by Tim Maleeny
Cape was on his back, the clock tower soaring into the twilight. Ursa’s disfigured sneer rose up as he tried throwing his weight to one side, completely obscuring the tower and blotting out the dying sun. The three channels of scar tissue running across Ursa’s face were flowing with blood and mace, bitter drops falling into Cape’s mouth as he gasped for air.
Ursa raised his head and opened his milky eye against the pain, the ghastly orb swiveling to find Cape. Keeping the other eye squeezed shut, Ursa moved his arms from Cape’s legs to his torso, digging into Cape’s sides as he tried to slip his arms around him. Cape knew what was coming—a bear hug that would be his last.
Ursa shifted his weight and Cape kicked sideways, rocking to his left and freeing his right arm. He managed a right hook to the face, but it had no momentum. Ursa chuckled and spat in Cape’s face.
Cape knew he wasn’t strong enough to punch his way out of this. Time to fight dirty.
Hooking his thumb around Ursa’s right eye socket, he jabbed. Ursa howled in rage but held on, squinting hard against the pressure of Cape’s thumb. Cape tried to get a sharper angle on the giant’s eye but his hand slipped, unable to maintain pressure against Ursa’s bloody cheek.
Ursa had his right arm halfway under Cape, who could feel the pressure building against his rib cage. He tasted blood but wasn’t sure if it was his or Ursa’s. Frantically he rocked back and forth, trying to free his left arm. He was getting weak. His breathing was already labored, his vision starting to blur. He could almost see the clock tower and wondered what time it was. Pretty soon it wouldn’t matter.
Cape heard a wet cracking sound—one of his ribs must have popped. This will be over soon, one way or another. He ignored the pain and lurched sideways—Ursa’s right arm pulled away and Cape managed to bend his left arm at the elbow. Swinging his right as hard as he could, he punched Ursa repeatedly in the right eye, rolling sideways after every punch until he managed to free his left arm completely. He heard another crack as he desperately raised both hands above Ursa’s head, hoping to box the giant’s ears hard enough to shatter the eardrums.
Before Cape could deliver the strike, another crack preceded a sudden sharp pain in his neck. Instinctively he snapped his head backward, banging the back of his skull against the pavement. White spots appeared as he blinked—he was desperate to stay focused on Ursa but was struggling to remain conscious.
Ursa’s head lolled to the left, his thick tongue protruding from a mouth rimmed with blood. Both eyes were open and rolled backward, the sclera veined and red. A gurgling sound as Cape felt something hot and viscous spread across his chest. He was pretty sure it wasn’t molasses.
Cape blinked sweat from his eyes. His body was numb, his arms lead weights. Using both hands, he grabbed Ursa’s skull and pushed, raising the enormous head with no small effort.
The head of a barbed arrow protruded almost three inches through the front of Ursa’s neck, the black shaft shiny with the same blood pooling across Cape’s chest. Craning his neck around, Cape saw two more arrows sticking out of Ursa’s back, their feathered shafts pointing back toward the top of the clock tower. Cape thought he saw a cloaked figure disappear behind the columns, but he couldn’t be sure at this distance.
Ursa was dead weight. With a final heave, Cape managed to roll out from under the once-great bear. He crawled onto his hands and knees and stayed there, trying to get his breathing under control. After a long minute, he sat on his heels, raising a tentative hand to his neck. A shallow cut ran just below his Adam’s apple, where the head of the killing arrow had penetrated through Ursa’s neck. If it left a scar, it would be one he could live with.
Getting his legs under him, Cape stood shakily and looked around. The actors were all gone—back to their trailers, hotels, agents, or lawyers—or wherever it was that actors ran. A small group of production staff were still standing by the monitors, a safe distance from the mayhem. They were still getting close-ups via the monitor on the left, which showed the image from the fixed camera. It was focused on the area at the base of the tower. The right monitor was blank, the guy with the steady cam having long since fled for safer ground.
Cape looked to his right and saw Grace coming toward him, her expression shifting between relief and panic with every stride. The brash young director was nowhere to be seen.
Major Yuri Sokoll was long gone.
Cape felt faint and sat down heavily on the pavement. He heard sirens in the distance.
It was a sound he was getting used to.
Chapter Fifty-four
“I thought you weren’t allowed to leave town.”
Grace sat next to Cape in an exit row of the Airbus. The flight was only half-full, mostly with business travelers, cell phones and PDAs at the ready in holsters on their belts, just in case the pilot had to make an emergency landing and they could turn them on again. As the plane reached altitude, laptops sprouted in front of them like toadstools. There wasn’t a paperback book in sight.
As he absently touched the bandage on his neck, Cape concluded the lives of his fellow passengers were far more stressful than his own, despite the occasional risk of getting killed by a human bear.
“I’m not supposed to leave town,” said Cape. “It’s the difference between could and should.”
“You think the police will see it that way?”
Cape shrugged. “Technically, I’m supposed to be available for further questioning,” he said. “With any luck, I’ll be back before they can think of any more questions.”
“What about your…friend?” said Grace hesitantly, not sure how to describe someone who sent Death flying from the upper reaches of a clock tower. Guardian angel didn’t seem to fit.
