The Last Story (18 page)

"Whatever happens, don't get in a fight with him around the sharks."

"I know I have a temper. I'll watch it." He paused. "Tell me about the story you're working on?"

"Did I tell you that I was writing a story?"

"You write for a living. I assume you're always working on a story."

"Not always. I think a gap between stories is important. It allows what's inside to ripen.

That's my take on the creative process anyway. Actually, though, I am working on a short story called 'The Starlight Crystal.' It's sci-fi—it takes place in the future."

Roger lowered the radio. "Tell me about it."

"Now? It's so late. Let me tell you another time."

"No. I want to hear it, honestly. I told you, your stories affect me deeply."

He sure knew the way to a writer's heart. Tell an author he or she is a genius and he or she will give you the world in exchange. "I probably should tell you," I said. "You're the one who inspired the story."

"Really? How?"

"A few nights ago I had a dream where I was flying around the city, visiting people I knew, putting my hands on them and entering their dreams."

Roger watched me. "The girl in your latest book did that. When she was dead."

I had forgotten that he had read Remember Me.

That book haunted me everywhere I turned. I spoke hastily. "That's probably why I dreamed it.

Anyway, in the dream I visited you and put my hands on your head. And you were dreaming about a great interstellar battle. Humanity versus the invading aliens." I paused, wanting to ask a question.

"Do you remember the dream, Roger?"

But it was too peculiar a thing to say. Especially since I was supposed to be unrelated to the Shari Cooper in my book.

"It sounds neat," Roger said. "What do the aliens look like?"

"I don't know."

"How much of this story have you written?"

"It's almost done."

"And you don't know what the aliens look like?"

"No. I have no idea."

"Who wins in the end? Humanity or the aliens?"

"I don't know."

Roger acted exasperated. "Tell me what you do have."

I did as he requested, starting with Sarteen and Pareen's journey home, to the moment when Captain Eworl was supposed to emerge from the elevator.

Roger listened closely. Indeed, I would say he was rapt with attention. When I was finished, he remained still for a long time, thinking.

"You know you can't have Sarteen lose," he said finally. "It will wreck the story."

"She's not about to lose. She's preparing to die so that she can save the rest of her people."

Roger shook his head. "That's no good. You have to figure out a way for her to survive, too."

"She can only survive by surrendering. She won't do that. It's against her nature."

"You're the writer. You can adapt her nature any way you chose. Besides, you're missing my point.

You can't have a downer ending. People don't like them. It won't sell."

"Not everything I write has to sell. The story can have meaning in and of itself."

"Couldn't Sarteen fake surrender? Give in for the time being? Plan for a future revenge?"

"I don't think so. Once the Orions get their hands on you, I think you're pretty much their property. Sarteen would rather die first."

"You can't have her be a failure."

I had to smile. "Who's the writer here? Who's the actor?"

He nodded. "I wouldn't mind being in a movie made from this story. I could play Captain Eworl."

"So far he's only a voice across black space. He hasn't even been on stage."

"You said it yourself, the story isn't complete."

Roger nodded. "Before it's over, I think he'll have a significant role."

The property Henry had chosen to build our

"shark set" on was in the valley, actually in the foothills of the San Bernardino Mountains. The two hundred acres was a mismatch of hard orange soil and lovely pine and spruce trees. It was entirely fenced in—twenty-foot-high barriers topped with barbed wire. Even so, for insurance reasons, we had been required by law to have a security guard on the premises at all times. Couldn't have little boys and girls who lived in the vicinity digging under the fence and going for a swim with the sharks. Such a thing wouldn't enhance my newborn production company's reputation. I had personally hired the night security guard and he was only too happy to let us on the property. Yet he said he hadn't seen Bob. Roger shook his head at the comment.

"I told you so," he said. "He's home, sleeping. A guy that fat needs his rest."

"He told me he'd meet me at the boat. We've come this far. We may as well check it out."

Because of the bumps in the path, we couldn't drive the Corvette to the boat and manmade lake, although I would have preferred driving. The set was located at the far end of the property; it was a good quarter-mile walk from the entrance, a long hike in the middle of the night without a flashlight.

