by Dianne Emley
She whipped her head around to stare at him. “Stop talking like I’m a child. Worse than that, you’re treating me like I’m a bred show dog about to birth prize puppies, and you just can’t wait to see how perfect they are.” She cradled her belly and stepped back from them. “You’re not getting my baby.”
“Sinclair, now you’re acting like a child.” Gig put his hands on his bony hips.
Dr. Janus motioned Gig to remain silent. “Sinclair, we understand how frightening this is for you, but after it’s over you’ll be able to hold this perfect little baby in your arms, and you’ll forget all this.”
She stepped backward, stretching the plastic IV tube. Behind, her hands touched a metal floor lamp. She grabbed the pole with both hands. With a jerk, she pulled the plug from the wall. She turned the pole so that the frosted glass bulb faced out, holding it like a battering ram. “He promised to watch over me.”
“Who did?” Gig’s top lip was raised, making him look like a chipmunk.
“John.” Sinclair couldn’t say his name without crying.
“Who’s John?” the doctor asked.
Gig turned to him. “That cop we had working here. He just killed his girlfriend and then killed himself.”
Sinclair yelled, “What did you do to him? What are you doing to me?”
She yanked the IV needle from her arm.
Paula moved toward her. “I’m just going to have to stick you again.”
“Stay back.” Sinclair made a ramming motion toward Paula with the lamp.
Paula made a grab for the lamp. Sinclair swung both arms back and hit her in the stomach with it.
Paula doubled over with the blow. “You bitch! You think you’re gonna hit me?”
Gig threw up his hands. “I don’t believe this. Sinclair, you’re about to have a baby. Stop this ridiculousness right now.”
Sinclair’s eyes were wild. She was shaking her head as she backed toward the door.
As the situation escalated, Dr. Janus grew calmer. “Let’s everyone relax. Sinclair, if you want to leave, feel free to leave.”
“You think I won’t?” Sinclair backed toward the door, still holding the lamp in both hands. “You act like I’ve lost my mind, but I’ve never seen things more clearly. I see evil.”
“Evil? Sinclair, c’mon,” Gig said imploringly.
He, Dr. Janus, and Paula inched toward her.
Sinclair bared her teeth. Her cheeks were flushed, and her long hair was mussed as if for a romantic film’s bedroom scene. “First Trendi and now John. That’s not evil?”
Gig widened his eyes. “All that means is that we have to do a better job at screening the people we hire.”
“People around me are dying and you think this is a joke.” Blood ran down her arm.
Gig stopped mugging. “It’s no joke, Sinclair.”
On the floor against the wall was a tall ceramic vase that held broad stalks of dried bamboo, a decorative touch intended to be calming and Zen-like. Holding the lamp in one hand, Sinclair pulled out one of the stalks, which was about three feet long and two inches in diameter, with a hollow core but about a half-inch thick and heavy.
She threw down the lamp. Its glass orb shattered, sending glass shards across the floor. With both hands, she grabbed the bamboo stalk near the end like a bat.
“Look at the mess you made.” Paula darted her hand toward the floor.
Sinclair waved the stalk back and forth as she headed toward the door.
“She’s the Ninja pregnant woman,” Gig mused. “A new superhero—Ninja preggers.”
“Oh, Gig,” Sinclair said. “If people only knew how funny you are.” Her eyes challenged him.
That wiped the smile off his face. “Dr. Janus, let’s put an end to this.”
“No need to traumatize the baby unnecessarily unless we have to.” Dr. Janus watched Sinclair exit the room while filling a syringe from a vial. “She won’t get far.”
Moving more quickly than she thought possible, Sinclair reached the institutional-style door, pressed down the lever, and squeezed out.
Gig bolted toward the door.
The heavy door slammed closed on its own. Sinclair wedged the bamboo stalk beneath the lever. She slowly backed away, not sure the bamboo would hold. When she saw them through the window in the door and heard them pounding and yelling, she started giggling as she walked as quickly as she could down the hallway, holding her belly with both hands.
