The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Ten yards farther on, I stopped.

  The curtain of leaves and branches overhead was thick enough that only random shafts of sunlight filtered through to make small patches of brightness on the earth. I didn’t see anything around me except smooth trunks of eucalyptus and the occasional rough dark bark of pepper trees among them, their rich green tiny-leafed branches drooping toward the ground. Plus a few low, wiry shrubs, and the splash of colors from wild flowers growing.

  I could hear something, not the rustle of movement but a voice — from the Butterfly set below, amplified by the PA system. A man’s voice; it sounded like Sammy Shapiro. I knew he should be finishing his introduction of Aralia very soon now, but I couldn’t make out the words. I moved on, as quietly as I could but fast, bent forward and trying to look in three or four directions at once. The ground underfoot slanted downward more steeply, and there were fewer trees, more open space.

  I could feel that familiar tightness starting in me, a pulling, almost a quivering, of nerve and muscle, the not really unpleasant coolness and clenching around my solar plexus. I got a glimpse of color below, figures, parts of the set, green of lawn and glassy stillness of the shallow pool where those carp had died and floated belly-up in the water.

  A few more feet ahead, I stopped. Here nothing obstructed my view of the scene two hundred yards away, but I’d not yet taken a good look at what was going on down there, still busy looking around, straining my eyes. Here were a few eucalyptus, a half-dozen pepper trees with their thin heavily leafed branches hanging so low, even trailing on the ground, that they looked like large soft green bushes. But nothing human, no stir of movement, no sound.

  I could clearly hear that man’s voice, though, the speaker at the mike. The words were carried softly to me, audible enough so I had no difficulty recognizing Sammy Shapiro’s voice as he said, . . . and my next picture is gonna be released come November, in time for being considered when they give out them Oscars.

  Jesus, I thought. The clunk may still be up there, selling Doubless stock, when Aralia glides into view. She could glide right on through him, too.

  While mentally groaning, I pulled the ticking stopwatch from my pocket. Not quite two p.m. yet. Seven seconds to go. Which, of course, was about nine and a half minutes less than would have been adequate. Lindstrom’s computer-controlled laser beam had been scanning nothingon that little cube filled with a whole universe of holographic wiggles for two minutes and fifty-three seconds, and from here on it was merely a matter of counting the ticks down to zero — like the countdown for a rocket liftoff or those last few moments before the bomb explodes — and then would commence the inevitable, undelayable, bare and beautiful exit of Aralia from the teahouse door.

  No way now to avoid fiasco; no way to stop it; no way to shut Sammy’s wide-open mouth.

  That’s what I kept telling myself.

  But I was wrong.

  He did it, he crammed it all in, he got it said.

  I didn’t expect him to do it and I’m not quite sure how he did it, or how he managed to time the thing so perfectly; but he did it. To give Sammy Shapiro his due, though, that was very often said about Sammy. After the fact. After he’d done it.

  Seven seconds to go —

  But I only threw that in because I’m picking up the tab here —

  Five seconds —

  — so I’m entitled.

  Four —

  Now I already told you plenty about what we got in store right now, which is plenty —

  Two —

  — so here’s the livin’ doll we all wanna meet —

  One —

  Aralia Fields, our hoo-hoo, youbetterbleeve it, MISS NAKED CALIFORNIA!

  Zero —

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ZERO, that final mental tick, smack on target, blastoff — there she was.

  Simultaneously, or at most a mere half second after their first eight-hundred-eyed glimpse of Aralia bursting into view and moving from their left to right clad, except for high-heeled shoes, only in cool air and hot sunlight, there was a wildly raucous blast of noise, shouts, whistles, only a small part of it a faint but still horrible blaaahh and the rest a crude exhibition of male crudeness, or perhaps more accurately an audible accompaniment to the sudden surging of lust, or desire — or I suppose one might simply have called it instant horniness, for Aralia had been right, they sure did sound horny — and four hundred little men in the toy Japanese village down there rose to their teensy feet, applauding their bitsy hands, giving an enthusiastic standing ovation to —

  I grabbed the binoculars slung by their leather strap over my shoulder. I had to have an up-close gander at this.

