Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “I told you, this is not about vengeance. It’s about stamping out cruelty and waking people up to the weakness of man’s law. Now, calm down, and nothing will happen to any of us. God watches over His chosen.”

  Outside, a siren whooped. Regan pushed past and flung an armful of sweaters into the suitcase.

  “You can wait around, expecting God to take care of you, but I’m leaving.” Regan jerked open the closet door and grabbed a handful of hangers—

  “What—?” Something was around her neck! “Stop!”

  Dropping the clothing, she clawed at the scarf squeezing off her breath. She tried to scream, but only a dry wheezing sound came from her mouth.

  Arching backward, Regan struggled to shake the woman off—

  She felt herself pushed, through the clothes, to the back of the closet. Her face slammed into the wall. The silk twisted tighter around her throat, yanked her back—

  Slammed her into the wall again.

  The pulse of blood roared inside Regan’s brain. Brilliant pinpoints of light darted like fireflies … in the deepening fog.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Memorial Hospital Southwest advertised as a “not-for-profit health care system.” Dixie wasn’t sure what that meant, but she could see the hospital planners had gone to some trouble creating an atmosphere of wellness rather than illness. Nevertheless, the overwhelming sensation she felt within the long-term care unit was of walking through the twilight of death.

  Beverly Foxworth lay motionless and alone, waxy skin as white as the sheets. A single window, thin drapes drawn wide, let in a stream of cool winter sunlight that fell precisely across Beverly’s still hand lying atop a pale blue blanket. The comatose woman looked far younger than her twenty-five years.

  A yellow rose in a slender green vase adorned the bedside table. A copy of Pride and Prejudice lay beside the vase, a silver clip holding the reader’s place. Did Grace Foxworth read aloud to her daughter, Dixie wondered, and where had Grace gotten off to? She “lived at the hospital,” according to her husband. When she wasn’t at church. Dixie glanced at her watch. Dinnertime.

  Sarina’s new hairstyle fell in a sleek cap around her face, threads of red-gold glistening among the straw-blond strands. A concerned frown creased the teenager’s brow as she repositioned the only guest chair, drawing it close to the bed. She watched Beverly’s face as if expecting her to awaken.

  “How long has she been like this?” Sarina whispered.

  “A few months.”

  “Are you trying to find the man who did this? Is that what’s with all the questions to Mr. Foxworth and the hairdresser?”

  “Not exactly.” How did she explain the sardonic whims of justice? “The man was already tried and found not guilty.”

  Sarina’s young face turned to meet Dixie’s, frown lines deepening in perplexed intensity.

  “Then who did it?”

  Dixie sighed inwardly. “That’s where it gets complicated. The man acquitted was the only suspect, and Beverly was comatose when she was found. She never described her attacker.”

  “So he’s free—to do this again?” Sarina looked horrified.

  “I’m afraid so.” Actually, Coombs had never been tried for assaulting Beverly Foxworth. If the young woman ever regained consciousness, the DA would have another crack at him—providing they thought the case against Coombs was stronger than their last one.

  Sarina’s young features hardened. She turned back to Beverly, picked up one fragile hand, and held it in her own. A nurse came by, checked the monitors, jotted a note on Beverly’s chart, and moved on.

  When Dixie’s pager shuddered against her waist, she reached to turn it off and knocked it out of its clip. Picking it up, she recognized the number as Parker’s. She stepped to a telephone on the nightstand to return his call, stretching the cord to its full length to have some privacy. A photograph of the Foxworths sat near the phone, a gold cross and chain, like the one Beverly wore in the photograph, draped over it.

  “Everything’s set for tonight,” Parker told her.

  The boat ride. Dixie’s innards went all soft. “What does a woman wear on a moonlight sail?”

  “Warm, comfortable clothes. The weather is supposed to be fair, but you’ll need a heavy coat. Gets nippy on the water.”

  No problem. She had tossed an all-weather coat in the Porsche’s trunk that morning, along with her new deck shoes. “This time it’s just the two of us?”

  “You, me, the boat, the sea, and the laughing old man in the moon.”

