The Coil

by Gayle Lynds

  She almost missed it: a spindly tree battling to grow from a crevice. As her feet, legs, and waist rushed down past, she seized it with both hands. Miraculously, the tree held. She dangled there, trying to press into the rocks. There was nothing beneath her feet. The breeze was icy against her wet skin.

  Time froze. She was in pain, discouraged, exhausted, and vividly aware that one misstep, one long, smooth stretch of cliff without handhold or toehold, or one second of inattention could lead to her death.

  As she tried to fight the fear, to summon the energy to go on, a voice sounded in her mind: You can do this. She repeated the words, and then she knew: Yes, there was one problem she could do something about—herself. She needed to focus.

  Her feverish nerves quieted. Concentrating, she dismissed her aches and bruises. She craned to look up but could not see the top of the cliff. There was no way she could climb back up anyway.

  The tree gave an ominous creak, its roots loosening.

  She forced herself to remain calm and gazed down. It was a straight drop, some thirty feet now, and there was no one down there on the beach to call to for help. The surf was heavy, but at least there was sand directly beneath, not boulders.

  She searched for a toehold and finally spotted a shallow lip about ten feet below. Focusing, she bent the scraggly tree over and patiently worked her fingers along the trunk as she lowered herself.

  Finally, the toe of one running shoe found the narrow shelf. Almost immediately, the roots broke free in a shower of sand and rock.

  She released the tree. As it fell, she swayed, caught her balance, and flattened into the sheer face, suddenly overwhelmed by pain. She hurt everywhere. Breathing deeply, she blocked it from her mind again.

  There was another little ledge lower. Carefully, she eased her way down from outcropping to spindly bush to clump of grass. Progress came in inches. When she reached the ledge, she collected herself and saw a third place below where she could put both feet. With small goals, the impossible was achievable.

  When she reached that ledge, she looked down again. Fifteen feet remained. A towering wave rolled in and crashed onto the sand, sending spray up against the cliff, almost reaching her. She decided that was too good a sign of a doable distance to ignore. She analyzed the drop, bent her knees, flexed her body, and stepped away from the cliff.

  Heart pounding, she plummeted straight down through the ocean air and landed in a crouch in the sand, sending seabirds aloft in flight. Their sharp cries of complaint rose and disappeared. She stayed there, fingers dug into the sand, motionless, panting.

  Finally, as glossy white surf spent itself near her feet, she wiped an arm across her hot face and forced herself to think. It was illogical, impossible, that she had been a target of opportunity for some random madman. No, that bastard had been following her. He had tried to kill her—and had come very close to succeeding. But why here? Why now?

  She shuddered, feeling again his steely grip around her waist, her helplessness at his well-planned attack. At last, she stood up, brushed the sand from her hands, and began walking back. Soon she was overcome by restlessness. Then a fiery bolt of outrage shot through her. Furious, she ran. Had the past caught up with her at last?

  Three

  In the psych building, Liz hurried down the hall. Walking toward her was a student with books clutched to her chest, her gaze far away, thinking. Then she saw Liz.

  Her eyes rounded with surprise. “Are you okay, Professor Sansborough?”

  “Had a little tumble jogging,” Liz told her breezily. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Liz continued past. Students, books, academics. This was her life. A wonderful, stimulating world of the mind she had grown to love. She studied and taught about violence. She no longer lived it. That was finished. She was a different person now.

  She unlocked her office, rehearsing what to say when she called the Sheriff’s Department. But as she crossed the room, heading for the phone, she had the eerie sense that something here was not right either. She stopped behind her desk. Her office was a constantly changing mosaic of books, papers, newspapers, tapes, photographs—correspondence and research of all kinds. Dizzying to others, including Kirk. As she gazed analytically around, she realized with surprise that she could still reconstruct a scene with accuracy.

  Nothing was out of place. Her imagination must be in overdrive. She swore aloud, reached for the phone, then stopped.

