Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (9 page)

     He went back to the mirror and paused, his look turning hard. He was thinking of how Beverly must have celebrated when she heard about his suicide in jail, how she probably popped a few champagne corks while she watched his Houston funeral on TV. The bitch no doubt gloated; she was probably still gloating to this day. But that was going to end. Just as soon as Danny found her.

     He looked at his watch—a good Swiss make, but not the fifteen-thousand-dollar Rolex he had his eye on. Danny had been doing some shopping since he arrived in southern California, but he had a lot more to do. Clothes made the man, he always said.

     Quinn had said on the TV show that he was currently renting a beach house in Malibu, just past the Sunset turnoff, so it hadn't been difficult for Danny and Bonner to find him. And once they had established which house belonged to the journalist, they had simply taken up residence next door. Now Danny was waiting for Otis to come home. They were going to have a little talk.

     And then Danny would know where Beverly Highland was—and he could pay her back for what she had done to him.

     One side of his mouth lifted in a smile. When Danny saw how sexy that smile made him look, he had to admit that, after months of being in a coma
and more months of rehabilitation in which he frequently blacked out and couldn't remember who he was, after all he had been through in the past three and a half years, he still had the old Danny Mackay magic.

     Sure, he was a little older now, and there was gray in the thick reddish-brown hair, but those languorous green eyes and sexy-sly smile still carried an electric charge. He had seen its effect when he had gone shopping for clothes in Houston's famous Galleria. The salesgirls had fallen in love with him; salesmen had shown respect. It had also given Danny a rush to mingle with the River Oaks millionaires—people who had once paid plenty to be on his bandwagon—and go unrecognized. Yes sir, Danny still had the same charisma that he had sent pulsating over the TV airwaves, throbbing into every lonely Christian's living room as he had belted out his sermon on the "Good News Hour." And on a reverse tsunami wave, dollars had come rolling into Danny's Good News Ministries headquarters faster than his large staff could count it, wrap it, and bank it.

     But not all of that money had gone into the ministry's accounts; Danny had rerouted some of those blessed greenbacks into special numbered accounts that only he and Bonner Purvis knew about. It was that secret stash that had saved him from a trial and from serving the rest of his life in prison. And now it was his to spend.

     So he had health, wealth, and soon he was going to have power. Because he was a dead man, he was invisible. And ghosts could get away with anything.

     The thought of it was a real turn-on. A real
hard-on.
He had once been willing to settle for the presidency of the United States; now he could have the whole world.

     "The whole fuckin' world, man," he murmured to his reflection.

     And his power was going to start with what he was going to do with Beverly when he found her.

     The glare of headlights suddenly swept across the opposite wall. Danny went to the window and peered out again. A small blue Japanese car had just pulled into the driveway next door. Otis Quinn was home.

     This is it, Danny thought, turning away and hurrying back into the other room. As he did, he tripped on something, and had to catch himself on the door frame. He looked down; he had tripped on an arm. It was cold
and lifeless now; he and Bonner had killed her a few hours ago, when they had broken into her house. It couldn't be helped; they needed to be close to Quinn.

     Danny reached down and picked her up. She was naked.

     He placed her gently on the bed and arranged her comfortably. He paused to look at her face and realized that she was pretty. What a shame. And he didn't even know her name.

     Going back into the other bedroom, he reached for his jacket, slipped it on, and said, "Otis's home, Bon. I'm going over to pay a friendly visit."

     Bonner didn't answer; he too was dead.

     Danny regarded his friend's white face for a moment, the sightless eyes still staring out at the night. Danny and Bonner had been together for over thirty years, ever since their wild youth back in San Antonio, when they'd been a couple of hot young studs preaching the gospel in tents and servicing horny farm wives. Danny had known all along that sooner or later he was going to have to get rid of his best friend, because he knew too much. Bonner had taken care of everything after the faked suicide; getting Danny's "body" back to Texas, hiding him away, finding some poor bastard to take Danny's place in the coffin, and then nursing Danny back to health. But Bonner had access to Danny's fortune, and he was the only person who knew that Danny Mackay was still alive. Now, not even Bonner knew. And Danny had all that money to himself.

