Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  The twin raised her blaster. Duncan fingered the remote. Zzzing! A red beam shot out, striking the creature in the chest. The creature howled; flesh and blood burst from his wound.

  A collective gasp issued from the crowd. Zzzing! More flesh tore loose. Zzzing! The creature screeched and groaned and writhed, and stopped dead.

  For a moment, the crowd was silent. Then someone applauded, someone else chuckled, and the whole room broke into applause and cheers.

  The first blast had sent Dixie’s adrenaline into overload. It took only a second for her to realize there was no danger, but in that second she also recognized the position she’d be caught in had the gun been real and pointed at Sarina. With her hands full of sodas and popcorn, the only way to stop a bullet was to launch herself in front of the girl. She stashed the tray on empty counter space to free up her hands.

  “That one was a puppet, see?” Duncan was saying. “But we do the same thing with body padding.”

  Dixie’s heart pounded furiously. She scanned the crowd. If the stalker was here, he’d have been surprised and startled by the shooting, possibly even frightened, before he realized it was staged. Everywhere she looked, though, people were laughing, talking, immensely entertained. No reason to think the stalker flew to Houston, she reminded herself.

  But your job is to assume he did.

  “Hey, Hap! Tori! You missed it,” Sarina called, darting off again.

  Hap Eggert, the red-haired techie from Joanna’s film crew who’d carried the shivering star a wrap, had entered the cineplex with the young woman from wardrobe, Tori Pond. Sarina met the pair mid-lobby and pointed toward the wounded space creature.

  Watching the crowd, Dixie strolled toward them. No one seemed to pay undue attention to Sarina as she reenacted the scene for her friends, complete with shooting motions and sound effects.

  Eggert’s gangly, freckle-faced friendliness made Dixie think of county fairs, apple pie, and Opie on the old Andy Griffith TV show. Pond was almond-eyed, darkly pretty, and a few years older than Sarina. Before Dixie could reach them, the trio rejoined the cluster around Alroy Duncan.

  “Actually, it’s old technology,” Duncan was saying as Dixie walked up. He grinned at his circle of fans. “Seen it a zillion times, right? But it still works.”

  “Smooth, though, the way you handled it.” Sarina’s eyes shone.

  “Will you present that same outdated technique at Illusions?” Pond asked.

  Apparently, the young wardrobe tech wasn’t as taken with Duncan as Sarina was. Perhaps she viewed him as competition.

  Duncan twinkled at her. “Along with some nifty computer imaging.”

  “Like the fight scene you simulated for Devil’s Walk?” Pond challenged. She tossed a guarded look at Sarina. “By the time you finished ‘simulating,’ most of Joanna’s clothes were ripped away—”

  “The devil had sharp claws. Or maybe those clothes you made weren’t constructed for action scenes.” Frowning, Duncan turned away to answer another question.

  “What was that all about?” Dixie whispered to Sarina, urging her toward the theater doors.

  “Duncan got his big break on Devils Walk ’cause all the big effects houses were booked up. One of the effects went screwy, but it was no big deal.”

  Something tickled Dixie’s cheek; she whipped around to find a graceful cat-woman sweeping down the aisle, fluffy striped tail swinging haughtily in her wake. Where did the people come up with these outfits?

  Sarina grinned. “Dixie, this crowd is nothing, compared with what we’ll see Friday.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happening Friday?”

  “Didn’t you see the newspaper ad? This preview is the beginning of the Illusions Film Festival. Three whole days!”

  “And you expect to go?”

  “Every serious effects artist in the country will be there. Festivals are where you find out who’s got the edge-cutting ideas and who’s only working for the buck, afraid to take chances.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been planning this all along?” Dixie maneuvered her into the theater, to a back row. Taking the aisle seat for herself, the next one for Sarina, she tossed the kid’s denim bag on the third seat, as if saving it for someone.

  “I wanted you to see how terrific this is before you start weirding out. I bought my ticket as soon as Mom insisted I come with her to Houston. The festival is the greatest thing that could have happened.”

  “I thought your apprenticeship was the greatest.”

