The Bruise_Black Sky

by John Wiltshire

  “I—”

  “What’s the best way to guard an objective? You know what I’m saying is true. You don’t sit on the target. It never works. You need to project force, use the element of surprise.”

  “And you just carry on with this fucking film with no protection?”

  “I was thinking I’d call Squeezy.”

  Nikolas pursed his lips. “The idiot, not me.”

  “He does what he does, Nik. You’ve never questioned that.”

  “No, just everything else about him.”

  “Exactly, he can’t do what you can. You can find this guy and you can take him out of the picture.”

  Nikolas lay back, contemplating the ceiling again. It hadn’t become any more interesting since he last studied it.

  Ben began to trace a finger around Nikolas’s nipple, hard and prominent beneath the thin cotton T-shirt. “We have two days before I need to be on set though…”

  “Don’t wheedle. Bearded men shouldn’t—is wheedle a real word?”

  “Two whole days…And we really ought to stay out of sight…”

  “Pathetic.”

  Ben sat up and stripped off his T-shirt.

  Nikolas smirked. “Better.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Squeezy arrived just before Ben left for the set.

  He’d done private bodyguard jobs before and didn’t need his boss’s lecture. He listened, but Ben could tell he was secretly rolling his eyes.

  Ben hated the way everything had changed in all their relationships. He should be the one being briefed on the threat, not being some poncy target that needed guarding. It was humiliating, like a step down in the hierarchy that he had become something so…vulnerable. Is this what Oliver had felt? He’d played this godlike gladiator, but in the end he couldn’t even fight his own darkness. Did diminishing begin like this? Nikolas couldn’t see it, of course—the care he was giving him, the concern, the…fear. He felt like a precious baby being handed over to the babysitter. Humiliating.

  He was almost grateful for Squeezy’s presence when it came time for them to leave, because Nikolas would not allow any overt public display of affection in front of the other man. They just said goodbye with a brief hug and kiss.

  Squeezy was waiting impatiently, and didn’t speak until they got in the lift together. Only then did he glance across at Ben and sneered, “Fucking celebrity now, huh?”

  Ben ignored him, squinting up at the decreasing numbers.

  “I wouldn’t fuck you with that fucking beard, I’ll tell you that for fucking nothing.”

  “That’s kinda the point, moron.”

  “So, what’s Mergers gonna do now, besides lurk and look menacingly at everyone?”

  Ben snorted. “He’s got cause. You weren’t there.” He shook his head ruefully. “He’ll find the bastard. Kate’s spooky good.”

  “So I heard…”

  Ben turned his head slowly. Squeezy held his hands out defensively, but with a knowing smirk. “If you can’t take the flack, don’t get in the sack.”

  They exited into the lobby, and Squeezy added helpfully, “You wanted a shag, you should have given me a call. I’d have fucking obliged. Any time, mate, you know that.”

  “Shut up.”

  Out on the street the humidity weighed them down, sticking their shirts to their backs immediately, detritus of modern day living whirling around in the wind. “If I’d thought, I’d have fucking brought The Professor along, too. The threesome you’ve always fucking dreamed—” Squeezy raised his eyebrows. Ben didn’t usually stand this close to him, but when he did he knew his physicality was overwhelming. “What?”

  “No, it’s funny. Honestly. Go on. I’m saving it all up to tell Nikolas. He’ll find it really hilarious, too.”

  Squeezy spotted a taxi and stuck his hand out, not commenting on Ben’s sarcasm until they were safely in its air-conditioned interior. Then he only risked a small mumble under his breath, but it was pitched perfectly to be just audible.

  Ben smiled privately. Yes, he had just threatened to set Nikolas on Squeezy. He should have tried it years ago.

  §§§

  Nikolas felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders when he watched Ben and the idiot leave. Someone had given him his own heart to carry around in his hands, having to keep it alive in all its fragile wonder, so necessary…how can you function, how can you think rationally like that? He couldn’t, and he’d been making mistake after mistake. Ben was right, for once—he couldn’t afford to wait for this maniac to come at them again. He had to find him first.

