Alias

by Amy J. Fetzer

  She worked the Internet, looking through the new movie’s Web site, the past film sites; pulling up his public financial status, she almost laughed. Maurice was rich as sin, but the report showed that he was just comfortable. Oh, yeah, pay for a four-million-dollar estate in Beverly Hills on that, and bring the IRS in full force. It proved to her that Maurice was clever, and devious. Capable of anything.

  And just why did I marry this man? The same answer came. He was handsome, rich, a powerful movie producer, and while he could have had any woman, he’d chosen her.

  He’d had his reasons, though she hadn’t seen it then. He thought he could mold and control her and, in a way, he had. He’d given polish and sophistication to a girl whose father was just a scribbled name on a birth certificate and whose mother was a drunk. Since Maurice still kept her mother loaded and in luxury, Darcy didn’t consider calling her. She’d tell Maurice just to keep those cushy surroundings.

  And why not?

  Life on Maurice’s estate was a far cry from Darcy’s youth of living in cheap apartments and being evicted when her mother lost jobs because of her drinking. Delores had constantly mourned the loss of her beauty, spending more time with “I remember when” than working to improve herself or at least get into a rehab center. Delores had been married three times and thought she needed a man to be whole. Darcy knew otherwise. Sometimes, when it was really bad, she’d lashed out at Darcy, blaming her birth for all her troubles. It was painful to hear, and the booze was doing the talking, she knew. But for a long time, she’d believed it.

  She pushed herself to make good grades, as if that would win her mother’s love and make her stop drinking. Of course, it hadn’t. When she was invited to attend Athena Academy, all expenses paid by the school, she’d thought she’d been granted asylum in a foreign country. Athena made her see her own potential. Maurice had slowly taken that away.

  God I was a sap, she thought, disgusted, and she focused on finding information on Fairchild.

  An hour later she learned something surprising.

  Porche Fairchild was not who she seemed. Though the name said money and affluence, Porche’s real name was Patty Fogerty. She’d changed it legally just before receiving her MBA and stepping into the business world. Like Darcy, she’d gone to college on scholarships and had worked a job, as well, interning with William Morris Agency. From the records of investments, Porche had done some creative financing, and while Darcy couldn’t see anything wrong in the numbers, it made her wonder how she’d become so rich so fast and why she’d then vanished. Was she into something illegal, something that had forced her to skip out before she was caught?

  There wasn’t a single article or mention of Porche in any magazine or newspaper in three years, and the two she did find were about her sudden absence from the financial world. An undisclosed spokesman’s statement said that Ms. Fairchild was on sabbatical.

  Bunk. It was sad that the absence of a bright young woman with a great mind would go unnoticed for so long. Porche didn’t have any family. Darcy wondered if there’d been anyone she could depend on, someone who might have cared enough to file a missing person’s report.

  The image hit a little close and Darcy grew more determined to find out what happened to the woman.

  The only other mention was an old piece in Variety and a production notice. So if Fairchild’s finance business was closed, what had happened to her accounts, her money? Her home? Checking her last known address brought up a real-estate listing. The house had been sold three years ago and was up for sale again.

  Nice digs, Darcy thought, noting the Bel Air address. She called the real-estate agent but the woman wasn’t forthcoming on the circumstances, which raised her suspicions. Darcy made another call to Porche’s former office number and got a deli somewhere in Fremont, CA. She found an old staff listing and called Fairchild’s assistant, Marianna Vasquez, but the woman worked for a bank and was away on business. She made a note to call her later.

  She struck gold when she surfed free credit reports and learned Porche’s last open personal transaction was two nights before Maurice had come home hugging his briefcase.

  While film and movie finances weren’t public record, Darcy went out on a limb and tried to access the personal accounts she’d shared with Maurice.

  Maurice had changed the pass code, but after a few tries, she found that it was only by two digits. Idiot. She hit the key and the screen blinked to life. Pages and pages of account history scrolled past.

