Infamous (36 page)

A.J. went back to the tent to lie down, although the heat of the day had to have made it unbearable in there.

He made me promise I’d wake him if I located Mel’s old diaries, and he stripped down to his shorts, turned on that battery-powered fan that he’d bought at the Circle K, and lay back in his bunk with one arm up and over his eyes.

I used to lie just like that after Mel got diagnosed. I didn’t want her to see my tears or know how truly frightened I was by my helplessness.

“Don’t quit,” I told him.

“Too late,” he said.

“Now, A.J.,” I started, but he cut me off.

“Just find the fucking diaries,” he said, “so we can get the fuck out of here. I want to go home.”

I knew when the
fuck
and the
fucking
started flying that
there was no real point in conversing with the kid. Still, I had to say, “You won’t feel any better there.”

He pulled his arm off his eyes and looked at me. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

“Encouragement,” I said, “would be me saying
Don’t quit. Don’t give up
. Everything Alison said, everything she’s feeling right now? That’s knee-jerk. She’s a smart girl. She’ll come ’round. She knows that you two fit.”

“But she’ll always wonder,” A.J. said. “She’ll always worry.”

“She’ll just have to take it one day at a time, too,” I pointed out. “Come on, kid. She needs to be told that you don’t have to start drinking again for her to lose you. You could get hit by a bus. Or get cancer.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not,” I said.

He was silent.

“Just think about it. Your mom lost your dad because there were no guarantees—just like you said to Alison. There’s never a guarantee. And on the flip side of the coin is Bev and Charlie. Maybe after we find those diaries, we could get Bev to bring ’em down here. Introduce her to Alison.”

A.J. still didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to see if I can’t locate them,” I told him. “Mel’s diaries. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” he finally said.

“Don’t quit,” I told him. “Love you, kid.”

“I love you, too, Gramps,” he said, which warmed my heart as I closed my eyes and focused on Mel’s diaries—somewhere in Heaven, Alaska—and popped away.

Not Alaska.

That was the first thing I recognized as I staggered a bit, trying to get my bearings.

Wherever I was, it was
definitely
not Alaska. The sun was scorchingly high in a sky that was so pale blue it was almost white. The little rolling hills, the cactus and scrub … I was in the desert.

And then I heard a sound from behind me—someone
grunting as they lifted something heavy, and I turned to see a man taking some kind of contraption out from under the front passenger seat of Hugh Darcy’s Jeep.

That was definitely Hugh’s Jeep, nose pointed down in that ditch at the side of that same road where we’d found him, just a few hours earlier.

Whoever this man was, he had his own truck—a big one, like A.J.’s.—and he put the contraption that he’d taken from the Jeep into a container in the back of it.

I tried to get a look at the thing before he locked it up, to figure out what it was. And maybe you would’ve known what it was right away, but because I’m technologically challenged, having died in 1977, I was at a disadvantage. Yes, sure, I’ve kept up with quite a bit, and of course I did an additional burst of contemporary studies while I was waiting to return, but this device was beyond my knowledge or experience.

All I could see was some kind of electronics brand name, TechWhiz, and a number, 7842.

7842, I repeated to myself as I turned my attention to the man himself.

Medium height—a little bit shorter than me. Brown hair, worn commando short. Mirrored sunglasses on a relatively nondescript face.

I leaned in closer, looking for a distinguishing mark. A scar or a tattoo or …

I got nothing.

7842.

The man had a face. It wasn’t particularly handsome, but it wasn’t anything to run screaming from, either.

His most distinguishing features were eyebrows that were bushier than most, and a small bald spot, about the size of a half dollar, right at the top of his head. Fool wasn’t wearing a hat, and in this hot sun he was going to get a burn.

As I watched, he humped several containers of Gatorade out of the back of the Jeep and into his truck. He replaced them with other bottles of the juice or whatever it was in the same unnatural colors—bright blue and neon green—that he took from the front seat of his cab.

He opened one of them, and poured about half of it out on some poor unsuspecting cactus, before putting it on the Jeep’s front seat.

Which was when I realized that he was wearing gloves.

In this heat.

