Exposure

by Alan Russell

  Most men were intimidated by Lanie. Not Brett. He might have been only a heartbeat from the most important job in the world, but until the Malibu accident, he had told her his heart beat only for her. She had never been comfortable with their relationship, though. Arranging their rendezvous had always taken monumental planning, and once together, it was never easy to relax. And even had he not been in the limelight, Brett was a married man. Though he and his wife’s physical relationship was long over, that didn’t matter. But she had been in love. Regardless of your station in life, love makes you stupid. They had been occasional lovers for over a year before she was approached by the Mossad, or what she had thought was the Mossad. But it wasn’t love that seduced her into being a spy. Oh, they never even used that word. They cloaked her duties in all sorts of nice wrapping, and made the pill easier to swallow by calling her a “friend of Israel” and a “patriot to Jewish people everywhere.” She never really did anything more than follow her heart, but merely the idea that she was supposed to be currying favor with Brett never felt right to her. She wasn’t her uncle, and she should have found a better way to pay homage to his memory. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t really the Mossad that had approached her. She consented to the work, and that wasn’t something she found easy to forgive.

  The dirt road, and her physical bouncing, finally came to an end. Lanie stopped the car twenty-five feet from the gate and pressed the remote control. The gate opened slowly.

  Lanie reached for the radio. She pushed the scan button, and hit on a country station. Her nerves already felt twanged enough, so she scanned some more. KNX, a news station, came in. Lanie was listening with half an ear when a familiar voice captured her attention. She reached for the volume and turned it up all the way.

  Nothing, not even the elements, could mute Estelle. Lanie was listening so intently she never noticed the slight bump of her tires going over something. Two miles down the road Lanie was still considering what Estelle had said. Now, more than ever, she wanted to talk to Graham. She reached for her cell phone again, but was diverted by a thump-thump-thump on the right side of her car. Go away, she thought in silent prayer, go away, but the thumping got ever more insistent.

  Lanie looked for a good place to pull over. The road was narrow, and there really wasn’t a safe area to park. On a straightaway, she pressed over to the right as far as possible, leaving little space between the vehicle and a rock outcropping.

  For a long moment she sat, thinking of what to do. It was all but dark, dammit, and she had no flashlight. The main road was still miles off. She opened the car doors, using the interior illumination to see better. Once outside, the problem immediately showed itself. Shit. She had a flat.

  Maybe she would have to pave her dirt road after all.

  Lanie considered her options. She had never changed a tire before, and didn’t know how long it would take. She checked the time. It was quarter past six. Graham would be calling within the hour. She had to do something. If memory served her, she needed to travel at least two more miles to get in cell phone range. It was either that or introduce herself to neighbors she had assiduously avoided for years.

  Drive, Lanie decided. She would stop once she was in range of the cell tower. And after talking with Graham, she would call a tow truck.

  She started the car and began inching it along. It didn’t begin well, and as the rubber shredded, the exposed axle began grinding into the asphalt. Though Lanie kept her speed at under five miles an hour, sparks flew, metal shrieked, and the steering wheel acted as if it were possessed. After two minutes of driving, Lanie was screaming as loud as the remains of her wounded tire.

  Lanie was slow to register the approach of the headlights coming from the opposite direction, and overreacted when she did. She flashed her brights and hit the horn. The other car slowed, and the driver’s window was lowered.

  “Got a problem, ma’am?” he asked. His accent was western and friendly.

  “I am afraid I have a flat tire,” she said.

  “I’ll come around and take a look.”

  He drove forward, made a U-turn up the road, and left his brights on as he pulled up behind Lanie’s car. Lanie had to shield her eyes, seeing him only in silhouette. He was tall and on the heavy side. The man came around, silently appraised her tires, and shook his head.

  “Rim doesn’t look good, ma’am. Could be the axle’s bent, too. You shouldn’t have been driving with a flat.”

  “I’m sure you are right, but I am expecting an important call and I’m out of cell phone range. I hate to impose, but I wonder if you could drive me down the road.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Lanie followed him back to his sedan and settled in the passenger seat. The car was new, and smelled like it. On these roads, she thought, it wouldn’t be new for long.

  Her Good Samaritan started the car, but waited a moment before putting it in gear. “There’s a wasp on your arm,” he warned. “Don’t move.”

  His right hand shot out, flicking at the insect.

  “Ow!”

  “Did it sting you?”

  Lanie was rubbing her upper arm. “Yes,” she said.

  “Sorry about that.” The man reached over to the dashboard and raised the yellow jacket’s corpse into the air.

  “You’re not allergic, are you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  As he started to drive, Lanie rolled her window down. She felt hot and suddenly unbalanced, and hoped the stream of cool air would revive her, but it didn’t. Lanie reached for the dashboard to steady herself.

  The driver looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m feeling a little dizzy,” Lanie admitted.

  “Probably the sting,” he said.

  Lanie could only remember being stung once in her life, and that was when she was a girl. It hurt enough that she cried, but it hadn’t felt anything like this. She wasn’t feeling any pain now, but her mind didn’t seem to be functioning quite right. The last time she felt like this, Lanie remembered, was when she was trying to kill herself, and Graham ended up rescuing her.

