"Okay," Jimmy said, "who do you know can use a computer and a modem like that? Got any old girlfriends who are techies?"
Karl shook his head. "That's what gets me. I mean, almost everyone I know owns a computer, but not many of us in the business spend our free time at home hacking around on them. I don't remember any woman I ever dated mentioning a real interest in computers or programming."
"Well, someone knows how to go about it, that's for sure. Isn't there anything you can do about it? Can't you turn your suspicions to someone?"
"I could if I could prove it. I don't know how to find that proof."
"You need some help, Karl. If someone can ruin your credit, get into the IRS database and show you owing back taxes, then you need some kind of electronic snooper who can follow the trail and find out who's doing it."
"Great. You know anyone like that?"
Karl drove them toward Malibu, handling the Jag casually, more at home behind the wheel than he had been in ages.
"Let me check around with some of my friends," Jimmy said. "I'll find you someone. This shit's got to stop.”
“Ain't that the truth."
The conversation continued during the trip home and into Karl's house where he put some steaks under the oven's broiler and tore some lettuce in a big bowl for salad. Jimmy hung over the counter, drinking beer and just watching the meal preparations. He liked those times he and Karl batched it with no women around.
After dinner, with twilight settled all around the house, and the lights twinkling from beyond the repaired sliding glass doors to the patio area, Jimmy went to the refrigerator and found they were out of beer.
"I'll go to the store and get us one more six-pack. Hell, it's Saturday night Karl. I ought to be out laying some chick, the least I can do is hoist a few beers in consolation that I'm stuck with you tonight." He grinned and Karl laughed.
"Here." Karl threw Jimmy the keys to the Jag. "Take silver babe out there. Maybe one day when you're a big movie star you too can own a Jaguar."
Jimmy caught the keys and started for the garage. "If I do, it won't be an old one like yours, buddy boy. I'll have myself something just a little bit newer so the girls will go wild and all my nights will be jam-packed full with dates."
"That's a damn pitiful attitude to take toward women." Jimmy gave him the finger and lumbered out the kitchen door.
~ * ~
Jimmy thought the brakes on the Jag were a little loose when he came to the first stop sign after leaving Karl's house. He shrugged, thinking Karl ought to get it back to the shop, see if they needed checking out. They'd had to change out all the tires so maybe the brakes were new and not set in yet. New brake pads sometimes made an awful racket until they were seated.
By the time Jimmy hit Highway One along the ocean, heading for the big all-night grocery about two miles distant, he had forgotten about the squeaky brakes. He thought he'd get two six-packs, not one, and some chips and dip. What the hell. Maybe they could turn on the tube and catch a ballgame.
He speeded up on the highway, feeling the breeze spinning through the windows. The crisp night air helped to sober him. He could smell the ocean, salty on his tongue and dry in his nostrils. He knew he was grinning like a monkey because the beer had made him feel good, feel easy for a change. He had been worried over Karl for too long. They both deserved one night of drinking and joking around and just relaxing.
He had the Jag up to eighty miles an hour before he noticed his speed and realized he was over the speed limit. Too much over. He put his foot on the brake pedal and eased it down, all the while checking his rearview to see if he could spot any patrol cars.
His foot went straight to the floorboard. The brake pedal seemed not even to be there.
A flash of panic lit a fire in Jimmy's brain. It was as if a white empty landscape opened up in his mind, swallowing all his faculties. No brakes? Did this mean . . . he had no way to stop?
He let up on the brake pedal and tried again. No dice. There were no brakes on the car. It was true. He had no brakes! He was going seventy-five miles an hour now with no way to stop.
He was coming up on a car traveling slower in his lane. He had to swerve over in the passing lane to keep from ramming it. The tires on the Jag sung along the blacktop with a whistling sound.
Jimmy had begun to sweat. The breeze coming in the windows did nothing to cool him down. He felt sick to his stomach and prayed the beer wouldn't back up on him.
No brakes. Brake line probably cut. Brake fluid leaked out.
