She wanted to stick around too. She crossed her arm over her stomach, as if pressing her hand to her injured side, but every few steps, she used her fingertips to dislodge more feathers from the inside of her wing. Yes, Ian was observant, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t give him all the help she could.
If he came looking…if anyone did. They might simply assume she’d left without a word—another selfish, irresponsible stunt from do-as-she-pleased Stacy. What if she’d tested everyone’s patience one too many times? Was anyone even worried about her, much less riding to her rescue?
As if to prove the thought, Worst Nightmare grabbed a handful of Stacy’s hair and brought her to a halt. Another tug yanked her head around until she faced the wall. Her eyes automatically refocused, but she knew where she was even without the benefit of twenty-twenty vision. Narrow metal rungs stretched up the wall and led to a small, wooden platform twenty-five feet overhead. The lighting techs used it to access the long lighting rig suspended from the ceiling over the stage.
“Climb.”
Oh, no. No one would see them up there. “I can’t. I’m afraid of heights.” Also, she was in no condition to scramble up a straight-vertical ladder. Numb hands, shaky legs, and the unrelenting pain in her side made the climb risky.
She released a shuddery breath when the pressure of the gun disappeared from the center of her back. Her shoulders dropped and she relaxed infinitesimally, just knowing the damn thing wasn’t poised to blow a hole through—
The cold, unforgiving metal pressed against her temple, scattering her thoughts like seagulls. She heard the click of the safety release.
“Climb or die.”
“Okay, okay.” The words scraped along her tight, dry throat. Turned out her fear of bullets trumped her fear of heights. She clasped the nearest rung in a bloody grip. “I’ll climb.”
Working her way up the ladder took even more effort than she’d anticipated. Escape scenarios cartwheeled through her mind too quickly for her to get a solid hold on any one plan.
Stay calm. Easier thought than done, but she slowed the chatter in her head to something she could at least track.
Worst Nightmare was right behind her on the ladder. Could she land a good, solid kick to the bitch’s head and knock her off the ladder? Wouldn’t a fall from even halfway up incapacitate anyone?
She glanced down to gauge kicking distance. Big mistake. Not only was Worst Nightmare smart enough to stay a few rungs out of range, but the sudden awareness of how high she was made the ladder dip and sway like a rope dangling from a helicopter…during a category-five hurricane. She clung to the rungs and prayed. Thoughts about knocking anyone off the ladder flew right out of her mind. She needed to concentrate on keeping herself from falling.
“Keep moving,” an impatient voice ordered from below.
Gritting her teeth, she resumed climbing.
She had accomplished one thing with her aborted escape attempt. She’d gotten a better look at Worst Nightmare. The woman’s height, weight, and identity remained unknown, because the angle and the overall gloom made a clear view impossible, but now she knew her attacker wore a nun’s habit, like some sort of crazy, holy judge. The surreal image somehow made her predicament all the more terrifying. Dread shot threw her and she practically flew up the last few rungs.
Getting from the ladder to the platform involved twisting sideways, grabbing the rails surrounding the platform, and pulling herself over. As soon as she got her hands around the rails, a solid weight struck her from behind and sent her sprawling onto the platform. She landed hard on her left side. Pain flared, and then spread like wildfire as a body landed on top of her, forced her face down, and straddled her. Survival instincts trumped pain, and she struggled, trying to dislodge the nun from hell.
A hand fisted in her hair and slammed her forehead into the wooden floor. Fireworks exploded in front of her eyes a second before she felt the unmistakable imprint of the gun’s barrel digging into her right temple. The prospect of a bullet in her brain drained the fight out of her. She stilled and concentrated on catching her breath.
The grim voice echoed close to her ear. “I’m going to stand up. And then you’re going to do the same. Nice and slow. Got it?”
She nodded.
“One wrong move and I put a hole in your fucking head. Understand?”
