Take Four

by Karen Kingsbury

  He and the other office followed, moving down the steps, watching the horrific scene. Neighbors were outside their houses, lined up along the sidewalk catching all the drama. It was Sunday night, and even though it was ten o’clock, most of them must’ve heard the commotion, seen the flashing lights.

  Cody ignored the gawking stares and forced himself to think, to figure out what was supposed to happen next. When he was thirteen and his mother had been arrested, child protective services stepped in and handled everything—including helping him find a foster home only hours later. In high school he wound up living with the Flanigan family, and then after graduation he joined the Army.

  But here…now…he was a man, even if he was only a twenty-two-year-old college student. The police would expect him to handle his mother’s court dates, her legal matters, and whatever else laid ahead. He turned to the mustached officer, the one beside him. “What happens next?”

  “We’re taking her to the Bloomington jail. You can post bail, if you’d like. They’ll have all the information down there.” He checked his watch. “You can follow us down to the station.”

  “Okay.” Cody could barely focus on all the details. “What about the courts? And her parole?” His head was spinning. He had a history exam first thing in the morning, and he wasn’t sure he had enough money in the bank to cover her bail.

  “She’ll have an arraignment in the next few days, and a judge will look at the evidence. Because of her past record, the decision will be made without a jury trial. She’ll probably be sentenced pretty quickly.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Your mother’s right about Benny Dirk. He threatened to kill her and her family.”

  His blood ran cold. He watched the car pull away with his mother in the backseat. Then he turned back to the officer. “You know that for sure?”

  “He left a phone message.” The officer checked his notepad. “Dirk’s a very bad guy. He’s vindictive. If he could get back at your mother by killing you, he’d do it. We think he’s killed before in Indianapolis and Columbus, Ohio.” The officer scowled. “He doesn’t get caught. But when your mom told him she was calling us, he went ballistic. Left a death threat on her voicemail. With that and her testimony, we might have enough to put him away.” He shook his head. “But we have to catch him first.”

  Cody felt like he was back on the battlefield of Iraq. Death threats? He pictured the enemy firing at him and his guys…near an abandoned building in the Iraqi desert. He could feel the heat of the desert, see the sand stretched out in every direction. But this time he wasn’t armed, he didn’t have a platoon of guys around him. Just him against a crazy drug dealer. The futility of the moment sucked the wind from his lungs. Was this really happening? And what about Bailey and the Flanigans? How could he call her and tell her his mother had been arrested for dealing drugs? The Flanigan family would help him once he found a way to tell them. But first the police had to catch Benny Dirk.

  Again he could practically feel his Army uniform hot against his skin, feel the sweaty helmet and taste the desert dust in his mouth. Suddenly another thought hit him. If he was in danger, that meant…

  “Bailey…” he whispered her name, and then glanced at the officer.

  The guy didn’t hear him. He was radioing something to the car that now held his mother in the back seat.

  Cody couldn’t make out anything the officer was saying, because suddenly he couldn’t shake the horrific thought. If there was a risk…if there was even a possibility that his presence in Bailey’s life could put her in danger, then—

  “They’re ready to pull out.” The officer motioned for Cody to follow.

  “Yes, sir.” Scenes flashed in Cody’s mind…getting orders from his sergeant…heading out to the mission that went awry…getting captured by the enemy…Cody blinked, shaking off the images. He walked slowly back to the car, avoiding the stares and whispers from the neighbors. But even so he had to admit the obvious: he was messy. His life was messy. Because the only family he had was cuffed and drugged and crying and on her way to the police station. And now both their lives were in danger. He was a former alcoholic, with a war injury that would last a lifetime, and a mother who would spend the rest of her days in and out of prison using drugs, dealing, and exposing Cody and whoever he might be dating to the sort of tawdry, dangerous lifestyle that went along with the drug culture. And now danger would follow him until Benny Dirk was arrested.

  What business did he have even thinking about Bailey Flanigan?