No brakes, no way to stop.
He glanced down, wondering where the parking brake was on the Jaguar. The moment his attention left the road, a car entered his lane from the right, cutting him off, expecting him to brake and fall back.
The Jag hit it with a bang, snapping Jimmy's head back. Then the Jaguar slid over into the center of the highway, and was slammed head-on by a late model GMC van.
Jimmy never knew what hit him.
He hadn't bothered to buckle his seat belt, not that it would have made a lot of difference.
On impact with the van, the upper half of his body went over the steering wheel and through the windshield. The Jag spun out again, hit the guardrail and flipped over and over through a drainage ditch. It took out four small cottonwood saplings, and, skidding on its roof for a hundred yards, plowed a foot-deep furrow through sand and gravel.
The wheels spun, the tires hissed as they rotated in air, and the engine sizzled. Jimmy Watz died from shock, head injuries, and a severed carotid artery, cut by the broken windshield, before he realized his legs were cut off from the crotch down.
42
"Life is a series of diminishments."
Coleman Dowell, Mrs October Was Here
Karl, frantic with worry, kept going to the front door to look down the street for Jimmy. Where could he have gone for the beer, Australia?
When the call came inquiring if he was the owner of a 1985 silver Jaguar, Karl choked. He could hardly answer the questions, his throat felt so tight. Jimmy Watz was dead. Accident on Ocean Highway. The Jag had been totaled. It had been in a collision and rolled several times. It looked like a gigantic sardine can with the label ripped off.
Karl told them who had been driving. He said yes, he would come identify the body.
Karl wanted to kill. He had no illusions this was a real accident. Jimmy had had a couple of beers, but he had not been drunk. He was a careful driver, a good driver. Once, as students in college together, he and Jimmy had taken a Christmas vacation trip across country. Jimmy was a helluva good driver. He'd saved their lives once on that trip when during a rainstorm a car lost control in front of them and spun out. Karl wasn't sure afterward if he could have been as sure and steady at the wheel under the circumstances. He'd been glad Jimmy had been driving the car.
No, the wreck was staged, that was a certainty. Karl didn't know what had happened, but it wasn't accidental, it was murder. It should have been him in the car, not Jimmy.
Now two people had died because of Karl. Two lives snuffed out.
On the way to the morgue in Jimmy's old 1968 fastback Mustang—driving too fast, feeling reckless with despair—Karl knew what he was going to do. As soon as it was morning, he was going to find the stalker. He wouldn't do another thing until he did that. He didn't care if his business went down the drain, if he went bankrupt, or if he ruined every relationship he had with women. He wasn't going to stop until he had Jimmy's killer. It ended here, now.
~ * ~
Cam, amazed by the scene Jackie Landry had just performed, called for a cut. He rarely complimented his actors because he had discovered praise tended to cause them to slack up. Cam might say, "That's a good take," but rarely did he feel moved to comment beyond that. This time he couldn't help himself. Jackie had been wonderful.
Cam called him over. It was the end of the day and the crew were wrapping up so they could go home.
Jackie looked like a dog about to get a slap on the behind from a ro
lled newspaper. Where was this guy's confidence? If he had balls, they must be tucked up high.
Robyn had been right; Jackie was meant for the part. He was putting out one hundred and ten percent. Olivia was having to really haul out the big guns to keep from being outshone by him. Ever since Robyn had had that talk with Jackie, the man made the celluloid sizzle.
"I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am with your work today." Cam watched him closely for his response. Jackie grinned. If he had had a tail, he would have been wagging it. Cam almost wanted to backhand him and tell him to act like a man, damnit. Show some spunk, for pete's sake.
"I've been trying to get into the character," Jackie said. "Maybe I finally got it."
"You know I don't usually tell actors how good they've done because it goes to their heads and they start fucking off. But I just wanted you to know that the scene you did today was excellent. It was top quality. It's going to look great in dailies."
"Thanks, Cam."