  In the second or two before I got the glasses to my eyes, a series of odd impressions trickled into my thought. First was how different it all looked from up here, above it but only two hundred yards away. The shrubs and rocks in the Japanese garden looked like a kid’s playthings; the Great Wall was an obviously warped and paint-daubed strip of cardboard without any apparent width at all; the pool was a thin spill of water, the men wee machines, wound up and programmed to wave, gesticulate, issue little whoops, until they ran down. Illusion, illusion, all illusion, except —

  The lovely, naked, shapely, so-bright-she-seemed-burning little doll stepping from the foot-high oriental dollhouse, with sweet sweep of tiny thigh and high thrust of tiny breasts, that was real — no . . . I had it backward, that was the most total, the most perfect, illusion of all.

  As I brought the glasses to my eyes, turned the knurled knob to adjust the focus, that last idle thought brought another thought, not idle but startling, disturbing, into my mind. If Aralia had mischievously decided to cancel the film and make a personal appearance in its place, perhaps in order more tangibly to feel what all those whooping dreamers were thinking, there was no way I could know it — unless she performed some act or spoke some word not in the film itself.

  For a moment it really scared me, but then wild surmise faded and died. Aralia was wacky, and generous, and hugely unconventional, and many other things; but she was not totally out of her pretty gourd. I didn’t have to worry about her pulling anything as senseless as that, particularly in view of all the work we’d put into production of this moment.

  Just before placing the glasses to my eyes a miniature Miss Naked California had been walking from my left to right — exactly, of course, as she had in the central room at Lindstrom Labs and again here alone, except for me, this morning — about halfway to the mark,where she would turn and step toward the microphone.

  Sammy, to my great relief, had not even pretended he was about to grab with clutching hands some portion of Aralia’s anatomy and wrestle it two falls out of three, but instead had stood by the microphone as Aralia appeared; had bent forward visibly as he eyeballed her; had performed a quiver, much as might a hairy dog after not quite drowning in the lake; and then walked away, heading around the pool toward all the other men. Looking back over his shoulder most of the time, true. But he hadn’t touched her; or, rather, had not tried to touch her, which was fortunate for all, including Sammy, since that might have caused him to shake somewhat more vigorously than he had the first time.

  The blur before my eyes got less fuzzy, and then suddenly sharp and bright — and near — was the face, the form, of Aralia. She was turning, stepping toward the microphone. There she stopped, raised her right arm high, that right breast lifting and then rippling with sun-gilded movement as she waved her hand.

  Next would be the left arm, equally enthusiastic wave of left hand. Right I was; there it went, flashing up, bringing both of those prize-winning points or point-winning prizes in her march to the only really authentic beauty-contest title in the land rippling, or also waving, as Aralia fluttered both hands high over her head.

  Sound soft against my ears made the illusion even more convincing, for Aralia was beginning her little speech.

  I watched through the glasses for a few seconds as she began: Hi,
men! And thanks, you sweet darlings, for this wonderful welcome!

  When figuring out a few things Aralia might say, all three of us had agreed that this should be a safe-enough opening, since it seemed unlikely her appearance would be greeted with stony silence. We’d allowed a brief pause both before and after her next comment, too, and all of it was working splendidly. So far.

  I can’t tell you how wonderful you’ve made me feel with this great big welcome. Well . . . I could . . . but— then a slight swaying movement closer to the mike, and the softer more intimate voice from — apparently from — those sweetly smiling lips — I’d better not.

  Yeah, good thing we’d left plenty of quiet space there during which the guys could hoo-hoo for a while. I lowered the binoculars, let the glasses dangle at the end of their leather strap, having decided it was time I started checking the area again.