7842. TechWhiz. Whatever that device was, it got me thinking about the way that Alison’s cell phone didn’t work after we’d found Hugh—not until we were some distance away from where we’d found him. And how we’d found him not that far from his Jeep.

I started thinking about the fact that no one had been able to reach Hugh the entire time he’d been missing—that their calls just went to voicemail. And I thought about the fact that he hadn’t used his cell phone—which had been in his jeans pocket—to call for help.

And I started thinking that maybe Hugh hadn’t accidentally consumed something that had gone bad, but rather that he’d taken a sip—or more—of Gatorade that had been poisoned in some way.

It wouldn’t have had to have been poisoned with something that could kill. Just something that would make a person upchuck. In this heat, sunstroke could kill a man
without
the added dehydration that came from puking one’s guts out. But add a little, oh, say, antifreeze to a bottle of disgusting sports drink …?

As I stood there watching, I started thinking that maybe I’d misheard the tall and ponytailed Killer-of-Wayne. Because here, now, was this stranger messing around with nearly-dead Hugh’s Jeep. It wasn’t a robbery. There were plenty of things in the back of that Jeep to steal. No, what I was seeing was manipulation of a crime scene. I’d watched enough episodes of
The Streets of San Francisco
to recognize that when I saw it.

Except … Hugh wasn’t a woman.

I tried to recall the conversations I’d overheard. And I could not remember Mr. Tall Ponytail ever saying anything about “the woman.” It was all
if we have to kill her
and then
kill her
.… Maybe he was one of those intolerant
types who thought it was funny to call a gay man
she
and
her
.

Except, wait a minute. I’d overheard Alison saying that Hugh was originally supposed to make this trip with
her
, and then, when her plans changed, with some other woman named Sandra Something.

So maybe the real target was Alison or Sandra, and Hugh was merely collateral damage, which was a very disturbing thought, on a variety of levels.

As I was standing there, pondering all that, this man with his half-dollar bald spot and caterpillar eyebrows got into his truck and pulled away. I hurried after him, quickly slipping into the front seat beside him.

He’d pulled off the gloves and was driving with one hand on the wheel, his other hand dialing a cell phone, which he put up to his nondescript ear.

Whoever answered obviously knew who was calling, because there was no identification made. No,
Hi, Loco, this is Gene
. No doubt about it, I now officially hated caller ID.

He spoke, my nameless new friend with that bald spot, in a husky voice with plenty of southern drawl. “Swing and a miss,” he told whoever was on the other end of that call. And then he said, “Uh-huh.” And, “Nope,” with a heavy pop on that P. “I’m not ready for that quite yet. Gimme one more go. In fact, I’ve already got a backup in place,” he said, then paused again. And another “Uh-huh.” And then a final “Yes, suh,” before he hung up his phone.

By then, my new friend—let’s call him Gene, just on a whim—he’d reached the end of that little dirt road, and he turned, heading north.

Toward Jubilation.

I settled in for the ride, ready, this time, to stick with Gene like white on rice, until I got me some answers and made damn sure that no one else got hurt—be it brokenhearted Hugh, A.J.’s Alison, or Sandra, whom I’d never met, but who was surely somebody’s beloved wife, daughter, and/or mother.

*  *  *

“I’m sorry, sir,” Alison said, hurrying after Henry Logan. “I must’ve misunderstood you.”

The director stopped in the middle of the street, radiating impatience. “What’s not to understand? Just a few days ago you were talking about taking some research trip to Alaska after the shoot is done. Today, I’m telling you that filming is on hold for the next four days—at least. So take my plane and go. I’ve already called Julio and given him the flight plan. Talk to Debbie in the production office, she’ll have all the information. Pack your things and hit the road.”

“Trace Marcus is … 
where
, exactly?” she asked.

“He’s in the hospital,” he said. “Back in L.A. Appendicitis. Or so he claims.”

Alison shook her head. “That’s how Quinn died.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Coincidence much? Marcus is such an asshole, I’m actually going to call my lawyer, have her request a note from the surgeon.”

Alison laughed, surprised. “If you think Trace is lying about having major surgery … Why did you cast him?”

