Authors: Carolyn McCray,Elena Gray
WidowMaker (15 page)
“Did Dahmer make sense? Manson? If this truly was an accident, I’ll be the first to apologize, but until then, I’m getting them off the streets.”
She couldn’t get him to turn down the job in Washington, D.C., and she certainly couldn’t stop him from driving out to the Baxters’ compound. Still, Jill didn’t have to go with him. As a matter of fact, she
shouldn’t
go with him. She should go home and get her résumé ready. And prepare an outfit for the two funerals she would be attending.
Jill looked over her shoulder at what was left of the building. The black smoke shifted and swirled until it took shape. It was like judging the pictures the clouds made in the sky. Shouting, water gushing from the hoses, wailing sirens, screams, and squealing tires all faded—as if someone hit the Mute button. Jill gasped as a distorted face emerged. In a flash, it was gone.
Jill turned to Cecil, back to the smoke, and then back to her driver. Had he seen it? Whatever “it” was? But Cecil’s smile didn’t waver. He motioned with his arm to the open car door. “Ms. Connor?”
Great. Now Mitchell’s and Derek’s obsession with the film was affecting
her
.
“Um, Cecil.” Embarrassed, Jill felt color flood her cheeks. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I no longer work for Temple Studios. So, I no longer have use of the limo.”
“Hmm. Well I haven’t heard any differently, Ms. Connor, so until then, I’m still your driver.”
“But Cecil. I’m sure Ms. Temple’s assistant must have tried to contact you.”
At that moment, Cecil’s cell phone rang. He tugged it out of his pocket, checked the caller ID, silenced it, and put it back.
“Don’t you need to get that?”
Cecil’s eyes lit up with mischief. “It’s nothing important. Are you ready to go?”
Bless Cecil. Jill knew that was Amanda calling him. Jill could envision her having an apoplectic fit. Well, it would be one last dig that Jill could get in before packing up her office. Steeling herself, Jill climbed in the limo. She had to see this through. If not for herself, then for Elmore.
* * *
Amanda slammed the door to her black Mercedes, mumbling obscenities under her breath. If she could fire Jill again, she would. The bitch still had the limo, and Amanda had to drive herself to the theater. Thank God no one had seen her drive up to the back door.
Moonlight flickered in the alley like a broken lamp as the clouds brushed across the moon. This was perfect. It would so set the mood for
Terror
. A car horn honked down the street. She gripped the reels tighter to her chest as she wobbled on her heels. Her eyes darted around the dingy alley. She wasn’t home free yet. After what happened in the vault, Amanda wouldn’t be satisfied until the damn movie was playing on the silver screen.
As a rat scurried under an overflowing dumpster, Amanda gritted her teeth. What had her life come to? She had to resort to sneaking in a back door like a common criminal. Well. Actually she was. But she was Amanda Temple. She should have been walking the red carpet. Having her picture taken for
People Magazine
.
Yanking open the back door to the theater Amanda stepped inside. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the concrete lined corridor. Popcorn carts, old movie posters and broken projectors were pushed against the walls. Her assistant, Simon, rushed up.
“We were about to cancel, ...” Simon said. His words drifted off as he looked Amanda up and down.
Amanda smoothed a hand over her hair. She glanced at her reflection on the side of a concessions cart. Hair sprung up at odd angles and a red smudge marred her Botox-smooth forehead. She scrubbed the back of her hand against her forehead.
Amanda glared at Simon until he averted his gaze.
“Never! Temple Studios delivers as promised.” Glancing around, she asked, “Is the president here yet?”
Simon looked down at his phone, retrieving a text. “No. Any minute now, though.”
“Excellent.” Amanda shoved the reels at Simon. “Get this to the projectionist and—”
But Simon didn’t take them. Instead, he grimaced, shaking something off his hands. “What the hell is all over them?”
Shit. She should have wiped the films off before she left the office. If those films were ruined because of Howie’s carelessness she would have his head on a platter. If there still was a Howie.
Simon looked her up and down, “And
you
?”
Amanda glanced down at her tan suit. A crimson stain covered her jacket. Blotches of red on her pants. She forced her face to remain neutral. What Simon didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him. Hopefully.
“Oh, it’s just paint,” Amanda lied. She forced the reels into Simon’s reluctant arms. “They are renovating one of the offices down by the vault. Howie spilled paint all over them.”
Damn it, Simon didn’t look like he bought her answer. Thankfully, the putz wasn't brave enough to contradict her.
“Where’s Ms. Connor? Mr. Namer?”
Amanda’s head buzzed like a dying fly was trapped in there. She needed to pop a Valium quick, make that two, if she was going to make it through this night. Why couldn’t Simon mind his own damn business? At this rate, Amanda would be the only one left at Temple.
“Out of the loop. So I’m counting on you, Simon. You’ve never let me down, so guard this film with your life.”
“Yes, Ms. Temple.” Simon replied.
Holding the films at a distance, Simon looked as if the films might bite him. And with all of the weird shit happening? They just might.
* * *
Derek noticed a fleck of dried blood on the cuff of his sleeve. Sam’s blood. Derek swore he would never have another’s blood on his hands—he’d
sworn
it. Yet here he was with Sam’s. He should have refused this case. He should have trusted his instincts. But now he was in for a penny, in for a pound.
But the others? Why had he brought them? Taking them into the lion’s den. As the limo turned down a long, dark, winding driveway, there was still time to go this alone.
“You don’t have to come,” Derek said to Jill, who seemed close to falling asleep with her eyes open.
“My limo, remember?”
“
Was
your limo,” Derek corrected. As soon as the words left his lips, Derek regretted his choice of words. Why did he constantly put his foot in his mouth where Jill was concerned?
Derek released a breath. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that ...”
