by Ian Bull
Almost two years ago, Peter Heyman drugged Steven, drove him into the Sonoran Desert, and handed him to his tribe of tattooed followers who looked just like these two fake grips.
Steven points halfway up the hill covered with waist-high green grass. I see the glint of metal from his face first; the rest of him blends into the hillside because of the camouflage get-up he’s wearing. It’s Peter Heyman, the asshole with a god complex, leader of a tribe of survivalist wannabe trans-humans living off the grid.
Peter sees us, grins, and makes a shooting motion with his finger.
Steven lets go of my hand. Trishelle, Toby, and Carl are behind us, but Pastor Eileen is next to me by the Ferrari. Steven creeps toward the stunt car. The chassis is low to the ground. There’s a clicking noise.
“Take cover!” Steven dives and tackles Pastor Eileen and me, and rolls us under Chef Rafa’s cooking table, covering us with his body.
The journalists laugh.
The Ferrari explodes.
The shock wave hits my back and knocks the wind out of me. Debris rains down. People scream. There’s another explosion farther away, and then another.
It was bad luck to open that envelope.
3
TINA SWIG
Saturday, March 9, 12:30 p.m. (CST)
Wisconsin
It’s zero degrees outside my motel room, and it’s time to go running. The path by the frozen river is rock hard and easy to run on. I’ll shake for five minutes and then be fine.
I find my leggings and yank them up over my underwear, then find my sports bra and pull on a T-shirt. I love the cold. Some people can’t wait to leave Wisconsin, but the freezing Midwest doesn’t bother me.
I did move to Los Angeles for my career in TV, but I never loved Southern California. It’s too hot, and there’s too much cement.
Is there fresh snow on the ground? I pull open the drapes and check. Nope. That white van is still on the far side of the parking lot. Dumb and Dumber are inside, spying on me while smelling their own fast-food farts. I change motels every two nights, and they keep tracking me. It’s all part of my plan. Stupid investigators, working for Julia Travers: watch me all you want, Yancy Mendoza and Victor Marsh. You sound like a yuppie mail-order catalog. I pretend to look at the clouds then drop the curtain.
CNN says another snowstorm is coming, which is perfect. I pull a fleece over my T-shirt, put on my socks with the little cotton-ball tassels, and slip into my running shoes. I run eight-minute miles and look good while doing it.
When is Douglas going to text me? He should have started the fun on the movie set by now. On cue, my phone buzzes. My man can read my mind. I got myself a lean and mean billionaire, the only man I ever met who can match me.
My thumb opens his text: Fireworks have begun. Enjoy your run, darling.
I put my laptop on the desk by the window. I open the drapes and let daylight flood the room, then sit down and type. I want Dumb and Dumber to see me from their van.
I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I look damn good for thirty-eight years old, better than I did five years ago when I was working my ass off for Robert Snow. He was a brilliant producer but a failure as a man. He almost ruined my life too. But, now, eighteen months later, I feel younger and stronger.
I look good with long, straight, black hair, but I miss my curls. I had to change my look when Douglas and I went into hiding, so I cut it, darkened it, and added extensions. I find hair ties in my toiletry kit and put my hair in two pigtails.
I pull my knit cap on, leaving pigtails dangling out on either side. It’s another simple trick that the pavement people don’t get—if you want to keep your fingers and toes warm, wear a hat. Your brain is what burns up all your calories.
I lay two large Ziploc bags on the side of the sink. I turn on the water, wet my hands, and run my fingers through my pigtails until they’re dripping wet. They’ll work their magic later. Last of all, I reach past the curtain covering the bathtub and open the tiny window to the outside. The bathroom gets cold right away. I turn off the light and leave the bathroom door open a crack. I grab my motel key, walk outside, and lock the door.
I don’t even glance at the van as I cross the road and find the path next to the Pine River. Within a hundred steps, I find my rhythm. I’ll go five miles. That’ll give Dumb and Dumber time to make their move like they always do, but today there’s a surprise for them.
