Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery) Page 9

  Boucher looked around. A thunderous frown gouged canyons into his sunburned forehead. “Where the hell is Debbie? And where the hell is Jondin?”

  The outer door crashed open. Everyone looked around. The sunlight formed jagged streaks around the woman framed in the door.

  “So glad you could join us,” Boucher said, the snark dripping off each word.

  Then Jondin started shooting.

  7

  Boucher’s chest blossomed with blood, and chunks of bloody flesh, mingled with scraps of material blew out his back. He didn’t make a sound, just looked surprised before his body tumbled to the floor to lie in an ever widening pool of blood.

  People were screaming, and Jondin wasn’t holding back. She raked the gun back and forth across the set while holding down the trigger, the buck and kick of the Uzi sending the barrel climbing toward the ceiling. Bullets skipped and whined off cameras, lights, and microphones. A lighting guy fell screaming from a catwalk high above. His body hit the floor with a meaty thud.

  She got control of the gun, and brought it back down only to start shooting again. Bullets ripped through sets and knocked wood chips out of the walls. My body responded faster than my brain, sending me in a dive toward a stack of film boxes. I heard bullets singing and ricocheting as they hit the metal boxes. I wasn’t sure where Jeff had gone. He had been right beside me. He must have gone a different direction to find cover. Or maybe he was dead. I bit my lip and whimpered.

  A lot of lead found human targets. Shrieks of pain joined cries of terror as metal slugs tore through flesh and shattered bone. The sound of bullets erupting from the barrel of the machine gun was like a giant’s teeth chattering. A cameraman went down, clutching at his gut. Blood welled around his fingers. The two stunt doubles were down—hurt, maybe dead.

  Silence. Which made me all the more aware that my ears were ringing from the percussive force of the shooting. I heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of a clip being dropped and another one being rammed into place.

  Between the cracks between the boxes I saw pointy-toed, high-heeled lavender boots approaching my hiding place. Inside I was whimpering. Oh God, I’m gonna die! Oh Daddy. Help me. Somebody please help me.

  Another part of me, less limp and terrified, was shouting MOVE, MOVE, MOVE. I looked left and right. To my right was a big, plush leather couch. I slipped off my high heels. My stomach felt loose, and my knees were shaking so hard that my muscles were aching. Somehow I managed to balance on my fingertips and toes like a runner in a starting block and pushed off hard, running for the sofa. Bullets snapped and whined at my heels until I was safely behind it.

  A quavering voice shouted out, “Drop the gun!”

  I peeked over the back of the sofa to see a security guard confronting Jondin. Both hands gripped his pistol, and he had it thrust out at her. Unfortunately the barrel was shaking like a branch in a strong wind. I wanted to shriek at him, Shoot her! Just fucking shoot her! but I couldn’t force air through my constricted throat, and then it was too late because Jondin brought the Uzi up to her hip, and fired off a burst. She was definitely getting better at controlling the gun. The security guard was slammed backward by the force of the bullets. I choked back a cry, dropped down, and looked across the set in search of an exit. I saw Jeff huddled behind an armchair. He was hunkered down, arms wrapped protectively around his head. I felt a flare of disappointment.

  Not an action hero. Just an actor. A terrified human, just like me. The room reeked of cordite and blood, and tendrils of smoke from the Uzi drifted like witch’s hair.

  In the center of the set various crew members and Michael Tennant were down on the floor bleeding. Consuela, clutching her first-aid kit, came scrabbling out from behind the set to reach them. Even though her back was to her, somehow Jondin was aware of the EMT. Her head swung around and she studied the woman. From my hiding place I could see her face framed by the long white, green, and gold hair and utterly devoid of expression. A few wisps of hair were caught in her lips. She casually brushed them away.

  Connie struggled to open the first-aid kit, but her hands were shaking so badly that it took her three tries before she succeeded. She slapped a pressure bandage over the wound in Tennant’s chest. I couldn’t believe she had done this incredibly brave thing.

