Innocent Blood

by Graham Masterton

  Charles Lasser smoothed his hand through his hair, again and again, as if to reassure himself that his head was still there. ‘I wanted to ask you about that, Mr Bell. Where did you see this girl, and when?’

  ‘I met her after you bombed The Cedars. My son was killed that day. She helped me to get through it.’

  ‘You met her after The Cedars was bombed?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve been meeting each other, on and off, ever since.’

  ‘You never met her before?’

  Frank gritted his teeth in exasperation. ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I care a great deal, Mr Bell. But I think you’re telling me lies. Either that, or you’re totally mad. Who told you I hurt her?’

  ‘Nobody told me. I saw the bruises for myself, the cigarette burns. I followed her and she went to Star-TV and then she went to your house.’

  Charles Lasser pressed his hands together as if he were praying. ‘I don’t understand this at all.’

  ‘What’s to understand?’

  Charles Lasser was thoughtful for a moment. Then he looked around at all of the khaki boxes and said, ‘I suppose you’ve guessed what’s going to happen to you now. In fifteen minutes’ time, this van will be driven through the gates of Culver Studios. Once it’s well inside the studio complex, I’m going to take this out.’

  He reached into his inside pocket and produced a black plastic box with a red button on it. ‘A remote control, which is tuned to the detonator inside that very fashionable vest you’re wearing. Yes, Mr Bell – you are going to set off this particular bomb, or at least everybody will think that you did.

  ‘There probably won’t be very much left of you, but what there is will identify you as a suicide bomber from Dar Tariki Tariqat, which will make sure that yours is a name that Hollywood will speak of from this day forward with hatred and disgust. Oh – and more than likely, your father’s name, too, because everybody will assume that you were abused when you were younger, like every other member of Dar Tariki Tariqat.’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ said Frank.

  ‘Nothing at all. It’s just that when I take my revenge, I like it to be very comprehensive, and wide ranging, and complete.’

  ‘Revenge? Revenge for what?’

  Charles Lasser looked at his Rolex. ‘I have to be going, Mr Bell. I have a meeting at Spago’s and you have a meeting in hell.’

  ‘Just tell me why,’ said Frank. ‘If you’re going to blow me to bits, I think I deserve that much.’

  Charles Lasser hunkered down beside him. His linen pants were too tight between his legs, so that his testicles bulged. He smelled of stale cigars and a very heavy aftershave.

  ‘I was born in Lithuania, Mr Bell, to a family so poor that I didn’t have a pair of shoes until I was twelve years old. My father beat me and abused me every day. But one night, when I was fifteen, he climbed into my bed, drunk as usual, and I strangled him with my bare hands. I carried his body downstairs to the living room and sat him in his chair, and I poured lamp oil all over him. Then I set fire to him.’

  There was a staccato knock at the van’s rear door. ‘Mr Lasser, sir? We’re getting pushed for time.’

  Charles Lasser called back, ‘Coming, Michael!’ Then he leaned closer to Frank’s ear and said, ‘On that night, when my father’s body was blazing in front of me, I swore that I would never let anybody take advantage of me, ever again. I would never let anybody scorn me or laugh at me. I would always have my revenge, no matter how long it took, and I would always make sure that my revenge was a hundred times worse than what had been done to me.’

  ‘And you call me mad?’

  Charles Lasser gave him a slow, amused smile. ‘I like you, Mr Bell. I’m sorry our acquaintance has to be so brief.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Frank, and as Charles Lasser turned to leave, he seized him around the neck and hit his head against the side of the van as hard as he could.

  Charles Lasser gave an extraordinary high-pitched squeal, like an injured pig. Frank grabbed both of his ears and hit his head again, and again, and again. The van boomed like the inside of a kettle drum.

  ‘Everything OK, Mr Lasser?’ called the voice from outside.

  ‘Everything’s fine!’ Frank shouted back, trying to sound gruff.

  ‘Only a couple of minutes to go, Mr Lasser.’

  Panting, Frank wrestled himself out of the suicide vest. Then he lifted up Charles Lasser’s lolling arms, one after the other, and tugged it on to him. It was a tight fit, because he was so huge, but he managed to fasten two out of the three buckles at the front. Then he took the remote control box out of Charles Lasser’s pocket and wedged it into his belt.

