"He won’t get far if he stays with the vehicle. An 850i is a pretty flashy, visible, car. And with a vanity plate that reads "DR J", he’s liable to want to ditch it soon."
Mac gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Roxie, and he and Dane sat down to a table spread with photos of Jessica and Wesley, dating back to their junior year of high school. Mac turned to Dane, his eyes filled with exhaustion and grief.
"This is really shitty, isn’t it?" He referred to the photos of the smiling, fresh-faced teenagers. He picked up a particularly handsome picture: Jessica and Wesley’s wedding photo. "I can’t do this," he muttered, standing and turning to the window.
Dane sighed and hastily picked two or three pictures. The officers took them and promised to call with any news. "These will be on the wire in minutes. Your friends at Kern County Sheriff’s Department will pick them up too, and the media will probably have it by morning, Miss Taylor being a celebrity and all."
Everyone nodded numbly and Roxie thanked the officers. There remained a bleak silence in the townhouse. Roxie went to the couch and curled up next to Tom, who sat thoughtfully pulling on his mustache. Dane sat staring at the remaining photos on the table, lost in his own thoughts about what to do next.
"Until we know more, about all we can do is wait." Tom sighed heavily.
"I’m going home," Mac announced. "If anyone hears anything…?" There was silent agreement that each would call the other with any news at all. Dane followed Mac outside.
"Look, MacKendall…I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but you’ve gotta let me know if anything happens," Dane began.
"Of course, man," Mac replied, looking away.
"Let me give you my number."
"I have it. Jessie programmed my phone…you’re number five." His voice reflected a touch of irony.
Dane sat on the Porsche’s fender. "That’s funny, this morning she told me I was number two," he said in amusement, referring to Jessica’s affectionate declaration.
"You did see her today?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, I saw her." Dane smiled into the distance. "She came bounding onto the set, ruining my take, all bursting with romance…over you, asshole."
Mac said nothing. He was getting used to Dane’s mouth, and was finally realizing that vulgarity had nothing to do with what Dane meant to say.
"She--was--radiant." Dane continued.
"She’s always radiant," Mac said softly.
"She was getting wet, just talking about you, man. I gotta hand it to you, Mac." Dane’s green eyes finally looked at him. "But I guess I had my chance, didn’t I, as you so astutely pointed out to me on the island?"
Mac thought on this, unsure if he should venture into what he really felt. Perhaps Dane was baiting him again. In retrospect, and under the circumstances, everything was irrelevant anyway.
"Do you think you really gave it a chance, Pierce? Honestly?" he asked.
Now it was Dane’s turn to digest Mac’s words.
"No. I couldn’t allow myself to let a woman like Jessica, or any woman for that matter, take over my soul; not at this time and place in my life. Believe me, I wanted to, but…" He smiled briefly at Mac. "You’re right, as usual, my friend."
The early morning air was cold and damp, and clouds had moved in overhead. California’s fickle April weather was upon them. "I never thought I’d be sorry to see rain." Mac cleared his throat.
"Get in. I’ll drive you home," Dane offered. "You have no helmet or coat."
"I’ll be okay," Mac declined.
"I insist. You live only a couple of miles from me. We’ll get the bike tomorrow."
"Your kids been sitting here?" Mac complained, adjusting the seat backward to accommodate his legs.
Dane smiled. "Yeah, but actually, it was Jess who moved that seat last, the last time I took her out. Before we went to the island. Surely you remember?"
Mac remembered well. It seemed like ages ago. She had come home in tears.
"She was already in love with you then, Mac." Dane chuckled, recalling the evening. "I really wanted her to come home with me. At the time, I fancied her the salvation to my private hell…but she wouldn’t have it. Not with Mr. Right waiting at home." Dane let out a long breath. "Look, man, I’m an a--"
"An asshole, yeah, I know," Mac said tiredly, then laughed under his breath with giddy amusement. Dane joined him and they released some of their tension laughing. Soon, Dane was on another wavelength.
"You’re divorced, right?"
"Yeah. Two-and-a-half, maybe three years."
"What happened?"