This wouldn’t be necessary if Julia Travers’s obedient little gang of former soldiers and cops like Dumb and Dumber weren’t turning over every rock to find Douglas and me. Thus, we must create a week of confusion—and our lives will be ours again.
Always have a plan—that’s my motto.
I pick up the pace. My lungs love the cold air. The Pine River is frozen solid, with pine and birch trees surrounded by snow that’s hip deep. My friends and I used to float on innertubes down this river in summer, towing a floating cooler of beer behind us. It was fun. We’d end near the town of Leon, carpool back, and then party at one of the fancy, summer houses. My friends all peaked at eighteen. Today, they’re fat, drunk housewives. Not me; I’m peaking now.
Did I make it in California? Almost. I helped create TV shows that made over a billion dollars. Never got the credit but made some money. I fell in love and married Drake Shelby, a lame soap opera actor with an even lamer name. I thought I was marrying up, but he was shallower than a puddle of spit. We had a son, Devon, who was born with cerebral palsy. That didn’t fit my narcissistic husband’s vision for his perfect actor life, so he left. Fine, leave. I take care of my own.
Then, Robert Snow appeared. He launched my career, but I was smart enough not to marry him. He just bossed me around for ten years while I clawed my way up the ladder. I slept with him when it was necessary. It wasn’t often, thank God. Then he screwed up and almost ruined everything for Devon and me. That was the second time I believed I was working with a man who was smarter than me, but I was wrong again. Find someone smarter than you. That’s easier said than done, especially when you grow up with shitty male role models.
I got it right this time, though. There are less than a hundred men on the planet smarter or richer than Douglas Bushnell.
What’s happening right now in California is sweet revenge. I’d love to be sitting on that hillside with Peter Heyman watching all the madness at that press conference. Steven Quintana and Julia Travers must be freaking out.
I run to the A&W stand, which is 2.5 miles, and turn around. I used to come here with my sister and stepdad. He was the original loser, but I was too young and stupid to know. Then I figured out he was abusing my sister and got smart. Once mom died, I didn’t need them in my life and left home at seventeen. They’re probably stuck living in a trailer right next to this river. Good riddance.
Either Marsh or Mendoza is in my motel room right by now, digging through my stuff. They’ve gone into my rooms at the last three motels. That’s illegal, but they can’t help themselves, they want so badly to find out who Douglas is. I don’t feel bad about what’s going to happen.
When I told Douglas my plan, he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then he kissed me and took me to bed and treated me to his delicious love-making.
I get back to the motel forty minutes earlier than usual and approach it from the back. My step ladder is waiting in the snow, under the open window to my bathroom. I climb up and slide in through the high window and land in the tub without a sound. I practiced this at the last three motels, whenever the panel van wasn’t around.
I pull open the curtain and step out of the tub into the dark bathroom. I peek through the crack I left open in the door and see Marsh, the skinny one, sitting at my computer. Mendoza is in the van watching the running trail, waiting for me to come back into view so he can radio Marsh to leave.
I pull my scissors out of my little bag and glance in the mirror. My wet pigtails are now frozen hair icicles. I cut them where the ice starts, giving me two short frozen s
pears, one in each hand. I drop each one into its own baggie and zip it shut, then wait thirty seconds for the bag to get ice cold.
I ease through the door, walk six steps across the cheap shag carpet, and plunge one plastic-covered spear into his left side, under his rib. He gasps and pushes back. Before he can look up, I jam the other frozen spear into his right ear. His head turns. He looks surprised and then goes blank. That does the trick.
I pull the chair back and use all my strength to haul him onto the bed. He bounces on the cheap mattress. The icicles stick out of him like shish-kabob skewers. There’s no blood flow—the ice prevents that.
The walkie talkie on his belt chirps. I pop the earpiece out of his right ear. Mendoza’s voice comes through: “Marsh? Do you copy?”
I reach inside Marsh’s jacket and take out his weapon. An M9 Beretta, which means this clown is ex-military, not a cop. I find the walkie on his hip and push the call button six times. I grab a pillow off the bed and step back next to the motel door.
