by Susan Slater
“Yeah, I’d be the same way. But didn’t he talk about the stunt? Say exactly how he’d use the truck?”
“He was talkative all right but mostly about past movies—past stunts. Can’t say that he offered anything about the current one.”
“Did you ever talk to the producer?”
“Yeah. Twice. He called to set things up, said to expect a letter.” Jeeter pointed to the sheet of paper in Dan’s hands. “Then later on he called to ream my ass about spending money on a tailgate.”
“Odd. Sounds like he was the one pulling the strings. At least Chet kept him informed. Where were the calls placed?”
“LA prefix—I know that ’cause I used to live out there.”
“Same number both times?”
“Yeah. Gave it to the cops but apparently it traced to a pay phone.”
“And this Martin St. Martin? Did the cops question him?”
“Got me there. ’Fraid this is the end of my knowledge.”
Dan stood. “Thanks again for your time. Would you mind if I had a copy of this? I’m assuming you want the original?” Dan handed him the letter.
“Yeah, better hang onto that. Give me a minute or two.”
“Not a problem.”
***
Dan sat, fingers lightly drumming on the steering wheel, before starting the SUV. Where to now? Jeeter wasn’t as much help as he’d hoped but he could always question the producer himself. In fact, that sounded like a pretty good idea now that he was basically on his own time. The fact that nothing was stolen was eating away at him. It’d been a very expensive wasted trip…if he’d wanted to have a near-death experience, he probably wouldn’t have chosen Wagon Mound, New Mexico, to have it. He turned the key in the ignition and pulled into traffic.
If he started now, he could get to Roy before dark. It looked like rain but he’d take a chance that the movie crew would still be there. He guessed it was called “on location” and he remembered reading that the movie wouldn’t “wrap” until the end of the month. If this Martin guy was around, maybe he’d feel like chatting. And he’d just bet that Simon would like to take a ride. No fun being cooped up in one room all day, pig’s-ear chew or not.
***
After stopping for directions, Dan drove the length of Roy’s Main Street and headed out of town. The set was hard to miss—cars, trailers, a crane, several facades of old-time buildings propped up to form a street from a time long past. Dan pulled in beside a chain-link gate manned by a woman in a baseball cap, yellow slicker, and holding a clipboard. She didn’t let him get out of the car but came running forward and leaned down when Dan lowered the window.
“You the replacement for Harry?” She was staring at him in a slightly disapproving manner but backed up two steps when Simon stuck his head out.
Dan had no idea if he was supposed to be an actor or just the guy delivering supplies. “No, I’m here to see the producer.”
“Martin?”
“Yes.”
She checked the clipboard, “Your name?”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
“Then you’re probably shit out of luck.”
“Would you mind seeing if Mr. St. Martin might have a few minutes?”
“And what is this concerning? If you’re trying to hand off a script, they have to go through me first.”
“Script? No, I’m not a writer. Mr. St. Martin’s name came up in my investigation.” Dan handed her a card.
“Are you saying there’s some kind of claim? The studio—”
“No. This involves a stunt driver—Chet Echols.”
“That son-of-a-bitch cost us three days’ shooting.”
“How was that?”
“Ivy? Is that Harry?” The man coming toward them wore a maroon silk nubby jacket, tan tassel loafers, and white linen slacks…White Linen Dan repeated to himself…it was after Labor Day but did that rule just apply to women’s shoes? Appropriate, or not, he bet Roy, New Mexico, hadn’t ever seen anything quite like that. “The toilet in the third trailer is still overflowing.” The man planted himself in front of Dan, arms akimbo. Which might have been intimidating if the man had been taller than five feet four inches.
Ivy took a step forward. “Martin, this is…,” She checked Dan’s card, “Dan Mahoney. He’s an insurance investigator and wants to ask you some questions.”
“Call Harry’s office again. We can’t put up with this another night.” Martin turned back to Dan. “Questions? About what?”
