He threaded his way into the heart of the crowd, watching as the girl separated from her companions and approached the bodyguard. At the bar, her first act was to reach for her cocktail. She threw it back fast. If she noticed a saline aftertaste, she didn’t seem to mind.
“You’re mine, sugarplum,” Swann said softly, the words swallowed by the blare of the band.
THIS is a nightmare, Chelsea thought. Seriously, a literal nightmare.
One minute she was dancing and then she looked across the room and she was like, Oh my God, you have got to be kidding me.
“I want to go,” she told Grange at the bar, shouting over the band’s cover of “Boulder to Birmingham.”
“Because of him?”
“Yeah, because of him.”
“He’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“You coming with me, or do I go by myself?”
“How about your entourage?”
“Forget them. Seriously, let’s just go.”
“Fine by me. I hate this rockabilly crap.”
They waded into the crowd, Grange gripping her arm above the elbow while she clutched her handbag with Chanticleer inside. Blur of faces, strobe of lights, odor of cigarette smoke, though smoking was illegal in clubs. Usually she didn’t mind the smell; she’d been known to sneak a cig herself. Tonight it was curdling the juices in her stomach, and the amped-up noise from the stage wasn’t helping. She blinked back a head rush that left her dizzy and uncoordinated.
“You okay?” Grange asked.
“Chugged that cocktail too fast.”
But it wasn’t the cocktail. It was fear.
Chelsea knew all about fear. She’d been afraid lots of times, starting with those nights when, hiding in her room, she’d listened to her mom and dad. All parents fight sometimes, her mom would tell her, but even then, Chelsea knew not all of them fought like that.
Then they broke up, and that was worse—her mom alone and crying, holding a pity party every night, and getting wasted on Stoli and pot. She’d been afraid then, too, afraid her mom would lose it and shoot herself with the pearl-handled pistol she kept by her bed.
But her mom’s crying jags were nothing compared to the nuttiness of the business. “The business”—that was what everyone called it, like it was the only business around. The business was sick and crazy, and it bred assholes the way dampness bred mold. It wasn’t just the horny middle-aged putzes who wanted to get into her pants, the balding clowns with sad little ponytails and Viagra hard-ons. She could handle them. What scared her were the control freaks, the psychos.
Some of them were crazy, really batshit crazy. Like the director of her first TV movie, who slapped her a half dozen times to get her to cry for the camera. When the AD objected, the director knocked him out cold. The slaps hadn’t made her cry, but seeing the AD crumple on the soundstage floor had done the trick. They got the shot on the first take.
Yeah, she knew about fear. But of all the things she feared, Mr. Darkness was the worst.
That was how she thought of him. Mr. Darkness. There was this cloud of black hanging over the man. Bad vibes. Sometimes, when he visited her dad’s trailer, she would creep to the window and steal a glance through the venetian blinds. Once, Swann caught her looking through the window and turned his gaze on her—his eyes, yellow eyes. And he winked, a friendly wink, but actually not friendly at all.
It was taking forever to get out. Their progress seemed endless, the exit unbearably far away and receding even as they approached. The floor under her feet was weirdly spongy. Each step sank into quicksand. She swayed, her balance faltering, and then she saw him—Swann—standing ahead of them, by the doorway of the lounge.
She stopped. Grange followed the line of her sight and scowled. “You don’t have to worry about that putz. Come on.”
She shook her head. To go on would mean passing right by him. He would be inches from her. And if he so much as touched her…well, she would drop dead. Seriously. She would just. Drop. Dead.
“He can’t do anything here,” Grange insisted.
But Grange didn’t know. She had seen her dad bow his head before Swann. Her dad, who never bowed to anyone.
“We’ll go out the back way,” she said.
“The car’s out front.”
“So we’ll walk around and get it. I don’t give a fuck.”
She pulled him in a circle to face the other direction. It felt like tugging a big, stubborn dog on a leash.
