hadn't said a word about the problems he and Maddie had ignored for over a year. He'd have felt disloyal.
Taking his dishes to the sink and rinsing them before putting them in the dishwasher, he wondered if he should call Maddie. There'd been a huge traffic tie-up on the 405 Freeway that'd turned his forty-five minute drive from Sherman Oaks to home into a ninety-minute drive. Oddly enough, he was so drained from his meeting with Doctor Stevens, he didn't feel his usual road rage at the traffic, and slogged along like all the other poor shmucks too stupid to get out of LA.
He didn't want Maddie to be stuck in the tie-up like he'd been. He picked up his phone and dialed. The call immediately went to voicemail. He left her a quick message, then hung up.
He decided on a warm shower and an early bedtime. Twenty minutes later, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, he slid between the cool sheets. And shortly after, he was sound asleep.
Shots fired! Travis bolted awake, rolled out of bed, and hit the floor, his Model 1911 pistol already in hand. Straining to see through the shadows of darkness, his heart pounded at a rapid-fire rate. He couldn't hear anything due to the hammering in his chest. He might have thought he'd dreamt the whole thing, except the acidic smell of gunpowder filled the air. He considered activating the light attached to his pistol, but he didn't want to alert the intruder to his position.
As Travis's eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he gradually discerned the outline of the furniture. Glowing red numbers on the bedroom clock indicated it was a little after midnight. He lay without moving for several minutes. His hearing cleared with the deceleration of his heart. Listening for any unusual sound, there was none. Doing a low-crawl between the bed and the wall, he moved to the bedroom door and locked it. Then he rose to his feet and flattened himself against the armoire as he began to systematically search the master suite.
After determining the bedroom and bathroom were clear, he moved throughout the house methodically scrutinizing the whole structure, including the garage. When he was finished, he shuffled back to the bedroom, disgusted an apparent dream could jolt him out of bed ready for battle.
Making his way back to the bedroom, he turned on the overhead light. That's when he saw it. A bullet hole in the ceiling, right above where he slept. Looking at the gun in his hand, he disengaged the magazine and counted the rounds remaining to be fired. He was one short. There'd been no intruder. While asleep, he'd shot the round himself.
TIFFANY – 62
In the darkness of the claustrophobic closet housing the electrical panel, Tiffany fought lethargy. She wondered if the stress of being kidnaped was making her Aplastic Anemia worse. The confined quarters, along with the industrial smell of the chemicals she used, took its toll. Activating the fancy lighter she'd snagged from the patio table, she put the flame to the acetone-soaked paper. Orange flames leapt to life. She stood transfixed as tongues of flame burned through the paper and up to the control panel. I'd better get out of here.
She backed out of the small cupboard, leaving the door slightly ajar. She didn't want the fire to extinguish itself due to lack of oxygen. She hurried away from the studio and around the back of the dorm building.
No one had yet noticed the dark smoke leaking from the electrical panel closet. Quickly passing the dorms, Tiffany hurried along the perimeter of the pool house then toward the side door of the main house. I need to get back in my room before anyone discovers the fire, she thought.
Entering the house, she heard yells coming from the studio complex. The sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs of the basement indicated Drejohn and his friends were aware there was a problem. Tiffany had nowhere to hide. She darted toward the basement door, then flattened herself against the wall so when the approaching men opened the door she'd be concealed behind it. At least that was what she hoped.
The door swung open and she had to turn her face away to not get smacked in the nose. Drejohn burst across the threshold. His voice carried above everyone else's. "What the fuck! Holy shit, the studio's on fire!" The other guys came bounding up the stairs, each one pushing open the basement door, keeping Tiffany concealed. After the men ran outside, Tiffany started to bolt to her room, but realized people would notice if she didn't go outside to investigate.
Before she left the house, she returned the almost empty cans of cooking spray to the kitchen pantry. Then, bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, she quickly added water to the empty polish remover bottle and placed the container under the sink in her bathroom. She put the tote she'd carried when she started the fire back into the closet. Going back downstairs, she crept outside and set the lighter back on the table where she'd found it. Divested of incriminating evidence and wanting to be seen, she ran as fast as she could to the yard.
