Smoke and Mirrors (20 page)

“Yeah, doesn't take much to go into syndication around here.”

“Still not laughing.” Although he sounded close.

“Me either.” It felt so strangely right, standing there, together, staring down at the first casualty, making the kind of bad jokes that guys made when things got dangerously whacked, that Tony began to get just a little freaked. Fortunately, he had an easy out. “Brenda's waiting for you.”

 

 

Brenda was standing by the door, doing a Lady Macbeth with her hands. Next to her stood Saleen who had the only candle still in the drawing room and was clearly waiting for the three stragglers to leave. Just as clearly as Brenda was waiting for Lee.

Lee said nothing for a long moment although Tony had the feeling things were being said just beyond the range of his hearing. Like Lee was talking at a level only dogs could hear. Or something. Then he snorted, sounding almost amused, and crossed to tuck Brenda up against his side. While she didn't exactly relax, the time frame extended on her obvious air of “I'm five minutes from a total breakdown.”

“Move your ass,” Saleen snarled at Tony standing alone by the corpse.

Was it his imagination or had Karl's crying picked up a mocking undertone?

With half a dozen candles burning and light reflecting off the polished floor and the high gloss on the wood paneling, the hall was almost welcoming—where almost referred to it as good as it got while trapped inside a homicidal house.

Tina stood by the inside door, shining her flashlight beam down into the entry. “Everett's still breathing, but he doesn't look good.”

“He's never looked that good to me,” Mason muttered. “Oh, come off it,” he continued over half a dozen protests. “It was the perfect straight line; everyone was thinking it.”

Most of the men, and Amy, nodded.

“I don't like that he's been in there so long.” Tina brought her left wrist up closer to her face and frowned. “Damn, my watch isn't working. What time is it?”

No one's watch was working—although the hands and numbers on Amy's were still glowing in the dark.

“What difference does that make if it's not telling time?” Adam asked her.

She shrugged. “It's comforting.”

“So what do we do now, eh?” Hartley asked, shifting his weight from heel to toe, arms wrapped around his torso.

“We survive until morning,” Peter announced in the same no-nonsense tone he'd use to call for quiet on the set. “All of us.”

“All the rest of us,” someone said. Tony thought it might have been Pavin, the sound tech, but he wasn't sure.

“Yeah, and we stop listening to
him!
” That was definitely Kate. Arms folded in the more aggressive version of Hartley's position, she glared at Tony. “If it wasn't for his stupid idea of throwing stuff through those windows, Tom would still be alive!”

A little stunned by the accusation, it took Tony a moment to find the words. “I never said he should throw himself through!”

“Your idea to go into that room, so you put him in there. Your idea to throw stuff, so you planted the seed in a desperate man.”

“Seed? What seed? And he didn't seem desperate to me.”

“You're not denying it, then!”

“What?” Oh, crap. He hadn't. He hadn't thought he needed to, but from all the creased brows and narrowed eyes, it looked like Kate wasn't the only one who thought he was responsible for Tom's death.
Some of us will go crazy and kill the rest. Great. And guess which list I'm on.
As Kate stepped forward, he took an involuntary step back.
So I'm thinking it's too late for us to become friends.
As Mouse joined her, he stepped back again. And once more for luck.

“Leave him be, Kate.”

Mouse was on his side?

“Can't blame Tony for Tom's death. Might as well blame Lee for going into the room first.”

The narrowed eyes and creased brows fixed on Lee.

“Or Ashley for throwing the dish.”

Creases began smoothing out. No one in the crew could blame a little girl. Or more specifically, they'd learned there was no percentage in blaming CB's daughter—even for things she was guilty of.

“Or me for throwing the chair.”

And that killed the accusation cold. Tony was relieved to see that no one was suicidal enough yet to throw accusations at a man capable of bench-pressing a Buick.

In the awkward silence that followed, Tina picked up Everett's makeup case and carried it over to where Brenda and Lee were standing. “Brenda, why don't we get the girls' makeup off?”

“I'm wardrobe.”

“So you're saying you can't do it?”

“No, I just . . . I mean . . . Fine.” She pulled away from Lee so reluctantly Tony almost heard duct tape releasing. “Brianna, you're messier, so you should . . . Brianna?”

“Cheese!” Ashley reached past Zev and grabbed her sister's shoulder, shaking animation back into her face.

Zev gently but firmly separated them and then knelt. “What is it, Bri?”

“The baby's stopped crying.”

“But that's good, right?”

She frowned. “I don't think so.”

Neither did Tony. Previously, when Karl stopped crying, it signaled the beginning of a flashback. Cassie and Stephen, Karl's own death . . .

The lights in the hall came on. There was furniture—a couple of high-back chairs, a half-moon table with a vase of white tulips, an Oriental rug.

And Tony was alone.

Except for whoever was screaming, “Charles, don't!” up on the second floor.

The second floor still seemed to be in darkness, so whatever was going to happen was going to happen out here.

And there they were.

Ladies and gentlemen, if I could direct your attention to the top of the stairs.
Charles was wearing a uniform. The woman with him wore a gray suit—snug, tailored, and obviously expensive. Tony didn't know much about women's fashions, but it looked like the one Madonna wore in
Evita
. Charles had his hands wrapped around her upper arms and was moving her slowly backward. She was crying, begging him to stop, but he almost seemed not to hear her, his face terrifyingly blank.

Crap. He's going to throw her down the stairs.
Knowing it was futile, Tony ran for the stairs anyway.

But they descended two, three, four steps down the long staircase and still no push.

Charles stepped down so they were both standing on the fifth step. “You want to hang around with your
friends
while I'm gone,” he said quietly, emphasis making the gender of the friends clear, “you go right ahead.” Then he lifted her and slammed her onto one half of the rack of antlers hanging on the wall. Fabric tore and the longest prong emerged out through the front of the gray suit.