  I tried to put myself mentally back down there, where Aralia was now, at the moment when I’d caught that quick bright flash of light in my eyes. From down there, looking up, it had come from somewhere along in here but more to my right then. So I started moving left, trying to look ahead while at the same time watching for twigs or small limbs, or even pebbles, on the ground near my feet.

  Aralia’s recorded voice floated up to me. I want you to know it’s really a pleasure to see all of you. I mean, see all of you. Oh, golly . . . you-all?

  The boys had a lot of fun with that. Even while looking for pebbles and twigs, I wondered how come the dialogue sounded so much steamier than it had the first time or two. Undoubtedly because four hundred guys were listening to it now.

  I guessed about half of Aralia’s minute was used up, and I was sort of creeping forward, slightly bent over, one foot in the air, when I stopped moving. Just stopped. Foot still in air, then lowered, slowly and carefully down.

  I hadn’t seen anything, or heard anything. At least, not that I was aware of. Maybe there’d been a sound or movement that hadn’t quite registered, a little ripple on some subconscious level . . . but something had stopped me, jarred me. I stood very still, moving my eyes from side to side, straining to hear.

  Don’t forget, now, next Sunday I’ll be competing in the Miss Naked USA finals — right here in wonderful sunny California — and I hope all you wonderful men will come to see me . . . and the other forty-nine girls.

  Nothing, not up here.

  Aralia, the rest of it, filtered in, barely touching awareness. I was aware, without really giving any attention to it, that Aralia was about to speak her final words, because the last part of her minute included the time it took her to turn, and go back into the teahouse the way she’d come out to the mike — exactly the same way, same chalk marks in reverse order, which had been the simplest method for filming the action in the time available to us last night.

  I didn’t catch all the words — nor could those four hundred steamed-up men have heard them all, either, because building almost ominously was a chorus of phrases flung out from the gang down there, and a rumble of just plain indecipherable sound, because they very likely knew Aralia was ending her talk, about to leave, and they didn’t want her to leave, and I didn’t blame them.

  Immediately in front of me, only a couple of feet away, the thin but heavily leafed outer branches of a pepper tree drooped to the ground. I could see with unusual clarity the masses of little red pods, but I couldn’t see clearly into the center of the tree, couldn’t see the earth around its trunk at all. The branches of some of the pepper trees here on the hillside were so thickly bunched, and the small narrow leaves so abundant upon them, that it would have been possible for a horse to stand in the hidden space enclosed by the green barrier without being seen.

  So it was, of course, possible that a man could be concealed even beneath the tree I was almost touching. Or one beyond it somewhere. Or the one right behind me.

  And I knew something had stuck me, made the muscles in the small of my back start to ridge and tighten.

  . . . even though, with so many of those other absolutely beautiful girls competing, I probably don’t have even a chance to win . . .

  Not according to the sounds arising down there, as of starving savages dancing around the missionary pot, I thought with very little of my attention. During that, I had taken one step forward, reached out to part those thin branches, feeling the softness of the small leaves tickling the backs of my hands. Parted them, bent forward, looked through. Tree trunk, nothing else, except an almost level mass of pepper pods and drying leaves on the ground.

  I moved ahead, circling to get around the tree, continued past it and toward another, equally full and bushy, five yards farther on. I was moving faster now, because if a man was anywhere up here — and I was again beginning to doubt it somewhat, since Aralia had been clearly, very clearly, in view for most of those sixty seconds already — his attention almost surely would be concentrated on Aralia, and the activity below.

  So thank you all again, darlings. I’ve had fun being here with you, I really do mean it. And I can’t think of anything more to say . . . or do . . . except maybe to . . . blow you all a little bitty kiss! Just to say thanks, from me to you —

  Then a sort of mwaa, accompanied by a nice little smacky sound.

  I wasn’t looking, but I knew this was where Aralia pressed both hands to her luscious lips and then threw that little bittygreat big juicy almost alive-and-kicking kiss at them, as might twin Davids sling flaming boulders at outnumbered Goliaths, then waved a last time and turned, one hundred and eighty degrees, to leave, which would also present a quite memorable view to the throng.

