Blast from the Past

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  The cop car had multiplied when Tilda wasn’t looking, so there seemed to be a dozen cops around when an officer finally came to where Nick was still holding her. “I’m Lieutenant Sidell. I understand you witnessed the incident.”

  Tilda nodded.

  “Your name?”

  “Tilda Harper.” In response to his other questions, she told him her home address, phone number, where she was staying, and why she was on the Cape.

  “I know this is upsetting, but if you could just answer a few questions, it would be a big help.”

  “Of course.”

  Nick backed up a step, but was still close enough to hold her hand.

  Sidell said, “Can you tell me what you saw?”

  “I was walking away from the inn, heading to my cottage, and I saw Laryea and Foster walking toward the inn. Only I didn’t know it was them. It was too dark.”

  “Okay,” he said, taking notes.

  “I heard a car coming.”

  “From which direction?”

  “That way,” she said, pointing. The next part was embarrassing, but she didn’t want to leave anything out. “I kind of stepped farther off the road when I heard it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s kind of a phobia. I was nearly hit by a car once, so . . . I wasn’t expecting this to happen, or anything like that. I just don’t like to get too close to moving cars.”

  “Fine. And that’s when the vehicle lost control?”

  “I don’t think it lost control. I think he drove off the road right at Mr. Laryea and Foster.”

  “Deliberately?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

  “That’s how it looked to me.”

  He made a note. “You say the vehicle didn’t stop?”

  “No. It kept on going.”

  “Did you get a good look at it?”

  This was the part she should have been dreading, but she’d been so caught up she hadn’t realized what was coming next. Maybe she was in shock. Why in hell hadn’t she warned Nick or Dom what was coming? Now there was no way she could dodge it. “Yes.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “It was a black stretch limo.” She felt Nick stiffen beside her.

  “Did you see the plate?”

  “It was TOLO4.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Sidell called out, “Rico, I need you to run a plate for me. It’s—”

  “Don’t bother,” Nick said in a flat voice. “That’s one of our limos.”

  “Your limos? And you are?”

  “Nick Tolomeo, Tolomeo Personal Protection. We’re handling security for the film shoot.”

  “And it was one of your limos that did this?”

  Tilda wouldn’t have blamed Nick for saying that she must have been mistaken, or even accusing her of lying. But what he said was, “If that’s what Tilda saw, then I guess it was. I need to talk to my father. Dom Tolomeo. He’s the boss.”

  Lieutenant Sidell sent another cop to fetch Dom from where he was talking to a group of people from the inn.

  “Nick, I’m so sorry,” Tilda said. “I should have told you. I wasn’t thinking—this is all so unreal.”

  “It’s okay. If that’s what you saw.”

  She thought about it, even closed her eyes to replay those awful seconds. “It was your limo, Nick.”

  “Did you see the driver?” Sidell asked.

  “No,” she said. “Maybe it was stolen.”

  “We’ll check it out,” was all the lieutenant would say.

  Dom came up then, and Tilda had to stand there and watch his face as Sidell repeated what she’d said. Again, she would have expected denial or argument, but all he said was, “I don’t know anything about the limo being out tonight, but I can tell you where it’s supposed to be.”

  “Why don’t we go see?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sidell said, “Miss Harper, is there anything else you can tell me about the incident?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then you’re free to go.”

  “Nick,” Dom said, “take Tilda back to her cottage.”

  “But Pop—”

  “The police and I are going to get to the bottom of this. Make sure she’s okay, then give me a call.”

  “Sure, Pop.” But he kept watching as his father walked off, surrounded by cops. Only when they’d driven off did he say, “Let’s get you back to your cottage. Are you okay to walk?”

  Tilda said, “Look, go with Dom. I’ll be fine.”

  He flashed a shaky grin. “Hey, I’m not going against what the boss says, especially not tonight.” He took her elbow and started her in the right direction, but neither of them spoke until Tilda was on the porch of her cottage, with the door open.

  “Nick, I don’t know what to say.”

  “You did the right thing, Tilda. If our limo was stolen, we need to know. If it was one of our guys driving . . . Then we need to know that, too.”

  “I should have told you before the cops asked.”

  “I won’t say I wouldn’t have liked a little warning, but—” He shrugged it off. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. You saw what you saw.”

  “Then we’re good?”

  “We’re good,” he said firmly. “Are you okay now? Do you want me to come in with you?”

  “No, I’m fine. Okay, not fine, but I’ll be okay. You go take care of your father.”

  “Call me if you need me.”

  “I will,” she lied, knowing that she’d suffer a thousand nightmares alone before calling him again that night.

  As it turned out, she only had the one nightmare, a doozey about a rampaging limo destroying the film shoot. There might have been more if she hadn’t given up on sleep after that. Instead she played computer games until dawn, when she finally drifted off to dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Rather than focus on a cliffhanger to lead into the final issue, the penultimate issue of Pharos follows Dylan O’Taine as he goes through a normal day: trading messages with the Jengu, studying his spell books, crafting a gift for Melusine, and even playing with Flotsam and Jetsam. It is only on the last page that Leviathan gives a hint of the climax coming in the next issue.