  “Okay, second greatest.”

  “We can’t go. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dixie! Illusions is the ultimate film festival. It’s the Lamborghini, the Taj Mahal, the Da Vinci of festivals. I can’t not go.”

  “You’re not hearing me, Sarina. It’s too dangerous.”

  “You’ll be with me,” Sarina pleaded. “And we can get another bodyguard. We can get two more bodyguards, three.”

  “The entire Secret Service couldn’t keep you from getting killed in a room packed with space creatures and laser blasters—not to mention your habit of dashing off to talk to everyone who grabs your interest.”

  “I swear I won’t leave your side the whole three days.”

  “Sarina—”

  “You can handcuff me to your arm.”

  A dull ache pulsed behind Dixie’s eyes. She hated disappointing the kid, but there was no way she could take Sarina to a film festival. Having registered in advance, the kid had left a trail the stalker could easily follow. He might be biding his time for an optimum moment when hundreds of costume-clad festival attendants gave him perfect cover.

  During a particularly loud and bloody battle on whatever-the-hell planet, Dixie’s pager signaled a call from Belle Richards. She scanned the theater, saw nobody whose gaze wasn’t riveted to the screen, and whispered to Sarina that she’d be right outside the door. Propping it partially open with her shoulder to catch the hallway light on her cell phone keypad, she punched in Belle’s number.

  “What’s up, boss?” She leaned against the door, facing so she could keep one eye on Sarina and still pitch her voice away from the folks trying to view the movie.

  “Dug up some ancient history about Alan Kemp. Don’t know if it’s worth anything, but you may have noticed he uses a cane.”

  “Cane, umbrella, Burberry, and perfect vowels. I figure it’s part of his European affectation. He doesn’t limp.”

  “Maybe the limp’s not obvious, but he has a genuine injury, one that’s given him trouble over the years.” Papers rattled. “Small-town newspapers print the handiest stories. Seems Kemp and a cousin were climbing a sycamore tree, daring each other to jump from progressively higher limbs. On Alan’s final jump, he broke both ankles. Complications caused the bones to heal slowly, ending his dream of a sports career. Later, Kemp became interested in drama, and was evidently quite good. Would’ve landed some leading roles, except for those trick ankles. They give out after he’s been on them a few hours.”

  “So he took up journalism?” Dixie moved aside to let a man laden with popcorn and drinks enter the theater.

  “Kemp has actually done quite well, especially in foreign markets.” When Belle paused, Dixie could hear her pencil tapping on the desk, could picture the point making tiny gray dots on Belle’s blotter. “Now here’s your chance to win die sixty-four-dollar question, Flannigan.” Tap, tap, tap. “Name the cousin who dared Alan to take that last jump.”

  “Joanna Francis.”

  “Dead on.”

  “You think he’s harbored a grudge all these years, and the notes are meant to drive his cousin nuts?”

  “Seems a long shot, but I wanted you to know about it. I’d feel better if Kemp caught the next flight out of town.”

  “You do expect me to perform miracles. Anything else I should know? Anything on John Page, or the two techs I asked about, or—” Dixie almost said “Bubble Butt Barton,” but realized Belle probably hadn’t seen the obese direc
tor. “Or Barton?”

  After more paper rustling, Belle replied, “John Page is shooting a TV pilot in the Florida Keys. He’s been there for the past three weeks.”

  “Where was he when Joanna received those first cards?”

  “Los Angeles. Handy, huh? Here’s the stuff on Eggert. He works freelance. He’s worked on some of Joanna’s other films. Unmarried, lives with his mother, who’s something of a lush. He’s in high demand, considered a top-notch lighting designer—look at the ending credits next time you and Parker watch a video, you could easily see Eggert’s name on the list. But the other tech—”

  Three people moved up the aisle, blocking Dixie’s view of Sarina. Swinging the door wide to let them exit, Dixie craned to get the kid in view again.