  “Which of us is sailing the boat?”

  “You get to read the instructions, while I man the sails.”

  “Instructions? Don’t you know how to sail it?”

  “Never had it out before.”

  “But you’ve sailed other boats, haven’t you?” Parker was from Montana. Not much chance to practice sailing in the frozen mountains.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep us afloat. And I’ve stocked the galley with sandwiches and hot chocolate. Come prepared to relax and enjoy.”

  Sounded irresistible. He rattled off directions to the slip where the boat was docked.

  “See you at ten o’clock, latest,” Dixie promised. She disconnected, and almost instantly got another page.

  “Where are you?” Belle’s voice held a note of urgency.

  “Near the Southwest Freeway and Beechnut.” Visiting one of Coombs’ victims probably wouldn’t meet with Belle’s approval, so why mention it? “What’s up?”

  “Joanna got another card from the stalker.”

  Dixie straightened and looked at Sarina. She had picked up the book and was reading aloud, too softly for Dixie to make out the words.

  “What’s the message?”

  “‘To my special friend: Just want you to know how special you are to me.’ The stalker’s added, ‘I’m disappointed, Joanna. This was to be our special time. Now there’s only one day left.’ The word ‘our’ is underlined.”

  “‘One day left’? What does that—?”

  “The filming’s back on schedule. Joanna says they’ll finish tomorrow.”

  “Who would know that?”

  “Everyone in the cast and crew, I suppose, and anybody they happened to tell.”

  “That narrows it to most of Houston.” Dixie wondered if the downstrokes on the stalker’s words would reveal surging anger. “Whether Joanna likes the idea or not, we need someone watching her until she gets on that airplane.”

  Dixie would be dropping Sarina off early that evening to attend a dinner party the production company was throwing for the cast and crew. Dixie wasn’t invited. Anyway, she planned to do some snooping around the set while no one was there. She couldn’t be in two places at once.

  “Trust me, Flannigan, she won’t go for it. This message doesn’t threaten her, and she gets this sort of mail often enough that it doesn’t upset her. Except for Sarina. I’ve already flapped my gums on the subject until they’re bloody.” When Belle paused and Dixie didn’t fill in the silence, the attorney said, “You think ‘only one day left’ indicates the stalker’s about to make a move?”

  “Who knows what to think? But why risk it?”

  Belle heaved a sigh with a hint of defeat in it. “I think you’re right that we need another operative, just to be safe, but it has to be somebody invisible.”

  “Operative. I like that word. I suppose the hottest female defense attorney in Texas wouldn’t have ordinary gumshoes working for her. She’d hire operatives”

  “I’ve been reading detective novels lately, picking up all sorts of interesting tidbits. You ought to try it.”

  “If this jerk really means business, RIC, only the best is good enough. It has to be somebody who can do the job.”

  “You can’t mean Hooch.”

  “He’s the best.”

  “I said invisible. Somebody to blend with the crowd. Flannigan, that’s not Hooch.”

  “If ever there were the perfect place for Hooch
to blend in, it’s on a movie set.”

  “The set of Frankenstein, maybe.”

  “That’s a low remark, and not a bit worthy of you.”

  Before Belle could launch a full-blown argument, Dixie disconnected and dialed a pager number for the Gypsy Filchers.

  Chapter Forty-six

  It was approaching darkness when Hooch and Ski slipped out of the shadows and joined Dixie across from the Four Seasons Hotel. She wanted Sarina to meet them. Her mother might be obstinate, but the kid deserved to know who to approach for help if she needed it.

  “Holy humbug,” Sarina murmured as the pair neared them. “What role is he made up for?”

  The gray scar that marred Hooch’s face started at the corner of his right eye, bisected the bridge of his nose, and permanently sealed the left corner of his mouth, where an ax blade had split his jaw. Standing six-foot-four, 285 pounds, Hooch made grown men want to crawl into a hidey-hole.