  —TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA ARTISTS: THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE

  WHEN Tilda finally woke, close to noon, she went straight to the computer to see if she could find out anything about Laryea. According to a breaking-news entry on the Cape Cod Times’ site, Laryea had been taken to the hospital to be treated for bruises and scrapes. Though he’d been kept overnight for observation, he was expected to be released in the morning.

  She checked the clock and saw that he was probably already back at the inn, which must have been a huge relief to Joni and Edwina.

  Foster’s name was being withheld until his family could be notified, and Tilda was glad to see she was identified only as a member of the film crew who witnessed the collision. Unfortunately, Dom’s name was all too prominent. An unnamed member of his team had been found drunk, and was presumed to have been driving the limo.

  “Shit!” Tilda said. She knew that she’d had to tell the cops what she’d seen, and she knew that Dom and Nick wouldn’t blame her, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she’d betrayed them. Part of her really wanted to pack up her car and head back to Malden, but the larger part of her—the part that made her a reporter—needed to know what was happening. Which meant that she was going to have to go to the inn and see people.

  After she grabbed a sandwich and took a quick shower, Tilda headed out. She thought about walking again, but instead got into her car. Though she told herself it was because it looked like rain and that she might need to go elsewhere that day, the fact was she just didn’t feel like walking down that road again, even in broad daylight.

  There was a TV news truck in the inn’s parking lot, but only for a local station. Tilda was surprised. She’d have expec
ted more of a fuss, but maybe the vultures had come and gone, or were controlling themselves for once. Of course, she knew it was the height of hypocrisy to insult the press when she was a reporter herself, but she’d long since learned to live with the contradiction.

  The lobby was as filled with people as it had been the night before, but the mood was considerably more subdued. Dom was talking to a pair of his security guards, and when he saw Tilda looking around, he waved her over.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m all right. How’s Laryea?”

  “Some bruises, but nothing broken, thank God. We just brought him back to the hotel.”

  “That’s good,” she said.

  “I guess you know what happened with the police.”

  “Not all the details, but I saw on the news that it really was your limo last night.”

  “Oh yeah. When the cops and I went to find it last night, the evidence was right there on the bumper. Pete hadn’t even tried to wipe off the blood and tissue.”

  “Pete? Pete Ellis?”

  He nodded. “He’d been keeping the limo at his cottage in case we needed him in a hurry—which we do sometimes, with our clients. Anyway, after we looked at the limo, we found Pete inside the cottage, passed out drunk. Must have gone on a bender.”

  “Shit,” was all Tilda could think to say. Driving drunk in a stretch limo? They’d been lucky he hadn’t taken out the whole inn. “And they’re sure he was driving?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “What does he say?”

  “That it wasn’t him.” Dom shook his head sadly. “I knew Pete was in recovery—he was up front about it when I hired him. Even offered to submit to random sobriety tests, but him offering was enough for me. I swear to God, I thought I could trust him.

  “Even after we found him that way, too drunk to even talk to us until this morning, I was ready to do what I could for him. I know alcoholism is a disease, and I could have understood it if he’d owned up to having driven when he shouldn’t have. It would have been stupid, criminally stupid, but understandable. But to just say it wasn’t him? To look me right in the eye and lie? It was all I could do to keep from slapping him.” Dom ran his fingers through the hair that looked two shades grayer than it had the day before. “Hell, it was myself I was mad at as much as it was him. I took a drunk and gave him keys to a limo. That poor bastard, Foster, is dead because of me.”

  “Screw that!” Tilda snapped. “You weren’t the one driving drunk!”

  “I know, I know. Nick told me, his mother told me when I called her. Everybody told me. But . . . Tilda, you remember when we first met? How I told you the secret to running a security operation was knowing people?”

  “I remember.”

  “I won’t say that I’m never wrong, but I’ve never been wrong about somebody I’ve spent as much time with as I have with Pete Ellis. I’d have sworn he was a good guy. If I can’t hire good people, then I can’t do my job—maybe it’s time to give it up. Maybe I’m getting too old for this business.”

  “Bullshit! You’re great at your job.”

  “Thanks, sweetie, but Joni and Edwina may not agree with you. I’ve got to go talk to them and see if they want to replace us.”

  “Don’t you have a contract?”

  “You think I’d make them honor a contract under these circumstances?”

  “I suppose not. But they’re idiots if they don’t still want you.” Tilda wasn’t big into casual touching, but she had to pat him on the shoulder, even if it was awkward. After a second, Dom suddenly drew her into a hug, and Tilda tried to give as strongly as she got. Then he headed toward the elevator.

  Tilda looked around for Nick, wanting to see how he was handling it, but her phone buzzed before she could find him, and she stepped out onto the veranda to take the call.

  “Hey, Cooper.”

  “Tell me you weren’t anywhere near that hit-and-run last night,” he commanded.

  “I wish I could.” She told him what she’d seen.

  “Shit, Tilda. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Liar.”

