2 Death Makes the Cut (16 page)

My phone rang in my purse. Instantly, every head on the set whipped around to glare at me. I felt like a gazelle accidentally stumbling into a pride of lions. Lions with serious anger management issues. Backing away, I dug in my purse and yanked the phone open without even looking to see who it was, then hurried away into the cover of trees as quickly as I could.

Raising the phone to my ear, I heard a voice on the other end saying “Hello?”

“Hello? Who is this?” I asked. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

The West Texas accent of the next few words identified him as much as what he said. “Colin Gallagher. Are y’all all right? You sound like you’re running.”

I gave a muted laugh. “One more ring and I would have been the victim of a lynch mob.”

I kept walking to be sure I was out of hearing range of the crew. The path took a sharp turn to the left, then merged with a long low ramp of concrete serving as a bridge over the creek for which Slaughter Creek Park had been named. We’d had a particularly rainy summer, which meant that the water, though not flowing, still formed a puddle or two nestling in the rocky bed. The stones were mostly limestone, white and lumpy, ranging in size from softballs to M&M’s. One or two trees leaning from the bank were gently turning from green to gold, and a breeze stirred like a whisper through a soft fall of brown leaves at their base. I stopped on the bridge, enchanted.

Colin sounded amused. “Lynch mob, huh? What, are you at a library?”

“Better than that. I’m on a movie set,” I said and explained where I was. Halfway through, I stopped in midsentence, suddenly remembering that I was furious with him. “I’m sure you don’t care about this. Why did you call?”

If he noticed the ice in my tone, he did not give any indication. “I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Would it be all right if I came by?”

More questions? Now what? “Now’s not a very good time. I have to stay with the kids. Can you ask me quickly?”

“No, but it can wait. When will you be done there?”

“I don’t know.”

From a little way away, I could hear the sound of feet on the gravel path drawing closer. I wondered if someone from the film crew was coming to tell me to keep it down. I walked down the concrete embankment and into the dry streambed, thinking that I surely wouldn’t bother anyone there.

He thought for moment, then said, “They’ll have to be wrapping it up before it gets dark. Tell you what, why don’t you give me a call when you’re done, and I’ll swing by?”

I hesitated, torn between curiosity and the desire for petty vengeance. At last, I said, “Okay. But I can’t promise when it will be.”

“I’ll be here,” he said in a cheerful tone.

I hung up without saying good-bye. That will teach him, I thought, then almost laughed out loud. Detective or not, he was still a man. He probably hadn’t even noticed.

I was just turning back toward the film crew, intending to rejoin my kids, when I heard a sound behind me. One stone clicked against another, very close. With a flash of fear, I jerked around, but not fast enough. I saw only a blur of movement, a raised arm against the blinding brilliance of the sun, then a blow to my temple.

I fell hard, stunned and helpless, my phone flying out of my hand and clattering against the stones some distance away. Blood streamed instantly and profusely into my eyes, blinding me. I tried to rise, or at least lift my head, but the world swayed back and forth, leaving me sick and dizzy. I clutched the rocks of the streambed, trying to figure out what had happened. A figure moved beside me, and out of blurred eyes I saw an arm holding a rock the size of a grapefruit raised above me. Instinctively throwing an arm over my head, I curled into a protective ball, which probably saved my life. The second blow, harder than the first, glanced off my upper arm and shoulder, an agonizing strike that drew a cry from my lips. A blow meant to kill. Scrubbing at the blood in my eyes, I tried to roll away, but my body didn’t seem to want to obey my screaming mind. I managed to flop into a puddle, but I knew it wasn’t far enough. A splash told me my attacker had leaped after me. I knew I was dead.

A scream and the sound of running feet from the direction of the movie set saved me. My attacker checked, aimed a last savage kick into my side, then turned and fled. I tried to see who it was, but could only make out a figure in blue. Sobbing and gasping, I lay still for what seemed a long time, head spinning, trying not to throw up. My arm and shoulder felt like they were on fire and my ribs ached, but the worst was my head, where there was more throbbing going on than in a romance novel.