“I didn’t. He came with the project,” Henry told her, heading for the catering tent at his usual brisk pace. She had to trot beside him to keep up. “He was part of the deal that got us permission to film here in Jubilation. Neil Sylvester was involved in some way—I don’t know how. Maybe he’s a fan. I just thought … Making this movie right here, where it all happened …? It was too good to pass up.”

“That’s why I’m here, too,” Alison said.

“No,” Henry said. “You’re here because Hughie gave me a copy of your book and I read it and I said,
She’s my consultant, do whatever it takes to get her on my set.”
He lowered his voice. “You sold yourself cheap there, Carter. I would have paid twice as much.”

“May I have a raise?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said, “but you can use my private jet to fly to Alaska and find out if this Gallagher guy is for real. Hughie told me all about it a few days ago—that he says Jamie helped Melody escape from Quinn, who used to beat the hell out of her. I love it—plus it’s the perfect sequel. And you
know
they’re going to want a sequel, even though, hello? Historical biopic? A sequel isn’t possible. Except now it is. We’ll turn the legend upside down in
Quinn Part Two: The Legend Revisited
. When you get back, you can write up a treatment—and
then
I’ll give you a raise. A big one. Do you know how much money we can save the production company if we move from one film right into the other with the same cast and crew? Even Marcus—the asshole. I’ll have to bring someone else on board to contain him. His assistant’s just not getting it done. But regardless of that bullshit, the writers need to start working on the script immediately.”

“
Hugh
told you about …?” Alison asked, bemused. “Do you regularly listen to your bottom tier production assistants?”

“Only when they’re my nephew,” he said, stopping outside the tent.

“Hugh Darcy’s your
nephew,”
she repeated.

“Thank you, by the way, for saving his life.” Henry kissed her on the forehead. “Now, go to Alaska and make us both rich.”

He turned and went inside, raising his voice. “I need a breakfast to go. I’m heading out to the hospital to see Hugh.”

“Um, sir,” Alison called after him. “The timing’s a little inconvenient.”

“I don’t care,” he said, without stopping or even looking back. “Go to Alaska. But be back in four days, Carter. Tick tock, people.”

“I don’t mind driving,” A.J. said.

“And I don’t mind either,” Alison told him from behind the wheel of the Jeep, her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses.

“I’d actually prefer taking my truck,” he said.

“Sorry,” Alison said, coolly. “We’re doing Debbie a favor and returning this thing to the rental car company at the airport. Two birds with one stone. So just get in if you’re getting in, and let’s go.”

A.J. put his duffel in the back, on the floor, and climbed in, pushing the seat back as far as it went and then reclining it a bit so his legs would fit.

Alison was already driving as he fastened his seat belt, bouncing over the potholes in the motel parking lot, where he’d left his truck.

“This was not my idea,” she said—again. She’d told him that earlier, too, when she’d come out to his campground and told him Henry Logan was sending her to Alaska. To Heaven, to be precise.

Instead of taking her research trip at the end of the movie shoot, she was going now. Because they all had several days of downtime while Trace Marcus was in the hospital, and as the production team scrambled to reschedule the next week’s scenes.

Unfortunately the next few days had been set to be all Trace, all the time, and the actor playing Jamie was in New
York doing a guest spot on a TV show. The earliest he could return was next Tuesday.

“I understand,” A.J. said. “By the way, Jamie had no luck tracking down Melody’s diaries. He popped in, a few hours ago, to let me know that.”

Jamie had also been adamant about A.J. staying close to Alison. He didn’t go into detail—he was in a hurry to get back to whatever he’d been doing. But A.J. had promised to keep an eye on her.

Which was definitely much easier to do when they were in both a car and then a plane together.

“I left a message for my mother,” he continued telling Alison, “to see if maybe it would help if she described them to Jamie. The diaries. He’s not really sure what they look like.”

“You don’t have to talk,” she said, as she took the turnoff that led to the road down the mountain. “Sorry. That came out sounding extra-hostile, didn’t it? What I
meant
was we both know that this is incredibly awkward. It’s going to be a really long trip, and when it’s finally over, when we arrive in Alaska, it’s going to be even
more
awkward, because, great, I’m going to have to meet your mother and your sister and all forty bazillion of your cousins, and I’m a little freaked out by that, if you want to know the truth.”