Film Strip (28 page)

I whirled around, heading for the door. It was starting to make sense. Snippets of Gordon approaching me, telling me he'd take care of me, telling me no one would ever take my place, ran through my head. “Don't you believe I can take care of you?” he'd asked. I remembered the disappointed look on his face when I'd turned him down and blown him off. But I was missing something. I didn't know why Gordon felt the need to take such “good” care of me.

“Do you want me to call the cops?” Vincent called after us.

I stopped at the door and looked back at him. “No, Vincent. Do not call the cops. If Marla's still alive and Gordon hears sirens, he might kill her. No, let us take care of it. Wait thirty minutes and then call the cops.”

Vincent nodded and began pulling off his apron strings. “You hear that?” he said to the poor frightened bar back. “You wanted to be a bartender? Here's your shot. The guys will help you out. The substitute's due in at six-thirty. Call the cops at six. Ask to talk to a Detective Nailor.”

Nothing would've kept Vincent from Marla. I couldn't have stopped him if I'd tried. The eight of us stepped out into the late-afternoon sunlight.

“All right,” I said, “here's the plan. Gordon wants me, so I'm going in. We'll play the rest by ear.”

“Damn,” Raydean said and spat across the parking lot. “I knew I should've brought Marlena!” Fluffy growled low in her throat.

“I don't like the ‘by ear' part,” Francis said.

“We'll talk about the rest of it in the car,” I said. “We've gotta move.”

I didn't give anyone a chance to argue with me. I was not about to make a decision by committee. Someone told me once that if you act like you're in charge, then others will follow you. It seemed to be working, because when I started the engine and pulled out onto Front Beach Road, the others were right behind me.

“I don't like this,” Francis said. He pulled Bruce out of the tape player and sat frowning at me.

“Yeah, he hasn't been as good since the late eighties.”

“Not Springsteen, Sierra. You know what I mean.”

I was driving fast, letting my unconscious hone itself in on the battle. I didn't need to do too much thinking on the surface, better my inner child should get ready for this fight.

“Look, we got seven people on backup,” I said. “I'm going to get inside Gordon's house, get him indecently occupied, and let you guys come in the best way you can. If Marla's still alive, you take her out. If she's not, kill Gordon.”

I meant what I said. I wasn't going to entertain the idea of saving him for the police. If he'd killed Marla, I wanted him dead. Not politically correct for a liberal like myself, but nonetheless true.

We turned off Front Beach Road and began the countdown to Ponce. Vincent, squeezed like an overly ripe tomato into my backseat, leaned forward. “There it is, up there. That's his street. It's about six houses in.”

I pulled over onto the sandy roadside and got out of the car. “Vincent, you and Francis get in with Packy. I need to drive in alone.” Francis wanted to object but knew it was the best way to tackle the situation. I walked back to Packy's car and ran down the directions. “Francis is in charge, Packy, so don't go getting any smart ideas about hotdogging it.”

“Me?” Packy squeaked. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

I looked at Vincent. “Don't go trying to be a hero,” I said. “This is a situation best handled with finesse, not bravado, okay?” He nodded, not like I had to worry about him suddenly becoming a macho man, but you never knew. Love does funny things to people.

“When I want you to approach,” I said, turning to the assembled others, “I'll somehow get to that window on the side of the house and flick the curtains back and forth. If I'm in trouble, I'll just jerk them open.”

“And what if you're in trouble and you can't reach the window?” Pat asked quietly.

“If I'm gone more than ten minutes, and you don't get a signal, one of you call nine-one-one and the rest of you come get me. Except for you, Raydean. I want you and Pat to watch Fluffy.”

Raydean nodded. “You never know what them aliens will chow down on. He's already come after her once.”

“Right,” I said. I looked at Francis. “So let's go kick some ass, right?”

He stood looking at me, concern written all over his face. He didn't want me to go and he knew I had to. It was the only way to save Marla, if it wasn't already too late.

I walked the few feet back to my car, hopped in, and pushed the Bruce Springsteen tape back into the cassette player. “Summer's here and the time is right…” he sang. “Damn straight, Bruce,” I said, and turned onto Gordon's street.