Move, I told myself. Nothing happened. It felt like the horrible dream that comes halfway between wakefulness and sleep when your body is paralyzed. Move, I told myself again. And this time, slowly and reluctantly, my body obeyed. I couldn’t stand, but I made it onto hands and knees and crawled out of the puddle and across stones to the concrete rise. I wasn’t sure I could make it up the three-foot incline, but somehow my tennis shoes scrabbled against the rough surface and found purchase. I dragged myself to the top. Disoriented, I wasn’t sure which way to go, but the sound of voices to my right pulled me in that direction.

The feel of crushed gravel cutting into my palms provided the incentive I needed to try to stand. I pushed myself up, the world dipping and whirling as I did so. Swaying, I made it to an upright position and staggered forward. Blood still poured freely down the side of my face, spilling onto my white shirt and dripping onto my legs and the ground, although at least now I could see out of one eye. A few more paces, and I made it around the bend in the path, reeling drunkenly into the clearing where the camera crew waited.

To my shock, I was met by a chorus of screams, and a herd of panicked tennis kids sprinting toward me, looking over their shoulders as they ran as though being chased. Terrified they would run me over, I held up bloody hands to ward them off, and they balked and scattered like startled horses, parting and flowing around me. As they passed, I thought I saw huge gray shapes in hot pursuit, running beside a camera rolling like a freight train on silver rails. I caught one glimpse of Michael Dupre’s astonished eyes, and then I collapsed.

Chapter 10

MUGGINGS AND MOTIVES

The next bit was pretty much a blur. I heard someone yell, “Cut!” and within seconds I was surrounded by a chorus of disembodied voices. I was vaguely aware of Brittany’s face, then Dillon’s, but I couldn’t seem to focus on anyone in particular. In the background Michael Dupre was yelling at someone in a particularly penetrating voice.

“Was this your idea? No one fucks with my shots, do you hear me? Did you plan this? Did you actually think it would work?”

Wow, someone was in big trouble. I wondered who it was.

Then someone said, “I think she’s really hurt.”

“Is that real blood?”

“For God’s sakes, someone call an ambulance.”

Someone was hurt? Was it one of my kids? I tried to lift my head to find out, then realized they were probably talking about me. It didn’t really feel so bad lying on my back like this. I just wished everything would stop tilting and that other people would stop shouting. I wanted to tell them about the guy who’d hit me, to tell them to go after him, that he was dangerous and needed arresting, but I must have gone to sleep instead. I have a fuzzy memory of being lifted onto a stretcher, of riding in the back of a rocking ambulance, and of getting very sick over someone’s very white shoes. Other than that, I have no idea where the next few hours went.

When I finally became myself again, I was lying in a hospital bed, and Kyla was sitting in the visitor chair reading a magazine. She looked pale and uncomfortable, shoulders loosely wrapped in a hospital blanket, hair slightly askew on one side as though she’d been asleep. I looked at her fondly, absurdly glad that I wasn’t alone.

I stirred, trying to find my voice, but she was instantly alert and at my side.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, then went on without waiting for me to respond. “Everything is fine. You are doing great, nothing to worry about at all. You’re in the hospital.”

I opened my mouth again, and she continued, not giving me a chance to speak. “The tennis kids have gone home, I’ve taken care of Belle, the school knows what happened, and I decided not to call your mom and dad since you’re going to be just fine.”

I closed my mouth and looked at her, impressed. In two sentences she’d told me everything I really needed to know.

“Not bad,” I croaked out, throat as dry as summer. “How long did you work on that?”

She looked taken aback for a second, then broke into a wide grin. “Guess you’re not brain damaged after all. Or at least not more than before.”

I gingerly raised my right hand to my head. The left was hooked up to about a thousand tubes. Well, one tube, but it felt like more. I hated needles. My head seemed to be wrapped in bandages, and, despite whatever was dripping into my arm, it ached like a hillbilly’s last tooth.

“So how bad is it?”

“Just a mild concussion. Not even a linear fracture, whatever that is, although they seemed to be worried about it for a while. No internal bleeding. All is well. Except, according to some kid named Dillon, you looked like ‘Freddy Krueger’s latest’ when they brought you in. That’s a quote, by the way. He was pretty hyped up.”