  As he climbed in his car, he looked at his mother in the back of the police car. She was no longer crying out, as far as he could tell. Her head was hung so far forward her neck looked broken. As they pulled away, she didn’t look up or motion to him or make any connection at all. She didn’t need to.

  The lights on the police car said all there was to say.

  Ten

  BRANDON PAUL WAS PRETTY SURE HE’D made a mistake by agreeing to the lead role in Unlocked. The closer they got to filming, the more people came up to him on the street or in clubs, just about anywhere he was. They’d act surprised he’d taken a part in a Christian film, and they’d joke about how he was hardly a Christian role model.

  Now that the movie was supposed to shoot in just a few weeks, he was already sick of the pressure. He never promised to be a choir boy, so why was everyone expecting that? The comments only made him want to prove everyone wrong. He wasn’t a sissy Christian, no sir. And in the last few months he’d gone out of his way to silence anyone who thought differently.

  One problem: his partying was getting a little too crazy. He had tried, but he hadn’t found a way to slow himself down. Between the late nights and the drinking and drugs and girls, he could barely remember one day to the next. He’d been with more ladies than he could count, and taken more drugs and combinations of drugs than he wanted to admit. Now it was Monday morning, and he could hardly get out of bed.

  His stomach hurt, and even the sliver of light from beneath his blinds was making his head pound. He groaned and grabbed a pillow from the other side of his bed. Only then did he realize he wasn’t alone. There was a girl beside him. He leaned up on his elbow and squinted at her. Who was she, and how did she get there? He had a standing agreement with his driver that he was never—no way, ever—allowed to bring a girl back to his house. It was one thing to hang with them at the club, fool around in the private rooms the club owners provided for him. But this?

  “Hey…” He nudged her once. Then again. “Hey!” he leaned closer to her, and the rancid smell of alcohol mixed with puke filled his nostrils. “Sick,” he whispered. He fought his own urge to throw up right there beside her. Instead he kicked the covers off and stumbled through the darkness to his dresser. His phone had to be somewhere. He groped around the tabletop, not wanting to turn on the lights. He had no idea what he’d find in his bed, but he didn’t want to see it. Finally he grasped his phone, and as the screen lit up his eyes narrowed in self-defense. His head was killing him now, and he realized he was still drugged or drunk. One of the two. The way his body felt, this was worse than a hangover. His driver lived in the back house, and he was always on call. Whatever Brandon needed.

  This was one of those times.

  He hit the button and waited while the phone rang. “Hey Brandon. What you need, man?”

  “Trace…” he whispered only loud enough for his driver to hear him. “There’s a girl in my bed.”

  “I know. You insisted.” Trace sounded frustrated. “I told you to leave her, man. Don’t you remember what you told me?”

  “How would I remember?” He winced at the pain in his head. “I barely remember my name.”

  “You told me you’d fire me, man. Told me I had to bring the girl back here or that was it. I could find a new job.”

  Brandon slumped against his bedroom wall. He rattled off a string of obscenities. “Look, man, I’m sorry. That wasn’t me.”

  “I told you that last night.” Trace sounded a l
ittle relieved. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Okay, okay.” He rubbed his temples, trying to focus. “I don’t know who she is or where she lives.” Every word took effort. “But I need her out of here. She’s…she’s made a mess in my bed.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Shut up.” Brandon needed Trace. The guy was the most loyal member of his staff. But he didn’t need sarcasm. Not feeling the way he did. “Just get the help in here, will you? Send one of the women. Someone to get her sobered up and dressed. Someone to clean the bed.”

  Again Brandon fought a wave of nausea. How had he let himself sink this low? What if the girl had diseases? He couldn’t remember what she looked like or where he’d met her or anything about what they might’ve done together.

  “I’m on it, boss. Don’t worry.” Trace hung up and Brandon set his phone down.

  What was he supposed to do now? He realized he was naked, and he pulled open his second dresser drawer to find a pair of shorts. He slipped them on and slunk out of his room, down the hall and into one of the guestrooms. There, he hit a button on the wall and the blinds shut out the glaring morning sunlight.