  Left to his own devices and his unlimited funds, Nikolas hired a more suitable vehicle than the one he’d been forced to rent in New Zealand. A Hummer. The H3 Alpha. He’d been sold at the name, even before the guy told him about the 5.3L V8 engine. Being Russian, he’d always had envy warring with disdain about such overt Americanism. It was only fitting he experience one, and then he could make an informed decision between those two. He chose an orange vehicle. Bronislav was the kind of guy who’d drive an orange Hummer.

  As he strode to the waiting vehicle, his old duffle slung over his shoulder, he caught his reflection in the glass of the dealership. He stopped for a moment, considering himself and the truck. He was ancient, sculpted from some kind of fossilized bone. If he started ranting passages about the end of the world being nigh he couldn’t have looked more…rabid. The rising wind caught his grey beard. He ran his fingers through the straggle, trailing them over the stitches in his neck. The strange disconnect with real life came back to him…that feeling that he was following a script, an agenda. It was unsettling. As he’d once told Ben, he believed you made your own destiny in life. He’d always followed his own course, carving his own way as best as he could, even when he’d been a little minnow in a sewer full of greedy rats.

  Ack, he had a 5.3L V8.

  He climbed in—something he rarely had to do literally—and turned the engine over. The radio came on. Loud. Gospel rock. He made to turn it off then shrugged and left it on.

  If he was following someone else’s plan, he decided to let them enjoy it for a bit longer.

  §§§

  Ben was having the time of his life. It was the filming he’d been looking forward to most—recreating the training camp that Oliver Whitestone, along with all the other ex-army slave actors, had attended before filming Season One.

  Peter had shipped in a number of local bodybuilders who’d also been extras on the Wars to fill the studio they were filming in to recreate Oliver training with his fellow cast members.

  Ben knew from experience now that five minutes of footage of him rolling tractor tyres around or wielding a vast sword would in reality take days to capture. Days of working out. And he was being paid to do it.

  The only downside was he had to strip naked except for the dreaded Lycra shorts. They were incredibly tight and revealing. Side-on to the mirror…

  He’d been greeted by Peter with a mixed message of glee at how well the movie was shaping up and genuine dismay at Ben’s accident. The message became slightly less mixed when he then proceeded to brush over all the events in Queenstown, clearly intent on convincing everyone that it had probably just been an accident and, hey, meet Santiago Molina.

  Santiago was Oliver Whitestone’s co-star in the Wars. He played the slave Nalusa Falaya who was also owned by the Voice family. Unlike Yoshi, Nalusa had very little humanity left. His experiences in the war, and his latter treatment at the hands of the religious fanatics, had destroyed his soul. He called himself the soul-eater—hence his name—and was so vicious in the arena that fear often quailed his adversaries before they engaged him. He was Yoshi’s bitter rival.

  Santiago, however, gave Ben a long embrace. He seemed overcome by the introduction. He was two inches taller than Ben and outweighed him by three stone at least, bulky, fat-covered muscle making him seem vast. For one awful moment, Ben had a flashback to another giant man who had embraced him thus.
He pulled away and plunged his hands into his pockets, glad he was wearing dark glasses and his expression was hidden. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hey, man, I love that accent. You talk like Ollie yet?” Santiago did a terrible impression of Oliver Whitestone’s Kiwi accent, and Ben smiled faintly. What was it like for these people, these friends of Oliver’s, to have him here on set like this?

  He was mulling this over, scratching his beard, when Peter gave him the news—not only had Santiago been cleared by the network to make a cameo appearance, Gina, his ex-wife, was released to write the Wars part of the movie—which was now tentatively being called Finding Peace, a clever play on the meaning of the name Oliver as well recognition of the possible intent behind the suicide. Santiago’s presence would blend fact with fiction so seamlessly that it would be hard for anyone to tell where Oliver Whitestone began and Ben Rider ended.

  Squeezy later pointed out to Ben how unfortunate that had sounded…from an outsider’s point of view…there was one nutter out there who apparently didn’t need fact and fiction any more blended.

