16 Millimeters

by Larissa Reinhart

  “Too bad I don’t have a hacksaw.” Alvin grinned. “Joke. No time.”

  My stomach clenched and I tucked my thumb inside my fist. “I’ll give you the film, just let everybody go.”

  “Can’t do that. Get in the golf cart. I’ll take care of you later.”

  "What about Nash? And Ed and Cambria?"

  "Casualties of the situation. I'll use the gun. I hate to be obvious, but it's more accurate. Then I’ll have you light up the cabin and we’ll bounce. You could be helpful in getting me out of town. You ever play the part of hostage on that show?" He brandished the log and shoved me toward the cart.

  "Please don't hurt them. I’ll help you get out of the country. You don’t have to kill anybody.” I stumbled forward and grabbed the cart's seat with my left hand. Stepping inside, I half-turned to watch Alvin.

  He straightened his arm, pointed the log forward, then swung it toward my head. "Hand on the wheel."

  Scooting forward on the seat, I gripped the wheel.

  "The gun?"

  "Near the rear passenger wheel, I think.”

  “Keep that hand on the wheel, Maizie. If I see you move, here’s what’s going to happen.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the log swing. I yelped at the booming bash of metal and wood. The frame bent, the golf cart shook, and the roof tilted. My heart pounding, I craned my neck but couldn't see Nash. I choked out a cry.

  "Hand on the wheel, Maizie." Letting the log dangle from his hand, Alvin backed up, watching me.

  From my periphery, I saw Alvin take a step, then disappear. The grounded thudded, and Alvin yelped.

  No time to check on Nash, I thought. Get that gun before Alvin does.

  I dove off the cart to the far side and landed on my knees, catching myself with my good hand. Crawling forward, I felt along the ground for the gun. Patted near the back tire. Had the cart moved? Where was it?

  On the other side of the cart, the sounds of a heavy scuffle continued. Grunts, thumps, and smacks. I had faith in Nash, dented head or not, he had Alvin beat in size.

  But Alvin was agile and strong. And didn't have a dented head.

  I flopped on my stomach and reached under the cart. My fingers touched metal. Drawing back, I gripped the gun in my left hand and pressed my back against the golf cart. The cart rocked. I pushed to my feet. Teetering in my heels, I rounded the cart, pulled in my elbow, and squeezed it against my waist.

  Two bodies writhed on the ground, grappling. The coppery tang of blood and musty stench of old leaves hung in the air. This was no orchestrated movie fight, more like a UFC battle. Their movement caused shadows to dance, making it difficult to see. One had a leg hooked around the other. Alvin appeared to get an arm lock on Nash. Nash churned, flipping back and forth. He stretched out an elbow to slam a fist into Alvin's back.

  Alvin arched his back but then tightened his arm beneath Nash's head. Nash's chin jerked up, and he gulped air.

  "Nash." I couldn't shoot. I couldn't tell where one man ended and the other began.

  My hand began to tremble. I pressed my elbow harder into my side. Used my thumb to flip the safety. Leaned against the cart to steady myself. The lights of the cart shook.

  My quaking shook the cart. Get a grip, Maizie.

  Alvin was on top of Nash, pinning him down with one shoulder, yanking the headlock higher on Nash's neck. Nash pounded Alvin's back and sides. He was too tall. Too big. His legs began to kick and flail beneath Alvin.

  How could he be too big? Why wasn't he winning this fight?

  I hesitated, then squeezed my arm tightly against my hip, locked my elbow, and pulled the trigger. The bullet smacked into the wood pile. Bark and sawdust exploded. A log splintered and cracked. An avalanche of logs rolled from the pile.

  Alvin fell flat against Nash. He glanced over his shoulder and sat up.

  Nash jerked upward. Pulled back his elbow. The fist slammed into the side of Alvin's head. Alvin swung sideways but stayed upright. His return was slow, but he tracked Nash's fist and pulled back his own.

  I ran forward, squeezing my elbow against my side. I balanced the gun on top of my dead forearm and aimed it at Alvin. "It's done. Nash, get out from under there."

  "You won't do it," said Alvin. His smile dripped blood. He wiped his face on his shoulder.

  Nash slithered out backward from beneath Alvin. Panting, he drew his body into a crouch and waited.