  “Well, well, look at that money trail, Maury.”

  Darcy smiled, typing in the dates to narrow the field. She kept bringing the search down tighter and tighter, and her eyes blurred from reading so many numbers.

  Maurice had been a wealthy man when she married him, and she’d had unlimited funds and all the perks that went with them. Now, Maurice could afford three wives and she wondered when enough was enough. Twenty million? Thirty? Of his last three movies before Dead Game, Maurice had coproduced only the last two. Apparently the studios had lost enough confidence that he’d had to go to Fairchild for the third, Dead Game. Maurice would have had to convince her to finance the film.

  Darcy’s eyebrows knitted and she sat back, remembering he’d been having trouble getting funds because, while the script was good, the star, Ben Collier, hadn’t had much success. Thirty-five million in production was a lot to ride on maybe.

  She glanced at her freezer. Megan had given the bags to her last night and Darcy was so tired and busy with Charlie that she’d just thrown them in there. She knew she needed more than burned clothes to back up her theory. She had to be extremely careful. Her life and her son’s depended on it.

  Darcy saved the file and printed the documents, then left her small home office to wake Charlie. She couldn’t do much else from Nevada. Though she didn’t want to be in the same state as Maurice, she had to do some firsthand snooping. She needed some special equipment, she thought, kissing her son awake.

  And she knew just who to call.

  Darcy threw open the door and smiled. Jack blinked as if stunned.

  “What?”

  “Been a while since I’ve seen you smile like that, I guess. It looks good on you.”

  His gaze flowed over her body. In jeans and a strapless red top, she must look pretty silly, considering it was cold outside.

  “Thanks for coming, Jack.” She pushed open the screen door. “Come in.”

  Removing his hat, he stepped inside. “You going to tell me what you need all this camera equipment for?” He offered her a black duffel bag.

  “No, not really. Does it matter?” Darcy really didn’t know if she was going to need it, but she wanted to be prepared.

  “Just don’t implicate me in anything illegal.”

  She rolled her eyes, taking the bag. “And here I thought you were the adventurous type.” She walked down the hall to the kitchen, inclining her head for him to follow. She could feel his gaze on her, as if it were rubbing over her skin. It made her insides tighten and she busied herself with getting him some coffee.

  He readily accepted, groaning as he sipped.

  “Tough night gathering the bad guys?” She sipped her own.

  “Paperwork.” He glanced around the kitchen. “What’s all this?” He motioned to the bucket on the kitchen table, then peered into it. “Plaster?”

  “I’m making faces, masks.” Her kitchen looked like a lab and she wondered at the wisdom of having him here right now.

  “Mind if I hang around and watch?”

  She hesitated for a second. “No, of course not. Actually I’d love a little help keeping an eye on Charlie since I’m alone.”

  “No problem. Where is he?”

  “Living room. Cartoons and grape juice.”

  Jack set his cup down and gave her a look that said, can I see him? She smiled and nodded, following Jack into the room.

  They found Charlie in his pj’s, tucked in a corner of the sofa like a bunny burrowed in for t
he winter. His face was smeared with jelly, a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand. Darcy didn’t think Jack would get a rise out of her son, he wasn’t interested in anything but the cartoons. She was wrong.

  “Hey, pal.”

  Charlie looked up, grinning widely. “Jack!” He shot off the couch and plowed into Jack’s knees.

  Jack lifted him and her son looked so tiny in his arms. “So what’s with this?” He pointed to his chest, and when Charlie looked down, Jack nudged his nose up.

  Charlie giggled and something inside her fell a little harder for Jack. He was so good to Charlie.

  “You wanna watch Transformers with me?”

  “Maybe later, I’m going to help your mom for a bit. If that’s okay.”

  Her son looked disappointed for a second till the cartoon came back on. Jack set him down, then followed Darcy back to the kitchen.

  She added more plaster powder to the water, stirring.

  “So explain this.”