  The effort of getting here had taken all his energy, so as soon as the room was pitch black, he peeled back the covers and fell into bed. What was happening to him? If the paparazzi got wind that he’d brought a girl home—a total stranger, no less—they’d run it on the front pages the way they’d been running everything about him lately.

  All of which took him back to the first thought he’d had as he came to this morning. Why had he agreed to star in Unlocked? The producers were angry with him already. That’s the message his agent gave him yesterday. Brock Baker was the top agent in town, and he expected a high degree of professionalism from his clients. As soon as Brandon heard Brock’s tone he knew he was in trouble.

  “Look, buddy, I’ve talked to you about the partying. You have to keep it under wraps.” Brock sounded more frustrated than ever before. “The producers from Jeremiah Productions called. They tell me you’re in violation of your contract, the character clause.”

  “I don’t like that clause.”

  “Well, I do. It’ll keep you healthy and working.”

  “I’m perfectly healthy and I’ve got too many offers to work in a lifetime.” Brandon didn’t care if he sounded flip. He didn’t like anyone telling him what to do. Especially in light of the whole Christian thing.

  “I’m going to say this once, so listen hard.” Brock’s voice held a new sort of edge, one Brandon had never heard from him before. “You’re not invincible. Lots of guys as big as you go down in flames. They overdose, and a maid finds them face down, dead in their pillow. They drop cold on a sidewalk outside some club, or they get in a car wreck before their thirtieth birthday. The way you’re going, that’ll be you, Brandon. In our world, the brightest flames burn out the fastest.” He paused, and his intensity could be felt through the phone lines. “Tone it down. Before it’s too late.”

  The conversation stayed with Brandon through the night, but he didn’t heed it. Didn’t feel like heeding it. Why couldn’t he party and hang with a bunch of different girls? He’d earned this, right? The chance to do what he wantd when he was off the clock.

  Brandon rolled over in his guest bed, and through the walls he heard the sound of female voices. He had a staff of four workers who kept the house clean and cooked for him. The four workers and Trace were always available for anything he might need. Right now he didn’t envy them. The cleanup in the next room had to be horrific.

  He grimaced and tried to will their voices to quiet down. He remembered getting his agent’s call, and he remembered disregarding it. But he couldn’t remember anything after that, which could only mean one thing.

  His agent was right.

  He needed to tone it down. He wanted to have fun, sure, but he wanted to go the distance in his career. The thought of waking up next to a stranger again scared him. He could’ve just as easily not woken up at all. He was that unaware of his actions.

  Images of headlines from days and years gone by flashed in his mind—like Brock said, the brightest stars, burned out too soon. For the first time his fear wasn’t a fleeting feeling. It was real and alive, as if the girl in his bed had been replaced with a living fear twice his size. And now the fear breathed its hot breath in his face and laughed at him, mocking him because there wasn’t a thing Brandon could do to make it go away. No phone call or staff member who would cart it off.

  Fear this strong could work its way under his skin and stay there for an hour or a day. Maybe even forever. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. What was wrong with them? Had he taken something last night that made them stop working? Maybe that’s why he still wasn’t feeling right, hours after his wild night.

  Suddenly he remembered one other time he’d felt this afraid. It was the time some girl first mentioned her surprise he was starring in a Christian film. She had teased him, insinuating he must be a believer now and maybe he was changing his image. But he had kissed her square on the lips and told her he wouldn’t be turning Christian any time soon. That statement had stayed close to him, and with it this same sort of heart-stopping fear. He tried another breath. And another. And finally, since he couldn’t fill his lungs, he pushed the air out, exhaled as hard as he could.

  Come on? What was this? Why was he feeling like he wouldn’t live to see noon? Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he kicked off the covers once more. He couldn’t lie here, not another minute. He needed water. Water and a warm shower. That would help him feel better. But over the next hour, through a few glasses of cool water and after he’d taken a long hot shower, Brandon still felt a strange, strangling sort of anxiety. He dressed and checked his bedroom. The girl—whoever she was—had been taken away. Trace must’ve figured out where she lived. His bed was clean and freshly made, and a candle burned on the dresser

  —the staff’s way of ridding the room of the stench.

