by Julie Kenner
“That,” I say, with suitable dramatic flair, “is our problem.”
And then, because I don’t have any ideas about how to get past that damn gate, I push down on the accelerator and start to circle the block, hoping to find a service entrance, a secret tunnel, or even a trampoline positioned just right to let me launch myself up and over.
A girl can dream, can’t she?
Chapter 24
There.
He focused the binoculars on his quarry, then slid down in his seat. His bladder ached, but now that he saw her, his discomfort seemed trivial. She climbed out of her car, then rolled her neck, as if the weight of the world bore down on her shoulders.
He shifted the glasses, focusing on her face. She seemed close enough to touch, and oh so lovely. But then, he’d known she would be.
He watched her move along the side of the street, her face etched with concentration. Once she was closer to the house, that was when he would strike. Out of the way, under cover of the bushes.
She stopped, then turned sharply back toward her car. He frowned, wondering if she’d noticed him. Or, worse, wondering if someone else was inside her car.
Quickly, he shifted his binoculars to focus on the front seat. His perspective was from behind and several yards away, but he saw nothing.
Still, there could be someone…
He considered his options, then decided it didn’t matter. His time was now. Before she got inside.
Deliberately, so that he would later remember each movement, he reached into the glove compartment, pulling out the hunting knife he’d kept safe for so many years. That was for her. Quick. Personal. And he would feel her blood as it ran from her and over his hands.
The gun he retrieved next, tucking it into the waistband at the back of his jeans. Cold and impersonal, it was only for her companion, if she had one. A means to an end.
A means to her.
He opened the door, the overhead light flashing on as he did so. He froze, a flash of anger at his stupidity ripping through him.
She looked up, and even from this distance, he could tell that she was looking at his car, searching her mind as she wondered if it—or he—looked familiar.
The car itself was nondescript. A Toyota Camry he’d rented for this occasion. Silver, so as to blend in. He blended, too. Dressed in basic khakis and a button-down, he looked like your average guy, just driving home from a late night at the office. Nothing odd, nothing untoward.
He told himself to keep moving. Don’t let her get suspicious. With his knife hand still hidden by the door of the car, he stood up and waved. Just a casual passerby sort of wave. Nothing to make a woman on a dark street nervous.
And then, just as he’d anticipated, she waved back.
He tried to hide his glee, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. His time had come, and it was everything he could do not to climb on top of his car and shout at the top of his lungs.
But no. He had more control than that.
That’s why he’d been picked, wasn’t it?
Chapter 25
“We are going to get in so much trouble,” Andy says.
I try not to laugh, but it’s hard. Despite the horror of the situation, there’s something just too damn amusing about him straddling the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the property. He’s a gangly man as it is. And perched up there like that, he resembles an overlarge monkey.
I press my lips together, but use my hands to motion for him to come on. When he doesn’t, I swallow my laughter and urge him in a stage whisper. “Just swing your leg over and drop. It’s easy.” I indicate myself with my hands, proof of the feat’s simplicity. “I mean, I’m a girl and I’m carrying my bag. And I didn’t scratch me or the leather.” That, actually, is a lie. I scratched my ankle and the leather. My ankle will heal—assuming the rest of me survives, anyway. The leather, though…well, I’m hoping Armen can work some magic.
I actually feel a little silly lugging my new Prada bag, but Andy insisted. And when I pressed him for a reason, he told me that we might have to run. Which means we might have to abandon the car. And if we do that, I’d want my belongings.
In other words, I never should have asked.
Andy, however, isn’t impressed with the fact that I scaled the fence, Prada in tow.
“I don’t like heights,” he says.
“Then jump down,” I say, which is convoluted logic, but the best I can do. I confess I don’t have too much sympathy. I grew up on movie sets and on backlots. There’s a lot of scaffolding, framed set pieces, cranes, and other miscellaneous dangerous and appealing things to keep a kid’s interest. Back then, I was the monkey. And it had been no trick at all for me to scramble over the fence and drop into the soft grass on the other side.
Now that I’m safely inside the fence and he’s still stuck up top, my empathy is waning. I mean, the damn fence wouldn’t be an issue for Blake. Still, Andy is my protector, and he knows the game. So I tell myself to cut him some slack.
Through the shrubs that line the fence, I see the glow of headlights down the road. I have no idea who’s in the car, but the last thing we need is some Good Samaritan calling the cops about people breaking into the Greystone Mansion. “Andy,” I hiss, “jump. Jump now.”
Thankfully, he does, and I release a slow breath as relief floods my body.
He lands hard, then grimaces and reaches down to rub his ankle. “Shit.”
“You okay?”
He waves off the question. “Just sore.” He looks up, squinting into the darkness. “Do you know how to get to the koi pond?”
“Sure. I just need to get my bearings. Come on.” I head in, away from the fence. We’d circled the property, stealing in over a back gate most likely used as a service entrance. Dim lights line a narrow path, and we follow it a bit uphill before veering off onto another winding walkway that leads to one of many brick stairways.