Mac paused before answering, wondering if he should share a truth with Dane that he hadn’t even told Jessica.
"Unfortunately, while I was playing doctor, so was she."
Dane looked at him in surprise.
"Of course I was the last to know. Megan had just starting walking, one day she took a tumble and I got a frantic call from this jerk, Linda was freaking out…he was there, in my house." Mac shook the memory from his head.
"You loved your wife," Dane stated quietly.
"Of course I did."
"Was it tough? Your divorce?"
"It was hell. I almost forfeited my custody rights by failing to appear in court. She told the judge I was always working. She was right, I guess…Luckily I had a good attorney. Linda had me by the balls."
"Do you ever see her?"
"Every other weekend, when I pick up my daughter. We’re okay now. She’s calmed down. And she knows in her heart she could never keep Megan away from me." He paused reflectively. "It’s funny, I see her now almost as much as when we were married." He looked at Dane. "You?"
"My wife’s suing me for a bezillion dollars. She’s turned my older daughter against me, erased my younger one’s memory of me, and enrolled my six-year-old son in a lousy military academy."
Mac whistled.
"That’s not all. She’s changed the locks on our home. She’s screwing some twenty-five year old law student, who I used to pay to coach my kids, and she’s pregnant. And of course, the whole thing is my fault. Next thing I know, she’ll be spilling her guts to Oprah Winfrey, for Chrissakes."
"Your fault, huh?"
"I wasn’t the best husband…or even a good one. When I was making Sioux Nation…aw, shit. Let’s just say I’d better forget about ever getting into politics."
Mac was quiet while he deduced the meaning of Dane’s admission. Finally, he shook his head. "What is your attorney doing about all this?"
"Right now? Sitting on his ass in Caracas."
"I’ll give you my attorney’s card, he’s in Encino. Tell him I gave you his name. He’s the best," Mac offered. "Linda’s lawyer had my assets frozen, and nearly had the studio convinced they should pull the show. Dan put a stop to that shit."
"I will. Thanks, man."
Mac believed Dane’s appreciation was sincere. It felt good to them both to be talking about something else, despite the ugly details of Dane’s divorce. It was at least a known, with a fairly predictable outcome. Jessica’s abduction was a horror they could not face as easily.
Dane stopped the Porsche at Mac’s front door. "I’m shutting down the film for today."
"Can’t they shoot without you?"
"Only the small stuff. I have too much invested in this film to let incompetence screw it up."
"I hear you." Mac got out and Dane jumped out also, leaving the engine running. He came around to Mac and stood before him, his hands stuffed into his pockets. A light drizzle was evident in the Porsche’s headlamp beam.
"Hey…we’ll get her back, man." The two men glanced nervously around, lost in mutual misery over Jessica.
Mac nodded in agreement, but doubt clouded his face.
Dane slowly extended his hand, and Mac grasped it. "Call me. Number Five."
Twelve
Always My Own
The fog was turning to rain as the tan Mercury Cougar limped into Oxnard, muffler smoking and Washington license pla
te swinging on one screw. Several dents blemished one side of the car, and a lone wiper scrapped noisily across the driver’s side of the pitted windshield. Gray morning light accompanied the rain; the coastal town was still sleeping.
Jessica stared out the windshield in cold, exhausted silence. The salty, metallic taste of her own blood still in her mouth, she wet her lips again and again while twisting her wrists inside the clothesline rope that bound them.
Wesley was humming an unrecognizable tune to himself as he drove closer to the shore, down a street of mostly rental beach houses all in a row, seeking a specific one.
"Here it is, kitten, honeymoon heaven," he smiled, turning the thrashed car into an open garage. Quickly closing the garage door, he helped Jessica from the car and hastily ushered her inside.
"Still looks the same, doesn’t it, Jess?" he asked, dragging her across a living room to a wall of glass looking out at the gray sea. She didn’t respond, and he twisted the clothesline abruptly.
"Yes! Yes, it’s still the same." Tears sprang to her eyes at the pain in her wrists. He released her onto a couch.
"We were lucky to get it on such short notice. Of course, mentioning your pretty boyfriend’s name and VISA number didn’t hurt," he laughed.