Dan started to explain but got to the name Echols and Martin St. Martin exploded. “That cheat. Despicable. Couldn’t tell the truth if his life depended upon it. I suppose I have a few minutes. Park over there.” He waved toward an open spot next to the fence. Dan parked, got out, but left a very disappointed Simon whining to follow. Martin was already walking away but he paused on the steps of the fourth trailer and left the door open for Dan.
“Just move that junk.” Martin waved Dan toward a chair stacked with what look like scripts. “The name Martin St. Martin isn’t familiar?”
Dan shook his head. What was it with everyone out here thinking he should know them? Déjà vu all over again. He set the stack of loosely bound paper on the floor and sat down.
“Executive producer of last year’s Oscar winner…picture of the year?”
“Oh, congratulations. ’Fraid I don’t keep up.”
“Doesn’t matter. Said to myself the minute I saw you—TV sort.” Martin perched on a stool next to a kitchen counter and had leaned forward to waggle a finger in Dan’s direction. The effeminate posturing on Martin’s part was vaguely irritating. But then anyone who still drank cherry cokes—the trash basket was overflowing with cans—probably was harmless.
“He cost me ten thousand dollars and another twenty-five in shooting delays.”
“How so?”
“Said he needed a little something up front—”
“He worked for you?”
“We’d signed a contract but he’d rolled the truck before he did a day on the set. Wait, you’re that guy who was with him. Of course, I remember your name now from the papers. Wrong time, wrong place.”
“That about sums it up. But back to the money—you didn’t have the truck built? Through Jeeter Ferris in Las Vegas?”
“The cops went over this a hundred times. Someone used my name, apparently knew Chet was working for me, and fabricated the rest.”
“But someone paid for that truck to be built. And ironically it cost ten thousand. Are you saying that Chet had the truck when you hired him?”
“Absolutely. Horrible piece of shit but he was only going to roll it. It wasn’t exactly right out of a dealer’s showroom, but it didn’t need to be.”
“Was he working with anyone from your crew?”
“He and his grandson were a team. Didn’t seem open to outside help.”
“His grandson?”
“When it came to the money, I only dealt with him.”
“Do you happen to have a name and address?”
“Ivy can get it for you. Is there anything else?”
Dismissed, but he was probably through here anyway. “No, I can’t think of anything. Thanks, this has been helpful.”
With an address, name, and phone number in his pocket, Dan headed back to Wagon Mound. A little voice kept urging him to give up trying to solve Chet’s involvement in his own death, let alone the near miss on Dan’s life. Nothing had been stolen. He was off the clock. Elaine would be back in two days—and they could be out of there. Still, the unknown, the “it’s not what you think”…tough stuff to turn away from.
Chapter Ten
The three days with Jason flew by. There was a girlfriend—maybe he could bring her home over Christmas? School was great. He was starting to lean toward journalism but maybe languages an
d didn’t those two go together anyway? Elaine smiled. His excitement was contagious. And she was so relieved to see him happy. The summer had been brutal, devastating to any vestige of family they might have had left. It was time he started out on a life of his own. And wasn’t she trying to do the very same thing?
She checked her list. Return rental after she got the Benz out of the shop—new tires, belts if needed, run a diagnostic—all the things she’d planned on doing after Ireland. But now it was housework and laundry. Thanks to the girlfriend who shortened Jason’s stay by a half week, she’d be ready to leave for Wagon Mound ahead of schedule. Maybe she’d surprise Dan. They’d talk that evening but she wouldn’t have to tell him she was leaving in the morning.
She didn’t get the early start that she’d hoped for—not after stupidly stopping by her office. A textbook she’d used for ten years was suddenly out of print. They needed to get the replacement into this year’s budget. And the phone message from the publisher who had signed on to do her book of poetry—he was having second thoughts. He thought they could salvage everything with a collaboration—hopefully with a famous name—and still get the book out in the spring. Could she set aside some time for the three of them to get together? He needed to know by Friday. She checked the date on the message slip. She was already two weeks late.
