UNIDENTIFIED

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  Naturally this meant someone involved with the picture was after him. Just as, in the film, she stalked the character Landry was playing. Despite how horrible the reality of it was, she had to admit the scheme was a clever one. If she knew who on the set might be doing it, she'd go to her and do something. But she had no more idea than did Karl.

  The doorbell chimed and they both turned in that direction. Karl put the note on the counter and went to answer the door.

  Olivia stood still, finishing off her scotch. She heard Robyn LaRosa's voice and knew it was time to go. She took up her car keys and walked toward them in the hall.

  "I have to be on my way, Karl." She didn't mean to sound so cold, but now Karl had his ex here, she was superfluous. Even though Robyn was the film's producer and main investor, she didn't like her worth shit. She expected the feeling was mutual. Hiring her for the lead was a business decision.

  Nothing in Hollywood was personal when it came to money and making a success of a project.

  "Oh, hi, Olivia." Robyn gave her a worried look. Olivia wanted to say, No, I didn't tell him he's living out the script, but she couldn't say that, of course. She said hello, thanks for the drink, Karl, and fled from his house, her cheeks burning.

  She was still jealous. She had had nothing good to say about Karl's ex-wife when she and Karl had been lovers. She had nothing better to say for her now, despite Cam's project. She had to get out of here. She never should have come at all.

  ~ * ~

  "What was Olivia after?"

  Karl returned to the kitchen counter for the scotch bottle. He poured himself another and found a new cup for Robyn. It seemed tonight every woman he'd ever been with might drop by his house. "She heard my place had been torn up. She came by to tell me how sorry she was. That's what you're here for, isn't it? To tell me how sorry you are?"

  "Do I hear you getting into a mood?" She took the scotch from him and looked around the empty living room.

  "Oh, I'm in a mood, all right. I'll get over it, of course, just as soon as my stalker dies and goes to hell."

  "Oh Karl."

  "Well, what kind of mood did you expect to see me in, Robyn? Am I supposed to be throwing an open house party?"

  He stood at the broken sliding glass doors with his back to her. He still felt jangled by Olivia's visit. He never knew when Olivia was 'natural' or acting. It was the reason they had split up. He had never really gotten close to Olivia, not the real Olivia, not the one who was naked and maskless.

  Come to think of it, he hadn't much more insight into Robyn. He'd been married to her seven years and knew as little about her real self as he did Olivia's. Not that Robyn acted all the time, but she was closed off to him in all her deep vital places she kept secret. When he had brought it up, she hadn't understood what he meant. Or pretended she didn't. Their marriage, especially toward the end, had felt like ten miles of rough road. And he drove down it in a Model-T. Alone.

  "Why don't I take you out to dinner?" she said from behind him.

  "I'm not hungry. I ate a late lunch."

  "Won't you even look at me, Karl? You're making me feel . . ."

  He whirled. "What? Guilty? Are you guilty, Robyn? Have you begun haunting my life to try to drive me crazy, or what? Just what is the deal anyway?"

  When he had first turned she looked shocked, but now her features had all changed to stony surfaces. She might be a flat rock on a river bed. An immovable mountain. He could never get through to her and this time was no exception.

  "Thanks for reminding me why I left you," she said, setting her plastic cup on the counter and adjusting her shoulder bag. "I don't know why I bother giving a damn about what happens to you anymore."

  She was halfway to the door before he fell apart. He went after her and grabbed one arm, swinging her around to face him. "You don't know what it's like," he said. "I don't have a life anymore. I feel like a goddamned puppet manipulated by invisible strings. Whoever is doing all this to me just blithely goes ahead from one tactic to another and I'm helpless against her."

  "You don't have to take it out on me."

  "I know, I know I shouldn't, but it just comes boiling up. I can't seem to stop it. If I didn't vent once in a while I don't know what . . ." He let his sentence go unspoken. He let go of her arm and looked back to the starry planes of the shattered glass doors that now reflected moonlight.