"How…how did you get Mac’s credit card?" she asked wearily.
"At the airport. He wasn’t smart. Left his card in the tray a little too long," Wesley responded, his last statement pronounced in a sing-songy voice.
"Wesley, please untie me." Her eyes reflected her anguish.
"Not yet, kitten. I want you to get used to being here first. Ah, this was it, all right. This was where you and I…first got it on. I’ll never forget how scared you were, Jess. But you’re not the timid little virgin any more, are you? Not with all those rich Hollywood pigs jumping in and out of your bed. How does it feel, gettin’ poked by a…real…star?" he asked, his eyes wide and his voice taking on a mocking, dreamlike quality. "Guess it’d be hard to go back to a punk like me, huh, Jess? Oh, but I’ve learned a few new tricks. Living on the streets, like I have, you learn a lot. From pros. I bet I could turn on your lights again, kitten."
Jessica’s stomach churned. She was beyond crying, she was only filled with revulsion, and worry. How could she escape? Wesley was obviously quite mad, and she knew she must remain calm and try to outsmart him somehow. But if he meant to have sex with her, all sense of reason and rationale would leave her. She simply had to stay in control, and divert his attentions elsewhere.
"What are you going to do, Wesley?" she ventured.
"Our daughter would have been eight years old, Jess. Eight years. What a waste…all because of that damned play you insisted on being part of. You wouldn’t let up, hours and hours on stage, rehearsing until you dropped. Until you killed our child."
Oh God, this is getting bad, thought Jessica.
"But we can try again, Jess. And keep trying, until we get her back."
Nausea welled in Jessica’s stomach at the thought of Wesley touching her like that. It was hard to remember a time when she responded to Wesley’s touch. Desperately she sought a line of thinking, something to get him going another direction. But he suddenly turned.
"I’m hungry. There’s food in the kitchen. You want a sandwich?"
She shook her head. She knew if she ate, it would come right back up. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, she thought wryly. Men don’t usually rape a woman who’s vomiting.
He left the room, and it seemed only seconds before he returned.
"Hated giving up the BMW." He was chewing food. "But, it’s really not my style. Now, your other boyfriend has a Porsche. That would be worth keeping." He leaned toward her as if in confidence. "So, which one’s better?"
"What do you mean," she asked dully.
"Which guy? You’re doing them both, right?" He took another bite of sandwich. "I gotta admit, you don’t waste time sleeping your way to the top. My money’s on the guy who did the pirate flick. The Porsche-man. Does he bring his saber to bed? Ooh…"
Jessica remained silent.
"Hey, Chrissie’s daughter is beautiful, huh?"
Jessica was relieved that he’d changed the subject, but did not answer.
"Isn’t she?" he thundered, his threadlike patience ebbing.
"Yes!" Jessie’s mind raced, trying to think of how to change his tone. Her eyes fell on his silver belt buckle, bearing the insignia of a Vancouver diving association.
"Wesley, tell me about Vancouver," she began.
"Vancouver. Hmmm. Cold, wet. Beautiful trees. You should see my house, Jessie, you’d love it."
"I bet I would," she replied, trying to sound interested. He’d obviously forgotten that he’d told her about the foreclosure. She humored him. "Does it face the Sound?"
"Oh…yeah…and you can fish right off the deck. In the morning, the Sound is like glass."
"Take me there, Wes, I want to see it."
He looked at her for several moments. "Really?"
"Yes, really. It would be great to get out of California, away from the smog, right? Do you have any cash? Can we make it?"
"Well…I was hoping you had some money we could live off of, for awhile."
"I do, but not with me. All my credit cards are at M--" she cleared her throat. "My place. I didn’t carry them to Utah." He looked discouraged. "But I know where we can get some--plenty, of money." Here goes, she thought.
Wesley looked intrigued. "From your pretty boyfriend, of course," he answered. "You think I didn’t already think of that? Oh, he’d pay dearly to have his little bed warmer back, wouldn’t he? But he won’t really get you back, will he?" He laughed excitedly, walking nervously and aimlessly around the room. "Yeah, yeah! We’ll fool him into thinking I’ll exchange you for the dough. But you and I will be on our way to Canada!"