The paths and ways seem to curve in on each other, and I’m not entirely sure we’re going in the right direction. But at least we’re not on that secluded service road anymore. That, I figure, would be a likely place for any guards who might be canvassing the property to go.
Of course, because I know all about securing a parcel of land, I also know that video surveillance could be an issue. Nothing we can do about that, though, except hope that all the videos are trained at the house itself. And if that turns out not to be the case—if a guard runs us to ground—I’ll just have to play the wild and crazy celebrity with too much money and too much time.
I hope it doesn’t come to that, though. I’ll do what it takes to stay alive, of course, but an article about the return of my past wild days could set me back for years.
Even this far away from the mansion (not that I was certain how far we were from the mansion) the grounds reek of power, money, and taste. The whole area—all umpty acres of it—is landscaped. We’ve passed hidden courtyards, sculpted hedges, and lush landscaping. All around us, the grounds resemble a private forest, a princess’s fairyland.
If it were day, I know we’d have an amazing view of the Los Angeles vista, truly a stunning sight on any day without smog. Even at night, though, the place has a magical quality, and it’s hard to believe that a location as beautiful as this has such an ugly past.
When I make that comment to Andy, though, he has no idea what I mean about the property’s unpleasant past, and so I find myself whispering to him as we trudge along, telling him the tale of millionaire Edward L. Doheny.
“The house was a present,” I say. “Edward Doheny had it built for his son, which is pretty much the coolest present ever, in my opinion. Except, in the end it didn’t work out all that great.”
“How so?” he asks, puffing a little because now we’re climbing yet another set of steep stone stairs. Just one of dozens that litter the property.
“Some big political scandal,” I say. “The Teapot Dome scandal?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Andy says.
�
�Then you’re better informed than me,” I admit. “All I know is that it was a big deal, and dear old dad was somehow caught up in bribery allegations.”
“And this affected the house how?”
“Well, I’m not sure of the details of how it came about, but the son ended up dying in a murder-suicide.”
“Yikes.”
“Pretty much. The widow lived here for a while, then left it to the city.” I sweep my arm out, encompassing the place. “The rest, as they say, is history.” Actually, it’s pretty creepy history, now that I think about it. And I suppose the bloodshed and murder is apropos of our mission.
How glad I am that I thought of that. Not.
In order to take my mind off the really-not-comforting house history that I dredged up, I concentrate on walking and not falling on my face. The area we’re in is planted with neat rows of trees lining the road and opening onto the forestlike surroundings. Despite the dark, I know that when we get closer to the house, exotic flowers will peek out at us, birds-of-paradise and other beauties vying for attention.
I’m thinking about the flowers and trying to get my bearings when the road shifts and rises. We climb, and as we crest the small hill, the mansion itself is spread out in front of us, illuminated by both the moon and the security lights.
It glows like something alive and welcoming, and despite the purpose of our mission, I can’t help but smile. Beside me, Andy whistles.
“Wouldn’t I like something like that…”
“Would you?” I tease. “All those rooms to clean.”
“Who bothers to clean? With all the rooms in that place, you could just move to a new room. Do that once a month, and you’ve got—what?—five years before you’d have to hire a maid?”
I laugh, impressed by his mathematical prowess. “Works for me. Come on,” I say, cocking my head.
The light reflects on the gray slate roof tiles from which the building acquired its name, and we move closer carefully, hoping that we’re not too illuminated as well.
If I’m remembering right, the Willow Pond is in the garden at the rear of the house. The only trouble is, considering the roundabout way that we approached the house, I’m not entirely sure where the rear is. After all, this isn’t exactly your typical front door/back door kind of place. Frustrated, I manage to lead us astray for a good five minutes. During that time, we see a flashlight bobbing in the distance. Andy yanks me back behind a tree, and we stand there, not breathing, until the flashlight bobs away.
“Guard?”
“Not sure,” he says. “Better safe than sorry.”
I take a deep breath as reality bears down on me. A reality filled with assassins and stalkers and odds that really don’t skew in my favor.
The blackness starts to creep up again, that seductive place where I can get lost in my own head and not worry about the real world. I shove it away, because I know better. If I stop worrying about the real world, I’ll find myself without any world at all. If that’s not a motivation to stay sober, I don’t know what is.
Determined, I step out behind the tree and continue on in the direction where I think the house lies. After a few minutes, I still haven’t found the damn pond.
I stop, frustrated, and try to get my bearings. Andy stumbles to a halt behind me.
“Are we lost?”
“We’re right here,” I snap. “Everything else has just shifted.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, but I’m irritated. It’s dark, and I’m tired and I’m scared. I’m also lost. Not that I’m going to admit that to Andy.
I turn this way and that, trying to spot something familiar in the dark. Nothing. Finally, I just pick a direction. “This way,” I say.
“Wait.”
I look back at him, confused. “What?” Was someone out there? Had he seen something?
“We’re heading to the wrong place.”
I shake my head. “No way. It all fits. The clues all fit.”
“Except for the reflection part,” he says. “What was the language? ‘A reflection of grandeur, of good times once seen’?”
“Okay. So?”
“So that can’t have been thrown into the overall clue for no reason. It must serve a purpose.”