She cried out when a contraction hit, grimacing and leaning against the wall. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t go down. She rapidly inhaled and exhaled through her teeth, like she’d been instructed to do when she’d played a woman giving birth in a movie. The pain subsided. She was able to open her eyes. She kept moving down the dimly lit hallway that Gig had designed to give the feeling of walking through catacombs. While she still heard them pounding against the door, trying to break through the barrier, Sinclair wondered why she’d given in to Gig on so many things. She’d always felt like a visitor in his life, like a guest leery of asking for more towels or special food lest she be thought a pest and not invited back.
It had been the same with the pregnancy. She’d wanted birthing classes, to commune with other expectant mothers, to see her doctor in an office and not in what she’d come to think of as a basement laboratory. She wanted her pregnancy to be normal. Gig had patiently explained that once she had become half of Le Towne, being “normal” was no longer an option.
When the baby started to grow and move inside her, everything changed. It was as if the scales had fallen from her eyes. But by the time she saw what a fool she’d been, she was trapped. John Chase had showed her that she wasn’t trapped. He’d helped plan an escape. They’d worked it all out to the smallest detail. She’d check in under an assumed name at Huntington Hospital. She’d been in touch with an Ob/Gyn in Pasadena whom she’d seen since she was a young adult. She’d explained to the doctor that she and Gig preferred to have the baby at home because of the media frenzy that would ensue, but she wanted a backup arrangement and it needed to be kept hush-hush.
She’d trusted John and Trendi. Sinclair had trusted them with her secret and they’d both promised to help her. Now they were both dead. That’s what their loyalty had cost them. But she was still alive and so was her baby. The escape plan was still in place.
There was an exit outdoors from the basement level through the gym. From there, it was a short walk to the garage. Inside a storage cabinet, behind Gig’s collection of vintage lunchboxes, was a tote bag that held clothes and copies of her ID and insurance information. There was a spare key to the Mercedes SUV and an inexpensive prepaid cell phone that Chase had bought.
The hospital was just a few miles away. She’d check herself in and would refuse to be moved until the baby was born. She would pitch a fit if anyone tried to get her to come home. She’d banked on Gig not wanting a scandal like that showing up in the tabloids.
A contraction hit right when she pulled open the gym door. She clutched the doorframe, pressing her head against it. The pains were coming more closely together.
In the barricaded birthing room, Dr. Janus had an idea. He slipped a wooden tongue depressor into the door to hold open the latch. Gig and Paula hoisted an easy chair onto its side and used it to batter the door. The bamboo stalk splintered. Bursting through the door, the three of them ran into the corridor, not finding Sinclair and having no idea where she’d gone.
Wiry Gig sprinted ahead. Paula ran up the stairway while the rotund Dr. Janus jogged after Gig, his medical bag swinging from its handles in his hand.
The doctor heard Gig let out a wail. Janus moved as fast as he could, gasping for breath, as he was woefully out of shape. When he got to the gym door, his heart leaped into his throat at the sight of Gig kneeling over Sinclair, who was stretched out on the rubberized floor.
Gig turned at the sound of the door opening, moving out of the way to reveal a perfectly formed baby lying on top of Sinclair’s bell
y and her soiled white gown.
Sinclair turned her head toward the doctor, a blissful look in her eyes, a familiar expression he’d seen on the face of every mother he’d assisted when she’d first laid her eyes upon her newborn.
Gig had tears in his eyes. “She’s beautiful.”
Sinclair was cradling the baby atop her stomach. “She’s sleeping.” The baby was very still. The umbilical cord was still attached. “Sweet little thing’s tuckered out. You should have heard her crying before.”
Dr. Janus came closer and Gig moved out of the way, avoiding the fluids and by-products of the birth. He set his bag on the ground and took out a hypodermic needle.
Sinclair rubbed her hand against the baby’s slimy hair. “She’s sucking on her fingers. Are you hungry, baby?”
Dr. Janus took the cap off the needle. “Hold her,” he ordered Gig when Sinclair tried to get away. He jabbed the needle into Sinclair’s arm.
“I have to feed my baby.”
Gig braced her on the other side. “Honey, the baby’s not breathing.”