If Bob was on the set, he had come in via an unknown back way. Roger took my hand as we walked. It wasn't easy to pull away from him. Light from the waning moon aided us, although I did stumble several times. But each time Roger was there to catch me.

"He said this situation was all set up by nature, and by ourselves. That we test ourselves.

"

I wondered what the yogi had meant.

We found Bob standing in the center of the boat, which was tied to the shore, his back to us. Moving closer, I noted the fins of the sharks as the maneaters circulated in the oval pond, viscous silver knives in the glow of the moon. Henry had rented four sharks. With the right angles and editing, he said, we could make it look like a whole school. Four was enough for my tastes. Andy's boyfriend had completed the backdrop. The fake daytime Caribbean sky, dimmed by the night, pressed in on us from three separate angles.

Bob must have heard us approaching but he didn't turn until we actually stepped aboard the boat.

He had a gun in his hand.

"Bob," I said, stunned. "What the hell?"

He flashed the fiendish grin that worked so well on the screen. That made you believe that, yes, here was a young man capable of stranding kids aboard a sinking sailboat in the middle of shark-infested waters. At that moment he looked exactly as I had created Bob, before I even met him. Bob was Bob.

"Hello, Shari," he said. "Hello, Roger. Nice of you both to come. Please don't shout out or I'll have to shoot you."

"What do you want?" Roger asked.

Bob shook his gun a bit. "Oh, I'd think what I want is obvious. I want to rehearse."

"Huh?" I said.

Bob laughed bitterly. "You think you have such a great imagination, Ms. Best-selling Shari Cooper.

You plot your stories so carefully. You sit at your computer and develop the motivation for your characters. What they were like as children. What they suffered as they went to school.

Why they became criminals when they grew older. But you know nothing! Real criminals don't need motivation at all. We want to kill someone, we kill them.

It's as simple as that."

Roger took a step forward. "Give me that gun, punk."

Bob raised the gun sharply, pointing it at Roger's face. "I will give you what's inside the gun before I hand it over. Understand me, Pretty Boy?"

Roger paused, chewed on that for a few seconds.

"You say you want to rehearse. What scene?"

Bob nodded in admiration. "Pretty Boy is pretty smart. Yeah, the three of us are going to rehearse First to Die's climactic scene. Shari's going to take the lifeboat here, and ride it to the far side of the pond, then return for you to do it. If you both make it, you both live. Easy, huh? Of course, if she makes it that far, she can always run for safety. Hide in the trees. The idea might occur to her, and she might get away from me. I'm not in the best shape. On the other hand, she might not escape. I do have a gun.

There aren't many places to hide here. Besides, if she does choose to flee, I get to push you in the water, Pretty Boy. Then you get to swim to the far side of the pond. Get out on this side and I shoot you."

"You're insane," Roger swore.

"Perhaps. I'm also creative. I'm a budding director.

To add drama to the scene, before you guys appeared, I dropped a handful of bloody meat in the pond. Not enough to satisfy the sharks' hunger, you understand, but enough to get them thinking about their next meal. You can see how restlessly they're circling. They know good things are coming their way."

I moved to Roger's side, feeling oddly removed from the scene, as if this couldn't be happening to

me. But my disinterest was rooted in shock and gave me no comfort. Bob was deadly serious. He was my own nightmare come to life. With his small revolver, he motioned me toward the small rubber lifeboat.

"There's no point in waiting," he said.

I had to struggle to draw a breath, to speak.

"There's something wrong with this lifeboat."

Bob acted surprised. "Really? Is that possible?

The union boys went over it this afternoon, just to be sure it was safe. It couldn't have a hole in it. Not unless it developed one recently. But maybe you're right, and the raft does have a small hole leaking air. Maybe that's another plot twist. You're the writer, Shari, you tell me.

Could it be that the longer you delay taking the lifeboat, the more air runs out of it?"

"Does the motor work?" I asked.