  I gritted my teeth, shifted my body a few degrees, and pulled the trigger.

  Alvin fell to the side, balled up, then flipped on to his back. He held his hands up. "Close, but I ain't dead yet." He laughed.

  I readjusted my stance. "I missed on purpose. I'm aware I have three shots left."

  Nash grunted. "Let me have the .38, hon'."

  "No," I said. "I can handle it."

  "Maizie, you're hurt."

  "So are you.”

  "Kid, look at him. You got it done. I'm not complaining. Now take a break.” Nash stood, towering over Alvin. He pressed a boot heel into the corner of Alvin's shoulder and motioned with his hand. "Let me have it."

  "Are you going to kill him?"

  Nash glanced up and met my eyes. "Not if I can help it. But I'm afraid you will."

  I backed toward Nash slowly, fixing the barrel on Alvin.

  Nash snaked an arm out and guided me to his side.

  "It's okay." His arm wrapped around my waist and he placed his hand over my grip. "You handled this real well. Nice shootin', Tex."

  I felt his finger flip the safety and I let him slide the revolver from my grip. Relieved of the gun, my hand trembled then shook.

  Nash tightened his arm around me. "And you're shooting southpaw. Boomer'd be impressed." He switched the Smith & Wesson to his right hand. “You’re a mess again. That sling doesn't match your dress. And your stars are falling off. Too bad. That was a good lookin’ dress.”

  My remaining sequins hung by threads. The gold stars looked more like stardust. "That's the problem with stars. We tend to fall."

  "You mean implode." Alvin laughed. "Tell me about it."

  "Shut up," said Nash and ground his heel.

  Alvin howled in pain.

  Nash trailed his left hand along my back. "This arm is worrying me." His hand glided against my right shoulder.

  My knees buckled and the blood rushed from my brain.

  Nash's hand slipped to my left hip, and he pressed me against his side. "That bad? Did he do this to you?"

  "I can't feel my arm. I think it may be dead," I whispered. "But he fed me Vicodin, so I'm not really sure?"

  Nash pulled in a deep breath and snuggled me against him. "I've got you."

  "Christ," said Alvin. "Kill me now."

  "Mr. Murphy, if you have put my partner out of commission, you better believe I'm going to kill you." Holding me with his left, Nash straightened his right arm and flipped the switch on the safety. "You better start praying the police arrive real soon."

  Thirty-Two

  #Lunchable #Takes2ToMakeaThingGoWrong

  I woke in the hospital. The antiseptic smell and sound of the blipping heart monitor startled me. I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid to find myself back in a closet. But I remembered the police arriving. An ambulance had followed. Several ambulances. Nash had shaken off the EMT who wanted to examine his head. He'd climbed in the ambulance next to my gurney. And then I was given more Vicodin. Or maybe Percocet.

  Something wonderful like that, because the rest had blurred into a beautiful sleep.

  Opening my eyes, I smiled at Nash. His blackened eye had a tiny, butterfly bandage on the lid. His nose was red. And his scar stood out whiter than usual. He looked a mess but in a sexy, badass way that took most actors hours in makeup.

  I probably just looked a mess. My new sling was white, cotton with no label. "Vicki and Giulio?"

  "They're not back in town yet. But safe. I saw them on the cover of some tabloid at the TruBuy."

  I sank back against the pillows.
>
  "The Spayberry's have been here," he said. "They left you something."

  The swinging bedside tray held a wrapped plate. Across the room, baskets of fruit, bouquets of roses, and other arrangements lined the long windowsill. Sunlight slanted across the end of the next bed, but a curtain hid the occupant.

  He shook his head and pointed to a camo gym bag. "Clothes. They'll be back to pick you up. Remi wanted to see the baby floor."

  "Great," I said but feared I'd leave the hospital outfitted in DeerNose.

  "I brought you something, too."

  "I hoped this was from you." I peeked under the wrapper and squealed. A fried green tomato, pimento cheese BLT. With a side of sweet potato fries.

  As lunches went, this would be in my top five. Maybe number one.

  "I didn't bring the lunch. I should've." He blew a sigh from his nose and pointed at a balloon tied to a stuffed animal sitting on the bedside table. "That's from me."