“You never do. Look, can we try to have a normal conversation?”
“Absolutely,” Derek lied. Seriously, how hard could it be? They were adults.
“Look, I know that I’m not with Temple Studios anymore, but—”
“Can we please talk about anything else but
Terror
?”
Sure, they were heading to the Baxters’, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about the damn film. That vault door didn’t seem to be quite as thick as he had hoped.
Jill shook her head. “You haven’t changed, have you? It’s a discussion until you bail.”
“Look. I’m not the one who walked off ...”
Damn it, why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? It seemed that the vault door to their breakup was wide-freaking-open.
Jill’s nostrils flared as she leaned toward Derek. Her cheeks stained red. “What else could I do? Have another one of these discussions with you?
Please
.”
“I’m listening now,” Derek challenged.
“If only it were so easy.”
“Did you love me?” Derek was as surprised that he asked the question as Jill appeared to be.
“Jesus, yes,” Jill said with an exasperated sigh. “Derek, it never was about that.”
“My hours at work? My career choice?” If he could go back, would he have given up his career for her? If he had, would the girl and Sam still be alive?
“Listen to yourself. It wasn’t about
you
,” she said. “It was about
me
.
My
career choice.”
“But you were happy at the
Times
.” Wasn’t she?
“No, I wasn’t. I wanted to
make
entertainment news, not report on it.”
Derek’s brows furrowed. “But it was your first choice after you got your bachelors.”
“The best if I had to go into journalism. But that's not what I wanted.”
What the hell? How could she be rewriting history like this? Sure, she liked to manage a few bands and soccer teams, but her job at the paper brought home the money. It was her career.
“Wait. If you didn’t want to work at a paper, then why did you major in journalism?”
Jill leaned back in her seat. Her eyes staring out the window watching the trees and their mottled shadows race by.
“Because my father listened about as well as you do. He paid the tuition, so he picked the major.”
Derek went to open his mouth, but shut it again. He was not, repeat
not,
going to put his foot back in there again. But oh, how he wanted to ask a million questions. Like why didn’t she stand up to her father? Why didn’t she tell Derek? Why, why, why, why? He wanted her to rationally explain it to him. Make his mind understand. But this wasn’t about his mind. This was about her heart. Their hearts.
“I … I never knew ...” If he’d only asked, only paid attention, how much would it have made a difference? By the tears clinging to Jill’s eyelashes, it would have made all the difference.
“Nope. Nobody did,” Jill said, straightening in her seat, pulling back into herself. Derek swore that even her tears climbed back into her eyes.
Should he reach out to her? Tell her how sorry he was? Tell her that D.C. hadn’t been worth losing her over? Even without the tragedy, each arrest, each “victory” had felt hollow without her to come home to.
“Listen to this!” Mitchell interrupted from the front seat. The kid really had the worst timing, ever.
But then Sam’s voice filled the limo.
“No! Get away! Derek, it’s crawling out of the screen!”
Derek’s muscles tensed to the point of pain hearing his friend cry out for help. The little girl’s sobs played like a constant soundtrack in the back of Derek’s mind. But he had to pull it together. At least one vault had to stay closed.
He cleared his throat before asking, “Was he hallucinating?”
“Sounds pretty lucid to me ...” Mitchell stated.
Mitchell hit Play again, but Derek couldn’t listen to Sam's agonized pleas. A reminder of how he had failed yet another innocent.
“Turn it off,” Derek snapped.
“But—”
“Whatever questions we have, they won't be answered until we talk to the brothers.
* * *
As Cecil slowed the car, Mitchell looked over his shoulder to tell Derek and Jill that they had arrived, but the two of them were sitting as far apart as possible, arms crossed in a nearly identical manner. Jeez, they should just kiss and get it over with. He’d known something was up with those two, but he just didn’t know how much. But after hearing their fight—hey sure, it was wrong to eavesdrop, but they left the partition down, and it was kinda hard not to listen when they were yelling at each other, he knew exactly how much.
The limo’s turn signal echoed off the interior, drawing Mitchell’s eyes to the scene in front of them. They turned down a narrow gravel road smothered by trees on both sides. Mitchell leaned forward, head tipped toward the sky. Not a single star could be seen through the canopy of trees. Guess this is where the brothers got their inspiration for
Terror.
“Ho...ly Aragorn!” Mitchell breathed. The trees seemed to unfold in front of Mitchell, framing a massive steel and concrete mansion. What few windows dotted the surface were wrapped in iron bars. “Now that's what I call a modern castle.”
The branches cocooning the castle rose and fell with the wind.
Mitchell squirmed in his seat, eager to escape the car. In just a few moments, he was going to be face-to-face with the Baxter brothers. Granted, they were going to be arrested, but it was still going to be cool. Mitchell could finally ask them all of the questions tormenting him for the past month.
Mitchell tore through his bag. Did he have his camera? Maybe Jill could snap off a quick picture of Mitchell with the brothers.
“I read about the design in
Better Homes and Gardens
,” Jill said. Her neck craned to see out her window. “They insisted that not a single tree be used in the construction of their home. It is all synthetics, stone, and glass. No wood products whatsoever.”
“Great. Add nature freaks to their list of neuroses,” Derek mumbled.
Mitchell swung open his door and bounded out of the car before Cecil could put it in park. His sneakers crunched over the pure, white stones outlining the courtyard. Mitchell stopped at the center of the courtyard, where a sculpture of a beautiful woman holding a man whose face was contorted in agony, rested on a pedestal. There was something familiar about the sculpture.
Derek and Jill stepped up behind Mitchell.
“Hey, I know that image,” Mitchell said, turning to them. “It’s from one of the first horror films ever made. Oh, damn.” Mitchell smacked his hand against his forehead. “It’s a French silent film titled ... shit ...”