by Stuart Woods
“Yes, Billy?”
“I’m down by the pool,” he said. “I’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake, badly. I’ve called an ambulance, and it’s on its way. Get dressed, and grab some clothes for me. I’m naked.”
“I’ll be right there.” She hung up.
Teddy got into his robe and tied it, then sat down on the chaise, leaned over the side and vomited; he was having some difficulty breathing. His cell phone rang.
“Yes?” he panted.
“Mr. Barnett?”
“Yes.”
“The ambulance was delayed. They had to pick up the anti-venom from a hospital, but they’re about five minutes out now. How’re you doing?”
“Pain, nausea, difficulty breathing,” he said.
“I’ll stay on the line with you.”
“No, my girlfriend is here. You can’t help.” He hung up and checked the time. Fifty-five minutes since the snake struck him.
Sally came running from the house, clutching his clothes, and knelt next to the chair. “Are you all right?” she asked, helping him into his underwear and trousers.
“I’m in considerable pain,” he said.
“You’re panting—are you having trouble breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t talk, just breathe.” She looked at his leg. “Oh, God,” she said, “it’s twice its usual size.”
• • •
THREE MINUTES LATER, the ambulance pulled up at the cottage, and Sally shouted for them. Two EMTs ran over with a stretcher.
“Anti-venom?” Teddy asked.
“Got it right here,” the man replied; he was filling a syringe.
“He’s in a lot of pain,” Sally said to him.
“Let’s get him into the wagon,” he said to his partner.
“Bring the snake,” Teddy managed to say. “Sally, follow in your car.” Then he passed out.
60
CARLOS WAS AWAKENED by his ringing telephone. He glanced at his watch as he picked it up: just after ten; he had needed the sleep. “Hello?”
“It’s Regan, downtown.” The LAPD captain. “How are you feeling, Carlos?”
“Much better, sir. I had a very good night.”
“If you’re not up to this, tell me.”
“What’s up, sir?”
“We had a mass shooting in an East L.A. club last night, at least four dead and several wounded. Everybody in Homicide has pitched in, so nobody from the squad is available.”
“How can I help?”
“Dax Baxter is dead. A housekeeper found him a few minutes ago, single gunshot to the head, very likely a suicide. I need a homicide detective there to confirm the details and manage the crime-scene people. Do you feel up to doing that?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Regan gave him the address. “You’ll be on your own. I’ll send a crime-scene team as soon as they can shake somebody loose from the other scene.”
“I’m on my way, sir.”
“Don’t break your neck. Baxter isn’t going anywhere, and the housekeeper has been told to stay out of the bedroom.”
“Got it, sir.” He hung up and found Chita staring at him. “Are you really going out?”
“I have to, there’s a big shooting in East L.A. and everybody else is working that.”
“I’ll fix you some breakfast.”
“Just a muffin and coffee while I shower. And, Chita?”
“Yes?”
“You might want to call your office. Dax Baxter apparently killed himself last night.”
“Well,” she said, “he said last night that he was depressed.”
• • •
CHITA CALLED HER OFFICE and broke the news to Gloria. “You tell the others. There’s a new script ready on Dax’s computer. His last instructions to me were to print and distribute it to the whole list of people, and he’s already given the writer his check. I’ll be there in an hour or two.” She hung up and went to get Carlos’s breakfast.
• • •
CARLOS DRANK A SECOND CUP of coffee en route; he made good time to Mulholland Drive. He parked, got out of the car, and rang the doorbell. A uniformed maid opened it, looking distraught. He showed her his badge. “Take me to his bedroom, please.”
He was astonished at the size of the place. He saw a skateboard in a corner and figured that was how Baxter got around it. The maid pointed at the bedroom door. “There.”
“You go back to the kitchen and make yourself some coffee. Make a big pot—there are other cops on the way.”
She walked away and left him standing at the bedroom door. He opened it and walked to the foot of the bed. He could see a hole in Baxter’s temple, and when he walked around the bed he saw an even bigger hole. Crime scene would have to find the bullet. He walked back around the bed and could see nothing that didn’t point to suicide. The gun was where it should be, and there were blood spatters, blowback, on it.
The doorbell rang, and a moment later a young Asian man was standing at the foot of the bed.
“Anybody else?” Carlos asked.
“I’m all they’ve got. There was a big shooting last night.”
“I heard,” Carlos said. “Do a quick walk-around and see if you see anything that contradicts a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
The tech set down a large bag and did so. “Looks pretty straightforward to me,” he said.
“Okay, you get started. I’ll go interview the maid.”