     He flicked out the lights, said, "Adios, amigo," and left.

     Otis Quinn rubbed the spot below his sternum where it felt as if he had swallowed a live coal. His ulcer was acting up again—ever since he had discovered that the woman whom he had thought was Beverly Highland turned out not to be her after all.

     He flicked on the lights of his rented beach house, turned on the stereo, poured himself a beer, and went to the sliding-glass doors that opened onto a weathered sundeck. Standing at the rail, he watched the waves as they pounded the shore. It was a chilly December night; the beach was deserted. As he drank his beer, he looked to his left and was surprised to see no lights on in his neighbor's house.

     He didn't really know her. She was one of those golden babe types who didn't appear to work for a living, yet she drove a Mercedes convertible and was always throwing wild parties. Otis had exchanged an occasional "Hi" with her, but she hadn't shown any interest in him. It had occurred to him during the few weeks he had been in this house to go over there and tell her who he was. He didn't doubt that she had read
Butterfly Exposed
, or that at least she had seen him on TV.
Then
she would be impressed, he was sure of that.

     Otis could never understand what his problem was with women. He didn't consider himself to be bad looking; well, he was no Mel Gibson, but he was no dog either. He was fit for a guy pushing fifty; he worked out every day to keep himself trim. He still had all of his hair, and he had cultivated an intellectual's beard that he thought nicely complemented the Barry Goldwater glasses. So why was he always striking out?

     Otis's stomach rumbled and a great belch erupted from his mouth. Rubbing the burning spot again, he went back inside and decided to fix himself something to eat before settling down to work.

     As he slathered Dijon mustard on three slices of extra-sour rye bread, while cold pastrami was heating up in the microwave, he thought of the great break that
Butterfly Exposed
had been for him. Of course, most of what he had written was bullshit, but that was what people wanted. They ate it up. After years of churning out dreck for the supermarket tabloids, Otis had finally hit the big time. And he intended to stay in that big time—by finding Beverly Highland.

     When the microwave buzzed, he heaped steaming pastrami onto a slice of rye, topped it with the second slice of bread, heaped the rest of the pastrami onto that, and topped it off with the third slice of rye. Then he went to his desk, set the sloppy sandwich beside his typewriter, and picked up the microphone of his tape recorder. He began to dictate.

     "After doing some investigating into the background of my prime candidate..." He swiveled in his chair and looked at a newspaper photo lying on the cluttered coffee table. He had written underneath, "
Is this Beverly Highland?
" "I have discovered that she is not Beverly Highland after all. In fact, she was not even in Los Angeles during the time Beverly Highland launched her campaign of revenge against Danny Mackay."

     Otis paused, took a healthy bite of his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and continued: "But luckily, this woman wasn't my only lead. And after thoroughly checking out the others and dismissing them for various reasons, I have narrowed the list down to one name, and I am convinced that she is Beverly Highland. Her name is Beverly Burgess, and she runs the Star's resort in Palm Springs. I did some looking around Palm Springs and the Coachella Valley, and all I learned was that Miss Burgess had shown up from out of nowhere two and a half years ago with enough money to purchase the abandoned Star's Haven in the saddle of Mount San Jacinto. I'm going to take a closer look at Miss Burgess. I have a reservation at Star's at the end of the week—"

     The doorbell rang. Otis clicked off the machine, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and went to the door.

     He looked through the peephole but couldn't see much except the silhouette of a man against the busy traffic of the Pacific Coast Highway speeding by in the background.

     "Yeah?" Quinn said through the door. "What do you want?"

     "Mr. Otis Quinn? I need to have a word with you. It's very important."

     Otis thought a moment. He had a lot of work to do—he had to get his file together on Beverly Burgess and plan his strategy for exposing her. But Otis was a freelance journalist, and he usually got his story ideas for the
Globe
and the
National Enquirer
from tips, which usually came at odd hours, unexpectedly, and very often anonymously.

     "Okay," he said, opening the door.

     "Hi," said his visitor with a charming smile.

     Otis frowned. The man's face was familiar.