Cam watched him leave the stage set and thought maybe his shoulders were a little straighter, his head held a little higher. He couldn't figure the guy. He wasn't quite like any other actor Cam worked with. He wondered why he didn't know how good he was. It might be that he'd never had a chance to show what he could do before. His other pictures were box office worthy, but not blockbusters. Or maybe it was because his parents had been famous in the old days. Now that could sometimes pose a problem for young talent. How did you ever fill the old man's or old lady's shoes?
This film could move him right to the head of the class if he kept going. He'd get bigger salary offers than Stallone or Bruce Willis. He might grow into a star as lasting as Eastwood if he kept doing the kind of work he'd done today. He'd be better than his parents combined.
An assistant came up and said, "There's someone to see you in your office. Karl? LaRosa?"
Cam's mood shifted into shadow. "Okay, I'll see about it." What the hell was it now?
Thoughts of the head propped in the front seat of his Cadillac came unbidden to mind. Cam ran a hand over his face, washing it away. Karl couldn't know about that. No one knew about it. They'd be looking for Marilyn for a very long time yet.
The office door was open. Cam hustled to his desk and pulled out the chair there. He twisted around and faced Karl. "What's up? I got to get outta here in a minute, sorry, got some work to finish up."
"Cam, I want a copy of the script."
Cam's eyebrows rose in question then fell into a scowl. "Can't do it, bud. Under wraps."
"I'm not asking you, Cam. I'm telling you. I want a copy of the script. My best friend died last night in my car. The brake line had been cut. I'd just gotten it out of the shop, but they didn't do it. The police still think they might have made a mistake. They can't prove the line was cut or if it snapped in the wreck. They're telling me to file a claim against the shop; they can't bring charges unless there's a clear-cut piece of evidence. But I know it wasn't a mechanic's mistake. Someone was trying to kill me. Someone on your set did it."
"I'm sorry to hear about your friend, but I assure you . . ."
"No excuses, Cam. I don't get the script, I go straight back to the cops. I think they can get me a script, don't you?" Karl rose from his chair. "I probably wasted my time coming here. I should have told the cops what I know. How my life's been following your filming. I didn't want you to have trouble because I made a promise to someone. I know how much this project means to you and Robyn. I've kept it unofficial for her sake. I've tried to handle this on my own."
Cam leapt from his chair and circled the desk. He put a staying hand on Karl's shoulder. "Now wait a fucking minute. It's no problem getting you a script. Here, let me check . . ." He turned back and pulled out a key from his pocket. He unlocked a desk drawer and rummaged in it. Extracting a green metallic-colored binder, he grinned so wide his gums showed. "See, got one right here. You won't let it out, right? No one else reads it?"
"Give me a break," Karl said. He took the script, turned his back and left the office.
Cam noticed he was sweating. His armpits were wet and he smelled like a bricklayer. "Shit," he mumbled, watching Karl's back as it retreated across the soundstage. "What a fucker." What he thought privately was that it might be a good thing if whoever was up to tricks with the script actually succeeded. Karl looked like a hard-ass who needed a long walk off a short pier.
~ * ~
Karl sat on the sofa in his house skimming over the next scenes in the script of Pure and Uncut. The first he knew he was not alone was when a bullet came through the closed door of his bedroom, splintering the paneling. He flinched back and his gut tightened up. The script pages flapped shut in his lap.
Then there was a barrage of shots peppering the door and Karl was up in a flash, moving through the living room, leaping over furniture, heading for the hall and the study beyond. He heard wood and glass breaking behind him. The pops from the gun sounded muffled, as if someone were using a silencer. Karl's own gun was in the drawer of the bedside table in the room where the shots were coming from. He was unarmed. He must reach the phone, call for help.
He slammed the study door and locked it, then noticed what a flimsy push button indoor lock he had on the door. One kick could disable it.
No time to worry about what he couldn't change. He ran for the desk and grabbed the phone there. He was punching in 911 before he realized there was no dial tone. Oh Christ.