  The red light was blinking on her answering machine. She punched the play button. “Message posted ten-thirty A.M.,” the machine informed her.

  It was Shay Babcock, her producer, in his unmistakable Hollywood mixture of insider whisper and con artist sweet talk: “Hey, Liz. Howareya? I’ve got some lousy news for you. Looks as if we’re out of business for a while. Compass Broadcasting has postponed Secrets of the Cold War until next season. Maybe longer. Sorry, kid.”

  “No!” Liz fell into her chair.

  With a rush of guilt, Shay continued: “I called and called but couldn’t get a straight answer from any of those bottom-feeders. Personally, I don’t understand it. But you can count on me to stay with this. None of the other programs I’m producing is as close to my heart. To my spirit. I mean, I’m really committed. The Cold War’s important. The ignoramuses out there need to know it’s still going on. Give me a jingle when you get a break from all those boys drooling all over you, and we’ll talk. Love ya.” The machine clicked off.

  For a moment, she did not move. If someone had not just tried to murder her, she would be shaking with outrage.

  She punched the replay button and listened once more. It made no sense for them to cancel the series now, at the last minute. The network had spent a fortune buying the rights to everything, including all of her old cable shows, and it had allocated another fortune to publicity. Everything was working—the buzz was spreading. She had been interviewed not only for the TV Guide story but for articles in People, Entertainment Weekly, and—surprisingly—GQ. Plus, the network had positioned the series to follow the hugely popular 60 Minutes on Sunday nights. Although the two were on different channels, the time slot gave hers an extra push. Everything was in line to build on the series’ cult success and explode it into TV gold. For her, what was most critical was she would reach millions of viewers.

  “Good Lord, Liz!” Kirk stood in her doorway, the color draining from his face. He had, as usual, come in without knocking. “What happened to you? Are you hurt? Of course you are. What am I saying. Look at you!” He strode toward her.

  She stared down. Her T-shirt was in tatters, and dirt and scratches covered her arms and legs. A bruise was turning purple on her midriff. She had no idea what her face looked like, but she figured it was not pretty.

  “I’m fine,” she announced. “I’ll clean myself up in a minute. Right now I’ve got to call the Sheriff’s Department. Some crazy jogger threw me off the cliff.”

  “What do you mean, a jogger threw you off the cliff? What jogger?”

  “I wish I knew.” She picked up the phone.

  Kirk scowled, making a decision. “The sheriff can wait. First you’re going to the doctor.”

  “Really, I’m okay. Nothing’s broken.” She began to dial.

  With a surprisingly quick motion, Kirk snapped the receiver from her hand.

  His face was turning pink, his freckles vanishing in the glow of his anger. Or perhaps it was fear. “I said doctor. You could be hurt a lot worse than you think. You’re too damn bullheaded, Liz. I’ll drive. When we get there, I’ll phone the sheriff for you.”

  After her doctor examined her, cleaned her wounds, and pronounced her otherwise healthy, Liz followed Deputy Sheriff Harry Craine out to a wooden bench in the small park across from the doctor’s office in Montecito. Kirk disappeared inside Tecolote Book Shop to pick up the new Covert-One thriller he had ordered.

  Liz described the attack.

  “How old was he?” Deputy Craine wanted to know. “What did he look like?”
Craine was a large, gravel-voiced man with old eyes. He was only in his mid-forties, she guessed, but he had the demeanor of someone who had seen a long lifetime of bad people and worse deeds.

  “He was white and had a snub nose, a heavy jaw, and prominent cheekbones,” she told him. “His skin was taut, no sagging. Judging by it and his general muscle tone, he was in his early to mid-thirties. His hair was brown, a mousy color, on the short side. Inch and a half, maybe. He had a runner’s build—muscled legs, lean chest. He was taller than me. I’d say maybe six-two. He wore Ray-Ban sunglasses, a baseball cap of some kind, light blue shorts, and a matching T-shirt. Regular jogging shoes, white, with dark blue stripes. Nikes. None of his clothes had any special logos or words. He was dressed to be unidentified.”