Stacy swallowed hard and nodded again. The weight of the other woman’s body lifted off her and the hand tangled in her hair pulled viciously, forcing her to her feet. They did a quick shuffle, until Worst Nightmare had her where she wanted her. Once she did, the woman let go, pivoted right, and aimed the gun at her temple in a steady, two-handed grip. Somewhere behind her was the open side of the platform, which enabled the lighting technicians to access the network of bars and wires housing the stage lights.
A desire to turn her head and get a good look at Worst Nightmare proved nearly irresistible, but the proximity of the gun kept her from moving a muscle. You’re one twitchy trigger finger away from having nothing to lose. Don’t move. Relying on restraint from a homicidal nun struck her as crazy. Not homicidal-nun crazy, but right up there.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish, but your big plans to ruin my reputation and career are over. My producers already knew about my past. I spoke to the press tonight and now my fans know too.”
“I’m aware. Why do you think I’m here?” Fury caused her voice to go high and ragged on the question. “I didn’t want things to come to this, but you made the choice, Stacy. I asked one simple thing of you—go back to the little shithole you crawled out of and stay there—but could you do it? No. You opened your big mouth, talked to the media, and tried to take charge, because clearly, you don’t understand who’s in control here. So fine,” she breathed deeply, “we’ll do this the hard way.”
From the corner of her eye, Stacy saw her tighten her grip on the gun. Sweet Jesus, was the conversation over already? “Wait! Tell me why? At least have the guts to look me in the face and tell me why you want to get rid of me.”
A tense silence stretched for several heartbeats, and then the gun began an unhurried journey around her forehead, until they stood face-to-face. Worst Nightmare drew the gun back a couple inches. Stacy’s universe collapsed to the single black hole directly in her line of sight. A twisting cramp turned her insides to liquid. It was one thing knowing some maniac had a gun aimed at her head, but staring down the barrel offered a whole different level of terror. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. She shifted her eyes from the gun to the woman standing wielding it.
“Oh, my God.” Recognition hit her like a fist to the stomach. “You?”
…
Ian bit back a curse as he examined the broken lock. Kicked in? He pulled his gun and crept through the door, keeping low. Since nobody shot him in the head the moment he cleared the threshold, he swept left with his gun, then right. No sign of anyone.
He straightened, stuck his gun into the back of his jeans, and debated his choices. Vern’s office and the dancers’ dressing room were down the hallway to the left. The hallway on his right led to the stage, and beyond that, another narrow hall led to the back door of the club.
Instinct told him to go right, since that direction ultimately led to an exit. He shot off a text to Trevor. Door’s busted. Get back here. Don’t bring Kylie. He didn’t wait for a reply, just tucked the phone in his pocket and started down the hall, scanning in every direction as he went. A few steps along, he glanced down and froze. What the hell…? He crouched and picked up a small white feather.
His heart thundered in his chest. Stacy’s wings were covered with white feathers. He continued down the hallway. A couple feet farther, he saw another feather…and another. He drew in a breath to call out to her, but then his gaze snagged on another clump of feathers, and his voice died in his throat. Something dark coated these. Something like oil…or… He picked one up and held it close to his face.
An invisible fi
st grabbed his gut and squeezed. Oh, God. Blood. He ran his finger over the wispy plumes. Claret red smeared his skin. Fresh blood.
He dropped the feather. Every instinct clamored to tear off down the hall, but the calm, logical detective inside him took charge and forced him to slow down. His tactical training dictated he take some precautions, like putting backup in place first. He spent a precious minute texting Trevor again. Where r u?
Come quietly, from outside door. Stay sharp. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and pulled out his gun.
Chapter Nine
“Why are you doing this?” Stacy asked, still not quite trusting her eyes.
Mandy sneered. “Because you’re nothing but a greedy, trashy whore. You slithered into this town, flashed your tits and ass, and stole everything I worked for. Everything I deserved.”
“I didn’t.” The accusation didn’t make any sense. She’d had her low moments, and, yes, even broken the law on a few occasions, but she’d never resorted to thievery. Ever.
Careful. Do NOT start an argument with the crazy bitch, her voice of reason counseled. Then her mouth took over. “That’s bullshit. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.” Crap.
