt the short pants blowing from his nose. "Nash?"

  He didn't move.

  The log slammed into the
cart. I screamed, falling back.

  Alvin grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet. “This would’ve been a lot easier if you had just stayed in that closet. How are we going to do this?” He glanced down at Nash and squinted past the golf cart. “Gun would be easier but harder to get.”

  My stomach cramped and my thoughts flailed. I snatched at an idea. “What about the film?”

  His grip tightened. “What film?”

  “Giulio—I mean, I was the one who discovered Billy Goodwin in the tub and tipped off the police. But before I saw Billy, I found a film can and took it. Billy was shooting Stella and Orlando with the Arriflex when you found them, right? You didn’t get the camera. His website said he uses an Arriflex.”

  “I took the camera from the hotel room.” He shook me. “What film are you talking about?”

  “It’s not digital. The Arriflex uses real film. 16 millimeter. Or sometimes 35—” My teeth rattled. “It’s famous for that. You should know. You’re in the industry.”

  “I’m not a film geek. I’m an agent.” Alvin’s smile flashed like a switchblade. “Thanks for the lesson, but I could care less. Now, what’s your poison? Bad reference, sorry. You’re hard to poison. Gun or bat? Bullet or whack?”

  “You don’t understand.” My words stuttered. “I have the film and it shows you attacking Stella.”

  He threw me against the golf cart. My bad shoulder slammed into the windshield, rocking the cart. Nash swayed but stayed upright.

  “Godammit,” Alvin shouted. “This has been one long nightmare. Where is this film?”

  I racked my brain for appropriate Julia Pinkerton scripts. “At the office. In a safe.” Julia Pinkerton’s safe had thumb, voice, and a retina scan. A little overboard. “It has a thumb print scanner. I’ll take you.”

  Hopefully, between now and arriving at the nonexistent safe, I’d think of something better. Particularly since Detective Mowry had the film canister that might not even have evidence of a crime.