  His unfortunate appearance resulted from a wound suffered as a child, a blow that had nearly split his skull in half. In a Halloween fright show, Hooch could be the major frightmonger without a speck of makeup. When he walked down a street, people crossed to the other side. Yet he could shadow a person for days, never lose them, and never be spotted. He was one of the trio who had organized the Gypsy Filchers—a team with more skills, talents, and accomplishments among them than many a well-trained army. Hooch was responsible for most of their training. With him on the job, Dixie could enjoy her moonlight sail.

  “This guy’s going to stay nearby tonight in case you need him.” Dixie explained briefly about the latest greeting card, then opened the car door and stepped out.

  “What’s horrible?” Hooch said, grinning from the good side of his mouth. He’d coined the greeting from one of his favorite fiction detectives and used it the way other people said, “What’s happening?” Hooch claimed it made people smile a little before they ran away screaming.

  Ski cast a long, curious gaze at Sarina. She and Hooch were both dressed in black jeans, dark crew neck sweaters, and dark jackets. Dixie made introductions.

  “Hooch is going to follow you and your mother to the restaurant,” Dixie explained to Sarina. “He’ll hang around outside until the dinner is over, then follow you back here.”

  “Cool! With another bodyguard, we can go to the festival tomorrow.”

  The kid was persistent, Dixie had to give her that. “Right now let’s concentrate on tonight.”

  “Dixie, Mother’s weird fans are not interested in me.”

  “Maybe not. But humor me tonight. If anything strange happens, find Hooch. He’ll be close.”

  “Like gum on your shoe,” he agreed.

  “Mother doesn’t know about this, does she?”

  Dixie shook her head, and Sarina grinned. Putting one over on Joanna seemed to brighten her outlook on the evening.

  Ski stayed behind with the Porsche while Dixie ushered Sarina inside the hotel and alerted security that Hooch was on the job. As Dixie retraced her steps through the hotel lobby, her pager signaled a message—surprisingly from Brenda Benson. Back in the Porsche, she returned the call.

  “Dixie, thank God—” Brenda’s tired voice was barely audible over a bad connection.

  “What’s wrong, Bren?”

  “I need to talk. Not on the phone”—static—“meet at my house … an hour?”

  Dixie glanced at the dash clock. She needed at least forty-five minutes for the task Ski was helping her with, and it was a twenty-minute drive to Clear Lake, where the boat was located. Brenda’s house was a short distance in the opposite direction. A tight squeeze, but if Brenda finally wanted to talk—

  “Sure. What’s up?” She turned the key to start the Porsche’s engine.

  “I—I thought it would stop with Coombs”—more static—“out of control. I need—I have to trust—”

  “I’ll be there.” She disconnected and called Parker to say she might be a few minutes late. No answer on his cell phone. She left a message at his office, praying he’d bother to check the machine.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Dixie wished the three production trailers weren’t parked on such a well-lighted street. She’d seen the small signs that first day on the set, WARDROBE, CAST/CREW, BURTON.

  Sidling up to the one she wanted, she scanned the distance across the shooting area, where Ski was distracting the guard. Two jobs with the girl in two days—phenomenal. Even Brew had been hesitant when Dixie requested Ski’s help. Ski’s hatred of Dixie was based on the girl’s own problems with a juvenile law enforcement officer, and her temper was apt to flare unexpectedly. But she was perfect for tonight’s task. There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t be distracted by champagne curls above delicate features and a slip of body that moved like liquid mercury. Only if the guard was female would Ski be facing a challenge.

  Dixie slid her hands into a pair of thin plastic gloves, then gripped the Lock-Aid tool she’d brought from home, a handy gadget shaped like a pistol. Stick the key end into any lock, except possibly high security, pull the trigger, and after a few brisk clicks, the lock fell open like magic. She’d confiscated the tool from a young pro vowing to go straight—never expecting to use it herself. But occasionally, it proved handier than shirt pockets. Carefully, she inserted the tool into the trailer lock.

  Made sense, she figured, the director having a trailer all his own—obesity plus ego. Was it Burton’s call for Joanna to share space with everyone else on the set? Perhaps he was equally nasty to all his stars, but one thing was certain, Burton had ample opportunity to make Joanna’s life miserable. He didn’t need to send threatening notes.