“Of course she’s breathing.” The tranquilizer started to take effect right away. Everything turned hazy. Sinclair felt them taking the baby from her. She tried to get up but felt as if velvet ropes had lashed her to the floor. “Give me my baby.”
Through the fog, she heard the baby crying.
“Hear that? She’s fine. My baby’s fine. Give her to me!”
“Honey, the baby’s not fine.”
She felt Gig again stroking her hair. She wanted to break his fingers. She tried to grab them but could barely raise her hand. Looking around, she didn’t see the baby or Dr. Janus. Still, she heard the baby crying and crying, the sound growing fainter.
“She is too fine. My baby is fine!” Sinclair could fight it no longer. She slipped into blackness.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Alex Caspers pulled up in front of the house that John Chase and Kevin Ramirez had shared. Their poker game last night seemed as if it was a lifetime ago.
Ramirez opened the front door before Caspers knocked. He was dressed in sweatpants and a torn T-shirt printed with the logo from a local gym. He held an open bottle of Dos Equis by his side between his fingers and a frosted unopened bottle in his other hand. Without a word, he raised the unopened bottle of beer toward Caspers.
He took it, twisting off the cap as he followed Ramirez inside. He took a long swig, the cap still in his hand. When he saw that the house, which had never been pristine to begin with, had been tossed, he chucked the bottle cap into a pile of books, magazines, and DVDs that had been yanked from bookshelves and strewn across the floor.
“They had drug-sniffing dogs through here.” Ramirez swung his hand, still holding the bottle, indicating the mess. “Fucking Glendale P.D.”
He walked into the kitchen, kicking a path through the mess on the floor. The kitchen was worse than the living room, with everything thrown from the cabinets combined with the remnants from the poker night that hadn’t been cleaned up.
“Chase was a cop, just like them. Show some respect.” Ramirez kicked an empty cardboard cylinder. There were paw prints in the oatmeal strewn across the floor. “Look at what those jackasses did. This was spiteful. I’m filing a complaint.” He finished his beer and set the bottle on the counter.
“You should,” Caspers said. “I just finished spending a few hours with a couple of their detectives. They were assholes.”
Ramirez found an unbroken bottle of beer on the floor. He used the end of his T-shirt to clean it off and opened it.
“I’m going to check out John’s bedroom, okay?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Caspers picked his way through the living room and down the small hallway. In the middle was the bathroom the two guys shared. At the end of the hall was Chase’s bedroom. The Glendale cops had dragged his clothing and sports equipment from the drawers and closet. An empty leather shoulder holster hung from a hook on the back of the door of the small closet. The shotgun that Caspers knew Chase kept in a corner of the closet was gone.
Caspers frowned at the beige fiberfill comforter on the bed. It was covered with muddy paw prints from the drug-sniffing dogs.
The bathroom had an old-fashioned pedestal sink with a medicine cabinet above it. The mirrored door was open. Some items were still inside the cabinet, but most had been scooped out into the sink and onto the floor. It was the usual stuff: shaving cream, deodorant, mouthwash, toothpaste, aspirin, Alka-Seltzer, Visine. There were also dozens of Berryhill-brand vitamins and nutritional supplements. The dog had been through here too; there were paw prints on the beat-up linoleum floor.
He went back to Chase’s room and grabbed a gym bag he’d seen there. He dumped everything out of it, returned to the bathroom, and started tossing the Berryhill products into it.
Ramirez stood outside the door, drinking his beer.
Caspers asked, “You don’t mind if I take this stuff?”
“Be my guest. John got ’em for free from Gig Towne. They have Berryhill herbal supplements for everything from keeping your hair from falling out to making your dick stay hard. Those bottles cost twenty-five or thirty bucks a pop. I was like, ‘Hey man, don’t they have any cigars or booze at that place?’” Ramirez huffed out a laugh that quickly faded.
Caspers wondered if Towne had spiked Chase’s supplements with something that had made him sick.
After Caspers had finished, he shook Ramirez’s hand. “See ya.”
