What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  Relax. Deep breaths.

  I turned back to the gated home before me. I knew Ladd was my guy, and I knew this to the very core of my being. Call it a gut feeling. Call it instinct. Call it whatever you want. Either way, he was dirty.

  The house was silent. The only indication that someone might be inside was an ambient, bluish glow coming from deep within the house. Then again, it could have been anything. Glow from a computer screen. Night Light. Portal into Hell. And with the dwindling daylight, the hint of light was turning into something more than a hint. My best guess was that Ladd was alone and watching TV.

  I turned the field glasses over to the guest house.

  It was a mini-ranch house, complete with pitched roof and clapboards and a brick veneer. It was quite a bit smaller than the main house, but still bigger than my apartment. Suddenly depressed, I slid the binoculars over to a pair of double windows facing me on the west side of the house.

  And froze.

  There was a face in the window, watching me. And not just any face.

  It was Miranda Scott.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  I blinked and gasped and the face in the window was instantly gone, replaced now by swaying dark curtains. I lowered the field glasses.

  What the hell had I just seen?

  Surely I was hallucinating. I mean, c’mon, I’d been obsess-ing over Miranda’s face for two weeks now. This was a classic case of wish-fulfillment. I wanted to find her, and so I did. At least in my mind. The face had probably belonged to someone else, and I had transposed it with Miranda’s own. That is, if the face was even there to start with. Maybe I had made it up.

  Great theory. Now convince your hammering heart.

  I lifted the field glasses again, but now the curtains hung limply, inertly. They completely concealed the window.

  It had been her. It had been her. And she had been watching me.

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. I had just exhaled when the rear sliding glass door to the main house opened. I swung the binoculars to the left and watched as Gregory Ladd appeared, wearing a silk Oriental robe and holding a bottle of wine and a single wine glass. Almost immediately a rottweiler—and easily one of the biggest dogs I’d ever seen—appeared by his side. Ladd promptly kicked it away, cursing at it. The dog yelped and skittered away, although it was too big to skitter very far. It came back for more but kept its distance, its nub of a tail wagging, looking confused but in need of attention. It got none from Ladd, who instead headed straight for the guest house. He crossed the small area between the main house and the guest house, an area about the width of his pool, and then disappeared around the corner of the guest house. A few seconds later I heard a door open, then slam shut.

  A light turned on in the guest house.

  * * *

  My chest hurt. The hike down the trail, although not particularly strenuous, had taken a lot out of me. I forced myself to take deep breaths.

  If that had indeed been Miranda, then what the hell was going on inside there? If she was indeed trapped, why not just bust out the window and get the hell out of there? Obviously, she wasn’t being restrained. Was she in there on her own free will? I didn’t know, but she could explain it to the cops.

  Yes, the cops!

  I pulled my cell phone, flipped it open. No reception. Should have known. Never once, ever, had I gotten reception out here in the past.

  No problem, right? Just hike back out of here, find my car, drive around until I get cell reception, and then make the call to Detective Colbert.

  Good enough.

  And just as I turned to head back up the trail, I heard something that chilled me to my very core. An ear-splitting scream, and it came from the guest house.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  I stopped in my tracks and turned back to the guest house, torn about what I should do. Stay or go for help? And if I stayed, what the hell could I possibly do? I was an old man with a can of Mace. Ladd was huge—and he had a rottweiler, to boot.

  And as I stood there, debating what to do, another scream ripped through the dusk air.

  And another.

  And another.

  Jesus! My blood ran cold. The rottweiler, which had been pacing out in front of the small house, paused, lifted its ears, and then resumed its pacing. Perhaps it was used to the screaming.

  I wasn’t.

  Another scream. This one more blood curdling than the others. The screams, although loud to me due to my proximity, were still oddly muffled, as if the house had been sound proofed.

  What the fuck is going on in there?

  The scream came again, this time long and wavering and filled with hysteria and pain and fear, and no one heard it.

  No one but me.

  I removed the Mace from my pocket, gripped it firmly. There was no time for the police. I dashed toward the guest house, realizing that a gun about now would have been nice. Too late now.

  I reached the outer stone fence. The rottweiler, perhaps agitated and distracted by the screaming coming from within the guest house, hadn’t noticed me yet. I didn’t blame it. Hell, I was agitated and distracted by the screaming.

  I knew I had to act, and I knew I had to act now. I also knew that I was about to confront one hell of a big dog, and all I had for protection was an aerosol spray can.

  Fuck me.

  Just as I reached the outer stone fence, sucking wind, another scream, much louder and more prolonged than the others, pierced the cooling late afternoon air. Maybe it just seemed louder than the others because I was closer to the guest house now. Maybe. Either way, it raised the hair on my neck.

  I’m Elvis fucking Presley. I used to sing in the Astrodome. I used to make movies. The world adores me to this day, and probably forever will. So what the hell am I doing out here?

  Good question. Night was falling rapidly. A cool wind made its way around the house, lifting my dyed brown hair. Sweat stung my eyes.

  Deep breaths, big guy. You can do this.

  Another scream, followed now by a lot of whimpering. I checked my cell phone, still no signal.