  ‘Mr Lasser! Time to go!’

  Frank slapped Charles Lasser’s face. ‘Wake up, you bastard! Come on, wake up!’

  ‘That’s it, Mr Lasser, else we’re going to miss our twelve o’clock deadline!’

  ‘Wake up, for Christ’s sake!’ Frank hissed at him. He hoped to God that he hadn’t killed him. There was blood on his collar and his face was mottled and gray.

  ‘Wake up, will you, for Christ’s sake!’

  Charles Lasser’s eyelids quivered, and then he snorted and opened his eyes. He stared at Frank, trying to focus.

  ‘Get up,’ Frank ordered.

  Charles Lasser looked around. He blinked once, and then he blinked again. Then he filled his lungs and roared, ‘You piece of shit! I’ll rip your fucking head off and piss down your neck!’ He grabbed hold of one of the support bars along the side of the van, and heaved himself on to his feet.

  Frank stumbled back. He hadn’t expected him to wake up so volcanically. He took out the remote control box, yanked out its antenna, and held it up in front of Charles Lasser’s face.

  ‘Stay there! Don’t move!’

  ‘You pathetic moron,’ sneered Charles Lasser. ‘Michael! Louis! Get in here!’

  ‘Don’t move,’ Frank repeated. ‘I don’t think you understand what’s happened here. You see what this is?’

  Charles Lasser frowned at the remote control box, trying to get it into focus. Realization spread slowly across his face. Then he looked down at his chest and placed both his hands on his big, flat RDX breasts.

  The rear doors were opened wide, and two men in brown coveralls climbed into the van. One was bald and wore earrings; the other had a shock of black hair like a young Columbo.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Frank screamed at them. He sounded much shriller than he had meant to, like a panicking ballet dancer. The two men ignored him and started to push their way forward between the boxes.

  ‘Do what he says!’ Charles Lasser bellowed.

  ‘Mr Lasser?’ said the bald one.

  ‘Don’t you understand English? Do what he says! Or haven’t you noticed that I’m wearing twenty-five pounds of plastic explosive and he’s holding the remote?’

  The man with the shock of black hair crossed himself twice. The bald one simply looked confused.

  ‘Back off,’ Frank ordered them. ‘Get out of the van, and then walk away. When Mr Lasser and I climb out of here, I don’t want to see you anywhere in sight, otherwise it’s boom! You got it?’

  ‘Boom, yes, OK, we got it,’ said the man with the black hair. He pulled at the other man’s arm and together they retreated to the rear of the van and scrambled out.

  Frank turned to Charles Lasser. ‘Now you.’

  ‘And supposing I refuse? If you press that button in here, then that’s both of us gone.’

  ‘You know something?’ said Frank. ‘It would be worth it.’

  Charles Lasser looked at him for a moment, and then he said, ‘What do you want me to do? Apologize?’

  ‘That’s up to you. All I want you to do is confess.’

  ‘There’s still nothing to connect me with Dar Tariki Tariqat. Believe me, I was very careful about that. Nothing to connect me, except you.’

  ‘Just get out of the van,’ Frank told him.

 
Charles Lasser wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I could turn your life around for you, Mr Bell. You could write a show for Star-TV, and I’d give it the kind of promotion that most writers can only dream about. I could pay you three million dollars a year.’

  ‘Get out of the van, please,’ Frank repeated.

  ‘Nobody’s a saint, Mr Bell, not even you.’

  ‘What kind of a man are you? You killed my only son, you killed my friends, you killed dozens of innocent men, women and children, and now you’re offering me a TV show?’

  ‘Life has to go on, Mr Bell.’

  ‘Out.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Charles Lasser shrugged and began to shuffle toward the rear of the van. Frank followed him, keeping his thumb on the remote control box. When he reached the tailgate, Charles Lasser said, ‘You’re sure you won’t reconsider?’

  Frank said nothing. He was trembling all over and he felt as if his head were being repeatedly struck with a pein hammer. Charles Lasser climbed down to the ground and Frank said, ‘Back away. That’s it. Further.’ He jumped down to the ground himself and looked around. The van was parked in a lock-up garage at the rear of a derelict warehouse. Outside, there was a wide concrete apron, glaring in the midday sun, where two rusty semis were parked. There was no sign of the bald man or the man with the shock of black hair.