"Brilliant. He…" Jessica swallowed hard, executing her most difficult role yet. "He’s not that great, anyway, Wes." She mustered her strength and smiled haughtily, her smile driven by his stupidity and the prospect of outsmarting him, rather than her callous words. "Let’s call him."
"No! Not yet." Wesley tangled his fingers into his unkempt hair. "I want him to sweat a little." Jessica nodded in false agreement. "No, let’s let him get good and worried first."
~ * ~
At Mac’s house, the phone was ringing. He leapt from the couch where he’d collapsed and slept sporadically and fitfully in his clothes. His face felt heavy with fatigue and he shook his head to clear it before answering the phone.
"Mr. MacKendall, Sergeant Denehy, LAPD. Your car’s been found."
Hope rose into Mac’s throat. "Where?" he asked quickly, his voice still gravelly from sleep.
"On a side street in Santa Paula. Just east of Oxnard on Highway 126."
"Anything else?"
"Yes…we’re running some tests on something that appears to be dried blood. Just a small bit."
"Don’t move the car. I want to see it where it is."
"Fine. You’ll have to get it released in Ventura anyway, it’s out of our jurisdiction. We already have a make on the prints taken from the steering wheel. They match the ones Kern County took from the cabin last night. We’re waiting for information from Seattle police regarding this Elliot fellow. He has no priors in L.A., there’s no positive ID yet."
"Okay, thanks Sergeant." Mac hung up, his movements slowed by his thoughts. Picking the phone back up, he pressed "Autodial," then "five" and waited through several rings. A British man answered, and obligingly went for Dane.
Dane’s voice was groggy, to say the least. Apparently disorientedt, he could not understand what Mac was saying.
"Dane, they found the Beem. In Santa Paula. I’m outa here. You want to go?"
After a brief pause, Dane responded. "Yeah. I’m in. Where can I meet you?"
"I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes. You’re at the top of Benedict Canyon, right?"
"Last time I looked," Dane groaned. "Hang on."
Mac carried the phone to his bedroom in search of his shoes, listening as Dane rattled off directives to someone.
"Could you…please…get me some coffee? Brew it twice and throw in some sugar and a shot of Wild Turkey…thanks, Pete." More shuffling, then, "Sorry, dude. I’m clawing my way back up here. Come on by, I’ll be ready."
Thirty minutes later, Mac was outside, honking the horn on the truck. Dane stumbled out, combing his wet hair. He stopped and stared.
"What the hell is that?"
"It’s a 1953 Ford, and she’s cranky, so get in before she quits."
"Let’s take my car," Dane suggested.
"No. We can’t be conspicuous. Get in."
Dane climbed reluctantly into the cab, closing the creaking passenger door with a rattly slam. "Nice," he said through a grimace, and Mac laughed out loud, putting down the throttle. The truck leapt forward, throwing Dane back into the seat.
"442 engine," Mac told him over the din of the truck’s throaty muffler.
"Sounds good to me." Dane leaned back, closing his reddened eyes.
Mac stole a sideways glance at Dane. "Hurts, huh?" Dane only groaned, obviously nursing a hangover.
They didn’t talk much on the way to Santa Paula until Mac finally spoke, his voice grave.
"They said there was blood in the car."
Dane’s eyes opened. "No shit."
"Just a small amount." Mac paused. "Dane, if we find this guy first, I’m going to kill him."
Dane turned to stare at Mac, whom Dane realized was dead serious. "I’m with you, man," he murmured.
The BMW was easy to find. A blue and white patrol car with flashers on was parked at the corner, fully visible from the highway, and Mac’s car was behind it. The truck backfired as he turned off the ignition.
"Inconspicuous as hell," Dane murmured, jumping from the cab.
The two met with Ventura officers and examined the car. In answer to Mac’s inquiry, they showed him two or three drops of dried blood on the edge of the passenger’s bucket seat. His eyes smoldered as he signed a release for the car and provided the obligatory identification for the police.
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