“This is bullshit,” Grange complained.
She got it. He didn’t want to back off. He wanted a confrontation. Some kind of macho thing. Well, tough on him. He could have his pissing contest some other time. The fear cramping her insides was getting bad, really bad. She needed to be out of here.
They made quicker progress retracing their steps. She looked back, but Swann was already lost in a sea of silhouettes. When she turned her head, the room canted. She stumbled. Grange tightened his grip on her arm.
She was starting to think there was something wrong with her that went beyond fear. One time she’d taken some Ecstasy and had a bad reaction. This was sort of like that. But she would be okay once she got out of the club, away from the press of bodies and the wall of noise…
Someone stepped in front of them, blocking their path—her gal pal Gabrielle, saying, “Hey, there you are,” as she stood there blinking. She was always blinking because she wouldn’t wear glasses and was allergic to contacts or some fucking thing.
“I look away for a minute,” Gabby said, “and you’re gone. Trying to run out on me?”
She said it lightly, but hurt lay behind the words. She worried constantly about being left behind.
“I just need to get out,” Chelsea said.
“She’s not feeling so hot,” Grange added.
Gabby gave her a sympathetic smile. “Too much happy sauce. Gotta pace yourself, girl.”
“Right…right.”
Conversation was too hard. She couldn’t concentrate on words when the floor kept slipping sideways and her stomach was clenching like a fist. She looked around for some anchor of stability in the shifting room, and then she glimpsed Swann circling around toward the rear exit.
Blink, and he evaporated into the smoky, pulsating haze.
“Uh-oh. I think she’s getting ready to hurl.” Gabby’s voice. Distant, echoey.
“I’ll get her into the john.” Grange, taking charge. “You stay here.”
“I can help,” Gabby objected.
“Just stay.”
Grange pulled Chelsea off the dance floor, into the hallway that led to the back door. The exit was close, only a few yards to go, when Grange detoured into the bathroom, hustling her inside. She couldn’t figure it out. Taking her into the stupid bathroom when she could throw up just as easily outside? Who cared if some asshole with a camera caught her puking? Wouldn’t be the first time she’d made TMZ blowing chunks. “Chelsea Spewer,” they called her.
The bathroom was empty. Which was kind of weird, considering the mob scene outside, but she didn’t have time to think about it. Grange pointed her toward the nearest stall, but her gut twisted and she knew she couldn’t make it that far. She staggered to the sink, somehow remembering to hand Grange her purse before she leaned over the steel basin and waited for her stomach to empty.
Nothing happened. She gripped the white countertop and stared at the drain as it spiraled clockwise, the counter rotating with it, and the floor, the whole room, everything spinning while strange, sweet music played in her head and Chanticleer growled.
She lifted her head as the dog barked. In the mirror over the sink, the door of a stall swung open and Mr. Darkness stepped out.
And he was smiling.
KATE turned a corner, and Panic Room came up on her left.
Crime scene tape festooned the building. Three black-and-whites were parked on the street, light bars cycling.
Her heart iced over.
She slammed the Jaguar into park
alongside a fire hydrant. Stepping out of the car, she speed-dialed Grange. No answer.
Most of the cops and apparently all the clubgoers and paparazzi were around back, but at the front entrance she found a young patrolman in charge of the sign-in sheet. His nametag read Stengel.
“What happened here?” she asked.
He looked her over in the wary, judgmental way of all cops. “And you are…?”
She produced her business card. “Chelsea Brewer’s personal security.”
“Oh yeah. The bouncer told me she was at the club.”
“Where is she now?”
“Bouncer saw her leave with her bodyguard. Your guy, I guess.”
Relief blew through her. “Thank God.”
“They say the man upstairs looks after drunks and fools.” Officer Stengel smirked. “I’m guessing your client fits both categories.”
“What went down in there?”