  Jondin dropped the Uzi so it hung on its neck strap, reached into the waistband of her trousers, and pulled out a pistol. She began walking toward the EMT with slow, deliberate steps. It looked like the actress intended to shoot the girl from point-blank range. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t just stand by and let this girl be killed.

  I looked around for any kind of weapon, but there was nothing. All I had was me. And she had a gun. Actually more than one.

  A flash of memory etched itself against my mind. Mr. Bainbridge, my vampire foster liege, taking me out and teaching me how to shoot when I was twelve years old. His usually genially smiling round face was unaccustomedly serious.

  “You’re almost a young woman, Linnet, and your greatest predator will be men. They’re stronger than you, and more violent, so I’m going to teach you how to even the odds.” He had then smiled and added, “In the words of the old adage, ‘God didn’t make men and women equal. Colonel Colt did.’”

  Then he taught me how to shoot. How to break down a gun. How to clean it. How not to treat it as a toy. He had taught me one other thing. That most people missed, even at close range. If I could distract Jondin, maybe the little EMT would run, and maybe we would both survive.

  I jumped up and ran around the sofa, cutting across the set on an angle designed to take me between Jondin and Connie. The actress watched me, eyes following, and I felt like one of the little rabbit figures in the shooting gallery of a midway carnival. Soon Jondin would knock me down and win a stuffed toy. The image of the Álfar woman standing over my bleeding body while holding a giant panda bear made me giggle. A hysterical reaction if ever there was one.

  The barrel of Jondin’s gun swiveled away from Connie and sighted on me. Every muscle in my body tensed as I prepared for the coming bullet. Instead there was the sound of tortured metal from overhead. I looked up just as a giant light hurtled down, clipping Jondin’s wrist and hand as it passed. The pistol fell from her hand. Whimpering, she gripped her clearly broken wrist. The light hit the ground with a horrendous crash, and the lens exploded, sending glass in all directions. One chip gouged my shoulder, but the bulk of the shards hit Jondin in the face. She transferred her hands to her face and the whimpers became screams.

  The pistol lay on the floor just in front of her. I wondered if I could reach it before her. I decided to try. I changed course and ran straight at her. Behind the set a huge electrical panel spat sparks like a roman candle. As I passed Consuela I screamed out, “Run!”

  She did and then I stumbled on the metal track that was laid across the floor. Arms windmilling I tried to keep on my feet, but gravity won. I went down. The edges of the track dug painfully into my neck and back. I faintly heard the whining of a motor. Jondin strode over and only stopped once she stood directly over me. Blood pumped from the myriad cuts on her face and stained the front of her shirt. She was standing between the rails of the track.

  She raised the Uzi on its strap. The barrel lifted, sighted down at me. Because of her broken wrist she had the gun balanced on her forearm. It would affect her aim, but not enough: the Uzi fired a lot of rounds—there was no way they were all going to miss. I considered just closing my eyes so I wouldn’t see death coming, but I couldn’t. I struggled to regain my feet. A shadow loomed against the wall of the set. I looked past Jondin: the remote camera was running down the track at an alarming clip.

  Jondin’s finger tightened on the trigger just as the protruding lens on the camera slammed into the back of her head. The shots went wide. Then the body of the camera hit her heels and back and knocked her flat. The camera tried to roll over her body, but lost balance and crashed onto its side.

  Jeff came running
past me, yanked the Uzi out of Jondin’s hands, and flung it aside. He then landed hard on her back, and searched her for more guns. He found two—both pistols, one a tiny lady’s-handbag derringer. Then Connie rushed back out and began treating people. Outside sirens were wailing, drawing ever closer. The electrical panel gave one final massive spark and every light on the soundstage went out.

  People screamed again. Then the stage door slammed open allowing in the sunlight, and I saw the silhouette of a fireman. Within moments the stage was filled with EMTs, firefighters, and security guards. Eventually the real police arrived. That’s when I allowed myself to start crying.