“Okay, I'll believe that madness gave him strength,” Tony protested, to the house, to the ghosts, to keep from screaming, “but there's no way those antlers would stay on the wall with a full-grown woman—even a short one—hanging off them!”

Which was when the antlers came off the wall and bounced down the stairs, the gurgling, thrashing woman still attached. Tony glanced down as Charles did to see that she'd come to a twitching stop halfway through his legs.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” He danced back.

Stopped dancing in time to see the big finish to Charles' dive over the banister. Heads really did sound like melons splitting. The Foley guys would be pleased.

The lights went out. Became candlelight again.

And he was no longer alone.

“Stop staring at me,” he muttered trying to catch his breath.

“They think you've gone crazy.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He jumped back as Stephen and Cassie appeared suddenly in front of him.

“And that's not helping,” Stephen pointed out.

“Thanks. No shit. Where the hell have you two been?”

“It took us a while to manifest again after we died and then we're stuck in the bathroom while the others take their turn.”

The siblings were just translucent enough for Tony to see that no one had, in fact, stopped staring.

Lunatic.

Or victim.

Now, he might be reading too much into expressions he could barely see—given the ghosts and the candlelight and all—but it seemed as though everyone had changed their mind about which description best suited him.

“You're reacting to things that only you can see, and you're talking to nobody.”

“I'm reacting to old murders being replayed, and I'm talking to Stephen and Cassie.” Tony jerked his head toward the brother and sister. Stephen was watching the exchange with some interest, but Cassie's gaze flicked all around the hall—her single eye working overtime to cover the whole area while both her hands clutched at the translucent fabric of her skirt. Given that she'd been brutally murdered years before and had apparently relived the incident numerous times since, he wondered just what remained for her to be uneasy about. “What's the matter?”

“She's listening for the music,” Stephen answered when his sister didn't. “The ballroom creeps her out.”

“You're talking to ghosts,” Zev sighed.

“Yeah.”

“And that doesn't sound crazy to you?”

“Zev . . .”

“I'm not saying it's not all true—my personal beliefs to the contrary, weird shit is definitely happening here tonight—but you have to admit it sounds crazy.”

“He's right.”

“Shut up, Stephen!” Tony turned to glare at the ghost as Zev's reassuring smile tightened.

“Case in point.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't exactly been ostracized since his reaction to the last reenactment, but everyone seemed uncomfortable having him too close, forcing him out toward the edges of the light.

“In situations like this . . .”

And that was certainly using the phrase “like this” in its loosest sense.

“. . . people look for someone to blame. You're setting yourself up to be that someone.” Zev closed his hand around Tony's arm and squeezed gently. “You know you are.”

“Yeah, and I also know I can't not tell you guys what's going on. In a situation
like this
. . .” Okay, maybe Zev was trying to help and maybe the sarcastic emphasis wasn't entirely called for. So what. “. . . I can't be the one who decides what's important information and what's not. Not when nineteen . . . eighteen lives are at stake.”

“Seventeen.”

“Everett's still alive.” Suddenly unsure, he glanced over at Cassie who nodded. “Yeah, still alive. Eighteen.”

“I'm not disagreeing with you, Tony, I'm just . . .” He paused and sighed again, his grip on Tony's arm tightening. “I'm just saying you should be careful. Emotions are fraying.”

“He's right.”

“Cassie agrees with you.”

Zev nodded at the space to Tony's right. “Thank you.” Tony pointed left. “She's over there.”

“Stop it! Stop it now!” Brianna's protest rose up and over and temporarily obliterated Karl's crying. As Tony turned, he noticed everyone's attention locking on CB's younger daughter, grateful for the distraction. “You're pulling!”

“Fine.” Brenda stepped back, lip curling. “Then we'll just leave your hair like it is.”

“No! I want it braided!”

“Then you have to hold still.”

“I won't! Not for you! You suck!”

“No . . .” The pause went on just long enough that everyone leaned forward slightly, waiting for Brenda's response. “. . . you suck!”

Brianna's chin lifted and her eyes narrowed. “No, you! And I'm telling my father you didn't take care of me!”

“Don't tempt me!” The wardrobe supervisor held up her right hand, finger and thumb barely apart. “I'm this close to taking care of you!”

Zev released Tony's arm. “I think I'd better get over there before Brianna gets strangled.”

“Don't hurry.”

“Give the kid a break, she's just scared and acting out.”

“I guess.” Although it didn't look like any definition of scared Tony'd ever seen. Not unless she'd been scared eighty percent of the time she'd ever been at the studio. “I never knew you were so good with kids.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He turned back just far enough for Tony to see a dark brow rise. “. . . we weren't together long enough for you to find out.”

“Zing and ouch!” Amy stepped into the space Zev had vacated and they watched him cross to Brianna's side, taking the blue plastic comb from Brenda's hand as he passed. “This is why you should never date someone from work.”

No surprise that she conveniently ignored having encouraged them both. “Should you be standing here? Aren't you afraid I'll finish going crazy and kill you?”

“Because you're seeing ectoplasmic manifestations?” She snorted. “Man, I'd love to see a ghost. What do they look like?”

“I don't know . . .” He shrugged and took another look. “. . . dead. Cassie's missing a chunk of her head, and Stephen's neck has been hacked into. Their clothes are covered in blood and . . .”

“And what?”

“Nothing.” He'd just realized that Stephen wasn't wearing pants under the bloodstained shirt—with all the blood and them being ax murdered and, well, dead, he'd never noticed it before. They were both watching him when he lifted his eyes off Stephen's bare legs. “Hey.” He spread his hands. “None of my business.”