  He already appeared unable to tell them apart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nikolas had all the information on Oliver’s death now. Kate had done a good job hacking the Louisiana State Police Bureau of Investigations and the computer of one Major Morgan Perry who had overseen the investigation of such a high profile suicide in Louisiana.

  He made an appointment with the office of Major Perry for later that day. He pulled the Hummer over at the first truck stop he came across on the way to Baton Rouge and began to study Oliver’s death.

  He wasn’t a crime scene expert. He’d done his fair share of investigations, but more on the interrogation side…

  Oliver had taken his life in front of the TV. Sitting on the couch, his own show playing, he’d put a gun against his temple and ended what most people would think was a perfect life.

  Nikolas didn’t buy it. He never had. He hadn’t shared this belief with Ben for various reasons, but he’d never bought the suicide story.

  He didn’t believe in coincidences. Someone else clearly believed in his philosophy on life—you make your own destiny. Want Ollie dead, get Ollie dead.

  Also, people like Ben didn’t destroy their features. Oliver. He’d meant Oliver.

  Ben…

  Ben had tried to kill himself.

  But he’d cut his wrists.

  He wouldn’t do this.

  However much Ben claimed he wasn’t vain, he had a very defined sense of himself. He didn’t even realise it, as he’d always been as beautiful as he was now. But Ben didn’t like being made a fool of, never played the clown, would never wear fancy dress, didn’t even like being…messed up too much. Nikolas knew this because he studied Ben Rider-Mikkelsen. He’d been Nikolas’s chief focus for almost a decade now, and he knew Ben would not shoot himself in the head. He was fairly sure Oliver Whitestone wouldn’t either. No one with Oliver’s perfect features would want to be found reduced to that. It would be drugs. Easy, painless, and left you intact.

  He couldn’t prove any of this, and apparently the police had not come to this conclusion.

  Time to meet Major Perry and see what he had to say.

  §§§

  Major Perry wasn’t what Nikolas had pictured for the head of the State Bureau of Criminal Investigations.

  She was female for a start. That never boded well, in Nikolas’s opinion.

  Major Perry seemed to be having a similar reaction to the ferocious, bearded man who stomped into her office. Wary, distrustful, disdainful.

  No one in law enforcement ever appreciates being questioned on the resolution of cases.

  Morgan Perry didn’t.

  She seemed to be resisting the urge to consult something on her desk, but finally gave in to temptation. “Yuri Bronislav.”

  Nikolas didn’t respond. It hadn’t been a question.

  “You are…?”

  Okay, question. “I work for the After the Wars production team. I’m their security advisor.” Prove I’m not.

  She furrowed her brow, regarding him. “There’s nothing I can add to—”

  “Did you visit the crime scene?”

  “It wasn’t a crime scene, Mr Bronislav. But, yes, I saw it.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “What I thought was in my report.”

  “I don’t think it was. I can read something different in your eyes.” He actually couldn’t, but it was always worth a try. Nothing to lose.

  It scored unexpected results. She pursed her lips, tapping her pen against them thoughtfully. “Do you have a vehicle?”

  §§§

  Morgan Perry flicked Nikolas a small glance as they approached the Hummer. “Inconspicuous,” was her only comment. Nikolas ignored her. Women didn’t understand V8 engines. They understood babies. Although, he had to admit that Major Perry didn’t look like a woman who gave very small humans much consideration. She was all business, sharp as the edge on his new knife, and he was fairly sure she’d have made a good Zaslon operative. Which was not a compliment he gave everyone. Which wasn’t actually an endorsement at all when he thought about it.

  Major Perry was having trouble staying on her feet in the buffeting from the wind. Dolly, his arse. They should have asked him to name the storm. He chose good names.

  Morgan Perry directed Nikolas through downtown Baton Rouge towards the historic old town. Busy streets gave way to quiet neighbourhoods. Nikolas eyed the trees warily.

  “Don’t fret. They’re live oaks. Survived Katrina. They’ll cope with Dolly.”

  “They look…perilous.”

  “Nope. They’re just losing their leaves to the wind. ’S good. Don’t fall down then.”