  * * *

  Being present at the scene of a hideous mass murder with a world-famous actor means you don’t get dragged down to the police station to give your statement and you get treated with kid gloves. Which is how I found myself seated in a large, deep armchair in the office of Chip Diggins, current head of Warner Bros. Plush carpet underfoot, an acre-wide desk that looked like it had been tiled with pink message slips, and a pile of scripts walling off one side. More scripts, and a selection of current bestsellers filled a bookcase. The office was on the top floor of one of the historic buildings, and the windows looked out toward the back lot and the park.

  Lights were beginning to flick on across the studio as night slunk in. Out in the park Christmas lights twinkled in the trees. They were either filming some kind of Christmas movie or really lazy about taking down decorations.

  Diggins himself was on the phone talking in hushed tones. If I had to bet, I’d say it was the studio lawyers or PR people. Either group was going to have their hands full dealing with the situation.

  I shivered and took a sip of tea. The mug was warm comfort against my palms, but even the hot liquid couldn’t ease the cold terror that still gripped me. I had come so close to dying. Again. If that light hadn’t fallen … if a power surge hadn’t sent the camera careening along the track … if, if, if.

  My shoulder had been cleaned and bandaged by a sympathetic EMT, but my blouse was a complete loss. To keep me decent Diggins had sent his assistant over to the company store. I guess she’d just grabbed the first thing she found, because what I was now wearing was a large T-shirt sporting a picture of the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote.

  The door to the office opened and Jeff came back in. He had gone into the hall to call his wife and assure her that he was all right. The news of the studio massacre had begun to leak out. He checked when he spotted the T-shirt.

  “Yeah, that’s certainly appropriate,” he said.

  “Huh?” was my snappy response.

  “You did definite Road Runner-fu on Jondin”

  “I didn’t do anything. I ran around and then I fell down. You’re the one who disarmed her,” I said.

  Diggins hung up the phone and looked at Jeff. “Not to sound like a total Hollywood asshole, but what the hell are we going to do? We’ve got twenty-three days of film in the can, our director is dead, and our leading man is in the hospital, shot by our leading lady, who is now in jail. And I don’t see how we get her out.”

  I goggled at him. “Are you nuts? Why would you want her out? She killed eleven people and wounded fifteen others. Sixteen if you count me, though I guess it was technically the light…” I firmly shut my mouth so I would stop babbling. “Anyway, you can’t.”

  Jeff looked at Diggins. “Then we’ve got to recast and reshoot.”

  “I’m not sure the studio will support that,” Diggins said.

  Jeff looked sick. “I’ve sunk a lot of my own money into this film. We can’t just fold it.”

  “We’ve got to consider how it looks. The young lady’s right. People are dead.”

  “So, we go to Romania or Latvia and shoot there. Away from the press. Do it quiet.” Jeff was pleading, but Diggins just shook his head. “So, what you’re saying is, ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown,’” Jeff said bitterly. He correctly read my expression as one of complete confusion. “Not a movie buff, huh?” Then he gave a sharp laugh that turned into a choking sob. He turned away and drew his sleeve across his eyes.

  I looked away, wanting to excuse myself. “Pardon me, where’s the restroom?”

  Diggins pointed at a door on the left side of his office. “There’s one in here you can use.”

  It wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. I wanted to go into the bathroom and bawl like a little kid for a minute, but I was stuck. I stood up and the office door opened. Diggins’s assistant escorted in David, who was looking thunderous.

  He crossed to my side in three long strides and took hold of my shoulders. I winced, and he released me like I was hot. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  It was one of those reflexive, stupid statements that make you want to scream at the person, No, I’m not all right. I just saw eleven people killed right in front of me. But I didn’t say that, since he did seem honestly concerned. I settled for a nod.

  “What?” Diggins said. I looked around, confused by the question, but it had been directed to the assistant.

  “Sorry, Chip, but the lead detective is really insistent about talking with Mr. Montolbano and Ms. Ellery.”