Cape cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t see anyone besides me and the unfriendly giant, did you?”
Grace shook her head.
“Neither did anyone else.”
“But the arrows—”
“Can’t be traced,” replied Cape. “Now, I do have a friend that’s a martial arts instructor who happens to be good with a bow, but there are twenty people in Chinatown who swear she was teaching a class when Ursa was killed. The cops could question them, but none of them speak English, so it might take a while.”
Grace watched him for a long moment without speaking.
“Don’t you ever worry about breaking the law?”
“The cops I know are much more interested in justice than the law,” said Cape. “They want to catch the guys who killed your friend Tom. Now they have one less to worry about.”
“You’re lucky you have friends on the force,” said Grace.
“I’m lucky I have friends, period,” said Cape. “That’s something I never take for granted.”
Grace smiled briefly, then turned to look out the window. A thick blanket of cumulus clouds obscured the landscape, making everything below look nice and clean. Too bad it wasn’t that way on the ground.
“I can’t believe Harry is laundering money,” she said quietly, still glancing at the beckoning clouds.
“I had trouble with that, too,” said Cape gently, “and I don’t know him the way you do. He’s the one that hired you, isn’t he?”
Grace nodded. “I originally went to work at Empire because of Harry.”
“But things changed.”
“I ended up working for Adam,” said Grace, her voice tinged with regret. “I figured it was good to get experience working on big productions.”
“Hasn’t it been?”
“I’ve learned a lot…” Her voice trailed off as she studied the pristine world beyond the plane’s wing.
Cape resisted the urge to touch her but to no avail. Without turning away from the window, Grace moved her hand onto the arm rest and found his. Before he could react she had intertwined their fingers and squeezed.
“Thanks for saving my life,” she said quietly.
Cape squeezed back but didn’t say anything.
“Sorry about your car,”
she added.
“Glad they found the bomb attached to yours,” replied Cape.
“Yeah, but mine was a rental.”
She ran her thumb across the back of his hand. Her skin was warm and smooth. Cape gave her profile the attention it deserved—the strong lines of her face, her black hair lustrous in the dim light of the plane, the gentle curve of her neck. It was a nice view.
After several minutes, Grace turned to look Cape in the eye with a renewed determination, as if she’d just made an important decision—it reminded Cape of when she’d first stepped into his office.
“I lost the faith,” she said simply.
“What do you mean?”
“I got into this business because I love movies,” she said. “But after a while I started to care more about gross receipts than plot lines.”
“It’s a business,” said Cape.
“But it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy,” replied Grace with sudden fervor. “Good movies can make money, but bad movies—properly marketed and launched on the right weekend—can also make money. It’s your choice.”
Cape didn’t say anything. He knew something about choices, but she wasn’t really talking to him. This was something she needed to hear herself say.
“Somewhere along the way, I got caught up in the business of the movie business,” said Grace.
“Maybe that’s what happened to Harry.”
“Maybe,” said Grace, her voice regaining a note of melancholy. “But making a bad sequel to a summer blockbuster is a far cry from a Russian gangster laundering money through your studio. If Harry strayed that far from the path, I’m not sure he was ever on it.”
“Maybe he’s just a good actor,” suggested Cape.
“There are no good actors,” replied Grace. “Only great actors and bad actors, the latter owing their success entirely to the director, cameraman, and producer.”
“Spoken like someone who really loves movies.”
Grace blushed.
Cape squeezed her hand. “Nice to have you back.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Grace slid her hand away and took a deep breath, getting back to business. The intimate moment passed as if it had never occurred. Cape managed not to whine or grind his teeth, but he did consider asking the flight attendant for a cup of ice.
“You talked to Angelo already?” he asked.
Grace nodded. “Told him there was an incident on the set but we got the final shot; we can still make the schedule.”
“The Major might have contacted someone at Empire, but I doubt it,” said Cape. “I think he has them over a barrel and exploits the relationship when he can. Right now he’s probably laying low, trying to decide when to resurface.”
“But you’re not worried Adam or Harry will be suspicious?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Cape. “The smartest thing the Bermans could do—in fact the only thing, unless they want to leave the country—is to show up for work and act like nothing’s wrong.”
“And maybe shred a few documents,” added Grace.
“That would be the smart move,” Cape agreed. “Make any connections to the Major disappear.”
“So you have a plan?”
“Not really.”
Grace waited for the punch line. When it didn’t arrive, she asked, “Do you ever?”
Cape considered the question. “I prefer to improvise.”
“You should have been an actor.”
“In my next life,” said Cape. “They don’t know you’re flying out, do they?”
Grace shook her head. “I told Angelo I’d call him from the set tomorrow—he thinks I’m still in San Francisco.”
“Then I want you to walk in on Harry and demand that he resign.”
Grace gave a sigh that was almost a gasp. She worked the muscles in her jaw and nodded. “Okay—what are you going to do?”
Cape smiled. “I’m going to prove something, once and for all.”
“What?”
“That real life is never like it is in the movies.”
Chapter Fifty-five
Grace strode across the lobby of Empire Studios as if she owned the place.