     "I hope I'm not disturbing you," Danny said in his smoothest, most polite Texas-genteel accent.

     Suddenly recognizing who it was, Otis said, "My God," and fell back a step.

     Danny grinned. "Close," he said, holding out his hand. "Danny Mackay."

     But Otis didn't take Danny's hand. He just stood, staring.

     "Mind if I come in?" Danny said. "If this isn't a good time for you, Mr. Quinn, why you just say so. I know what a busy man you must be."

     Danny looked at him expectantly, but Otis kept standing there, his jaw hanging down. So Danny came inside, closed the door behind himself, and walked into the living room. "Nice place you got here, Mr. Quinn," he said. "Great view of the ocean. I always said how you could tell God made the oceans first, because they're majestic and humbling, like Himself."

     He turned and smiled at the dumbfounded Quinn. "I was wondering if I could have a word with you," he said, ending his sentence Texas style—upward, like a question. Danny knew that it was a way of speaking that generally endeared him to people. They felt comfortable with country.

     Quinn started to speak, coughed, regained his composure, then said, "My God, you really are Danny Mackay! And you're alive!"

     Danny tipped his head, smiled, and said, "Last time I looked, I was."

     "Oh my God..."

     "You sound like a religious man, Mr. Quinn," Danny said with a grin.

     "Oh!" Otis said. "I'm sorry—my God—I mean, come in. No, you're already in. Sit down Mr. Mackay...Reverend Mackay...Danny..."

     Danny laughed and walked slowly around the room, taking in the scattered books, correspondence, news clippings, empty potato-chip bags, until his eye fell upon a newspaper photo. It was the picture of a woman and underneath it, in red ink, someone had written "Is this Beverly Highland?"

     He turned and smiled at Quinn, who was rubbing his stomach. "I reckon I've given you a shock, Mr. Quinn. You thought I was dead, didn't you?"

     "Well," Otis said, starting to recover, "everyone thought you were,
thinks
you were, thinks you
are!
You sure shocked
me
, Mr. Mackay. For a minute there, I thought I was looking at a ghost!"

     "Well, in a way, my friend, I guess you are. But it's a long story, and I don't have time for it now. However, I'll be glad to tell you all about it at some later date."

     Otis's eyes widened, and Danny could imagine the cogs and wheels spinning in the man's brain. Danny Mackay—alive! An exclusive interview! Story sold to the top bidder! It would be worth thousands.
Hundreds
of thousands.

     "I read your book," Danny said. "It was very interesting. You know, I never saw those rooms above that men's clothing store. Is it true what the newspapers said?"

     "Uh, yes," Otis said, suddenly nervous. "My big break came when I met a girl who had worked there. I got her drunk and she told me about the special rooms. Then I got a friend of mine in the LAPD to let me have a look around."

     "What did you find?"

     "Nothing much, really. I had to use my imagination."

     "But was it a whorehouse?"

     "Oh yes, there's no doubt about that. But I couldn't believe that a man like you, I mean, that you had any involvement in it, Mr. Mackay." Otis was clearing a chair for his visitor. "Can I get you something, Reverend? Beer? Coffee?" Jesus, Otis thought, feeling the pastrami and rye turning into a Roman candle inside his stomach. Danny Mackay. Here! Talking to
me.
Oh Jesus.

     "Otis, you look like a man I can confide in," Danny said, ignoring the chair. "A man I can trust."

     "Oh you can, Mr. Mackay, you can!"

     "Well, Otis—may I call you Otis? I saw you on TV a couple of weeks ago, and I couldn't believe what you said about Miss Highland still being alive. Is it true? I mean, do you really have proof?"

     Otis felt sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades. "W-well, I kind of have proof. I mean, I think I've found her. I mean, well..." Jesus, he thought again, trying not to squirm beneath Danny's magnetic gaze. Otis had never met the Reverend in person, but he had heard about the uncanny power Mackay seemed to have over people, simply by looking at them. Otis tried to think. It was one thing to bullshit the public, but he knew he had to be straight with Danny. "No, I don't have actual proof, just a hunch."