Mendoza runs up. He grunts as he almost slips on the icy sidewalk. Los Angeles moron. Probably never seen snow in his life. The door eases open. Mendoza sees Marsh on the bed and rushes in.
“Hey, Sexy,” I whisper. When he turns, I push the pillow against his chest and pull the trigger. He grabs my wrists, but he’s dead before his knees hit the floor.
He’s bleeding fast, so it’s hard to drag him closer to the bed. A drop of his blood lands on my shoes. Damn it, they’re new. Asshole. Now I have to toss them.
I dump him at Marsh’s feet. The open window in the bathroom will turn the room ice cold, so their bodies will freeze before they can stink up the place.
Time to set the scene. I take their phones and wallets. I find the keys to the van in Mendoza’s pocket. I also find a Glock 22, probably his service weapon from when he was with the LAPD. I pull out a small tub of bleach from under the bed, wet a towel and wipe down every surface twice. I cleaned motel rooms while I was in college, so I know how to disinfect.
I pre-paid for the room with cash and told the manager that I don’t want to be disturbed, so no one will open the door for ten days. That’s all the time we need.
What else can I do to maximize confusion? I clean Marsh’s gun twice with the bleach soaked towel, then slide the weapon into his right hand.
Mendoza lies in a pile at his feet, his blood already thickening on the carpet. I step around Mendoza and unbuckle Marsh’s belt buckle and pull down his pants, so he’s naked from the waist down. His dick is hard. I heard that happens. This will create at least another half day of confusion, hopefully. The tortured vet shoots his ex-cop lover.
I heard Mendoza’s got kids, but cop widows get good pensions. I don’t know about Marsh, except that he worked for Carl Webb, which was his first mistake.
Julia Travers and Steven Quintana made this necessary. They know too much about Douglas and me. They know my name, which I hate. Do they know about Devon? Few people do. He must remain safe, first and foremost. Do they know Douglas is Boss Man? I have no clue. But one week of chaos will make all this worry go away.
The room is a refrigerator. I look at my watch; it’s been twenty minutes since I stabbed and shot them. I test the black hair icicles sticking out of Marsh’s right ear and left side. They are softening, while his body is hardening. I pull them out fast, and no blood flows onto the bleached and frayed motel bedsheets. The plastic bags aren’t punctured. I got the heavy-duty kind, so no DNA transferred. Douglas made me practice on pigs in a restaurant freezer in Palermo. It was gross at first, but it helped me get used to how to stab, and how long to wait before I yanked out the icicle. The holes will contract, making them hard to find and even harder for them to figure out exactly what happened. It will be all over the news, probably a week from tomorrow. They’ll need a day to identify the bodies, and we’ll have disappeared by then.
I toss the hair, wallets, phones, and weapon into a garbage bag along with the pillow. I pocket the keys, grab my carry-on, and do a final check. I’m ready to go.
I toss my carry-on and the garbage bag out the bathroom window and climb back out. I practiced this too. I lean the step ladder back against the woodshed, then sweep away my footprints in the snow. The storm comes tonight will leave another two inches of snow and leave no trace of me. The Do Not Disturb tag is still on the doorknob.
I walk across the parking lot to the van. No one sees me at 2:15 p.m. on a frozen Saturday. Everyone is watching their kids’ hockey games, except for the motel manager who’s watching an evangelical preacher on TV. And the local clown cop never patrols here. I get behind the wheel of the van and drive away.
I’ll drive to Chicago. Along the way, I’ll download everything from their phones and the computers in the van. Then I’ll smash it all and toss the pieces into trash bins at different gas stations. I’ll find a high-end truck stop with showers where I can trim the rest of my hair short again and put on the fancy clothes in my carry-on. I’ll leave their empty van in a garage by the airport, enjoy a hot meal in the first-class lounge, then board my flight and get back to my man. Living well is the best revenge.