I swallow, because he’s right. But we don’t have time to follow rabbit trails, and I’m now pissed off at myself for leaping all over the koi pond thing. “Then what?” I ask. “Do you have any ideas?”
“You know the mansion,” he says. “Is there some sort of reflecting pond?”
The sense of doom that had been settling over me vanishes with a puff. “Yes,” I say triumphantly. “And I know right where it is.”
Five minutes later, we’ve found the reflecting pond. A long, rectangular shallow pool cut into a stone patio. At one end, a majestic fountain sprays water into the air, creating a blur of ambient noise that will hide any approaching footsteps.
“What now?” I ask, frowning at the pond.
“We search for the clue,” he says, slogging into the water, shoes and all. “You said Jack found something in the water, right? So the clue must be in here.”
“Right,” I say, shining the flashlight over the surface of the water. “In the movie, Jack Nicholson finds a pair of glasses. Is that what we’re looking for? Glasses?” I have a sudden mental picture of me wearing the special decoder glasses, then flitting around the property like Batgirl or something. I shake my head to clear the idiotic thought. Clearly, I’m getting loopy.
“I doubt it,” he says. “The game is never that literal. But I expect we’ll find something.”
As he tromps through the water, I move the light so that he can see what’s near his feet. After a few minutes of this, the beam hits something shiny in the middle of the pond. The light glints off it, making the item shine and spark like a beacon sending out a little Morse code signal. Look here! Look here!
“Andy!”
“I see it,” he says, and he’s already bending over, his head tilted at an odd angle so as to not get wet while his arm is submerged up to his elbow. He looks cockeyed and off-balance and more than a little goofy. He’s also grinning from ear to ear, clearly more than happy to be my white knight.
“My hero,” I say with a laugh.
“If I’m a hero just for grabbing the thing, what am I going to be when I actually pull it out of the water?” he asks.
“Golden,” I say.
He looks at me with a little too much intensity, and then he nods. “For now, that’ll do.”
I look away, because I can hear the undertone in his voice. I may want to put off the talk about the kiss, but I wonder if that’s going to be possible. Still, compared to the poison in my body, Andy’s lust is hardly a priority. As soon as we find the antidote—and I’m determined to think in terms of when and not if—I’ll have the talk with him.
My rambling thoughts are interrupted when he stands up straight, triumphantly holding out a small metal disc.
“What is it?” I ask, reaching for it.
He slogs to the edge of the pond and hands it to me without looking at it, and I immediately start to scrape off the gunk.
“Anything?” he asks.
I squint at it, the silver emerging from the black ooze familiar. “It’s a silver dollar,” I say. “The old kind, like my grandpa used to keep in his coin box.” An Eisenhower dollar to be exact, with the president’s profile on one side and the Apollo 11 eagle insignia on the back. (Honestly, it’s amazing I remember that, but Grandpa knew everything about his coins, and that little tidbit stuck.)
“Does it say anything?”
He holds out his hand for the dollar, but I ignore it, instead looking more closely and running my thumb over the image, looking for secret codes etched in the metal. “Nothing I see.” I flip it over again and look one more time. Still nothing.
Discouraged, I pass it off to Andy.
He does the same routine, ultimately coming to the same conclusion. “It’s a silver dollar.”
>
“But it’s the clue, right? I mean, something perfectly innocuous can be a clue. Isn’t that how the game works?” My voice is rising, and I force myself to bring it down a notch. I might be screaming in terror inside, but the actress in me knows how to play the role of the calm, cool heroine.
“It must be,” Andy says. “And the clue will tie in to the movies. We just need to find the connection.”
I blanch. “But there could be a million possibilities.”
He puts a calming hand on my arm. “Then we go through the million one by one. Come on, Devi. We can do this.”
“Right,” I say, gathering my courage and confidence. “Sure.”
“So start naming some of those possibilities.”
Naturally, my mind goes horribly blank. “Um.” I’m floundering, a little fact that is particularly annoying since I was weaned both in and on the movies. My grandfather was a cameraman back in the day, and he worked on films now considered classics. I grew up watching films like Arsenic and Old Lace even while going to the premieres of movies starring me. A weird life maybe, but I liked it.
My grandmother, not to be outdone, read anything and everything about Hollywood itself. More than that, she wrote about it. That magazine, Confidential? She was one of the secret sources that fed the infamous rag all of its devilish dish.
In other words, if anyone knows movies and Hollywood trivia, it’s me. But at the moment, my mind is a blank.
“Okay,” I say, trying again. “It’s an Eisenhower dollar. And there’s a movie called Why We Fight that had a lot to do with Eisenhower. It was all about the war, after all. And if the war is the key, then there was a documentary in the forties called The True Glory.”
“But none of those are a place.”
He has a point, and for a moment it takes the air out of my sails. Still, I’m not to be deterred. “Maybe it’s not Eisenhower. Maybe the clue ties to silver dollar. Or just dollar. Or eagle. Or even Apollo.”
“Apollo?”
I explain about the insignia on the back of the coin. “Could be a reference to the Apollo Theater. Except that it was demolished,” I add. “But you get the idea.”