“He’s not still here?” I asked, alarmed.

“Not anymore. He and the rest of them insisted on coming with you to the hospital, and if you’ll believe it, that film crew loaded them on the bus and brought them. Michael Dupre himself even stopped by,” she added in an impressed tone.

“I … wait, you know who Michael Dupre is?”

“Well, duh. Everyone knows who Michael Dupre is. He’s pretty hot, too,” she added with a gleam in her eye. “Even in person. So many of those film types look tiny off screen, but he’s all right.”

“So glad you approve. What happened to the kids?”

She shrugged. “A nurse came in and had a cow when she saw them, so they left. I assume the film crew dropped them back at the school. Anyway, who cares about all that? What happened to you? No one can figure it out. One minute you were wandering off, talking on your cell phone, and the next thing anyone knew you were covered in blood. Did you fall?”

I stared at her, appalled. “Well, only after someone tried to kill me. Are you telling me no one is out looking for the guy?” I struggled to sit up.

“Hey, don’t do that!” she protested, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t be moving around yet.”

“I have to call the police,” I told her. “Someone tried to kill me.”

For a moment I could see that she wasn’t sure whether to believe me, but then her expression hardened. “Look, promise me you won’t move, and I’ll go and call Detective Gallagher. He’s been by twice, asking after you. He wanted me to call him the minute you woke up anyway.”

“He did?”

“Yup. So, let me go call.”

“Call here.”

She looked embarrassed. “They threatened to confiscate my cell phone if they caught me talking on it again. I’ll be right back.”

In my semidazed state, this seemed reasonable until the door closed behind her and I actually thought about it. Then I caught sight of the bedside phone and realized that she hadn’t wanted me to hear whatever it was she was going to say. I wasn’t sure what that meant. A number of unkind thoughts crossed my mind, ranging from thinking she needed privacy because she did not believe me and wanted to say I was raving or that she wanted to flirt with Colin. Either way, I decided I did not have enough energy to worry about it and found myself drifting into a light doze.

The next time I opened my eyes, Colin Gallagher was sitting in the chair by my bedside, thumbing through a magazine. Someone had turned off the glaring overhead lights, and the room was lit by the bluish fluorescent glow from the light strip above my bed. A curtain was drawn across the window to my left, but a slim gap revealed a night sky. Kyla was nowhere to be seen.

Colin looked up from his magazine and smiled. He was wearing a pale dress shirt, tie loosened and collar unbuttoned. The unnatural hospital lighting cast odd shadows, stripping the color from everything it touched, streaming over his high cheekbones and the planes of his face, turning his eyes into black pools under their dark brows. He looked tired.

He said, “Awake at last. How are you feeling?”

I struggled to sit up, feeling the sharp ache return to my head, but not as bad as before. Colin leaned forward and pushed a button, raising the head of my bed a few inches.

“Too early to tell. What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “About three o’clock. In the morning. I sent your sister home—she was beat.”

“Cousin,” I corrected automatically. But I was glad Kyla had gone home.

Colin rose and poured me a cup of water without being asked. I sipped gratefully, pretty sure some animal had crawled into my mouth and used it as a litter box while I slept. Lifting a cautious hand to my head, I explored the bandages stretching across my forehead and temple.

“It’s not too bad,” he said. “You have a pretty good shiner, but the swelling is already going down.”

“A shiner? You mean a black eye? Me?” My voice squeaked in alarm. “Mirror. I need a mirror.” I threw back the blankets, then realized I was still attached to tubes.

He put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back in alarm. “Don’t try to get up.”

I frowned, then had another thought. “Purse. Where’s my purse? I have a mirror in there.”

A wardrobe was built into the wall on the far side of my bed. He hurriedly opened the door. “Nothing here.”

“Someone stole my purse?” My voice rose to something uncomfortably close to a shriek.

He made placating gestures with his hands. “No, no. I doubt it. I’m sure your cousin took it for safekeeping. Now why don’t you calm down? The black eye isn’t going anywhere. You’ll be able to see it in the morning. It’ll probably be even more impressive then.”