  ‘Where is this?’ Frank demanded.

  ‘Just off Hughes Airport. Fifteen minutes away from Culver Studios. David O. Selznick burned down Atlanta at Culver Studios. Well, what he actually burned down was derelict sets from King Kong, Last of the Mohicans and Little Lord Fauntleroy. Me, I accept no substitutes. When I blow up Hollywood, I blow up Hollywood.’

  They walked out across the concrete. After they had gone about seventy-five yards, Frank said, ‘Stop. That’s it. Stay there.’ Charles Lasser stopped, and Frank backed well away from him.

  ‘So, you’re going to blow me up now, are you?’ Charles Lasser asked him.

  ‘Call nine-one-one,’ said Frank. ‘Tell them who you are, and where we are, and tell them you want to make a confession.’

  ‘And what if I won’t?’

  ‘I think there’s enough evidence here to prove that you were responsible for Dar Tariki Tariqat, don’t you? The van, the explosives . . .’

  ‘There’s no evidence, Mr Bell. The police and the FBI can search till Doomsday, they won’t find a single document or a single fingerprint or a single computer file that links Charles Lasser with Dar Tariki Tariqat.’

  At that moment, however, Frank saw somebody approaching them. At first it was difficult to make out who it was, because of the rippling heat haze rising off the concrete, but as the figure came nearer he saw that it was a young woman in a white cotton dress. Charles Lasser realized that Frank was staring over his shoulder, so he turned around and saw the young woman for himself.

  Almost half a minute went past. An aircraft screamed overhead, landing at LAX, and for a few seconds they were deafened. But as the screaming subsided, Frank heard Charles Lasser said, ‘No.’

  The young woman came closer until she was standing only a few feet away from them. It was Astrid, her hair pinned back with white daisy barrettes. She was wearing mirror sunglasses so that it was impossible to see her eyes.

  Charles Lasser stared at her and then he turned to Frank. He seemed incapable of speech.

  ‘Here you are, then,’ Frank challenged him. ‘This is the Astrid who doesn’t exist. This is the Astrid you’ve been beating up on. Now do you know who she is?’

  ‘Her name’s not Astrid,’ said Charles Lasser. He sounded almost panicky.

  ‘Whatever her name is, this is the woman.’

  ‘It’s not possible!’ Charles Lasser screamed.

  ‘Of course it’s possible. Here she is.’

  ‘It’s not possible because she’s dead!’

  ‘Dead? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘She’s dead! She’s dead! She’s dead!’

  Frank looked at Astrid in bewilderment. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Astrid, and took off her sunglasses. He saw now that she had no bruises on her face and that her nose wasn’t swollen at all. In fact she looked exactly as she had on the morning that The Cedars had been bombed. And then it occurred to him – how did she know where I was? And how did she get here? There was no car in sight, and he hadn’t seen a taxi.

  Astrid started to walk toward Charles Lasser but he raised both hands as if he were trying to defend himself. ‘Get away from me! Don’t touch me! Get away!’

  ‘Astrid!’ called Frank. ‘He’s got explosives on him! Keep well back!’

  Astrid stopped, and smiled at him. ‘Do you think I care about that? He’s right, Frank. Nothing can frighten me now.’

  Charles Lasser dropped to his knees on the concrete. ‘I didn’t know you were going to join them, did I? How was I to know?’

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I was a prime candidate?’

  ‘I didn’t know where you were! I didn’t know how to reach you!’

  ‘You wouldn’t have tried to, even if you had known. Look at you! Just look at you! You miserable, sweaty, cowardly bully!’

  Charles Lasser squeezed his eyes tight shut and clenched his fists. His face was crimson and glistening with perspiration. Frank could almost feel the pressure rising inside of him, like a steam boiler that was just about blow. Suddenly he popped open his eyes and roared, ‘You’re not here! You’re dead and you deserve to be dead!’ He climbed to his feet and staggered stiff-legged toward Astrid, his arms extended, as if he were walking through a shopping mall in a zombie movie.