  The balloon said, "Congratulations." The animal was unidentifiable. Brown. Four short legs. A long snout.

  "It's an armadillo," he said. "I think."

  "It's cute?"

  "Remi thought so. She named it Steve. She also likes the balloon." Nash snorted. "I'd sleep with one eye open if you want to keep Steve."

  "She can't have Steve." I pulled the tray closer. "Is lunch from the girls?"

  "No, they're coming in later to do your hair and makeup." Nash moved to unwrap the plate for me. "Lamar brought you a bag of donuts. Assorted."

  Hospital life had its rewards. I grinned.

  Nash studied me. "I'm glad you're in good spirits. Considering."

  "My shoulder's just dislocated. I'll be fine." I studied him. He didn't sound fine. "Are you okay? Concussion?"

  "Yeah but it's no big deal." He smoothed a hand over his head. "Listen, we need to talk."

  A knock rattled the door. I flinched and my hand struck my heart.

  Nash patted my good shoulder. "It'll take some time."

  Detective Mowry stepped inside. Nash dropped his hand, returned to his chair, and folded his arms. "Mowry."

  Mowry nodded to Nash. "How are you feeling, Maizie?"

  "Hungry," I said. "I guess you need a statement or something."

  "That can wait. I hope you like fried green tomatoes." He smiled. "One of my favorites. I thought you'd like it."

  Surprised, I murmured a thank you. "How can I help you?"

  "Can I sit?" At my nod, he pulled a chair toward my bed. "Nash, some privacy?"

  Nash rolled his eyes and strode into the hall.

  Feeling more confused, I watched him leave, then turned back to Mowry. "What's going on? Am in trouble, Detective Mowry?"

  "Call me, Ian." He shook his head. "You're really something else. I mean, I wish y'all had waited for the police before storming the resort. Robin Coxon's not happy in the least."

  "She should be happy Alvin Murphy didn't torch the villa. And there weren't more dead bodies on the site."

  Ian laughed. "Very true. Listen, I already read Nash the riot act. I understand you were just going to guard Cambria, not interfere with a police investigation. Although I distinctly told you to wait at home."

  "You did. But I was concerned for Cambria."

  "We were busy at the Malthus house, and I should have thought about your job for Shackleton. Lana Miles is in the ICU, by the way. They think she'll recover."

  "Good." I took a large bite of the Southern BLT so I wouldn't have to talk.

  "I'm afraid this may seem inappropriate." He squirmed in his seat. "I really like you, Maizie. I wondered if after you're healed and back on your feet, would you have a real lunch with me?"

  I choked. Ian Mowry poured me a glass of water. I took my time sipping.

  His cheeks reddened. "I'm not real good at this. I don't date much."

  "Wow." I searched for words. "Lunch?"

  "I hope you don't mind, but I asked Nash if you were seeing anyone. He said he didn't think so. Maybe Giulio, but I guess you heard about him?"

  I shook my head. I wasn't processing what I was hearing. "Can you bring Nash back in here, please?"

  A moment later, Nash tromped through the door. Glowering, formidable, and refusing to make eye contact.

  "Ian, can I give you an answer later?"

  Mowry smiled. "Not a no. That suits me just fine."

  I waited for Mowry to leave, called up Julia Pinkerton for strength, and turned to Nash. "So are you pimping me out to the police department? Is this a way to get us off the hook for interference or something?"

  "No." Nash picked up the stuffed animal, rotating it in his hands. "This was stupid. Why did I buy an armadillo?"

  "Nash."

  "We made a deal. I broke it." He crushed the armadillo to his chest. "It tore me up to see you hurt like that. And I just mauled you anyway."

  I picked up the emergency cord. "If I press this will they bring me more drugs?"

  "Why? Are you in pain?" He dropped the armadillo at my feet and grabbed the call button. "I'll get the nurse."

  "I want drugs so I don't have to think about this." I crossed my arms. "Which is how I ended up in real-not-celebrity rehab. Denial. Thanks a lot. Renata's going to be super disappointed in me."

  "Maizie." He rubbed his forehead. "Miss Albright. We made a deal. Partners or you quit. You made it clear, you want to be partners. And I handled it badly."

  "I made it clear?"