  This had been such a nice, comfortable home. Now it was a shattered and eerily empty mausoleum.

  "I didn't go in to my office today," he said finally. "I had to be here to direct a crew I hired to take out the damaged furniture. Every piece they hauled off the premises made me angrier. By the time they were finished, I must have looked like an enraged bull. The guy collecting the money for the work was Hispanic, could hardly speak English. Two of his workers had to actually give him a little push from behind before he'd come up to me to take the cash. I guess they thought I was going to blow up at them and scream or go nuts or something."

  "I'm sorry, Karl. I'm trying to imagine how bad this is for you. I really do want to help if I can."

  "But how?" he asked. "How can anyone help me?"

  "For one thing, you have to tell me who you suspect. Maybe going over a list of the women you . . ."

  "With you?"

  "Yes, with me. Look, we've been divorced a long time. I'm not going to get jealous at this late date over your affairs. That's all over. I'm trying to be your friend. If you'll let me."

  If he had had a chair nearby, he would have sagged into it. He had drunk too much scotch without eating anything. His stomach was on fire and the inside of his head felt fuzzy, as if moss had grown over the lobes of his brain while he wasn't paying attention.

  He slowly shook his head. "I can't do it tonight. I'm too whipped out. Maybe we can meet for lunch or dinner or something. I could use some help, I know that."

  "All right, Karl." She patted his arm. "All right, not tonight. You should go to bed early, get some rest. Do it for your own good. I'll call you, set up a time we can meet. I'm on the set every day, but maybe one night we'll have dinner or you can come over to my place."

  "Thanks, Robyn. I'm sorry about what I said before. You just happened to be around at the wrong time. Olivia didn't help things."

  After he shut the door on Robyn, he leaned against it, forehead touching wood. No point in locking it, he thought. He had nothing left to steal and as for the stalker, he couldn't keep her out when she wanted in anyway. Let her, by God, come in while he was sleeping! He'd use his gun on her. He'd drill her full of holes! He put his index finger to his lips and blew, then laughed aloud. He'd seen too many movies. He couldn't drill straight holes in a board with a drill, much less kill someone with a gun.

  Jimmy Watz had brought over a folding cot for him to sleep on until he could find time to order a new bed. Tonight he wouldn't even shower first, he'd just strip down and lie in the cot drinking scotch until he fell asleep. Surely tomorrow would be a brighter day. At least the woman screwing with his life hadn't yet really tried to physically harm him. There had been that early instance of bumper tag on the freeway, but it wasn't so serious. More of a playful game, that's all it had been.

  He must be grateful for small favors.

  He staggered toward the bedroom, surprised he couldn't walk straight, then laughed at himself again, remembering he had to rescue the bottle of scotch from the kitchen counter first. He turned and retraced his steps, found the bottle, and swung it by the neck as he made his way toward the cot through the shadow-pooled rooms.

  It was for his own good that he go to sleep. Robyn was right. For his own good . . .

  He sat on the side of the cot, downing one more drink before lying back on the pillow. It was the last he knew. Oblivion took him before he had time to undress.

  26

  "I have spent more than half a lifetime trying to express the tragic moment."

  Marcel Marceau, The Guardian, London

  This was a series of sc
enes that Cam knew would really give a theater audience a chance to gasp and scream. He wanted it done right. Everything must be executed perfectly.

  Four cameramen from different angles were filming the action. The stunt car drivers for Olivia and Jackie were buckled into their seats and revving the motors. They were filming on a closed section of the freeway just after sunrise for the best light. The other cars' drivers were in position on the track and ready. Cam had instructed each one individually on what he wanted from the shots. He didn't want to have to film it ten different times and have to use up too many extra crash vehicles.

  This wouldn't be a car chase the likes of which every movie-goer had seen ad nauseam a million times. Cam wanted this in extraordinary close-up, zooming in on the car crashes, a few overhead helicopter shots for wide view, and a choreographed chase that in 3-D would make the audience grab hold of their seats and press make-believe brake pedals on the floor.