  ‘Astrid!’ Frank yelled at her. ‘Get away from him!’

  But Astrid stayed where she was, still smiling, her eyes serenely half closed. Her white dress reflected the sunshine in a blurry dazzle, so that Frank felt as if he were looking at her through layers of muslin curtains.

  Charles Lasser seized her by the throat and started to shake her head backward and forward. ‘Lasser!’ Frank shouted. ‘Lasser, let her go!’

  Charles Lasser was letting out that furious pig-like screech and pressing his thumbs so deeply into Astrid’s throat that they almost disappeared. Astrid’s face was strangely expressionless and her arms and legs were floppy, as if she were a life-size doll rather than a woman.

  ‘Lasser!’ Frank bellowed. But just then the remote control box flew out of his hand. He made a grab for it, missed, and made another grab for it.

  There was a moment when the world seemed to disappear and there was nothing.

  Somebody punched Frank square in the chest, and he found that he was flying backward. He tumbled helplessly over and over, and then he hit the concrete, jarring his shoulder, hitting his head, twisting his back. He lay there, winded, for five or ten seconds, and then he realized that he was wet. His face was wet, his hair was wet, his shirt was soaked through.

  He sat up. He lifted both hands and saw that he was smothered in blood. He thought for one moment that he had been horribly injured, but then he looked around and realized that the blood had been sprayed in all directions, and that it had come from the spot where Charles Lasser had been standing.

  A cloud of smoke hovered in the air like a huge gray vulture with outstretched wings. Beneath it, strewn all over the concrete, were pieces of Charles Lasser. His legs had been blown off at the hip and were lying at an angle, as if they were running. Not far away, his pelvis lay like a bloodstained washbasin. His intestines had unraveled into yards of multicolored gack. At first Frank couldn’t see his head, but eventually he spotted it close to the garage doors, looking in the opposite direction, as if he was deliberately being stand-offish. There was no sign of Astrid anywhere. Not her body, not her white dress, nothing.

  Frank climbed unsteadily to his feet. His ears were ringing but he could still hear the next 747 that went over, which blotted out everything. He didn’t know what to do.
It occurred to him that he ought to call the police, but he wouldn’t be surprised if somebody hadn’t heard the explosion and dialed 911 already.

  He felt extraordinarily light-headed, almost triumphant. He kept turning around and around, wanting to tell somebody what he had done, but there was nobody there.

  Thirty

  Nevile opened the door himself. ‘Come on in, Frank. Good to see you.’

  He led Frank through to the living room, where a bottle of rosé wine was waiting in a frosty silver ice bucket. He was wearing flappy black Spanish-style pants and a satin shirt that flowed like quicksilver.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked. ‘You’re looking a little worse for wear, to say the least.’

  Stiffly, Frank eased himself into one of the white leather chairs and took off his sunglasses to reveal two purple-bruised eyes. ‘Considering I was hit on the head with a golf club and blown up with plastic explosive, I think I’m in damn good shape.’

  Nevile poured him a glass of wine. ‘I was down at headquarters this morning, talking to Lieutenant Chessman. He says they’re totally baffled by what happened, which doesn’t surprise me. The police are always baffled. It’s their natural state of mind. The crime scene people are still collecting up Charles Lasser with grapefruit spoons. Perhaps they’ll know a little more when they’ve finished their lab work, but I doubt it.’

  Frank said nothing for a long time. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to phrase his question. Eventually, however, he said, ‘Did you have any idea?’

  ‘What? About Astrid being dead?’

  ‘You make it sound so . . . commonplace.’

  ‘Being dead is commonplace. Let’s face it, Frank, the dead outnumber the living by millions to one.’

  ‘She seemed so alive. I could feel her, touch her, talk to her. Make love to her.’

  Nevile nodded. ‘I know. She was a very strong spirit, very determined.’

  He went to the window and looked out. Frank could see his reflected face looking back in. He said, ‘When you first introduced us, I had a very strong feeling that she wasn’t quite what she appeared to be, although I didn’t immediately realize why. And there was something else, too, for which I’m kicking myself. I smelled vinegar, which is the same smell I picked up at The Cedars. The acid aroma of extreme vengefulness. I’m just sorry that I didn’t connect it.’