  Dixie still hadn’t discovered why Alan Kemp showed up in Houston at the same time as Joanna. But if he carried a grudge for the fall that broke his ankles and put an end to his acting, why choose now to get even? According to Casey, his syndicated radio show aired all over the world. His career as a journalist was about as good as it gets.

  The trailer’s lock clicked open. Dixie cast another glance at Ski and the guard, then eased the door wide enough to slip inside the trailer. As she stuffed the Lock-Aid back in her pocket, the photographs Casey James had given her fell out. The one that had interested Dixie showed Tori Pond waiting for Joanna outside the wardrobe trailer. Tori had applied for a job the same month the stalker’s notes started appearing.

  But Tori Pond seemed totally smitten with the lighting tech, Hap Eggert. Then again, maybe Dixie’s hunch was dead wrong this time. She’d know in a few more minutes.

  She gathered up the photos and snapped the trailer door shut. Her penlight picked out racks of clothing, a dressing table with jars of makeup and brushes, a blow-dryer hanging from a hook beside the mirror. On shelves above the clothing were stacked shoe boxes and hatboxes, all neatly labeled. Dixie saw the box Alroy Duncan had sent over with Joanna’s headpiece.

  The effects wizard had been high on her suspect list for a while, primarily because she questioned his motives for apprenticing Sarina. But when the success of Devil’s Walk escalated Duncan’s career, he had relocated to Houston. Why would a stalker move away from the object of his obsession?

  Beneath the headpiece box hung the slicker Hap Eggert had taken to Joanna as she shivered in the rain that first day.

  Dixie limbered her hands in the plastic gloves and began the search.

  “How long is this going to take?” Ski had asked as they drove downtown.

  “If what I’m looking for is where I expect to find it, we’ll be finished in less than an hour.”

  “And if you aren’t?”

  “Then we might have a long night.” Dixie wasn’t about to waste this opportunity. Tomorrow the shoot would wrap up. Saturday morning Joanna and Sarina would be on a plane back to L.A. If Dixie couldn’t identify the stalker before then, she’d worry about the kid indefinitely.

  “Didn’t I hear you promise to meet someone?” Ski had argued. “Guess promises don’t mean much to you,
Flannigan.”

  “It won’t take that long.”

  Now, Dixie prayed she could find the evidence she needed with the first pass. She wanted to keep that appointment with Brenda. After evading her for three days, the prosecutor was finally willing to talk: Dixie wanted to be there for her.

  Nor did she plan to miss her moonlight cruise with Parker.

  But the worry that something might happen to Sarina after she flew back to L.A., something Dixie could’ve prevented by doing the job right, filled her with an unexpectedly stinging disquiet.

  According to Ramón, the cryptic messages were written by someone who showed anger at the wrong times. That fact spelled “emotionally unstable” to Dixie in flashing neon letters.

  No. She was ending this stalker business. Right here. Tonight. If necessary, she’d search every inch of the set to find what she knew had to be there.

  And, finally, behind the last rack of beaded evening dresses and fur coats brushing the floor sat a black leather travel bag. Dixie trained her penlight over the brass lock—no sweat opening that one—to a matching leather luggage tag. Dixie unsnapped the tag to a business card behind a clear plastic window: HAP EGGERT, LIGHTING DESIGN.

  Bingo/

  That first day on the set, she’d seen the techie emerge from the wardrobe trailer. Eggert’s friendship with Tori Pond might be real or merely convenient, but this trailer would provide more privacy than the one used by the entire cast and crew, more privacy than the equipment trailer, where other techs would be constantly in and out.

  Dixie inserted the Lock-Aid tool into the brass keyway, squeezed the trigger, and listened to the metallic clicks.

  Eggert’s mother had been one of the original stars on Guerilla Gold, facing the same bright future as Joanna Francis. Joanna became a star; Eggert’s mother became a penniless drunk.

  As a techie, Eggert had “been in the business forever,” according to Sarina. “Works lighting, sometimes camera crew, whatever,” she’d said. He could’ve easily gained entry to all the sets where Joanna experienced “accidents.”