“Clubbers heard gunshots, panicked. Turned into a real mob scene. The noise came from the front of the club, so everybody cleared out the back. They’re corralled in the rear parking lot now.”
“You get the shooter?”
“Wasn’t any shooter.”
“You just said—”
“People thought they heard shots fired. Turned out to be a sick prank, is all. Bunch of firecrackers.”
“Firecrackers?”
“Big ones. Judging from the shrapnel, I’d say they were homemade. PVC pipe and black powder. Not sure how they were set off. Could’ve been some kinda radio-controlled igniter.”
“Doesn’t this club have a metal detector at the door?”
“Yeah, but the explosive was just plastic and powder, no metal, and if there was an igniter, it was too small to trigger the detector. This freak worked it all out pretty carefully. We found a bogus out-of-order sign stashed in the ladies’ room. Looks like our friend taped it to the door for part of the evening to keep people out.”
“Why?”
“My guess, whoever it was wanted a safe location to set off the fireworks and not get flattened in the stampede.”
“Sounds like a lot of work for a prank.”
“Some people have way too much time on their hands.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Couple blown eardrums. And there was one guy, got hit by debris. We found him unconscious in the club. He’s at the ER now. Your man may have sustained some facial cuts. There was blood on his face, Eddie said.”
“Who’s Eddie?”
“Bouncer. Over there.”
A few yards away, a blond WWF wannabe stood smoking a cigarette. Kate approached him. “You saw Chelsea Brewer leave?”
Eddie the bouncer expelled a stream of smoke into her face. “Right through this door. Her and her rent-a-goon were the only ones who come out this way. Everybody else, they cleared out the back.”
There was a lot of Jersey in his accent. It almost made Kate homesick. “Was this immediately after the gunshots?”
“Nah, it was two, three minutes later. They must’ve been laying low.” He took another drag. “Better ’n getting trampled in a cattle run.”
“While all this was happening, you stayed out here?”
“Damn straight.”
“Aren’t you supposed to provide security for this establishment?”
“Lady, I check IDs, kick loose the losers, let in the hotties. When there’s gunfire, I keep my head down like anybody else.”
“Very professional.”
“You want a hero, call Chuck Norris. ’Sides, this ain’t what I really do. I’m up for a part in the next Jason Statham flick.”
“When Grange arrived with Chelsea, did he tell you about a guy who’s been stalking her? Did he say not to let him in?”
“Yeah, he showed me a picture. But he was wasting his time. The stalker never showed.”
Despite his ambitions, Eddie was not a good actor. Swann had shown up, and Eddie had let him in, probably for a bribe. But Kate couldn’t press the issue without revealing knowledge of the case.
“Okay,” she said, “so Chelsea and her bodyguard exited…”
“Yeah, they came out, got into their car. Black Caddy DTS. Nice wheels.”
A company car. She had a fleet of them.
“Took off in a hurry,” he went on. “Probably wanted to get away before any photogs came back. They all went around to the rear when the shit hit the fan.”
“And Chelsea wasn’t hurt?”
“No blood on her, but she seemed kinda out of it. Shell-shocked, you know? Probably not so used to being in a war zone.” He blew more smoke into her eyes. “Tonight she got a taste of the real world, right?”
“Right,” Kate said, and she snatched the cigarette out of his hand and crushed it under her boot.
“Hey, what the hell?”
“I don’t like people blowing smoke in my face.”
“Yeah? Where should I blow it?”
“Out your ass.”
She walked a few yards away and tried Grange’s number again. As the phone rang, she tried to figure out what the hell had gone down. Grange should have called as soon as he left the club—unless his injuries were more severe than they’d looked. If he’d passed out, and if Chelsea was stoned again…
The ringing cut off with a click. He’d answered—finally.
“Grange, are you all right?”
“Hello, Miss Malick.”
Not Grange. Not any voice she knew.
Her heart slowed down, conserving energy for a coming battle.
“Or should I call you Sister Kate?” he added politely.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Jack Swann. You can call me Jack.”