Gunshots came from outside the closed study door and the window behind Karl exploded. It sounded to his ears like a train had slammed through the wall. Glass fell all around him in a shivery transparent shower. Glass cut and slit his skin on his neck and arms. He dropped to the floor and crawled beneath the desk. He was breathing through his mouth, harsh rasping sounds of a man under siege. He'd never been more afraid in his life. For one instant he remembered watching on television the taking of the Davidian compound in Waco, Texas. The ATF in their bulletproof vests storming the building.
That's what he felt like now. Like David Koresh; outgunned, outmanned, doomed. Any second one of those many random shots might take him out.
There was a lull. Karl held his breath. Suddenly the shots came again, as if the person on the other side of the door had reloaded. The door must be riddled by now, holes all in it.
It finally dawned on Karl that whoever it was out there meant to terrorize rather than kill. If she wanted Karl dead, she could have simply opened the bedroom door, walked into the living room and shot him dead where he sat. He'd never known anyone was in the house. The damn alarm system had failed again.
The whole thing was mapped out in the plot of the script.
This didn't mean Karl was going to stand up and take a bullet. It just meant he understood something important about what was going on. While he puzzled over it, the gunfire stopped and this time didn't resume. After another five minutes of silence, Karl came out from beneath the desk and walked to the door. It was splintered and battered. One of the hinges had been blasted loose. Karl reached out for the doorknob, paused a second with his hand around it, then jerked it open. The door keeled to one side and he had to hold it up to keep it from snapping off the lower hinge.
Maybe now he'd be killed, though he thought not. He'd read this scene in the script just before shots erupted from his bedroom. The hero had not been shot in the script. He'd been forced to run, hide, and finally the shooter disappeared into thin air.
The hall beyond stood empty.
After searching the house, Karl knew the intruder was gone. Just like in the script.
Karl left the house through the kitchen exit to the garage. Started up the Mustang.
He was going to see Robyn. She had to help him.
~ * ~
She saw him coming from across the room. She was in Heaven, the top level of the Universe. A girl of Asian extraction sang slow, sad songs that had a hypnotic effect on the room. Embracing couples on the dance floor locked in swaying trances. Over at the end of the
bar a man with a bad tic in his left eye kept sending signals Robyn's way. He was too paunchy for her. Naked he'd look like a slab of fatty beef.
She sipped at her third gin and tonic, ignoring the guy on the barstool and watching Karl make his way toward her. She knew he'd want to talk about Marilyn. How she'd warned him about the script and then came up missing. Robyn didn't know what to say about that. I'm sorry, she'd say, it's out of hand, she'd say, what can I do, what do you want me to do? Maybe she got scared, maybe she left town, who the hell knows where she went? Though it was passing strange that she would desert a film that could have made her into a box office name.
Karl looked the worse for wear. His tie was askew, his shirttail half pulled from the back of his trousers. He might be drunk. His eyes, underscored with puffy-looking bags, looked haunted. There was a day's growth of whiskers on his cheeks and his hair was mussed. Maybe he'd been mugged.
Robyn straightened, thrusting out her breasts, and happened to see the man at the bar give her a wolfish grin. She turned to the side in order to block him out.
Karl came right up to her and took her by the arm. "Come with me," he said, pulling her across the dance floor.
She held back and finally jerked her arm free. "Now wait a damn minute, what's this about?"
"We need to talk. Not here. Let's go."
"Karl, I don't have to do what you say anymore. Now let's go have a—"
"Come with me now." His voice rose enough that people around them looked over at her.
"Oh, all right. Let me get my purse." She found it lying on the bar and followed him down the stairs through the next level to the ground floor. Music pulsated at their backs. Robyn always wanted to wiggle her ass to the drum beats. She'd consumed just enough liquor to think how funny she'd look if she started doing that while walking and giggled to herself. Laughter sifted through the smoke and smiling faces greeted them as they moved toward the door. Mercy, how she loved this place. She'd live here if they rented out beds.
DARK THRILLERS-A Box Set of Suspense Novels Page 38