  Yes, she was about to leave, all right, because I heard again that blaaaaahh, faint but distinctly virulent even from this safer distance, as the band gave briefly posing and then lingeringly departing Aralia what I assumed was their best fannyfare.

  That’s when the first shot was fired.

  The solid crack of the gun came from ahead of me, nearby, not from the tree I’d been moving toward but somewhere beyond it. I sprinted ahead, digging my feet into the soft earth, saw nothing but kept going.

  Tree, monster pepper, straight ahead, thickest and greenest so far, and — from it, from somewhere within that tangled mass of green I was sure — the rifle cracked sharply again.

  And this time, though still moving forward, I snapped my head right, stared toward the movement below. Even slowed, to make sure I found her with my eyes. She was still walking away, about to make a sharp left turn at her markand step from my right to left, toward the teahouse.

  That was enough of a look for me, and I simply plowed ahead with the determination in mind that I was going to hit the outer branches of that pepper tree and go through them like a bulldozer and grab whoever was triggering the rifle and trying to kill Aralia. . . .

  I slowed down a little more.

  Why all the hurry, and uprooting of harmless trees, this snarling and gnashing of teeth on the way? She was all right. The bastard, whoever he was, had not been shooting at her, but merely poking little unseen holes in a laser-and-holograph-fashioned, electronically vitalized, computer-controlled light sculpture picture of Aralia.

  As, right then — just before I reached him — with two quick sharp one-right-after-the-other blasts, he poked two more holes into her sweet and airy flesh.

  Even for me, now, the real kept slipping into the unreal, because despite acquaintance and even familiarity, it was difficult to keep firm grasp on the slippery concept of pictures that were people until you shook their hands or touched them, or maybe — as surely had occurred to numerous fellows in the last minute — tried to kiss them, or, of course, tried to shoot them. Especially when you had no idea there were any such pictures.

  And that thought is really what prepared me for the guy with the rifle. Prepared me for him, if not him for me, and perhaps helped me to understand his mental condition much more quickly than if that thought had not been in my mind.

  I slowed enough so thumping footsteps wouldn’t
tip him of my approach — not that it would have made much difference — then parted branches, saw him flat on his stomach beyond the rough brown trunk with the soles of his shoes a foot from it, in the rifleman’s prone position with leather strap around his upper arm, eye behind the mounted scope atop the gleaming barrel.

  But he wasn’t aiming when I spotted him. The rifle slipped over sideways as his grip loosened, and he turned his head to look at it strangely.

  I bent low, stepped toward him, brushing against the brown bark and ready to kick his head off. I wasn’t trying to make a lot of noise, but I wasn’t tiptoeing either, and he must have heard some of my crashing about.

  But he did not seem to be aware of anything unusual occurring.

  What the sonofabitch?I heard him say. Did you see that?

  He wasn’t looking at me. The unlikely impression I got was that he was talking to his rifle.

  Yeah, he was.

  With his left hand he shook the thing sharply and said, Well, you dumb crapper, do you believe it?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IT was a queer sensation. For me, I mean.

  I’d come galloping at high speed over the landscape, all fired up; then slowed to a lope on the way, realizing the rifleman wasn’t really doing anything, only trying to do something; then, fully prepared to crash through branches and tear the killer limb from limbs, I had slowed down some more; and now if I got much slower, I’d be going backward.

  Still, I had it in mind to hit this guy hard enough to knock his face off, so I continued approaching him, but not very fast.

  I got down on one knee by him and raised my right arm over my head, fist all bunched up like a terrible hammer, and was just that far away from crashing it down on the sad-looking little old guy, who I guess was close to sixty, with thin gray hair, pale grayish eyes, quite glazed and glassily staring eyes they were, and shiny grayish skin — yes, I was going to crash it down on the old boy anyway — when he turned his head and looked up at me there looming over him and just that far from popping him.