  Graham . . .

  She reached for her purse and frantically felt around. Her phone was there. She squinted to see the display, then wanted to shake it. Still out of range.

  “Dammit.” It felt like she had walnuts in her mouth, and her curse sounded slurred.

  “What?”

  She concentrated on saying the word clearly: “Nothing.”

  Her Good Samaritan was looking over at her. He had on a John Deere baseball cap that covered his head. She should have asked him his name. In a minute, she would. He was clean-shaven, and very tan. His blue eyes stared at her. There was something hypnotic about them. Lanie found herself drifting.

  Good, Jaeger thought. She was nodding off. They would never find the needle mark. It was a liquid form of Nembutal. He liked the irony. The actress thought she had been stung by a yellow jacket. In a way she was right. That was the street name for the drug that was going to kill her. He was going to prescribe her a cocktail of Valium and Nembutal with an Everclear chaser. The actress had already tried to kill herself with pills and booze. This time she would succeed.

  A star like Lanie Byrne couldn’t die without a huge investigation. They would uncover her previous suicide attempt and conclude she had just finished what she started. There would be no shortage of speculation as to why she killed herself, but all the theories would be wrong.

  Lanie was humming to herself. It was an old song with the refrain “It’s in his kiss.” The tune was catchy, but Lanie didn’t believe the words. Lips did lie. There were some men who were great kissers and even better liars. She had known a few of them intimately. Lanie thought the true barometer of the soul was in the eyes.

  Her thoughts drifted. Everyone was always going on about her eyes. Any cari
cature of her featured huge doe eyes and a giraffe’s neck.

  She liked Graham’s eyes. His words and manner might be hard, but his eyes weren’t. His eyes were always alert, as if he were measuring up some picture.

  Lanie shifted in the seat. She couldn’t quite get comfortable. Something was eating at her.

  The driver’s eyes. She had seen them before. They were the eyes caught by Graham on film. No, that couldn’t be. This man was taller and heavier. He had no scar.

  She turned her head his way. Lanie knew what could be done with makeup and wardrobe. She tried to focus, tried to strip away the veneer. What she saw made her throat tighten. She was in a car with the killer. The yellow jacket, Lanie remembered. That’s when he drugged her, shot her up with something.

  She had to get away before it was too late. Fighting unresponsive muscles, moving as imperceptibly as possible, Lanie reached for the door handle. If she could throw herself out of the car, he might not find her in the darkness. Without breathing, trying to will herself to be invisible, Lanie pulled on the handle. It didn’t seem to give. She pulled again, then leaned closer to the door. It wouldn’t open. She tried again, pushing harder.

  “I disabled that door,” said Jaeger. “You can huff, and puff, and blow as much as you want. It won’t open.”

  He slowed the car, and turned it around. There was no more need for pretense. He saw that her eyes were glassy, and she was already all but immobilized. He would drive back to her car, fix her flat tire, then go back to her ranch. In the quiet of her retreat she would commit suicide.

  Jaeger watched the actress open her mouth. Let her scream, he thought. But she was saying something instead.

  Lanie bit her lip. The words were eluding her. But she was an actor. Delivering lines was her business. She focused on her character. If her character didn’t make herself heard and understood, she would die.

  Motivation, an actor’s best friend.

  She spoke clearly, loudly, and her enunciation was perfect: “Hans Jaeger.”

  He turned toward her, not believing what he had heard. Could this woman somehow know his name? “What did you say?”

  Second take, Lanie told herself. It didn’t matter that she was drugged. She was playing someone sober and needed to hit that mark. It needed to be done in just one take, like one of those special shots they set up for all day.

  Her eyes were rolling back into her skull when she said with perfect clarity: “We need to talk, Hans Jaeger.”

  Cut. Edit. Wrap.

  Lanie lost consciousness.

  Jaeger braked hard. “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  The bitch didn’t answer.

  “How do you know my name?” Jaeger was screaming the question now.

  When she didn’t respond, he slapped her face. That didn’t help. She was unresponsive. Her words taunted him. Before killing her, he had to know how she knew his name.

  Jaeger wanted to slap her awake, but he couldn’t chance leaving a bruise. He clenched his hands into fists. Oh, how he wanted to slap that smirk off her face.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-NINE

  Jaeger considered aborting his plan. It would be easier just to kill the actress, dispose of her body, and make sure it was never found. Doing that would ensure Lanie a spot as this generation’s Amelia Earhart. But her disappearance would put the rumor mill into overdrive. Leaving a body was the better way. Besides, before acting rashly, he needed answers. His cover might be blown, but that didn’t mean his plan was compromised. He was prepared to abandon his old life, but that didn’t mean he had to run.

  Lanie would tell him what he needed to know. He fixed the flat tire while she was incapacitated, and then drove around Upper Ojai until she raised her head and started looking around dazedly.

  “Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens,” he said.

  Lanie took some deep breaths, trying to clear her mind. She took stock of the surrounding landscape, and wondered how much time had passed. Judging by how dark it was, Lanie imagined she had slept for an hour or two.

