After She's Gone (30 page)

She was about to protest again, but bit her tongue.
Wouldn’t you have thought exactly the same thing? Wouldn’t you have leaped to that very conclusion? Especially after watching the episode of
Justice: Stone Cold?
After seeing images of Allie splashed all over the screen, and the text came through, wouldn’t you immediately think of her?

“So maybe I overreacted. Sue me,” McNary grumbled as he took a final drag on his cigarette then tossed the butt out the window, the red tip arcing to die in the rain.

“You should take this to the police.”

“I thought you didn’t think it was Allie,” he said with a bit of a sneer. Once again, she remembered why she didn’t like him. There was something supercilious about him, something shifty. McNary, she reminded herself, was always looking out for McNary.

“I don’t know who sent you the text, but still, you should let the cops know.” She frowned, thought about telling him about the warped mask she’d found in her suitcase, then reconsidered. She and Brandon McNary weren’t working together to find Allie, no matter how he acted. She owed him nothing.

“You could have just told me,” she said.

“I thought it would have more impact if you saw it yourself.”

She wrapped her fingers over the door handle, but before she could let herself out, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll drive you to your car.”

“It’s just around the corner.”

Did his fingers clench a little over her upper arm? Did his expression darken a bit?

“Only a couple of blocks. I need the air.” She opened the door and half expected him to try to restrain her.

He dropped his hand. “Oh, and Cassie,” he said before she slammed the door shut. “Give Cherise a break, would ya? I know you don’t like it that she’s working for me now, but it’s not her fault that Allie . . .” He let the end of the sentence slide and started the engine.

“That Allie what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said under his breath as he rammed the Tahoe into gear. “I guess nothing does.”

She barely got the door slammed and had stepped away from his SUV before he gunned the engine, narrowly missing the car parked in front of him as he took off with a roar and chirp of tires.

What a waste of time. All she’d learned was that
someone
had texted McNary, or he’d done it himself. It wasn’t beneath him to use this as a ploy for publicity. The man ate up everything written about him, good or bad. He enjoyed being the Hollywood bad boy and it didn’t bother him a bit that his face was plastered all over the tabloids, and he was fodder for the gossip mills. He loved it. Once, she’d overheard him say to Allie, “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

She started walking away, half surprised no reporter had been purposely tipped off about their private meeting. It would be just like McNary to set that up, another way to keep his name trending on social media. Her stomach turned at the headlines:
Star of
Dead Heat
Caught with Missing Costar’s Sister
. No, make that Married
Sister
.

Yeah, she should never have come here.

As she hurried through the rain, she noticed the streets were now nearly deserted, the night thick, the glow from the streetlamps watery and weak. She pulled her cell from her purse and saw that Trent hadn’t called again. Nor had he responded to her text. She figured she’d call him when she was driving east. For now, she didn’t want to be too distracted, needed to be aware.

Her car was parked in a space she’d found near a hospital, only a few blocks from the restaurant. She half jogged along the sidewalk, not waiting for the pedestrian crossing lights to change, feeling suddenly anxious and alone. She considered calling Trent, just to hear his voice, but she didn’t want to go into everything with McNary yet.

Her breath fogged. Her head still ached. The park was eerily empty as she passed it, a stray dog sniffing a trash can, the distant sound of the freeway a steady hum. The storefronts were lit only by security lamps, a few of the apartments rising above showing warm patches of light or the flickering blue illumination of a television, though most of the windows were dark, the world asleep.

Jabbing her hands deep in her pockets, she felt the rain drumming against her hood. She turned a final corner and heard a hint of footsteps behind her. Someone else out this late at night? Her pulse leaped. The footfalls worried her a bit and she turned, trying to see around the edge of her hood, but she could see no one.

Still, she definitely heard steps running behind her through these empty city streets.

The hospital, a red brick edifice, was only two blocks away. If someone were really following her, she could walk inside. Sure, there were security people who would be questioning her before allowing entrance, but that would be fine. More than fine.