Dismayed to find Drejohn and other men using hoses to fight the fire, she relaxed upon seeing they were losing the battle. But she also noted that no one was talking on the phone to
9-1-1. No one's called to report the fire. There goes the possibility of the Fire Department coming to my rescue. Still, she'd been fairly successful at disrupting the studio's productions. Dozens of slack-faced girls stood or paced in various stages of undress, while others wore robes over clearly naked bodies. Tiffany searched the faces in the crowd for Brenda. She hoped her plan had interrupted Brenda's live-feed porn debut.
While black billowing smoke poured from the building into the evening sky, Drejohn threw down his hose and began yelling at the crowd who'd gathered in the yard. "What the hell happened?" His eyes bulged in their sockets, the muscles in his neck strained. The other men continued to douse the flames while the rest of the crowd stood silently watching.
Tiffany surveyed her work, aware she was now an arsonist. You may have murdered someone. Concerned whether or not everyone got out safely, she wanted to ask Drejohn to take a head count, but she didn't dare. This isn't the time to draw attention to yourself, Tiffany. Drejohn's a smart guy. He'll read between the lines.
Almost the whole building was engulfed. The only exception was the front façade. The men continued their pointless battle, spraying the hulk with water. Even a few of the girls threw water from small trashcans. They needn't have bothered; the building would be a total loss. She wondered if anyone would suspect arson.
Ginger wandered up, her face sagging with dismay. "This is horrible. We can't perform here anymore until they get the studio rebuilt. It means us girls will have to go work the track."
"The track? What's that?" Tiffany asked.
Ginger stared at her in amazement. "You really are a princess, aren't you? The track is where the girls work the streets, turning tricks in cars and cheap motels. Working here's much better." She shook her head. "Some of us will have to go to Oakland and maybe Seattle. The rest will probably be taken to Vegas. The whole thing sucks."
Not for me. Elated, Tiffany already considered plans for an escape. "When do you think we'll be moved?"
"Probably tomorrow morning or the next day at the latest. We won't make Drejohn any money sitting here."
"Will anyone call the fire department to put out the fire?"
"What do you think? Drejohn can't let firemen or cops in here."
"I'm just surprised none of the neighbors called 9-1-1. I'm sure they saw flames or smoke."
A sardonic smile took over Ginger's features. "Listen, Cinderella, you're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest house is probably a good five miles away. The people around here mind their own business, which is something you need to do."
"Do you suppose everyone got out of the building okay?"
The strawberry blonde shook her head and shrugged. "I guess so." She turned to Tiffany. "Do yourself a favor. Stay out of Drejohn's way. He'll take this out on somebody, and you don't want to be the one."
Tiffany quickly squeezed Ginger's hand. "Thanks. Have you seen Brenda, the girl doing the live show?"
Ginger shook her head. "No, and if I were her, I'd lay low. Drejohn's very superstitious." Motioning her head towa
rd the burning shell she said, "He may blame her for this."
Alarmed, Tiffany scanned the crowd of about seventy people looking for her friend. Had Drejohn already found Brenda and sent her to the 'hole' as he'd done with Tank? She needed to find Brenda to tell her about the potential move from the property. If taken from the compound, Tiffany was sure she and Brenda could escape—at least, that was her plan.
PRESTON – 63
Preston sat in the dark at his desk in his home office, and although there were documents spread across the length of it, he wasn't working. His head rested against the high-backed, leather chair and he stared into space, worrying about Tiffany.
A quick rap at the door preceded Bain's entrance. He flipped on the light switch as he entered. "Pick up line one. It's Chief Fryer of LAPD."
Preston jerked upright and snatched up the phone receiver. "Truesdale here."
"Governor, I have some news for you." The chief's voice held urgency. "We've found the body of Heather McCall in the desert outside of Lancaster."
Letting out a pent up breath, Preston's hopes were dashed that there was good news about his daughter. Then he thought of Heather and how much she meant to him. Good God, where would he find another bone marrow donor for Tiffany? "How was Miss McCall killed, and do you know who did it?"
"At this
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