  “Tori Pond,” Belle continued, “is a whole different story from Eggert. She’s been knocking around Hollywood for ten or twelve years. Never seemed to get a break, until Joanna put in a word with her own production company. Her parents are dead, she lives alone in East L.A. Wait—”

  Belle mumbled, “Thanks,” to someone, then came back again. “Okay, just got this in—David Barton directed two other movies Joanna starred in last year. At least three actresses on his films have been stalked, but Barton was never a suspect.”

  “Maybe he is now. Here’s something new to work on—” Dixie asked her to find out about the effects incident on Devils Walk, then disconnected. Ready to head back into the theater, she thought about Alan Kemp and the snapshots Casey James had taken on the movie set. She scanned the rows of spectators, all mesmerized by yet another space battle, and dug around in her memory until she found the reporters cell phone number. Casey answered on the second ring.

  “When you worked with Alan Kemp,” Dixie asked, “did he seem content being a reporter?”

  “Honey, you ask the damnedest questions.”

  “Did he ever mention wanting to be a film star himself?”

  “Oh, don’t we all? Me, now, I only wanted to sleep with them. Used to make snake bets on the pretty ones—Mel Gibson, Harrison Ford, any of the Baldwins.”

  “Snake bets?”

  “Who had the longest, thickest, hardest, droopiest. Who wasn’t circumcised. Paid bathroom attendants to find out. Vicarious sex, honey. The best kind. Imagination is so much better than the real thing.”

  “I thought you were working legitimate stories back then.”

  “This was for fun. Now, what’s got you so worked up about Alan Kemp?”

  “What you said about his visit here during Joanna’s shoot not being a coincidence. Did he ever suggest there was bad blood between him and Joanna?”

  “I can’t recall his ever mentioning her at all. But what you said before, about his wanting to act … he did do some live theater work. Talked about going to New York, where the ‘real’ actors hang out. I don’t know if he ever did.”

  “What do you know about John Barton?”

  “Asshole extraordinaire,” Casey said without hesitation. “Now, when is it my turn to ask questions?”

  “Don’t I always come through for you, Casey?”

  “I’m not sure that’s intentional. But okay, you’re on a tab. Barton is good enough at what he does that he can get by with being a horse’s patoot. He makes cable movies that a tremendous number of couch potatoes like to watch.”

  “How’s his sex life? Who does he—”

  “Barton’s snake is buried so deep in fat even he hasn’t seen it in years. But if your question is who does he play with, Barton has a different dewy-eyed starlet on his arm every week, and none of them go home with him. He’s either gay or too proud to beg. Now, as much as I’d like to keep running up your phone bill—”

  “One more question—”

  “With you, Counselor, it’s always one more question.”

  “What do you know about an agent named Marty Ahrens?”

  “Joanna’s agent?” For the first time, Casey hesitated. “Not much to know. He doesn’t make a lot of noise, but he does right by his clients. Takes care of them, if you know what I mean.”

  “Spell it out for me.”

  Another hesitation. “Marty has been around Hollywood since the days when publicity was generally a good thing. He never handled any really big names, but he’s never backed a complete loser, either. He knows how to move a client’s career forward.”

  “That’s the biggest whitewash I’ve ever heard from you, Casey. What’re you not telling me?”

  “Listen, Marty’s a nice guy. If I was an out-of-work actor, he’d top my list of agents to hire. But as a reporter, honey, I know Marty only lets go of information when he has money riding on it.”

  Dixie couldn’t decide what to make of Casey’s last remarks. Apparently, Marty was the person Joanna should thank for keeping her “accidents” this past year out of the tabloids. Was he also counseling her not to go to the police with the threats from her number-one fan?

  Noting that Sarina had attracted no attention, and was still flanked by two empty seats, Dixie decided to make one last call. Les Crews, the profiler at Quantico, should’ve received the stalker’s messages from her by now.

  She dialed his office number. Crews often worked late, but tonight he wasn’t there. After listening to his abrupt recording, “You know what to do. Do it,” she left a brief message.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Later, having delivered Sarina safely back to the hotel, Dixie halted the Porsche outside her gate and watched a thin, comforting trail of gray chimney smoke ascend into the sky. The porch light was on, and the kitchen light. The television glowed faintly through the living-room window. The house looked warm and inviting.