  He dropped to the chair. His eyebrows rucked together, and the polar blue eyes appeared pained. "Listen, I promise to do things right. I'll train you. Two years. We had a deal. I'll stick to my promise. Just, no more murders. Or movie people."

  "So that's it?" I swallowed a whimper.

  He forced a smile. "Lamar and I'll see you back at the shop as soon as you feel able. Rest. Take your time."

  Leaning over, his lips stopped just above my forehead. Jerking upright, he patted me on the head, dropped the armadillo in my lap, and hustled out of the room.

  "I guess I got what I wanted, Steve." I sniffled and squeezed the ugly brown animal. "I'm going to be a genuine private investigator. No longer stuck with doing the books. Real lunches."

  I'd just eat them with a broken heart.

  "Well, that was lame," said a raspy voice from the other side of the curtain. "Way to stand by your man. But it's smart to choose career over a relationship that will obviously fail."

  “Cam—” I couldn't call her by the childhood nickname. Our childhood felt too long ago. "How are you not in jail?"

  The curtain yanked back. No longer Sleeping Beauty, she sat upright, arms crossed. "I'm recovering from being poisoned. And I didn't kill anybody."

  "I didn't mean murder, I meant pornography." I arched an eyebrow, JP-style. "Georgia's much stricter about it than California. You hired a professional cameraman. That makes it hard to claim as private. Of course, you never got the chance to distribute."

  "Whatever." She flopped over on her side, her back to me. "I should get credit for hiring a professional. I wanted something curiosity-seekers would find more compelling than repulsive. And I needed it to tell a story. That's what I told Billy anyway."

  "And what about Billy? Orlando? And poor Stella? Dead because of you."

  "Because of Alvin, not me. So tragic. Anyway, it was all for a good cause."

  "Promoting prostitution? Or was the cause for Cambria? A sexy trailer for the movie, not sanctioned by the studios, accidentally released. If the public backlash got too hot, your lawyers would say, 'that's not even Cambria.' Or were you going to pretend it was you since you're this big feminist-whatever? Except you don't even have the cajones to make it yourself."

  "You wouldn't understand." Cambria continued to stare at the window, then sat up. "I've been in the business as long as you, almost twenty years. Killing myself for all those little roles. Getting the part of Julia Pinkerton's friend. Which was what? One season before they wrote me off? A season and a half?"

  "You had a nice death
scene. And you were on the stage."

  "No one knows stage actors anymore." She coughed and reached for a water bottle. "It occurred to me, do the young actors who get top billing arrive there just on merits? No. They also have notoriety."

  "They also have merits," I said. "And according to Leonard and Ed Farmer, you do, too. Obviously not when it comes to ethics or morals—"

  "I know my talent. I could continue doing movies like Pine Hollow for years and years. For what? To become Maggie Smith? I want it now. I studied my role models. I've tried the party-whore route, and it's just tawdry. Sure, I made the news. Tabloids and entertainment gossip. Plus, risked jail time. Then I'm stuck with a huge insurance clause in my contract, although it could be worse. Look what happened to you."

  I sucked in another breath. "Then why did you hire Vicki?"

  "I didn't. I just made her think I was going to do it."

  "Oh for shizz's sake—"

  "Spare me. That woman had it coming." She rattled a laugh, leading to a coughing fit.

  Vicki did. But still.

  "When the party girl thing didn't work as I hoped, I did more research and realized I needed to be the victim. The public likes to feel sorry for a celebrity. They eat up that kind of news. Their curiosity is the key to my success. Combined with this film, it'll ensure a box office hit and my name lodged in everyone's brain."

  "And you blew it."

  "I don't know about that. Here I am, hospitalized after my psycho agent killed three people and tried to kill me and my director. Leonard hasn't fired me. Filming is going to be crazy delayed, but it's the most glorious PR campaign ever made. Leonard can afford to wait for Ed and me to recover." She clasped a hand around her throat. "Oh my God, I could get an Oscar for this."

  Sucktastic, I thought. She's probably right.

  "Life's so unfair, Steve," I said to the brown lump. "I guess we fight for truth and not justice these days."

  * * *

  I sped up my recovery by target shooting with Daddy. I hid Steve from Remi, who thought it a better game than Sardines. I had lunch with Detective Ian Mowry, which was weird but also nice. I wasn't used to nice. So, I went back to work.