  “I’ve got to make a fresh cast of my face in relief before I can build a mask. My old form is getting mushy.” She gestured to the plaster head and shoulders sitting on a stand that secured it to the edge of the table.

  “I make a relief of my own face, then make a cast from that and put it on the head form. It’s hard and solid. Then with soft latex and foam, I build a new face on top of that. That way it fits over mine without any wrinkles or gaps.”

  “Can you put that stuff on anyone?” From a plastic box, he picked up a fake nose, a chin and half a lip.

  “Yeah, in a crunch, but you have to fill in the space between the skin and the latex with a fast-drying foam and it leaves it hard, so the facial features don’t move with the wearer. It has to be thin where it contacts with the major muscles of the face, so it moves with expressions. If it doesn’t fit, it sort of defeats the purpose. Too noticeable.”

  He took up his coffee, his gaze moving over her equipment. “I’ve seen you in these masks a lot, but you never said where you learned all this.”

  She stopped stirring for a second, then continued. “I wanted to work on movies and took a course.”

  It was a bald-faced lie, Darcy thought, but she couldn’t say more. Nor could she look at Jack and say it. It was hard to lie to him, even if it was to protect herself and Charlie.

  “Over the years, I’ve just gotten better at it, studied, tried different approaches.” The truth was Darcy had worked on movies for a few years before she married Maurice, then a couple after. She’d studied acting in college, and had gotten a couple of good minor roles in films, but she preferred the hair, makeup, and mostly, special-effects facial mechanics.

  “Is this human hair?”

  She glanced up, struggling with the mix as the plaster thickened. He held a sample from her selection of bound locks of hair. “Yeah, I have to put each hair in individually to make the hairline look authentic. Then put on a wig and blend the hair so there’s no line.”

  Jack sipped his coffee, picking up the facial mask she’d used the other night, then riffling through the box of wigs and hairpieces. Darcy even had stuff to make her look like a man.

  “You really think all this will protect you?”

  “It has so far.” He was more interested in watching her than the process, she thought.

  “I think that roundhouse kick and your wicked knife do more.”

  “I do this to avoid being recognized. No one can trace me.”

  “Stopping altogether would help.”

  “You walk into danger every time you hunt a bounty, so just because I’m a woman—”

  “A woman with a child to think about.”

  Darcy groaned, stirring. “Leave it alone, Jack.”

  “I just don’t want to see anything happen to you, Piper.”

  “Why?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat, sipping his coffee. “If I have to say, then you’re not as smart as I thought.”

  She met his gaze and wondered why she always felt stripped naked when he was near. “Must you stare?”

  “You’re an exceptionally pretty woman, why shouldn’t I stare?”

  She gave him a dry look. “It’s confirmed, your taste is all in your mouth. I look like a drowned rat.” She fluffed her hair and Jack leaned over the table.

  “Why is it so hard for you to take a compliment?”

  She met his gaze head on. “I haven’t had many.”

  His eyebrows shot up and those intense eyes roamed her body from feet to hair. “Maybe they didn’t have the guts to say.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It could be the barrier around you that’s better than a castle wall.”

  She looked him over, liking what she saw too much. “A girl has to protect herself from those unseemly types.”

  “Ouch.”

  She motioned him close and he set aside the coffee and came to her. “Here’s where you come in. I’d take off your jacket if I were you.”

  He stripped out of the bomber jacket and hung it on a peg by the back-porch door with his hat. His T-shirt stretched tight across those massive shoulders and bulging muscles and Darcy almost lost her train of thought just looking at him.

  He arched an eyebrow, the look saying he caught her staring. Hurriedly, she slipped on a headband that pulled her hair back off her face, then wrapped her hair in a turban.

  “Unattractive, I know.” She sat in the kitchen chair. “I’m going to apply the first layer, but when I get to the places around my nose and mouth and ears, can you do the rest?”

  “Sure. Just tell me how.”

  She explained that there couldn’t be any air pockets and to tap the plaster lightly to get them out. “And I won’t be ignoring you if you talk—I can’t answer, lip movement destroys the details.”