The little white house stood in the middle of a lot overgrown with sparse grass and weeds. Pieces of bleached gray wood lay around the yard, some with rusted nails poking out, others splintered and tossed aside. No one had cared for the structure in a very long time.

I parked the car right out front and carefully followed the rutted pathway to the front door. A battered black Escort stood by the side door. I figured Gordon was home, but there was no sign of life from the tiny cottage.

When I reached the front stoop, I stopped and banged on the front door, the sound echoing off inside the tiny house.

“Gordon!” I yelled. “It's me, Sierra. Open up! I need your help!”

For a minute there was no sound whatsoever. I surveyed the houses that lined either side, pinched together like irritable siblings, and saw few with cars in the driveways. It wasn't a tourist neighborhood. The people who lived here worked, probably blue-collar or service jobs.

I heard something rustle off to the side of the house. I looked back down the street toward Ponce, where my teammates waited out of sight, and then took off around the side of the building.

“Sierra.” A husky whisper seemed to emanate from the battered Escort. “Over here.”

My heart rose up in my throat and I stepped closer to the car. Weeds scratched at my legs as I slowly stepped closer to the rusting vehicle. Gordon was crouched down on the far side of the car.

“Gordon, what're you doing there?” I said, my voice a shade louder than normal.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Come with me. Everything's going to be all right.”

I reached his side and crouched down beside him, hoping to soothe him by going along with him.

“What are we hiding from?” I whispered.

Gordon's hair stood up in wiry tufts. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, ripped and bloodstained, but he didn't seem to notice. Instead he peered out from behind the car, darting his head back below the car's fender.

“All right,” he whispered. “Follow me. Keep your head down and run low.”

I assumed he was taking me inside, but instead ran in a straight line toward the house next door. I hesitated, then followed him. I had to follow him. He was our only link to Marla. Unfortunately, my backup would now be useless.

Gordon ran up onto the screened-in side porch of the tiny bungalow and quickly opened the door into the house. I let the porch door slam behind me, but its echo sounded like a small, hollow slap. No one a block away would've heard that sound.

Gordon locked the door behind us and turned to face me. His demeanor had changed with the closing of the door, from wild man to genial host.

“I'm so glad you came,” he said. “What's wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing's wrong.” But my voice cracked, breaking into a high-pitched squeak.

Gordon stared at me. “You were knocking on the door and saying you needed my help. Something must be wrong.”

I looked around the tiny cottage, staring past him into the living room. It was furnished with a shabby-looking plaid couch and a matching recliner. The coffee table was a thick, rustic wooden piece. Sitting on top of the table was a small vase full of yellow roses.

“Well, yes, actually something is very wrong. Marla's missing and no one seems to know where she is. I guess I just didn't know who else I could turn to.”

Gordon seemed to relax even further. “Oh,” he said, “is that all?” He moved toward the tiny galley kitchen that stood beside the living area. “Let me get you something to drink,” he said. “You want some tea?”

Tea? Now? I bit my tongue. “Sure.”

I wandered closer to the flowers, my shoes sounding like echoing slaps as I walked across the scuffed wooden floor. Gordon reappeared with the tea and set the glasses down on the coffee table, right next to the flowers.

“You like roses, I hope,” he whispered. “They're the only flower as regal in their bearing as you.”

He sat down on the sofa, pulling me beside him. I looked into his eyes and saw the madness stare back out at me. I don't know what he saw when he looked at me, or how long it would take before he realized I knew.

Gordon stuck out a hand and brushed a curl back behind my ear. “You are so lovely,” he said softly. “No one can hold a candle to you.”

I tried to think of something to say. I willed my mouth to open, but nothing came out. I felt frozen.
No one can hold a candle to you.

“Didn't you get the messages I sent you, the ones with the flowers? I told you not to worry. I told you I'd take care of you. I want to take you away, Sierra,” Gordon said.

“I can't,” I said. It sounded desperate, but I covered it. “I have a job, Gordon.” I smiled like I meant no offense, but he just stared, regarding me solemnly.