  It looks like it’s just you and your can of Mace, big guy.

  I’m a lover, not a fighter, although, as an actor, I had been trained to punch, or at least to simulate a punch. In real life, I rarely, if ever, got into brawls.

  I’m too old for brawls. I’m too pretty for brawls.

  The Mace did not feel reassuring. It felt small and inadequate and I could almost feel the dog’s teeth sinking into my calf now.

  Fuck.

  Deep breaths.

  Another, piercing scream. My blood ran cold. Hell, my blood felt as it had frozen in my veins.

  Do it. Now!

  I reached for the top of the stone fence and started climbing.

  Chapter Sixty

  Up I went, clambering awkwardly, banging my old knees, scratching my old forearms. I hadn’t climbed an eight-foot fence in God knows how long, maybe since I was a kid, and the can of Mace in my hand made climbing especially cumbersome.

  Grunting and nearly falling backwards, I finally swung a leg up and over the top of the fence. From that position, with one leg hanging over each side, gasping for breath, I looked into Ladd’s backyard—and my heart stopped cold.

  The rottweiler was no longer distracted by the screaming from the guest house. No, it was focused on something else entirely. Me. It stood about thirty feet away, frozen in mid-pace, staring at me, drool oozing from its hanging jowls.

  We stared at each other for another second or two.

  And then it charged, hitting top speed in two strides or less. The deepest, most horrific growl I had ever heard in my life erupted from its massive lungs.

  I dropped down from the wall—and promptly landed on the edge of something, perhaps a rock or a brick. Either way, my ankle rolled, something snapped, and I cried out. Searing, white-hot pain lanced through me. I collapsed in the surrounding weeds, and lost the can of Mace in the process.

 
; From my side, I had a ground’s-eye view of the charging rottweiler, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. All teeth and slobber and muscle and jawbone. The ground actually shook. My bowels instantly turned to water.

  Gasping, I groped frantically for the Mace, searching the weeds and grass.

  The dog continued to charge.

  My fingertips touched something metal and round.

  The dog lunged.

  I threw myself back against the stone wall and swung my hand around and pressed the dispenser as hard as I could, praying to sweet Jesus that the nozzle was facing away from me—

  A powerful jet of oleo-resin capsicum erupted from the canister and straight into the charging dog’s face. The rottweiler reacted instantly. It lost its footing, tumbled, and slammed sideways into me. Then it proceeded to claw at its face with both paws, backing away and yelping loudly and continuously. A hideous, pitiful sound.

  It backed all the way onto the brick path that ran around the perimeter of the backyard. Once on the path, the dog, amazingly, began running. And it ran blind, banging its way around the side of the guest house and disappearing from view, where it crashed loudly into what I assumed was some sort of metal trash can. Probably put a hell of a dent in the can.

  And loud enough to wake the dead.

  I had to hurry. Ignoring the pain in my right ankle, I used the wall to help me find my feet, and then hopped on one foot over to the side of the guest house. My ankle was bad. Very bad. I leaned against the corner of the house, sucking air, sick to my stomach.

  A door opened slowly from around the corner.

  I fought to control my breathing. The dog was still making hideous noises from the rear of the guest house. I felt bad for it, even though it would have surely ripped my throat out. And I needed that throat. I had my first gig on Monday, which I fully intended to make.

  “Purgatory?” said a voice hesitantly. It was Ladd’s voice. It came again: “Purgie?”

  Purgie?

  The dog didn’t respond, although it did howl even louder.

  “I’ve got a gun,” said Ladd loudly. I assumed he wasn’t talking to Purgie.

  Now I heard footsteps. Ladd was trying to be quiet but I heard him crunching carefully over some loose rocks. Behind me, Purgie had settled down a little, although he/she/it was still whimpering pitifully.

  Another crunch. Closer now.

  I gripped the Mace, making sure it was faced away from me. I raised it up, and waited.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  I held my breath.

  From within the guest house came the sounds of someone sobbing. A woman sobbing. And from around the corner from where I was standing, I could hear someone breathing. Ragged breathing. Nervous breathing. Scared breathing.

  I gripped the Mace. Lord help me.

  I wasn’t even entirely sure of the Mace’s range. Something like that might have been a good thing to know.

  Too late to worry about it now.

  I took a deep breath, held it. More ragged breathing from around the corner. More scraping footsteps. And now I could smell faint traces of alcohol. And sweat. Lots of sweat, and it wasn’t my own.

  I remembered his words: “I have a gun.”

  I still had the element of surprise, which meant I had to move now. But I didn’t want to move now. The guy around the corner had a fucking gun, and all I had was a fucking little can of Mace, which might as well have been a can of spray deodorant.

  But I had the element of surprise. And the Mace wasn’t deodorant. I had seen the effect it had had on the rottweiler.

  Just get him straight in the face, King. The eyes. And don’t expose your body.

  When I saw the barefoot appear from around the corner, I dropped to a knee, swung my arm around the corner, and fired the Mace.

  Ladd was there, completely naked, holding a hunting rifle. He had also been looking to his right, which was good for me. By the time his peripheral vision caught movement to his left, the Mace had already hit him straight in the face. Granted, my first shot hit him somewhere in his disgusting, jiggling torso, but I moved the powerful stream up and into his face.