  The deputy looked up from the notes he was taking and studied her. “You don’t miss much,” he said mildly.

  “Thanks. I tried to remember everything so I could report it.”

  “Most people couldn’t have told me ten percent of what you just did, and I’d be worried about the accuracy of that. Most people are lousy observers.”

  She shrugged. “I wish I could give you more information. It all happened so quickly.”

  “I imagine it did.” The same mild tone, but the eyes were suspicious. “I’m interested in your comment that he was dressed to be unidentified.”

  She had revealed more about herself than she intended. “I deduced that. It’s one of the things I do—make deductions. I’m a college professor.”

  He nodded. “So you said. You also created a TV show. I’ve never seen it, but I think I’ve heard of it. What about the rest of your time? You haven’t always taught college. You were born. You grew up. Anything in your past that might be coming back to haunt you?”

  “No, Deputy Craine. The only angry people I have to deal with are the usual students who want better grades or the network execs who expect to change my show.”

  He nodded and closed his notebook. “I’m glad the doctor says you’re not seriously injured. It’s impressive you survived the fall at all.”

  She shrugged. “There was a tree, and I grabbed it.” She added lamely, “It was just dumb luck.”

  “Uh-huh.” He looked at his watch. “Where will you be the rest of the day?”

  “At my office. The number’s on the card I gave you. This evening, I’ll be at a party at Dean Quentin’s house above Mission Canyon. You have my cell number. I’d appreciate your phoning as soon as you learn anything. Anything at all.”

  He gave a curt nod and headed toward his car. “I’ll be in touch.”

  By one o’clock, Liz was back in her third-floor office at UCSB. She stood gazing out her window, arms crossed, hugging herself. Sunlight shimmered across the low buildings and green trees and palms that sprawled throughout the fertile Goleta Valley. Her view extended up the lavender foothills to the towering Santa Ynez Mountains, where clouds haloed the ragged peaks. She was filled with melancholy as she studied the sweeping panorama. Usually, this lovely view gave her a sense of tranquillity, of time turned in her favor. Now, as she waited for her producer to return her call, she saw disquiet and uncertainty.

  She stepped back and was about to return to her desk when she realized her reflection was in the window glass. She had a strange sense of déjà vu, seeing her face superimposed over her much-loved vista. It made her feel apart, again the outsider, always looking in. She was both deeply upset by the attack and annoyed that she was not taking it in stride as she once would have.

  And, too, it threatened her new attitude about violence, which had grown with the years and her studies. All of it showed in the troubled look on her face. She studied her bold features—the high cheekbones, the flared nose, and the black mole just above the right corner of her mouth. Her brown eyes were wary, alert, and angry.

  She noticed her hair. She had always liked the color—auburn, a dark brown with red woven through. This morning, it had been brushed and shiny, waving down to her shoulders, as free as her spirit. Now it was in wild disarray. Although she had changed back into the shirt and trousers she had worn to her lecture that morning, she had forgotten to brush her hair. At least her face was clean; she had washed it in the doctor’s office. Even in the hazy reflection she could see her beach tan, her dark eyes, her upturned nose, which had once been unfavorably compared to a ski slope. She had a wide mouth, and she forced it open in a smile. But she did not feel like smiling.

  The phone rang. She snapped up the receiver and sank into her chair.

  It was Shay Babcock, and he gave her no time to question him. He repeated the message he had left earlier and added, “I’ve been on the horn ever since, playing phone tag with the knuckle-draggers. I know it’s a big blow, kid. Hell, I was counting on parlaying the series myself.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  There was a pause, and she sensed outrage. Their relationship had bordered on tempestuous. He disliked being questioned, while she continued to want to know why and how and when. He had wanted the Cold War series enough to put up with her, and she had wanted to reach a mass audience, which meant she needed a veteran like him. It had turned into a productive partnership but one not seriously tested, until now.