• • •
THE TWO OF THEM sat at a kitchen table, drinking coffee.
“Name?” Carlos asked.
“Anita Escobar.”
“Nationality?”
“Born in Mexico, a U.S. citizen for the last seven years.”
“Tell me what happened this morning.”
“I came to work. I thought Mr. Baxter was at work, so I went into the bedroom to get the sheets and towels. I found him like that, and I called nine-one-one.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, nothing else.”
“What time was that?”
“Eight forty-five, maybe. I thought you’d get here faster.”
“It’s a very busy morning for the LAPD.” He wrote down her address and phone number. “We’ll want you to come downtown and dictate a statement to a stenographer, then sign it.”
“That’s all I have to do?”
“It’s possible somebody from the coroner’s office will want to ask you some questions, but everything seems pretty straightforward.”
“He offed himself?”
Carlos nodded. “He offed himself. Any idea why he might have done that?”
She shrugged. “He was an unhappy man. I worked here three years, and he was unhappy all that time.”
Carlos made a note of that. He went into the living room, sat down, and called Chita.
“Hello, there. Everything okay?”
“As much as a suicide can be okay.”
“How did he do it?”
“Gunshot to the temple. A bedside drawer was open, so that’s probably where he kept the gun. What’s happening there?”
“Everybody’s shocked, but not exactly surprised. When I spoke to him yesterday he said he was depressed, that he was always depressed when he finished a script. He worked with a writer yesterday. You might want to speak to him.” She gave him the name and number. “Will you be there all day?”
“I’m about done, but I’ll have to go back to the office and write my report. I should be home in time for dinner.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said. “I found a key under a flower pot.”
“Just keep it,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
He hung up and found the tech standing there. “I’m d
one,” he said. “A wagon is on the way. They’ll pronounce him and get him to the morgue. I didn’t find anything to change my opinion of the circumstances.”
“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Carlos said. Suddenly, he was tired, but he still had to go downtown, and he had another stop to make.
61
TEDDY WOKE UP feeling terrible.
Sally was sitting in a chair beside the bed. “How do you feel?”
“Dead of a rattlesnake bite.”
“I’ll get the doctor. Don’t die while I’m gone.” She came back with a surprisingly mature physician.
“My name is Springer,” the man said. “I guess I’ve treated a dozen or so snakebites, but you’re the first victim who brought the snake with him. A very impressive animal. How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Teddy said.
“I’m not surprised. When they wheeled you in, you looked like a man who’d gone untreated for more than an hour after an attack.”
“I’m a little fuzzy on the timeline,” Teddy said. “Will I live?”
“Yes. The anti-venom did its work. You’re going to continue to feel like shit for a while. I don’t know if you know this, but the chances of dying from a snakebite in this country are just about zero.”
“That’s very comforting.”
“Still, you came about as close as anybody ever does, I think. A snake that size could pump a lot of venom in a very short time. How did you kill the thing?”
“With my hands,” Teddy said. “It was all I had. Listen, I need to be back at work on Monday.”
“Good luck with that,” the doctor said, “but if you want to get released from this joint, you’d better start getting better, and fast. It’s bad publicity for a patient to walk out of here and then die. Our board wouldn’t like it.”
“Doctor,” Teddy said, “you put whatever you need to in my chart, but early Monday morning, maybe sooner, I’m taking a hike.”
The doctor threw up his hands. “I’ll alert the media.” He walked out.
Someone else passed the doctor on the way in. “Good morning, Mr. Barnett,” Carlos Rivera said. “The gate guard at the Arrington told me I might find you here.”
“Welcome to my torture chamber,” Teddy said.
“I thought you might like to know that last night, Dax Baxter died.”
Teddy tried to look surprised. “Really? Did an actor or a director do it?”
“Mr. Baxter saved them the trouble,” Carlos replied. “It was suggested that I speak to you, but you seem to have a very good alibi. I saw the snake downstairs. They have it in a jar in the ER.”
“I hope they’re charging for viewings,” Teddy said.
“I just wanted to see that you’re recovering, and I can see you are.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
“I’ve got to run. I have a report to file, ‘Death by self-inflicted gunshot.’ If I don’t see you again, good luck to you.”
“Thank you,” Teddy replied, and the detective left.
Sally came and put her head on his chest. “Never a dull moment with you,” she said.
“You’re not the first to tell me that,” Teddy replied.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open them. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Random House LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.
Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)
If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Sara Minnich at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.
A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stuart Woods is the author of more than seventy novels. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs, his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot, Woods lives in Florida, Maine, and New Mexico.
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