  Shivering in the night air, she reached for a shopping bag on the floorboard. Inside was a bottle of Parker’s favorite wine and a valentine card. The holiday was still two days away, but she and Parker had gone to bed the night before without settling their problems—her job, the yacht party—and they’d both rushed off this morning, scarcely exchanging a word. She sensed a rift opening between them. Dixie wanted to close it, wanted to make things right, only she didn’t have a clue how to do it. She hoped the valentine would say it for her.

  She flicked on the interior light and took the valentine out of the bag. The message wasn’t terribly mushy: Every day in so many ways, you brighten my life.

  Quickly, before she could think about it too much, Dixie wrote, “Love you,” signed the card, and shoved it into the envelope.

  The third item in the bag was a housewarming gift for Parker’s new place. The carpenters had finally departed, the painters were painting their last few strokes, the floor coverings and appliances had been installed. The house was due to be completed at the end of the week. She hadn’t asked, but she suspected he’d move his stuff out over the weekend, and she hated it. With Parker physically so far away, the rift could only open wider. The gift was a brass door knocker—not even a little mushy.

  Mud met her at the back porch, sniffing his worried whine around her cast and demanding more affection than usual. With the strained atmosphere in the house, he probably felt as disconcerted as she did.

  The kitchen smelled like fresh-baked cookies. A plate of brownies sat beneath a huge vase of red roses, a pink, heart-shaped balloon bobbing above them. The inscription on the balloon read You’re the sweetest!

  The first night Parker had stayed in her house, a prisoner, he’d scrounged ingredients from her near-empty cabinets to make brownies, the best she’d ever tasted. A rush of tenderness misted Dixie’s eyes. Evidently, he wanted to make up, too.

  Hearing Parker’s footsteps behind her, she blinked away the silly moisture.

  “It’s not quite Valentine’s Day,” he said. “But—”

  When he didn’t finish the sentence, Dixie’s anxious mind leaped ahead to finish it for him … but I won’t be here to celebrate Valentine’s Day….

  When he reached to embrace her, she turned into it, facing him. “I brought some wine. For dinne
r.”

  “‘Quick, bring me a beaker of wine that I may wet my mind and say something clever.’” He grinned. “Aristophanes. Neat guy.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he did his truly awful Humphrey Bogart imitation. “But if we’re not careful, sweetheart, we’ll turn into a pair of old winos.”

  “A glass a day keeps the heart at play.”

  “Then a bottle a day ought to keep us hale halfway into the next century.”

  His playful blue eyes locked with hers, and he closed the distance between them, his lips soft and inviting. She’d never loved a man the way she loved this man. Never needed anyone, yet she needed him, needed his essence to recharge her being, his humor to recharge her spirit. She couldn’t imagine living without him—her and Mud whining at each other over frozen dinners.

  “How’s the kid?” Parker murmured when he finally let her lips go, arms still tight, lifting her. Her breasts flattened against his chest, their hips touching where it mattered, her toes and the heavy cast barely brushing the floor.

  “The kid is still a pain in the butt, but a likable pain.”

  One hand slid down to her buttocks, drawing her into him, to feel the hard length of him against her belly. His mouth parted against hers, tongue flicking across her lips. A familiar warmth rose on her skin everywhere he touched, and where he hadn’t touched—yet. The shopping bag slid from her fingers as he lifted her higher and carried her to the bedroom. In moments they were naked beneath the covers, the intensity of their need stunning them both. Later, they slept, curled together. Dixie awoke with the comforting scent of his skin deep in her nostrils, his chest hairs tickling her nose. She never wanted to move.

  “Are you awake?” she murmured.

  “Mmmmhmm.”

  She could feel the rumble of his breathing against her cheek. She was thirsty, and she had to pee.

  “Want some wine now?”

  “Mmmmhmm.”

  “Coffee and a brownie?”

  “Mmmmhmm.”

  “Which of us is going to get it?”

  “Which of us is on top?”

  “I don’t know. Me, I think.”