  “Okay, I’m still shaky.” Then she thought of something. “Hell, does Jillian know I’m the witness?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want her fussing about my not calling in with the story. It didn’t occur to me until just this minute. I know that’s nutty for a reporter, but I’m not used to new news—I’m a features gal, and my features are usually well aged. Besides, I’m not sure about the ethics anyway, what with my being embedded into the production. I don’t think I should be talking to anybody without checking with Joni and Edwina. I can try to ask them—”

  “Tilda, relax. Jillian isn’t going to care about this story.”

  “Why not?”

  “Our sources say Laryea is fine. He doesn’t even have any broken bones.”

  “What about Foster? He’s dead!”

  “I know, but he’s not exactly newsworthy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, Tilda, you know how the game is played. The man’s death is a tragedy, nobody is saying anything different, but it was a drunk driver, right? That’s just not an Entertain Me! story.”

  Now Tilda realized why there hadn’t been any major media players at the inn. It was because nobody gave a shit about Foster. If it had been Laryea who’d been killed, the place would have been filled with representatives from all the networks, but since it was just his assistant, it wasn’t worth the trouble. Everybody else could get live feeds from the local guys, if they had time to fill.

  “You know what?” she said. “This business sucks sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t be snapping at you about it.”

  “Text me some good gossip when you’re feeling better, and we’ll call it even.”

  “You got it.”

  “I have to run. Call if you need to talk.”

  “Will do. Give my love to Jean-Paul.”

  Tilda put her phone away, but instead of going back inside, found a chair to sit in and stared at the ocean. Foster dead, and Pete Ellis the cause. It just didn’t feel real. If the press didn’t care, how real could it be? That sense of unreality was only enhanced when one of the most bizarre vehicles she’d ever seen pulled up in front of the inn.

  It was a van painted the same eye-blinking green as Hugh Wilder’s Quasit suit, and it had “Blastoff for fun with Quasit!” emblazoned on the side. The license plate number was Quasit, just in case anybody hadn’t caught the subtle hints. Wilder himself got out, and Tilda was tempted to ask him to tap his horn, just to see if it played a snippet from The Blastoffs theme song or their one song that had climbed to the bottom of the Billboard charts.

  Wilder went to the back of the van to pull out a bouquet of Mylar Get Well balloons that looked large enough to lift a small child.

  “Hi, Mr. Wilder,” Tilda said.

  “Oh, Tilda, isn’t it terrible?” he said in a hoarse voice, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Is Johnny okay? I went to take these to the hospital and they said they’d already sent him back here. That’s not right—they should be calling in specialists to make sure there aren’t any internal injuries.”

  “I think he’s fine.”

  “I couldn’t stand it if anything had happened to him. And that other young man—what a terrible thing for Johnny to see.”

  “It was pretty bad,” Tilda said. At the question in his expression, she said, “I was there, too. Not with them, but close enough to see it happen.”

  “You poor thing.” He made as if to hug her, but couldn’t figure out a way to do so and still hang onto the balloons, and settled for repeating, “You poor thing.”

  “Do you need help getting those up to the front desk?” Tilda asked.

  “No, no, I’ll take them up to Johnny mysel
f. He’s going to need his friends with him at a time like this.”

  Tilda thought about trying to talk him out of it, but decided it wasn’t her job to run interference for Laryea. Maybe he would find his old costar’s presence comforting as long as Wilder wasn’t dressed in his fur suit. So she just held the door open and let events take their own course.

  In fact, she concluded, there wasn’t anything she could do for anybody in the inn, and she really wanted to be somewhere else. Deciding it was time to get back to work on the Leviathan hunt, she got in her car to drive to her cottage.

  She’d finally received responses from all of the candidates describing their interactions with Fitzwilliam at Regal, and two of them had given such patently false stories that she was able to knock them off her list. That left her with eight.

  Unfortunately, she also had a handful of increasingly annoyed e-mails from the first guy she’d eliminated, wanting to know why she hadn’t replied. Given the lousy day she was having, she told him exactly why—because he was a phony. The minute she sent the e-mail, she knew it was a mistake, and ten minutes later, she really knew it. That’s when the guy’s venomous screed arrived, accusing her of stealing his work, pretending to be a reporter, and various other unspecified perfidies. Tilda was torn between deleting it and posting it to Facebook to share with the world, but settled for blocking more mail from the guy and saving the note in case of further reactions.

  She was trying to come up with the next step for eliminating some of the legion of Leviathans when her cell phone rang.

  “Hey, Nick,” she said. “What’s the word?”

  “Well, we’ve still got a job.”

  “Good. I don’t see how anybody could blame you guys for what happened anyway.”

  “Pop does.”

  “Yeah, I talked to him earlier.”

  “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know the film schedule is changing. Laryea is too sore to do anything for a couple of days, and then he wants to fly back to California for Foster’s funeral.”

  “Do you know where it’s going to be? I want to send flowers.” She didn’t think there was a preprinted card that said, “With sympathies from one of the people who saw your loved one die,” but she would find something appropriate.