  He swung his weapon around, but it was too late. Screaming, he flung the rifle aside and clawed at his eyes like a wild animal, cursing and spitting. I stood and moved around the corner and kept on spraying him until he lay curled on the ground, whimpering and moaning.

  And even then, I continued spraying until the canister was empty.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Hopping on one foot and dragging the other, I retrieved Ladd’s rifle. With the producer currently incapacitated and whimpering feebly—and the dog nowhere to be found—I headed over to the guest house. I actually used the rifle as a cane. Once at the door, I paused to gather what little wits I had remaining, and tried the handle. Locked, of course. The keys were with Ladd, perhaps still clutched in his hands, but he was currently writhing and thrashing and not being very accommodating.

  Sobbing from within the guest house.

  Lord, Jesus.

  Maybe if I had two good legs I could have kicked the door in. Or tried to. Instead, I found a fist-sized rock in a nearby flower garden, and proceeded to bash the doorknob until the fucking thing fell off, making enough racket to wake the dead. I didn’t care about the dead. I cared about the person crying within.

  Blood pounding in my ears, adrenalin surging through my veins, I pushed the badly damaged door open, and stepped inside, holding the rifle out before me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  I was greeted by an overwhelming stench. No, nothing rotting. Just filthy human waste. Sweat and excrement and piss and anything else that could come from a human body. Bile rose sharply in the back of my throat, but I held it together. I stepped deeper into the room, holding the rifle out before me like a bayonet.

  “Hello,” I called again. “I saw you earlier, looking at me through the window.”

  No response, although I heard something close to whimpering now coming from down a small hallway. The guest house was probably one bedroom, one bathroom. I was currently standing in a small, dark living room. The room was decorated modestly with a couch, love seat and reading chair, but I had a sense that it wasn’t used much.

  I crossed through the room and headed slowly down the short hallway. The whimpering was growing louder. The stench was growing stronger, too. I fought to control the gorge rising up in my throat.

  There was a light on in the room at the end of the hallway. Along the way, I took a peek inside a small and disgusting-looking bathroom. Towels and clothing were every where. So was fecal matter, as if whoever had tried to use the bathroom had no clue what to do or how to do it.

  My stomach heaved. I fought through it.

  I came up to the bedroom. The door was cracked open. Yellow light issued out. Anything could be beyond that door. Anything at all. How do you prepare yourself for the unexpected.

  You don’t. You can’t.

  I pushed the door open with the tip of the rifle. The room was small, made smaller by a massive four-poster bed sitting squarely in the center of the room. Leather straps hung from the bed’s crossbeams. Next to the bed, close to the door, was a low bookcase. Lining the top shelf were whips and chains, ball gags, dildos, anal plugs, and every other type of kinky toy known to man.

  On the corner of the bookcase was a small pile of pills—roofies, no doubt. Ladd had probably kept her drugged and high for the past two weeks.

  Speaking of her, in the center of the bed, partially hidden by what could only be described as a very disgusting comforter, was a human figure. A lithe figure who was crying softly.

  I stepped deeper into the room, confident that there was no one else in here. I moved over to the bed, reached down, and pulled up one corner of the comforter. There, shaking badly, naked and curled in the fetal position, covered in cuts and bruises and sweat and tears and stink, was Hollywood’s newest starlet, Miranda Scott.

  I covered her back up and used the phone in the gue
st house to call Detective Colbert.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  I stood with Detective Colbert in Ladd’s spacious kitchen. We were alone, looking out through the sliding glass door. The sky beyond the distant rolling hills was purple and eternal. Less eternal, and a lot closer, the guest house was a beehive of activity as crime scene investigators did their thing. Earlier, with sirens blaring and lights flashing, Miranda had been rushed off to a nearby hospital. All indications were that she was going to be fine, at least physically.

  Colbert said, “The screaming you heard. We figure she was having a bad trip. There weren’t any fresh wounds. At least, none that we could see initially. Probably gave her too much of something, or gave her something she couldn’t handle. Either way, she isn’t coherent right now, so we don’t know the full extent of what he’s done to her.”

  “But she’s alive,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You think he was going to kill her?”

  “Hard to say. We’ll go through the place thoroughly. But so far, looks like he kept her here for his own sick pleasure.” Colbert still wouldn’t look at me. Jaw rigid, he kept his gaze on the guest house outside. “I’ve got more news.”

  “Go on.”

  “Dana Scott confessed to killing Flip Barowski.”

  I nodded. We both looked out through the glass door. The early night sky was now mostly black now, with a smattering of stars. If not for the L.A. smog there would have been more than just a smattering of stars.

  Colbert continued, “I approached Dana myself, asked her what she knew about the killing, and she broke down instantly. Told me everything. She has a pistol at home, owned by her deceased husband. She calls the kid up and tells him she hears that he’s seeing her daughter again. He says yes, and she tells him to stay away from her daughter. He says no, that he loves her. She says fine, let’s talk about it, and he agrees. They were supposed to meet in a parking lot, but she comes up behind him and puts a bullet in his head.”