“They don't appreciate you. They keep trying to replace you. I can't keep them away forever. They'll keep coming and coming, trying to knock you down off the throne. And the men, Sierra, their hands are dirty. They all want to get you, Sierra. I only want to protect you.” He looked sad, staring at his shoes for a moment. “I couldn't help Lori, so I have to help you.”

“Who's Lori?”

Gordon's attention shifted back to me. “My sister.”

I made myself stretch out a hand and touch his knee. “The sister with the flowers?” I asked.

Gordon nodded. “She worked with them, up in Atlanta. She wanted to be an actress. My parents and me, we thought she was making it. Lori told us she was dancing and acting and selling her flowers.”

Gordon looked over at me, anguish etching its way across his features. “You look so much like her, Sierra. That's why I started working at the Tiffany. I came here to get away, just like we used to when I was a kid. And then I'm driving down the main strip, and I looked up and saw your picture up there on that billboard by Sharkey's. That's when I knew what God wanted. Don't you see? It's my second chance.”

I felt sick. Gordon was talking, all the while patting my knee like an uncle.

“I got here just in time, didn't I? Gambuzzo invited those evil Syndicate people right into your club, Sierra. It would have been only a matter of time before they put you in the movies. They control everything in Georgia and North Florida. You would've had to work for them.”

“Gordon, I wasn't in any danger. No one was going to hurt me.”

“They said they'd protect Lori, but they didn't, did they?” Gordon smiled softly. “Those girls would've seen your beauty. The other dancers didn't like Lori because she was beautiful. Barboni didn't protect her. Nobody did. They got her high, they made her work for drugs, and then they let some pervert kill her.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “But now I have you. I'm your guardian angel, Sierra.”

I couldn't help it. “If you're my guardian angel, then why did you try and hurt Fluffy? For that matter, why'd you blow up Detective Nailor's car?”

Gordon's eyes clouded. He looked as if I'd physically hit him. “I wouldn't have hurt your dog. I just wanted to scare you a little. Make you more careful … keep you from getting hurt.” He scowled. “And that cop ain't your friend. All he wants is to own you. Besides, if he's such a good cop, then why can't he catch me?” Gordon's features relaxed into a smile of satisfaction.

I stood up. “Where's your bathroom, Gordon?” I was going out the window. Maybe. First I was going to see if Marla was in the house.

It took him a moment to process my request, then he stood and took me by the hand. “Use this one,” he said, and led me to a tiny bathroom in the hallway. There was no window. No way out. Gordon stood there as I started to close the door, obviously intent on guarding me.

“Gordon,” I said, “I'm starving do you have anything to eat?”

He smiled. I wasn't going anywhere. “Sure,” he said. “I'll make you a sandwich.”

I closed the door and leaned back against it. He loved me, enough to kill for me, enough to protect me from any perceived threat. I knew without a doubt, he'd never let me leave, not willingly. I crossed to the toilet and flushed it, then pulled open the medicine cabinet. It was crammed with tiny bottles, all of them partially full of pills and capsules. Zyprexa, Prozac, Trazodone, Wellbutrin, Remeron, Clozaril. The same medications I'd seen on Raydean's countertops before the docs realized she wasn't taking them. I read the dates on the bottles and realized that Gordon hadn't taken his medication in quite some time.

“Sierra?” Gordon's voice echoed down the hallway.

“Coming,” I answered. “I'm washing my hands. Hey, do you have any pickles to go with that sandwich?”

“I'll go look,” he called. He sounded so normal.

I slid my hand into my bra, removed my Spiderco knife, and slipped it into the palm of my hand. Then I carefully opened the door and slipped across the hallway to Gordon's bedroom. It was a shamble of disorganization. Clothes lay in wrinkled heaps on the floor, sprawled across chairs, piled up with the quilts on his filthy bed. The room smelled faintly of blood and decay.

I tiptoed across the room to the closet and began to turn the doorknob. It wouldn't budge. It was locked. I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to find her and get her out of the house before the cops came screaming down the street and all hell broke loose.