Finally she was on the road. One o’clock instead of seven, but she was moving. She’d be there by six.
***
Daylight-saving time didn’t help the traveler and she suspected it wasn’t on the side of the farmer either—not anymore. Throw in a light drizzle and the quickening dusk made driving a little challenging. But she only had five more miles to go. And wasn’t this pizza and a movie night? She’d stopped in Las Vegas and picked up one of each. It had turned into more of a joke, but still something they looked forward to. Friday nights were even marked on the calendar with a big P & M. On really good nights Dan would add a big S and draw a heart around the letter. Schmaltzy, but she loved it. He was sexy and tender and a listener. She could not ask for anything more.
Her headlights caught a sparkle of light on the left-hand side of the road. Elaine slowed and was almost stopped when the twinkle suddenly made a dash across the road in front of her.
“Bitsy.”
Elaine was sure of it—or a prairie dog wearing a tiara. She quickly pulled to the side, threw the car into park, grabbed her shoulder bag, and jumped out. The tiny dog stopped, acted like she was going to come to her then darted forward. Visions of a distraught Gert made Elaine follow. If Bitsy didn’t get hit by a car, there were coyotes, bobcats…owls…the poor little thing was defenseless out here.
The drizzle had stopped but keeping the small dog in sight was difficult in waning light. And calling her name seemed to make no difference. Bitsy would pause, look back, and then run forward usually at an increased rate. Finally, she veered sharply to her right and disappeared in tall grass. Elaine didn’t even slow down but plunged ahead squinting to keep the faint ripple in the grass in her sights.
When the grass leveled out to stubble, there was Bitsy sitting, waiting on her but staying some thirty feet away. Then she was off again. Elaine called her name but Bitsy ran on. She was treating it like a game. Poor thing had no sense of the dangers. Elaine hurried forward, up and over a low ridge, across an open sandy area. Bitsy was heading for a wooded section and Elaine entered the bramble just as she lost sight of the bouncing bit of rhinestones about ten inches off the ground. Low branches were swatting Elaine and scratching her face while thorny vines tore her clothing. Now what? There was no going further.
Maybe if she just waited, Bitsy would come back and check on her pursuer. Of course, catching her might prove impossible. She listened. A slight breeze made it difficult to discern between small dog trotting through underbrush and branches rubbing together overhead. She really needed to get out of the woods. There was very little daylight left and it would be difficult enough to retrace her steps to the highway. She’d just have to hope for the best and pray some dog-God would protect the Chihuahua. Pushing branches aside she turned to go back the way she came.
Now the inky edges of darkness were coming together quickly. Amazing how soon after the sun set, the world took on a totally new look and sort of turned in upon itself—enveloped everything around her in shades of shredded gray and midnight blue. Was she lost? She honestly didn’t remember that pile of sharp-sided rocks that suddenly towered above her to the right at the edge of the woods. But the clearing was welcome. The woods had been closing in on her—so close, so dark.
The screams pierced the gloom with a suddenness that took her breath away—bloodcurdling over and over knifing through the half-light. She turned searching for the source and saw movement across the open space at the edge of the gloom. A half a football field away several figures were going in and out of a boxcar. Well, maybe not a boxcar, maybe the back of a transport, an eighteen-wheeler. Hadn’t they heard? Why weren’t they going to help?
In the fading light, moving in unison, all dressed in white. She watched entranced and suddenly realized the screams had stopped. As suddenly as they started, there was nothing. How eerie. She was rooted to the spot. But the screaming. A woman? Probably. Should she investigate? Or go back to the car? There was something just plain creepy about this place. Her skin prickled and some little voice inside whispered she was seeing something she shouldn’t. Ignore. Leave. The voice inside her head was fairly shouting now.