  Graham’s call, Lanie remembered. She had missed it. Maybe, she tried to convince herself, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Graham could have assumed something was wrong and called the police. Help might be on its way.

  Jaeger seemed to sense her hope. He lifted his left hand from the steering wheel, revealing a gun. The comfort with which he held it made the gun seem a natural extension of his hand.

  “How many security people,” he asked, “do you have stationed around your property?”

  “Hundreds,” Lanie said.

  Jaeger shrugged. She was soft. Hadn’t she tried committing suicide at the mere thought of killing the bicyclist? “Your choice,” he said. “Anyone I encounter, be it gardener, caretaker, or even passerby, I will be forced to treat as the enemy.”

  Lanie knew what that meant. She didn’t want to chance another innocent dying. Besides, cooperating might buy her the time she needed. “There’s no one else at the retreat. I am staying there by myself.”

  “Where’s the paparazzo?”

  “Long gone.”

  More gone than she knew, thought Jaeger, but he didn’t tell her that.

  “How did you know my name?”

  “Everyone knows your name. They’ve identified you as my stalker.”

  Jaeger reflected on her news. It still didn’t tell him how they knew his name. He wondered if someone had identified him from the grainy photograph taken by the paparazzo. Tying him to the actress complicated things. Even in the case of an apparent suicide, he would be wanted for questioning.

  “I don’t know how much you are getting paid for doing this,” Lanie said, “but if you let me go, I promise I will pay you more.”

  Jaeger appeared to consider her offer, then said, “Any and all negotiations will have to wait until we’re safely inside your house.”

  He made himself sound agreeable. She wasn’t the only one who could act. Hope would keep her docile.

  As they drove up Sulphur Mountain Road, the streetlights were few and far between. Jaeger seemed to approve of the shadows. “It’s harder and harder to find remote spots like this,” he said. “Civilization seems to think it has a duty to provide illumination. It acts like a parent providing a night-light to the child.”

  Lanie used the opening to ask: “Do you have any children?” Her survival might depend on connecting with him. When he didn’t answer, she said, “I’ve always dreamed of having kids.”

  Instead of responding, Jaeger flipped off the headlights, and for several seconds it was almost as if they were driving in a huge, dark tunnel. He laughed aloud. “Like one of those rides at Disneyland, yes?”

  Jaeger turned the headlights back on and eased up on the gas. They approached the gate, and Jaeger reached for the remote, activating it with the barrel of his gun.

  “Why no security cameras?” he asked.

  “This is supposed to be a retreat.”

  Her answer was measured, even chiding. Lanie was doing her best to not show how scared she was. It was important she stay alert, and be mentally ready to act once she got the opportunity. Her hands were tied, but she would offer up some ruse to get him to remove her bonds. If she could just get a moment in the kitchen alone . . .

  Lanie studied her captor, watched him lower the window and actually sniff the air. He reminded her of a watchful animal, all of his senses on alert. He stopped the car, listened, moved forward a hundred yards, and braked to listen again. His eyes never stopped scanning the road, constantly looking right and left. Turning a corner, the car lights picked up on two points of reflected light that glowed like embers. Jaeger’s gun was immediately on the target. When the dark shape was better revealed, they saw a raccoon staring back at them. Instead of running off, the animal stood its ground.

  “Arrogant, isn’t he?” said Jaeg
er. With his gun, he casually sighted on the animal. A head shot, that’s how he would take it. One bullet only, of course. That was how he hunted game.

  The privacy that Lanie had so desired, the remoteness once so appealing, now seemed oppressive. Her house was more than half a mile from the main road, and her neighbors were even farther away. In the distance she could see the lights from her granite lanterns. She had only recently put a name to her retreat, calling it “Tama,” the Japanese word for “jewel.” She wondered what the Japanese word for arrogant was.

  “How do you power the house?” Jaeger asked.

  “Solar panels. And a reserve generator, if necessary.”

  Jaeger turned the headlights off again, but this time not for fun. He eased the car along, driving it off the road and then cutting off its engine far short of the periphery of the lights. Stone lanterns lined the pathway leading from the house. Jaeger looked at Lanie and signaled for her to be silent by touching the gun to his lips. For a minute he watched and listened. The breeze kicked up wind chimes and caused a slight ringing.

  “What’s that?” he whispered.

  “Garden bells.”

  He wanted anything unusual, or out of the ordinary, explained. “What are those wavy things you have running off the house?”

  “They’re called rain chains.”

  “Which means what?”

  “They’re a Japanese alternative to rain gutters.”

  He raised a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes and methodically scrutinized the area around them. Several varieties of bamboo were planted around the enclosure. The landscaping wasn’t to his liking.

  “Bamboo curtain,” he said, shifting in his seat to try to see better.

  At last he seemed satisfied with what he saw, or didn’t see. “Let’s go.”

  This time the gun prodded her to go left. That was how he communicated directions to her in their circuitous route around the house. Lanie turned, lost her footing on a rock, tried to keep her balance, but couldn’t. Without the use of her hands, she couldn’t soften the impact of her fall. All she could do was hit the ground. “Shit.”