  He took a breath, raised his hand, and when he dropped it he yelled, "Go!"

  It was a ballet in speed, screeching brakes, spin-outs, skewed guardrails, and crunching metal. He was going to get it in one! Just one take! He began to jiggle around like a man needing to go to the bathroom, watching it go down. The stuntman driving Olivia's car came up behind the Mercedes that Jackie was supposed to be in and rammed it so hard it left the middle lane and shot like a bullet into the far right lane. The traffic in the two crossed lanes stuttered, swerved, crashed, all on cue.

  Cam began to clap his hands with each impact until he was literally swaying and cheering as the chase progressed. He sat in a chair raised twenty feet above the ground by a hydraulic arm so that he could see the action unreel down the highway. He had no idea if the trailing cameramen were getting the best shots, but the drivers were doing stupendous jobs.

  Olivia's driver caught up with the Mercedes, rammed it again, this time from the side. Once more. Then the Mercedes leapt ahead and spun around cars in the way, passing them at eighty-ninety miles an hour. Now it was tricky. Both cars had to weave in and out of lane traffic like working out a maze. They hadn't rehearsed it. Model cars had been set up on a table to show how Cam wanted it filmed. The drivers carried it all in their heads and if just one of them fucked up, the whole shot was cooked.

  It went beautifully. Cam grinned so hard his face hurt. When at last the car with Jackie's driver in it spun out, doing a three-sixty, and slammed into the guardrail before breaking through and ratcheting down an incline onto another feeder road before straightening out, Cam felt like spreading out his arms and flying right out of the chair into sunny sky.

  The cars all slowed and turned, heading back toward the beginning of the highway where the production crew was set up. Cam motioned for his director's chair to be lowered to ground level.

  Robyn came over, her hand over her eyes in order to block the sun. "That was a good one, right?"

  "It was spectacular! It was moonlight and roses. It was caviar! It was sex all night with a goddess." He turned and waved at the vehicles so the drivers could tell he was pleased.

  "Oh, I wouldn't go that far," Robyn said.

  Catherine came to them, a clipboard in her hands. "I've got Olivia and Jackie ready to film the inside car scenes. Is it a go? You think the freeway shots worked?"

  Robyn said, "He's ecstatic. He thinks it went better than sex with a goddess." She smirked at Cam, but he wasn't listening. He was on the walkie-talkie with his cameramen.

  "Great," Catherine said. She stood by, waiting for Cam to instruct her on the interior car shots with the actors. She was surprised when Robyn leaned over and whispered, "Have you seen Karl lately?"

  She wondered what the hell Karl had to do with today's shooting. They were too busy to gossip about an old shared lover. "Not lately, why?"

  "I was just wondering."

  "But why?" Catherine frowned.

  Cam moved off from them, involved in technical aspects he had to attend to. Catherine knew she'd just have to wait until he was ready for the actors. Then he'd come back to her and together they'd set it up.

  "You haven't talked to him then, not at all?" Robyn asked.

  "No. What's going on, Robyn? Why are you bringing up personal matters like this on the set?"

  Robyn shrugged and looked off at the stunt drivers getting out of the cars, taking off their helmets and wriggling out of their fireproof suits. "It's nothing," she said. "Karl's had a stretch of trouble . . ." She looked straight at Catherine again. . . "And you haven't heard about it, huh?"

  Catherine shook her head.

  "Never mind, then. I just thought since you two were together a while, he might have called you."

  "Well, now you've got me worried about him. What kind of trouble has he had?"

  "Never mind, I said. If Karl wants you to know, he'll get in touch with you."

  "Yeah, right." Catherine tried not to let the sarcasm creep into her tone, but Robyn had a bossy, icy quality about her that often caused Catherine to act distant and sulky herself.