She turned but stopped again to get her bearings and that’s when she heard it. A riding lawnmower? Out here? No, of course not. An ATV. Someone out for a joyride but at this time of day? And it was coming straight toward her. Was she paranoid or was it coming too fast for the objective not to be finding her? Someone had seen her. But how could that be? She veered to the left and sprinted toward the stretch of tall grass. And so did the machine behind her. Overactive imagination? No. She was being chased. And it was not a good feeling.
Think. How could she elude a machine? Turning and standing her ground was not an option. If she could doubl- back to the outcropping of rock and climb high enough and quickly enough, she doubted the ATV could follow. She quickly darted left and poured on the speed—didn’t she win some medals for just this sort of thing in the past? That was past with a capital “P”. She hadn’t run track in thirty years. She was thankful that she was wearing sneakers and not a pair of hooker heels trying to impress Dan.
The rocks loomed ahead of her now and the grass seemed to be thinning. Breathing hard, she kicked it up a notch and scrambled up the first group of granite boulders, the ATV screeching to a halt behind her. She didn’t turn to look but from the cursing there was one guy in hot pursuit not doing too well on slippery, rain-wet granite.
When she reached the top, she gulped in air but didn’t stop, just slowed enough to get her bearings. She thought she saw headlights in the distance and assumed she wasn’t far from the highway. She zigzagged around an enormous rock jutting out of sheer granite and started downhill. The steep-sided ravine caught her by surprise. Elaine tumbled, struggled to regain her footing then stepped into a crevice that held her ankle tight. She pitched forward feeling ligaments twist, scraping both knees and the palms of her hands, but the ankle continued to tether her to a crack in solid rock. She knew she was making too much noise, but her ankle was beginning to swell. The pain made her dizzy and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
There was no seeing, let alone escaping, the strong hands that slipped a pillowcase over her head, pulled her arms backwards, and tied her wrists together behind her back.
Chapter Eleven
It was making his head hurt. If you added the fact that the necklace wasn’t really stolen and that the other box-holders probably were lying, and the tabbed page of a comic was the only legitimate claim, then nothing was taken…a fifteen-foot tunnel, laser equipment, sophisticated planning for nothing? And that call he�
��d made earlier on the offhand chance he’d connect with Amber turned out to be a real dead-end. Her mother was still irate over Amber’s leaving—didn’t expect her back, hadn’t talked with her. She could just rot in hell. Heavy stuff from a parent but probably did mean Amber wouldn’t be back any time soon.
He thought of popping the cap off a second Bud but opted instead to take Simon around the block before bed. It was already eleven and Elaine hadn’t called—probably too busy with Jason and didn’t want to bother him so late. Friday night without pizza and a movie wasn’t any fun at all.
He slept fitfully. Dreams of tunnels circled around and around finally dumping him down a chute to land in a pool of cold water. And he sat bolt upright. This was driving him nuts. Maybe if he looked at his pictures again—the ones he’d taken of the vault. He moved to the kitchen table and his computer. There were a number of pictures of the bank—outside, inside, the tunnel, but he had put all the snaps of the vault in one folder. He opened it and started to flip through the thumbnail captures stopping often to blow one up to normal size.
Then he went back to the beginning and moved the photos to make a panoramic sweep when viewed one after the other. First shot, walking in the door, second, third, and fourth turning to the right continuing to the back then up the left wall—safe deposit boxes, hole in floor, standing humidified safe, then back where he started. He leaned his elbows on the table and studied the picture of the room.
There was something about the boxes themselves. He looked closely at the ones with doors open and let his eyes move slowly to the last row—three boxes still locked, untouched as if the person or persons knew they were not in use. But who would know that a box without a dated sticker was empty? Probably only an insider. But if nothing was taken…?
What if…no, it was too bizarre, but still, what if no one tunneled into the bank to steal something out but tunneled into the bank to put something in? But what? What would be safer in a bank than anywhere else? A place where no one would look. What could be so important, maybe so dangerous that it needed to be kept where no one would look for it?