  He shuddered. How could he have let things get so out of control? The answer was obvious. It was because this was what he’d wanted, what he’d demanded. Life on his terms, no one telling him what to do. But here he was, having done what he wanted, and he felt terrible. He felt sick over whatever must’ve happened last night.

  Breathe, he ordered himself. Stop shaking and breathe.

  His body barely cooperated, so he powered up the blinds and let the sunlight hit him square in his face. It was a beautiful day outside—nothing but sunshine and great weather across Los Angeles. He was more sober now than before, so everything was okay, right? He didn’t need to be afraid of the impending night and all it held. No matter where he went or how he made it home, the morning always came.

  Brandon blinked, and realized his thoughts were rambling. As if maybe he weren’t okay. Maybe his brain had been messed up permanently by the drugs and drinking. He gulped another drink of air, and slowly he crossed his room and sat down. His parents wouldn’t recognize him now. They were back in Missouri, back in their slow lifestyle, living in the fear of the Lord—everything Brandon had rejected when he left home.

  His mother’s voice rang through his mind, the way it did more often these days. What good is it for a man to gain the whole world and yet forfeit his soul…? That’s what she’d reminded him when they had finally talked again for the first time after too many years of silence. Be careful, Brandon, she’d told him. God wants His people to forgive.

  Was that why these things were happening to him now? Was God finding him out? Was that this strange fear that wouldn’t leave his side, even now when he should’ve been well into his day? And was it because he was doing Unlocked that God was hunting him down? Because he had agreed to a Christian film? Did he really think he could avoid the wrath of God forever? Or that because he’d stopped believing in God that meant God ceased to be real?

  Another shiver ran over him, and he checked his email on his phone. Maybe he sho
uld write the producers a note and pull out. Better to stay clear of the whole Christianity thing. If the paparazzi looked too closely, they’d find a story that would make them run for photos and details. He could see the headlines now: ‘Brandon Paul, Former Sunday School Kid…’

  He’d worked so hard. He’d created a persona that left the past entirely behind, back in a place he never would’ve thought about visiting again.

  until now.

  His hands trembled as he looked through his mail, and there near the top of his inbox was something from Keith Ellison. Keith made him nervous. The guy had a way of looking straight through him. Dayne was easier. Dayne might be a believer now, all sold out to his faith or whatever, but not long ago he’d been exactly like Brandon. At least the two of them could relate to each other. Dayne was one of the reasons Brandon hadn’t pulled out of the picture already.

  He opened the email and read it. Apparently he was being flown back to Bloomington, Indiana, for a screen test with a fresh face, a new talent. A girl named Bailey Flanigan. Just to be sure they’d have chemistry together. The email included a video link to her first test and a short bio on her. A picture was also attached, and—as his interest piqued—Brandon suddenly forgot the fear he’d been running from all morning.

  In a few seconds, the photo downloaded and filled up the screen on his iPhone. A low whistle came from him and he stared at her, at those beautiful blue eyes. She was gorgeous, and not like the girls he knew in Hollywood. This girl would never be seen in a club—her shining eyes told him that much. Whoever she was, he could tell by looking at her that flying out for the screen test would be a waste of time. He would have chemistry with her wherever they filmed, whatever roles the two of them played.

  She looked like a doe-eyed starlet from a bygone era…when innocence was real and films—like life—were watched in black and white. Her cameo face and long shiny brown hair that hung in different lengths of layers around her cheekbones. Brandon sat up straighter in his seat. Maybe he’d stay with the movie after all. He clicked the video link and hovered over his phone, breathless as he waited for her reel to come to life. As it did, his admiration for her doubled. She might not have a lengthy bio, and this might be her first lead in a feature film, but she was a natural. She had passion and energy and a sincerity Brandon hadn’t seen in far too long.