  She scooped up a blob of the plaster and started smearing it over her hairline, her jaw, throat and then down onto her chest.

  “That far?” he said.

  That was why she wore the strapless top. When she’d covered nearly all of her face, she inserted two straws into her nose so she could breathe, then motioned for him to add more. Jack rolled up his sleeves and spread plaster.

  She had a notepad on her lap and a pencil to scribble advice. She felt his touch, the gentleness of it belying his big hands as he made sure the plaster was in and around her ears, and then down on her throat and lower.

  Don’t get fresh, she wrote when his hand smoothed over the swells of her breasts. Her nipples tightened and her mind went into fantasyland when he kept smoothing the cool plaster slowly.

  “I’m just doing what you want, Piper.”

  Not quite, she thought, and reached to inspect the thickness and texture, making certain she was completely covered.

  “How long do we wait?” he asked.

  She scribbled, Till it dries, dingy. 20 mins. The fan set up close by hastened the process. Then she wrote again, Eye on Charlie, likes to jump on the couch. She heard Jack’s soft chuckle and barely made out his footsteps as he walked away.

  Darcy tried to relax and be still, yet her mind was running at full speed. She didn’t like that she couldn’t see Jack or what he was doing. But she could feel him when he came close. When the mold was done, she tapped the table and he was there to help her lift it off.

  “I hate that part, makes me feel like I’m buried alive.”

  She stood and placed the relief in a frame padded with cotton, then excused herself to wash up and change into a T-shirt. When she came back Jack was exactly where she’d left him.

  “Charlie? You want some eggs or cereal?” she said as she tipped the relief so it was level and started building barriers around it with thin sheets of metal and pins.

  “Toaster tarts!” he called back and Jack chuckled.

  “Oh, I so don’t think so.” Bending, she inserted metal frame pins to hold the irregular shape in place.

  “Mom,” he whined.

  “Pick one, kiddo.”

  “Eggs,” Char
lie said, sulking as she started mixing chemicals and plaster.

  “You look like a mad scientist with all that,” Jack said.

  “This will make the face form mine, in relief. It’s plaster, but it has a liquid plastic hardener that will make it come out of the mold and stay hard. Then I’ll just take the old head form, cut the face off, and apply a fresh one.”

  “Yes, Dr. Mengela.”

  Her chuckle was sinister as she slowly blended the plaster with a kitchen hand mixer. “Then I mix up the polymer clay and with some foam, start building the face.”

  “Should I be concerned that you’ll develop dual personalities?” he asked, lifting a full mask of a man’s face.

  She smiled. “No, I like being a woman. I put that on the women I help, Jack, so the trail vanishes and nothing can be traced back to here, and Charlie.”

  “But this underground railroad you’re part of—”

  “Don’t mention the illegalities, please.” He harped on that a lot.

  “You said it, not me. What if something happens while you’re moving through it? It’s so secret even the cops can’t find the trail.”

  “Why would they want to? Safe house means in secret. A lawyer and a cop come to the women and take pictures and statements at a different location. It’s a requirement to remain at the safe house that they file formal charges and appear in court if they have to.”

  “They’d like to have authority over it. Make sure nothing gets thrown out of court on a technicality.”

  “Hasn’t yet.”

  Jack moved to the stove, pulling out a small frying pan. “Man, you are so stubborn.”

  “Look who’s talking.” Darcy looked over her shoulder, her expression questioning.

  “Charlie’s eggs.”

  “Thanks. Scrambled.”

  “Oh good, the only kind I can do.”

  “Make some for yourself if you want.”

  Darcy felt weird. He’d been here before, just not for long and certainly not cooking in her kitchen. She didn’t want to think about how comfortable it felt to have him here. When he was done, he cleaned up and took the plate to Charlie, and since the kitchen table was occupied with her latex, he had Charles sit at the coffee table. Then he plopped down beside her son and joined him.