  Nikolas wasn’t convinced, but they weren’t his trees and these weren’t his houses.

  They pulled up outside a small wooden villa with a shaded veranda. It wasn’t what Nikolas was expecting.

  “Modest, huh?”

  He nodded. “Anyone living here now?”

  “Nope. Still held by the studio.”

  She led the way. She didn’t appear to be sweating at all.

  Nikolas could feel the heat pressing down on him like he was being squeezed by a vindictive water god. The gusts of wind then sucked away what the god had left. Perhaps it was fear for Ben that was crushing him and taking his wits.

  The front room was exactly as he’d seen it in the photographs, minus the body, of course.

  The smell didn’t help his feeling of being oppressed.

  She glanced at him. “The stove was on. Pizza. Been in about four hours we reckoned.”

  That hadn’t been in her report. “Who puts food on to cook and then kills themselves?”

  She didn’t reply but added a non sequitur, “He had a wake-up call booked and a cab to the airport the following morning.”

  Again, minor details, but not in any files he’d seen… “You don’t think he killed himself?”

  “I think what was in my report. This was a high-profile suicide for the parish. Not a murder. Big Hollywood stars don’t get murdered in Baton Rouge.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “No, as I just intimated, not a murder or a robbery. Not in Baton Rouge.”

  “Did you know him? Of him?”

  She nodded. “Watched every episode. Loved the show.”

  “Were you told about the death threats made against Oliver?” He saw something cold and guarded in her gaze slip away to be replaced by genuine anger.

  She considered him for a moment then swore aptly, “For fuck’s sake.”

  §§§

  Nikolas wasn’t used to women asking him if he ate meat and he misconstrued Morgan Perry’s question at first, possibly, he realised, because he was thinking about Ben too much, but when he’d seen her scanning the various eating establishments they were passing on the highway, he got her meaning and said yes. He didn’t, but he drank water, and he felt as if he’
d lost half his bodyweight in sweat.

  They regarded each other over the menu in the blessedly cold restaurant. She leant back in her seat, tapping her sunglasses on the table between them. “You going for a part in the series? Patriarchal, messianic cult leader? Those stitches for real?”

  He didn’t dignify her sarcasm with an answer. He saw the twitch of a smile before she added, “So, tell me. Death threats.”

  Nikolas told her then added, “I’m having them traced.”

  “Uh-uh. Do I want to know how you’re doing that, Mr…what was that name again? Mr Glorious Protector.”

  Nikolas’s eyebrows rose. “You speak Russian?”

  “I surely do not. But I’m spooky like that, ya know? No, wait…” She rummaged in a pocket then glanced at her card. “Yep. Criminal Investigations Bureau. That’s how I must do it.”

  Nikolas quirked a smile. He couldn’t help it.

  She smirked. “Well, it can smile. Glory be. So, we both think Oliver Whitestone was murdered.”

  Nikolas rocked back in his seat.

  She shrugged. “I’m eating. When I’m eating I’m unofficial. When I’m unofficial I can say what I damn well like.” She chewed for a while, staring thoughtfully out of the window. Nikolas didn’t even need to do his silence tactic. He knew more was forthcoming. “You know what the Katrina-Wood windfall is?” She ate another huge chunk of steak as she watched him.

  Nikolas shook his head. The wind chose that precise moment to almost blow in the window next to their booth, as if it had heard its name in her question and wanted to join the party. She winced, then chuckled and answered her own question. “Dollars, that’s what it is.” She swallowed. “It’s your—well, mine, I guess—taxpaying dollars going towards bringing the big Hollywood studios to our fair state. You know more movies shot here last year than in California? Over a hundred TV shows made here? Know why? Swamps and moss. So, what you think’s gonna happen when a big time movie star gets murdered by the fair citizens of Louisiana? Huh?” The meat appeared to be fuelling her anger. She pointed a fork at Nikolas. “I’ll tell you what, Mr Protector, it gets hushed up and sold for shit as a suicide. He’d just put a friggin’ pizza in, for fuck’s sake. He’d booked a wake-up call. Didn’t leave a note. No one said he was depressed—”