  Robyn walked off without a by-your-leave. Catherine stood holding the clipboard and a pen, watching the other woman's sexy walk. How she could look like someone who stepped out of a Playboy centerfold shoot while being on location in this early morning heat, Catherine couldn't understand. There were packets of sweat under her own arms and her hair had frizzed in the morning damp into tight little wiry balls. She knew she must look like an unkempt poodle.

  Jesus, nobody ever looked that good off camera. And Robyn wasn't even an actress. It was a crying shame she didn't wear jeans and running shoes like the rest of the folks on the set and at location shoots. It had to be absolute murder staying cool in silk slacks.

  Catherine chewed on the top of her ballpoint pen while she waited for Cam to return. She bit down hard on the plastic cap, thinking over what Robyn had said about Karl. Maybe she should call him. See how he was holding up. He probably had a new girlfriend who was putting him through the wringer.

  He always had a new girlfriend.

  27

  "Death is a shadow that always follows the body."

  English Proverb

  Karl spent two more days away from the office trying to oversee the repairs to his home and the installation of new furniture. He spent half of one day consulting with a different home security company who guaranteed no one would be able to disable the new system. "For this kind of dough," Karl said, "my house better be impregnable."

  After he wrote out all the checks and sent home the workmen and delivery people, he sat down on the new, dark, paisley-printed sofa, put his feet up on the new coffee table, and smiled at the makeover. Hell, it had been a few years since he'd refurbished the house anyway. It was due for an overhaul. Not that he could forgive the woman who cost him so much anguish and money. But there were upsides to everything, even vandalism. You just had to look at it properly, he told himself.

  Now it was early morning, close to seven AM and he had to get back to his office in Burbank to see how many more clients had walked out on him. His secretary Lois was getting worried. His assistant showed signs of deep stress. The mood at the office was downbeat and spiraling toward sullen. He'd stop off at a florist on the way in and buy huge sprays of fresh flowers. Lois could place them all over the office and maybe that would cheer everyone up a little. And he'd order in lunch from the Italian spaghetti place he liked. A treat for everyone—deep-dish pizza or maybe the delicious spinach lasagna. He had to let his people know things were going to be all right.

  And they were. He'd make it all right. He'd go back through all his old affairs again and speak to the women. He'd ferret out which one had gone off the deep end and see that she stopped this harassment. Surely he would be able to tell from looking in a woman's eyes how mad she was. Anyone capable of the damage his house had sustained had to be walking the razor's edge.

  He was on the freeway, traffic beginning to thicken the closer he got to the Burbank exit. He hadn't been watching his rearview mirror when
the jolt came. The Jaguar lurched forward a car length and the steering wheel literally flew out of his hands. His head was whipped back. He let out a gasp. He grabbed the wheel just before ramming the lane separator wall.

  "God almighty," he said beneath his breath. He looked in the rearview and side mirrors. Behind him, perhaps three car lengths away, was a white Ford, older model, large, maybe a Continental. It was gaining again. He tried to see the driver, but the sunlight sheeted the windshield of the other car with opaque gold. Hell, it might be a demon or a gargoyle driving instead of a woman, for all he knew.

  He stomped the gas pedal and began looking in the lanes to his right for space to move over. He'd get off the freeway at the next exit. He'd call the cops at the first service station he found.

  The Ford rammed him again, but this time Karl was ready for it. His hands gripped the laced leather covering on the Jaguar's steering wheel so hard they felt glued down. He had tried to hit a burst of speed in order to avoid the collision from behind, but it was too late.

  Suddenly he was slammed forward again, his head banging the headrest with a popping sound. His vision went all out of focus and he couldn't tell if he was in his lane or not. When he could see straight again, he realized he was swerving into the lane next to him and the car there taking up the space screeched its brakes trying to avoid being hit.

  Now Karl screamed out, believing he was about to die in a fiery crash. He swung the wheel hard left, avoiding the other car by millimeters.