Bob shrugged. "Can't tell you. You might take the time to check it out. Or you might just get your ass in gear and paddle to the other side of the pond and back."

I moved toward the lifeboat. Roger grabbed my arm. "Don't," he said. "It's a setup. You'll die."

I shook him off. "I'd rather the sharks got me than him."

Roger caught my eye. "Be careful."

Bob laughed. "How romantic! Be careful! What clever dialogue! God, if you don't need a regular doctor in a few minutes, you certainly need a script doctor."

"I should never have hired you," I muttered under my breath as I leaned over and studied the lifeboat floating off the port side. Bob, at least, had gone to the trouble to put it in the water for me.

The problem was, in the poor light, I was unable to judge how much air it had lost. I wouldn't know until I jumped into it. Then, if it sank, it would probably be the last thing I knew.

"Jesus," I whispered.

What would it feel like to have a hand bitten off?

A foot? My blood would squirt into the water in a warm red stream. The only thing that would stop it would be another, larger bite, one that ripped off an entire limb, and forced my heart to stop beating.

That's all the victim of a multiple shark attack could pray for, a quick end. For the second time since I had returned to Earth as a Wanderer, I could not believe the Rishi could have allowed me to fall into such a terrible predicament.

"But can't you protect me?"

"Protect you from what? Death? There is no death.

I have nothing to protect you from."

That was easy to say when you didn't have a physical body to worry about.

"Shari," Roger said behind me.

"I can do it," I said tightly. Summoning my courage, I crouched down and planted my left arm on the sailboat deck. Spinning through a half hop, I swung my legs over and into the lifeboat. It didn't sink, but wobbled badly. The sharks sensed the movement and swam closer.

Glancing up, I saw Roger creep to the edge and peer down at me. Bob stood behind him, the pistol to Roger's head.

"Since you performed that move so gracefully,"

Bob said, "I will give you a helpful hint. There's no gas in the motor." He gestured to the far side of the pond. "Better hurry, Shari. A sinking raft always takes longer to paddle back."

There was one paddle in the lifeboat, not two.

Picking it up, I scooted to the center of the raft and began to paddle frantically. Naturally I began to swing in circles. On the deck of the sailboat set, Bob hooted.

"She's playing with the sharks! She thinks they're really dolphins!"

"Shut up," I muttered. The key to successful paddling must be not to freak out.

Stabilizing the raft by paddling first on one side, then on the other, I steadily began to plow toward the far shore, increasing my speed as I gained confidence. In reality, the pond was only forty yards across, less than half the length of a football field. It took me only a minute to traverse it. Behind me, I heard Roger call out.

"Run!" he cried. "He's playing with us! It's like your book! He'll kill us anyway."

In my heart I knew Roger was right. Bob couldn't possibly allow us to live if he planned to stay out of jail for the next forty years. Unfortunately, I couldn't leave Roger to such a gruesome death. Yet I lacked the ingenuity of the hero in my book. The raft was low on air, the sides were getting squishier.

Bob intended for Roger to paddle across and back next. A second of delay could make all the difference for him. Yet, in the end, it would probably make no difference at all. Bob would keep making us take turns until one of us went under and was turned into shark food.

Master! Help me! I promise to be good.

No brilliant insight came to me. Good was not good enough.

I paddled the lifeboat back to the sailboat.

Several feet above my head, Bob saluted my nobility by clapping.

"She thought about fleeing," he said. "But in the end true love won out over fear." He turned to Roger. "Your turn, Pretty Boy. Let's see what you're made of. The conditions are the same as before. If you flee, she goes in the water."

Roger glanced at the waning moon, seemed to think for a moment, then turned and straightened in Bob's direction. "No," he said firmly.

"Roger," I gasped.

Bob chuckled. "No? You say no to the Bad Boy with the big gun?" He cocked the hammer on the gun. "Not a smart move, Pretty Boy."

"I don't believe you have the guts to shoot me in cold blood," Roger said, staring him hard in the eye. His words were powerful—Bob actually took a step back, and for a moment seemed uncertain.

"What do you mean?" Bob asked.