I drive along the road hugging the river. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud and reflects off the ice crystals on all the trees, making it look like they’re covered in diamonds. It’s pretty. I wish Devon could see it with me.
My phone buzzes with a text: How was your run?
I text back a thumbs-up emoji.
As I said, I always have a plan.
4
CARL WEBB
Saturday, March 9, 4:00 p.m. (PST)
California
Malibu City Hall has a long lobby. My black shoes echo off the tile floor. Surfboards hang from the ceiling, but it’s still a government building.
What the hell happened on that bluff? Trishelle seized all my situational awareness, and I dropped my guard. I slipped my arm around her waist, heard the corny march music, and then the explosions came.
I reach the end of the lobby and stare at the photographs of the elected officials on the wall. The City Manager is cute. My brain yells at me. Get your head in the game.
It was a blur after the explosions. I hovered over Julia and Steven, but the pastor and the wedding planner were the most shaken up. Then, the paramedics arrived and pushed me to the side, and the sheriff deputies showed up and drove Julia and Steven away. I get it; that’s standard protocol for VIPs, but I made sure to follow them here.
I loosen my tie. At least the air-conditioning is good in here. My suit is too new to get sweat stains over crap like this.
Two LAPD detectives arrived next, which means the cops are grilling them. Massive explosions can be a crime, but they’ve been here for hours. I should get them some food. They’re going to be hungry when they get out.
A car beeps, and I step outside. Trishelle exits her gray Audi and strides across the parking lot toward me. She’s tall, curvy, and the best damn girlfriend a man like me could hope to get, precisely because she wants to be my girlfriend and nothing more.
She takes off her sunglasses and grants me one kiss in the shaded entranceway. She doesn’t flash me her coy smile, which is how she usually gets me to stay for two weeks.
“This is not what I had in mind when I arrived. I thought I’d get a list of my duties as a best man, and then you and I could check into a hotel.”
“Me too. But this is bad.”
“How many people got hurt? I heard three explosions.”
“Nobody. The car exploded, an empty oil drum went up like a rocket, and one of Chef Rafa’s refrigerators blew up and sent a metal door flying, but that’s all. People ran around screaming, but when paramedics and firefighters from Point Dume Station got there, no one needed first aid.”
“That’s good then, right?”
Trishelle spits in French. “Except I lost control of my own production. The journalists loved it. They interviewed the cooks, the PAs, even the pastor. That pisses me off.”
“Why?”
“Those explosions are now the news, not our press conference.” Her forehead knits, revealing her worry. “And the fire chief treated it like a crime scene. They had their tape measures out, they took pictures, and they put pieces of burnt crap into plastic baggies. I heard him tell a firefighter that we’re lucky it’s winter because if we’d pulled this stunt in summer, it would’ve started a fire.”
“A stunt?” A snicker sneaks into my voice.
She pokes me in the chest with a pointy fingernail. “A dumb stunt to promote the movie and get easy media coverage. That’s what they’re saying. That reporter from the CBC said that Julia tried to terrify her. The sheriff deputies heard that and hauled Steven and Julia in. Now those gorillas are interrogating them, thinking they planned it all.”
Two sheriff deputies, a man, and a woman exit the main doors and give us the once-over. Trishelle and I walk down the stairs and back to her car. I open the passenger door and get in. “Come on, let’s get them some coffee and donuts.”
“Julia doesn’t like donuts. But you can poison Steven if you want,” She puts on her sunglasses and slides behind the wheel. I’m barely buckled when she revs the car and pops it into gear. We tear past the two deputies, who gape at us.
“Trishelle, chill out. We don’t want to get arrested too.” I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting them to hop into a squad car and chase us down.
“We are under attack, Carl.”
“Let’s not go there yet.”
“Boss Man and Tina Swig could be behind this.”
“Except we have them on the run. Mendoza and Marsh are tracking Tina Swig in Wisconsin. She’ll be arrested tomorrow.”
“Peter Heyman, then. That survivalist nutball who strapped Steven into that plane.”