“Celene, put down that phone,” she commanded. The pierced receptionist sat frozen beneath the halogen lights, her studs, hoops, and rings sparkling like shards of diamond embedded in her flesh.
Grace led Cape to the elevator. Once inside she let her guard down, releasing a deep breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“Nervous?”
“About confronting Harry?” asked Grace. “I was sad at first—then nervous—but now I’m working up to getting royally pissed.”
“How’s it coming?”
“Any minute now.”
The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and Cape peered around the corner. The hallway was empty in both directions. As they walked quietly along the thick carpet, Cape scanned the ceiling and molding for cameras. Just because he couldn’t see any didn’t mean they weren’t there, so he kept looking.
The light on the intercom glowed faintly like a dying star, its pale yellow surface pitted and worn. Cape wondered how many thousands of times it had been pushed over the past two years.
“Harry, it’s Grace.” She spoke clearly, her thumb pressed hard against the button. She managed to find her anger, and it was about to be unleashed. A minute passed before a mellifluous voice washed over them.
“You’re in New York?” said Harry pleasantly. “What a wonderful surprise. Do come in, Grace.” The door unlocked with an audible click.
As Grace turned the handle she spared a quick glance over her shoulder. Cape was pressed against the wall next to the intercom. He winked at her as she closed the door.
“What brings you home early, Grace?”
Cape could hear Harry’s rich tenor through the door. Grace said something in return—he couldn’t quite catch it, but it sounded like the word truth had a role in her opening volley. Cape smiled as he jogged down the hall to Adam Berman’s office.
The door was locked. Dropping to his knees, Cape saw there was no deadbolt, just a simple latch. He took a small folded strip of metal about the size of a money clip from his wallet and straightened it out. After two careful jabs the latch popped.
The office was empty. Closing the door behind him, Cape scanned the room. The same collection of trophies and plaques lined the wall, the same couch and chairs filled the room. The bookcases behind the desk held the same assortment of books, magazines, and the occasional framed photograph.
Cape moved to the desk. Papers littered its surface, along with a few paperweights and two small statues, but nothing seemed more significant than anything else. The phone seemed to be working, the red message light pulsing. Cape sat down and put his hands on the desk, looking at the room from Adam’s perspective.
As he rocked in the chair, Cape saw something he’d missed while standing. A glass half filled with bourbon and ice sat just under the shadow of an Emmy award. The ice had yet to melt, and there was barely any ring around its base. Someone had been sitting here moments before he picked the lock. Cape ran his hands under the desk, feeling for a button or latch.
Nothing.
Pushing back in the chair, Cape pulled out the top drawer and froze.
Adam Berman’s voice was directly behind him.
Cape stood and turned, facing the bookcases that lined the wall. The voice was muffled but unmistakably Adam’s. He sounded angry—random words had enough velocity behind them to penetrate the wall. Dare…outrage…integrity. Cape moved closer to the bookcase and bent his legs, trying to look at it from Adam’s height.
The shelf held roughly thirty books, and Cape grabbed each in turn and pulled on them gently. Each tilted back on its spine as any normal book would. The last item on the shelf was an Oscar, standing as mute witness to Cape’s incursion.
“That would be too obvious,” muttered Cape. Peering closely, he saw there wasn’t any dust on the statue. Shrugging
, he wrapped his hand around the gold man and pulled.
The statue tilted forward on a spring mechanism mounted in its base, and the bookcase sprang forward and sideways, the only sound a gentle rolling noise as it slid along a wheeled track.
“Very Indiana Jones.” Cape took a step back as the bookcase came to a halt and found himself on the threshold of a secret chamber.
The room was a near-perfect cube ten feet on a side with no windows. On the facing wall were three flat-screen televisions. On the first was an image of Harry Berman, his benevolent face looking unusually stern. The second had a view of the ocean as seen through a living room window. Taped to the wall below the second TV was a numbered list of places that included New York, Paris, and San Francisco—all the places the Bermans had property. On the third screen was Grace, her face flushed as she pointed accusingly into the camera.
In the center of the room was a chair mounted to the floor, cables running along its base to a row of computers. Lights flashed as computers hummed in fits and starts, responding to the demands of the man in the chair.
Adam Berman couldn’t see Cape because of the helmet he was wearing. Cables ran from its top, and two small electrodes were taped to Adam’s cheeks just above his mouth. A darkened visor covered his eyes. Cape guessed from the reflected light on Adam’s face that it was some kind of backlit display, and the screens on the wall were back-up for when he wasn’t wearing the helmet. On his right hand was a glove, each finger controlling an independent cable running to the bank of computers. As Adam gesticulated wildly in the chair, the image of his brother Harry gestured emphatically on the screen.
Cape could hear Grace’s voice leaking from headphones mounted inside of the helmet and was reminded of the computer-generated actors she had shown him. How much had this cost, and which film’s budget had paid for it? He watched Adam shift back and forth, muttering into a microphone just below his chin. The cable from the microphone ran to a separate computer—Cape assumed it was some kind of voice synthesizer. He’d seen primitive versions at toy stores last Christmas.