Her quiet, mousy assistant slapped her across the face. “Liar! You think I don’t know what you are?”
She resisted the reflex to press her palm to her burning cheek. The slap felt and sounded odd, not quite skin-on-skin. She stared at Mandy’s hand and frowned. Her assistant wore thin latex gloves. Nausea swirled as she digested the significance of that information. No fingerprints. “W-what am I?”
“You’re a sociopath. You have no concern for the effects of your behavior on others. People are nothing but tools to you, and if they can’t help you further your own agenda, then you don’t even see them. Knowing that made everything easy for me.”
I’m the sociopath? “I don’t understand—”
“You assumed I was a pathetic, self-conscious wallflower, hoping to get a shred of excitement out of being your assistant, because that’s what I wanted you to think. But you’re wrong. I’m an actress, and a damn good one. Not that I needed to be, in your case. You were so ridiculously easy to fool. A little hair dye, some colored contacts, a crappy wardrobe, and I might as well have been invisible to you. You still don’t recognize me, do you?”
Stacy shook her head. “You’re…Mandy Waltrip, my assistant.”
The manic laugh Mandy let loose chilled her blood. “You really are stupid. I’m Amanda Walters. You and I attended the same acting classes, workshops, we even worked together once on a student film. And you know what? Everybody says I’m the better actress. Everybody.”
Amanda Walters? Stacy searched her memory, trying to put a face to the name. A vague picture of a perky, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl-next-door type formed in her mind. She compared the woman in front of her with the mental image. Yes, they could be the same woman.
“I auditioned for the part of Nichole in Vegas Vixens,” Mandy continued. “I met with the director, the producers…my agent told me the part was mine. There was one more girl they had to audition, as a favor to her agent, but that was just a formality. I’d won the role. I called my parents, my friends, everyone. They were all so happy and proud of me.” A tear trickled down Mandy’s cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Stacy said, cautiously. “I didn’t know.” There was no way they’d ever been in serious contention for the same part. Amanda Walters was Doris Day to her Marilyn Monroe. Except, of course, in this case Doris had a dark side.
“You stole it from me! I’m Nichole. I’m the good girl. You swooped in, seduced somebody who made the decisions, and took my part from me.”
Mandy’s voice pitched wildly as she spouted her accusations. But the good girl’s gun hand remained level and steady.
“I didn’t seduce anyone,” Stacy insisted. “I went in, I read, and I got the part. I didn’t even know who else was up for the role. And I can’t tell you how many times I thought I’d nailed an audition, been promised the part, only to get a call from my agent a few days later and learn it went to someone else. That’s all part of the Hollywood hazing.”
“No. It’s how you operate. You use sex to get what you want, and you don’t care who you hurt in the process.”
“I have a lot of flaws, Mandy, but I’ve never screwed my way into a job, or deliberately tried to screw anybody else out of one. That’s not the kind of woman I am.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” But Mandy wasn’t laughing, or crying anymore, for that matter. She was deadly calm again, her stony-faced, sitting-in-judgment expression all the scarier now that Stacy had glimpsed the freak show going on behind the facade. “You’re the kind of woman who works at a club like Deuces, stripping for money and leading men astray by appealing to their basest desires, so don’t even try to convince me you’re too moral for the casting couch, because we both know better. It’s completely twisted, you, playing the good girl on Vixens. America rooting for Nichole to keep her innocence despite all the sleazy behavior she’s surrounded by. Won’t the viewers be surprised to meet the real Nichole and discover she’s as sleazy as they come?”
No amount of arguing would change Mandy’s mind. She’d only succeed in riling her attacker. She needed a plan of action. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with any good options. A head-on assault would be suicide. Might as well put the gun in her mouth and pull the trigger herself. Even if she managed to surprise Mandy and, best-case scenario, knock her off her feet, between the side wound and her adversary’s strength, there was no way she’d succeed in overpowering and disarming her. She’d probably pass out during the struggle and that would be that.