The reply scared her, because he made no effort to keep his identity secret.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he went on. “How should I address you?”
“Any way you like.”
“Then here’s the bottom line, Sister Kate. I have Chelsea. Don’t worry. She’s perfectly all right.”
“How did you get Grange’s phone? Where is he?”
“I’ll let you answer those questions for yourself. Just one hint: People see what they expect to see.”
“What does that mean?”
“That’s all the help you get.”
“Let me talk to Chelsea.”
“No can do. Not right now.”
“Then how do I know she’s unharmed?”
“You think I would hurt her? Why would I do that?”
“You kidnapped her.”
“I had my reasons. Good reasons. Have you seen the billboard for her last movie?”
“What about it?”
“I’ve seen it. I’ve looked at it plenty of times. And I liked what I saw. I said to myself, there’s someone still young and fresh, someone who hasn’t been soiled too badly by this shitty world. Not yet. Someone who’s still got that glow. Now, why would I want to stamp that out? Why would I want to take that away from the world?”
Because you’re crazy, Kate thought. She said nothing.
“Chelsea will be fine. Everything will go smoothly for all of us, as long as you play by my rules. That means you don’t contact the police, the FBI, or the media. The only ones who’ll know about this situation are you, me, and Chelsea’s mom and dad. No outsiders. This is a private party and nobody’s crashing. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“I’ll call again in two hours with a status report. That gives you plenty of time to brief the parents and set up shop at their house. I’ve got eyes on the house, and I’ll know if you bring in the authorities.”
“I won’t bring in anybody. Except—I’ll need the help of one or two of my associates at the agency.”
“So you can trace my next call and track me down?”
“Nothing like that.”
Swann made a scolding cluck. “I’ve heard of a flying nun, but a lying nun? Jesus would be so disappointed. But Jesus was a liar, too. The meek sh
all inherit the earth—that’s the biggest lie of all.” His voice hardened. “Don’t bullshit me again.”
“I still want my colleagues on board. You want this done fast and done right? Well, I can’t go it entirely alone. Without some assistance, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to do everything you need me to do.”
“Heh. You’re a hardass, aren’t you? Okay, bring in one or two of your helper monkeys. But nobody else.”
“Fair enough.” She tried for a little more cooperation. “You’ll have to let me hear Chelsea’s voice eventually. Otherwise, how can I trust you?”
“You still don’t get it, Sister Kate. I told you, Chelsea’s in no danger from me. I’m no ordinary kidnapper. I didn’t kidnap her to hurt her. I kidnapped her to save her.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’ll be clear soon enough. Believe me, Chelsea has nothing to fear from me. I’m the best friend she ever had.”
“What do—”
But he was already gone.
KATE shut the phone and stood unmoving. Down the street, the police cruisers’ cherry lights were still cycling, and Eddie, the bouncer from New Jersey, was smoking another cigarette. Officer Stengel guarded the perimeter of the cordoned-off crime scene. Traffic flowed on Sunset, decelerating as it passed Panic Room, a river current slowed by a sand bar.
Everything was the same, but nothing was the same. Chelsea had been taken.
But she couldn’t have been. She’d left with Grange. The bouncer had seen it.
Wrong. What did he really see? A bald man with a large build and a bloody face, probably wearing Grange’s jacket, hustling Chelsea out the door. In the darkness and confusion he wouldn’t have noted any details. After all, he’d expected her to be with her bodyguard.
People see what they expect to see.
Chelsea told her Swann used to have long hair. Kate hadn’t made the connection, but now it was obvious. He’d shaved his head to pass for Grange. He’d been planning the substitution all along.
A pudgy, moon-faced girl wandered into view, peering everywhere, her head darting like a bird’s. Chelsea’s gal pal from the restroom—Gabrielle. She squinted in Kate’s direction and recognized her. “Do you know where she is?”
Grave of Angels Page 5