THIRTY-NINE
Stefan Pavel tried to clear Georgia Berryhill’s way through a crowd of fans in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel following a sold-out event benefiting a free medical clinic in Venice, California. Walking on the other side of Georgia, Kingsley Getty moved her forward with a gentle hand on her back.
Georgia had been the luncheon keynote speaker and was interviewed onstage by the health commentator of a local evening newscast, an emaciated forty-something blonde who ran a rehab clinic popular with the Hollywood crowd. Her new book was out: Normalizing the New Normal.
Georgia signed copies of her own latest books, taking time to chat with every fan who wanted to speak with her or snap a photo. She treated each book buyer as if he or she was her dearest friend. The Berryhill contingent could have left by the back way, as the hotel’s celebrity guests usually did, but Georgia relished contact with her fans. The baby’s arrival would change everything, and she wanted to prolong the love she received from her public as long as she could. She slowly made her way toward the Lincoln Town Car waiting at the curb.
There was just one paparazzo in the crowd—a greasy-haired young man in jeans and tennis shoes, ready to dash to the next possible celebrity sighting. As famous as Georgia was, photos of her didn’t sell for much unless she was with a celebrity friend, like Sinclair LeFleur.
The opportunistic photographer’s digital camera also recorded videos. When Georgia passed nearby, he started recording, shouting, “Georgia! Any comment about Sinclair and Gig’s baby?”
Georgia turned toward him and said, “It’s so sad. My heart goes out to them.”
Getty veered close to the sketchy guy, waiting for an untoward question. He was soon rewarded.
“Tell us how the Berryhill Method killed Le Towne’s baby.”
Georgia’s hand flew to her mouth. Nearby fans in the crowd protested. Stefan put his hand over the camera lens, but the nimble photographer slipped from his grasp.
“Don’t rough me up, man.”
“You stop this, now,” Stefan said.
Getty grabbed his arm. “Let me handle it, Stefan.”
The intrepid photographer asked, “So Georgia, what really happened to Le Towne’s baby?”
“Okay, pal. That’s enough.” Getty placed his broad chest between the camera and Georgia. He spread his arms, avoiding touching the photographer, but moving in tandem with him so that he couldn’t get around.
Two hotel security guards entered the fray and escorted the loudly c
omplaining photographer out of the area.
As Georgia took her time signing a book, Stefan opened the car’s rear passenger door. He climbed inside, leaned out, and called to her, “Darling, we’re going to be late. That’s the last book you sign, please, my love.”
A young man who’d been loitering near the hotel entrance approached the car. When Getty saw him reach inside his overcoat, Getty’s hand darted inside his jacket. He relaxed when he saw that the young man had pulled out a rolled canvas, which he unfurled and held above his head. Painted on it in uneven block letters was BERRYHILL KILLED FALLON.
Getty left the guy alone. Tussling with him over the sign would only draw attention and suggest that the guy’s protest had validity. With video capabilities of cell phones, the scuffle would be recorded, uploaded onto YouTube, and immortalized.
While Getty was distracted by the protester, a Cadillac Escalade with darkened windows sped toward Georgia’s car from behind, causing a valet to jump out of the way and shout, “Watch it!”
Getty turned as the Escalade screeched to a stop just past Georgia’s car. The driver’s window began rolling down. Getty caught a glimpse of someone wearing big sunglasses and a watch cap. A blue kerchief hid the lower half of the driver’s face.
Getty reached inside his jacket, but the Escalade’s driver was already aiming a handgun.
Everything happened at once.
Shots rang out. A window of a car at the curb shattered. People screamed and scattered.
Georgia hunched over, clutching her belly. Getty shielded her body with his and shoved her into the Town Car. He rose, using the vehicle for cover, and aimed his gun at the fleeing Escalade. He didn’t fire, not able to get a clean shot through the hotel employees and guests who were running wildly.
He watched the Escalade speed off, swerving around cars and bouncing over a curb. It turned right and disappeared.
Getty slapped the Town Car and shouted, “Go!” to Georgia’s driver. After the car took off, an adventure-loving cabbie pulled out of the taxi line and screeched to a stop beside Getty. He opened the front passenger door and hopped in. The cabbie took off after the Escalade before Getty had closed the door.