  He finally said, “The usual. TV bosses aren’t known for their badges of courage. But then, their jobs have all the stability of river fog. The word was sent to me from Bruce Fontana, the network entertainment director, that they’d decided last night. Of course, he had his assistant make the actual phone call, but not until this morning. I went right over to Bruce’s office. He made me cool my heels for a couple of hours. When I wouldn’t leave, he let me in. He was eating lunch and talking on the phone the whole time. The basic humiliation scene. When they don’t bother to get off the phone long enough to tell you to get the hell out, you know the grave’s been dug, the coffin’s dumped in, and you’re the corpse. After that, I went back to my office and made some calls, trying to crawl up above his head. Got nowhere. Hardly a surprise.”

  “We’ll take the series somewhere else. Another network.”

  “No can do. We’re locked into Compass. Sure, you could try to break the contract, but you’ll have to foot the bill. I don’t have those kinds of deep pockets. Man, the legal fees. Makes me hyperventilate just thinking about it.”

  “Who did you reach?”

  He rattled off a list, and she wrote the names.

  “Hell, Liz.” He sounded drained, exhausted. “After them, there is no one else to go to.”

  “There’s always someone else. The president of the company, for starters.”

  “Tried him.” He repeated the name. “I’m telling ya, kid. Give it up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Fine. If you get the decision reversed, lemme know. Meanwhile, I’ve got to take care of my other projects. Don’t want this to taint them. You understand?”

  She grimaced. She did not want to be understanding. Still, she heard the fear in his voice. He really was worried about his other ventures if he pushed too hard for the Cold War series. The brutal world of national television had no time for troublemakers.

  She put reassurance into her voice: “Don’t get too busy, Shay. I’m going to need you when I turn this around.”

  “Right. Always the optimist. Good luck. Ciao, kid.” And the line went dead.

  Liz worked the phone, looking for someone to rescind the stupid decision. Her Rolodex contained names and numbers from when the series was a hot network acquisition, and she called every one.

  “Liz! Nice of you to check in,” said the head of development. “No, I hadn’t heard. They actually canceled it? Why?”

  The director of publicity groaned. “We’re always the last to get the word.”

  No one could help. No one knew anything. She had expected to be stonewalled, but she also expected to figure out a way to get around it. Disgusted, she went on-line to research Compass Broadcasting and discovered its owner was InterDirections, the media cong
lomerate headed by the legendary Nicholas Inglethorpe.

  That was interesting. She wondered whether the jet-setting tycoon knew he had idiots working for him. Obviously, she was going to have to enlighten him.

  She found the phone number for InterDirections’ world headquarters, which was in Los Angeles, and dialed, eventually annoying enough people that she was able to reach Inglethorpe’s secretary. Again she encountered the same impenetrable wall, although politely expressed this time: “I’m sorry, Dr. Sansborough, but Mr. Inglethorpe is in Europe and isn’t expected to return until next week. I’d be happy to take a message.”

  Liz left the message and leaned back in her chair again, this time stretching, rolling her head from side to side, trying to release the rage that was coagulating, distracting her. She needed the full use of her brain to plan her campaign to educate Inglethorpe. As she was thinking, her gaze landed on her filing cabinet. There were scratches on the built-in locks of two drawers. There had never been marks before.

  Instantly, she was on her feet. In two quick strides, she crossed to the cabinet and knelt, studying the scrapes. Someone had broken into the drawers. She tried the bottom one. It was unlocked, although it should not have been. She pulled it open. Inside was her briefcase. She searched it. Nothing missing. She opened the second drawer, also unlocked, and read the file tabs. Heart sinking, she read them again. The folders that contained ideas for the future show about Cold War assassins were missing.

  She remembered putting the files away just before she left to jog and locking the drawer. She hurried across the room and yanked open her office door. More scratches on that lock. Which would explain her uneasy sense that her office had been disturbed. She must have unconsciously registered seeing the marks.