All she could do was try appeasing her captor to buy more time.
“I’ll admit when I want something, I go after it with everything I’ve got, and my boundaries might not have always been where they should have. But I spoke to the press tonight and announced I used to strip here, so you win. Now everyone knows my past, what kind of choices I’ve made. You’ve helped me see the error of my ways. Believe me, Mandy, I’ve learned my lesson. Let’s talk about how to get us both what we deserve.”
Mandy didn’t blink. “I’m not here to teach you a lesson. That time has passed.” She stepped closer, so close Stacy smelled the woman’s Listerine breath. “And you’re going to get exactly what you deserve.”
That sounded bad.
“I’ll resign from the show,” she volunteered, voice desperate to her own ears, “just like you wanted. We’ll go to my place. I’ll write my resignation and e-mail it to my agent. Then I’ll disappear. I’ll never come between you and a role again.”
“No. You certainly won’t,” Mandy agreed, and stretched her lips into a wide, sharklike smile. She pressed the gun to Stacy’s forehead—right between her eyes. “But it’s too late to walk away. That offer came off the table the minute you spoke to the press and forced us into this little one-on-one conversation. Do you think I’m crazy? You’ve seen me. You know who I am. Turn around and climb over the railing.”
Blood rushed out of her head, leaving an echo chamber between her ears. “What?” Her numb lips had a hard time forming the word. The only thing on the other side of the railing was the lighting rig, which hung suspended from the ceiling and extended almost the entire length of the stage. Other than that, nothing but twenty-five feet of free fall stood between the platform and the stage below. “I can’t climb over the railing. I’ll fall.”
“That’s the idea. Everyone will think you jumped to your death.”
“You don’t think they’ll notice someone stabbed me, and figure maybe I had some help?” She gestured to her bloody side.
Mandy smiled and pulled a kitchen knife out of the folds of the habit. “You stabbed yourself, in an overdramatic suicide attempt, but when you realized you lacked the courage to inflict a fatal wound, you jumped instead.” She held the knife up for inspection, and Stacy recognized it as one from her own kitchen.
“I
took it tonight on my way to the limo, after I overheard you tell Kylie you planned to talk to the press.” She tossed the weapon behind her on the platform, where it landed with a hollow thud, and then she waved her gloved hand at Stacy. “No prints on the thing, except…hmm…yours.”
“Why go to all this trouble? Why not just hide out in my house and kill me in my sleep?”
“You die at home, under suspicious circumstances, and I’m the first person the cops question. You off yourself at some Halloween sleaze-fest, after…let’s add everything up.” She raised her index finger. “Breaking up with your boyfriend last month”—she raised another finger—“confessing your sinful past to the world tonight”—another finger—“downing several drinks in front of hundreds of eyewitnesses”—and, one last finger—“heading to the VIP room for a cheap hookup with a stranger.” She shook her head sadly. “Nobody questions your suicide. You’re clearly a woman in crisis.”
Ian would. He’d question until his dying day. Because as much as she’d tried to convince them both otherwise, they were so not over, and he knew it. Funny how standing on the wrong end of a gun snapped certain things into perfect focus.
“Party’s over,” Mandy said, and gave Stacy a shove. She stumbled and lost her balance. Her arms windmilled for a suspended moment as she fought for footing. Her heels slid off the platform. She screamed and fell backward into open air.
…
Ian hurried down the passageway toward the stage, hugging the wall and keeping his steps quick and light. He doubted anyone would hear him coming over the noise of the party, but he didn’t plan on leaving it to chance.
The passageway widened at the back of the stage. A retractable metal security gate spanned the stage to prevent anyone from moving the festivities to the backstage area. The blackout curtain hung just beyond the security gate. He wrapped his hand around a slat and gave the gate a shake, testing it. Fully secure, with very little give. No one had slipped into or out of the backstage area through there. He worked his fingers between the slats, moved the curtain aside and looked out. A sea of zombies, ghouls, princesses, and pirate wenches danced under flashing purple lights. Nothing unusual.
Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella) Page 8