  David stepped in. “Tell him we’ll have both of them available tomorrow morning.” He quirked an eyebrow at Jeff. “I assume you won’t object if we involve Ishmael, McGillary and Gold?”

  “Why would I need a lawyer?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s a good idea to always have representation when you’re dealing with the police,” I said.

  “Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. And I didn’t have a lawyer when my house got robbed last year. I just told the cops what happened, they took a statement, and then nothing happened. Never got back a single item.” He seemed to realize he was babbling because he abruptly shut up.

  “Burglary is one thing. You witnessed murder today,” I said.

  “And you were the victim when your house was robbed,” David added.

  “Well, I can tell you I found today’s events pretty damn victimizing,” Jeff said.

  David twitched a shoulder impatiently. “Not the same.”

  I stepped in. “Look, Jeff, I’m going to be taking someone—”

  “That would be me,” David interrupted.

  “Thanks.” I hoped I’d successfully hid my surprise. I then added, “Point is, I’m a lawyer and I’m going to take a lawyer.” I was also remembering the long hours in a police station in Bayonne, New Jersey, after werewolves had attacked and killed an old man and damned near killed me. Hours in which I’d had no help, and for a time it looked like I was going to be charged with murder. That time John had come and taken me home. I blinked hard at the fresh rush of tears.

  David pushed his argument. “If you go now, Jeff, you won’t get home until three or four in the morning. You’ve all been through a shocking experience. You’ll be fresher in the morning.”

  “And they’ll argue that memories will fade,” Montolbano said. He gave a sick little smile. “I played a cop in four Knight Shield movies, did some ride-alongs. Makes me an expert, right?” He paused and shivered. “Truthfully, I don’t think the memory will ever fade. Never seen anything like that.”

  “Who’s going to tell the cops?” Diggins asked. “I’m sure as hell not making Cindi.” The assistant looked grateful. “And I’m not real keen on doing it myself.”

  “I’ll handle it,” David said. He turned to Jeff. “Go home. We’ll call you in the morning with the details.”

  “That’s another issue,” Cindi said. “The press is seven deep at every gate. How do we get him out?”

  Diggins considered, then said, “Call one of the limo companies. Have them send a big white stretch to the main gate. Have somebody leak that it’s for Montolbano. That should pull most of them off the other gates.”

  “My car’s pretty recognizable,” Jeff said.

  “Would you be willing to let Cindi take you home?” Diggins asked. Cindi tried to look blasé, but I saw the excitement be
neath the weary industry sophisticate.

  Jeff gave her that patented smile, though it seemed a little rough around the edges. “Sure. That would be fine.”

  “It’s just a Prius,” she said apologetically.

  Diggins looked at David. David took my hand. The icy touch removed any warmth supplied by the tea. “I’ll handle getting us out. Just tell me which of these other gates to use.”

  8

  “We need to go get my car. It’s still at the office,” I said, as David led me across a parking lot.

  Overhead the sky was lit by city glow and not a star was visible. Bushes with heavy palmlike branches rattled in a sharp breeze that carried the smell of exhaust and, maybe very faintly, the smell of the ocean.

  “It can wait. Right now I’m going to get you back to your apartment.” He pulled out keys, and hit the unlock button. The headlights flashed on a blue Sebring, and the interior lights came on.

  “You drove yourself,” I said rather stupidly. It wasn’t all that common with vampires. Servants were part of a vampire’s life. Even the awful Ryan had a driver. It was also another clue to the mystery that was David. Either he’d learned to drive before he was turned, which meant he wasn’t that old by vampire standards, or he’d learned afterward, which indicated that he wanted very badly to integrate into human society.

  “I can drive. Also, it’s the middle of the night. I didn’t want to roust Kobe this late.”

  “That was nice of you,” I said as David opened the passenger door for me.

  “Meaning surprising and unexpected?” he asked.

  “Well, yes. You’re polite, but you’re not considerate.” I immediately cursed my too ready and blunt tongue.

  He leaned into the car. “Meaning me in particular or vampires in general?”

  Well, may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. “Both,” I said.