The footfalls seemed to increase over the insistent pounding of the rain.

Cassie broke into a run. Rain slid down her face and she kicked up water, her shoes sodden. But she didn’t care. The hospital was close. A behemoth of a structure that was, at its heart, over a hundred years old, though it had gone through several renovations to modernize and expand it over the past century. Now the hospital and surrounding clinics were connected by sky bridges and tunnels and sprawled over several city blocks.

Rounding a corner, she saw the red letters for the Emergency Room burning brightly through the curtain of rain. Thank God!

The footsteps behind her seemed to quicken.

Breathing hard, Cassie craned her neck, this time looking behind her a little frantically.

Was she imagining the sounds?

Where the hell was the runner, the person following her?

“Hey!” a deep voice shouted.

She stopped short, tripped, pitched forward.

Her heart flew to her throat.

Meaty hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, and she shrieked as she nearly stumbled into a huge bear of a man wearing a long, black coat, hat, and boots. “Watch where you’re going!” he admonished as she fought back panic. His face too was wet from the rain, his eyes black as coal. “Hey, now, what’s wrong?” he asked, and she realized his expression, at first startled, had turned to one of concern. Six foot two, if he were an inch, and African-American, he peered down at her. “You in some kind of trouble, miss?” And then she saw the white clerical collar peeking out from under his jacket.

“No . . . no . . .” She twisted her head around to the empty street behind her. No one was there. No one, not even a jogger out for a night workout. She swallowed back her fear and cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she insisted, though her voice sounded weak and high-pitched.

Slowly he released her. “You’re sure? ’Cuz you look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I—I’m sorry. Really. I’m okay.” She was backing up, hoping she didn’t run into someone else.

Dark eyes studied her hard. His eyebrows pulled together and beneath the brim of his hat his forehead creased. “Hey. Wait a minute. Aren’t you that actress everyone’s looking for? Allie . . . oh, man, what’s her name?” He snapped his fingers as if to think.

She turned then and left him staring after her. She headed toward the bright lights of the hospital. He was probably putting two and two together, figuring out who she was, but, thankfully, he was harmless, a man of God.

She’d let herself get scared spitless over nothing. Slowly releasing the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, she dashed through the rain and heard no more footsteps chasing after her. She went past the hospital in search of her car.

The night, aside from a few cars on the street, was still. She’d been foolish, letting her imagination get the better of her. Again. If she wasn’t careful she’d end up back in Mercy Hospital trying to convince Dr. Sherling that she really was sane.

Still, she kept running until she spied her Honda, where she’d left it, parked on the other side of the hospital, closer to the main entrance. Unlocking it on the fly with her key fob, she heard the familiar sound of its beep and saw its lights flash as the locks released. Good. She was breathing hard by now. As she reached the driver’s side, she took a sweeping glance of the back seat, saw it was empty, no bogeyman lying in wait, then slid inside.

Chiding herself for her case of nerves most likely from being a horror film fanatic, she started the car, locked its doors, and tore out of the parking space. She’d call Trent once she was out of the city and she could talk in her normal voice again, once the panic in her bloodstream had totally dissipated. She’d have to cop to the fact that McNary had lured her for God knew what reason on a wild goose chase. She wasn’t looking forward to that.

As she wound her way to the freeway, she passed a coffee shop that was closed for the night. Her headlights reflected on the glass of the storefront and, for just a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman who looked like Allie tucked into the alcove of the doorway. But the woman’s face and upper body were in shadow, only her booted feet and bottom of her jeans really discernible. It was just an image, a thought, probably powered by the fact that she’d been talking about and thinking of her sister all night.

At the next red light, she slowed and while the Honda idled she stared into the rearview mirror. Had it been Allie?

“Stop it,” she said aloud, but her mind kept circling back.

Had she even seen someone in the doorway?

If so, was it a woman?

And then the shadow moved, a figure slipped from the alcove and stood on the street in the pouring rain.

“Allie,” Cassie mouthed, dumbstruck. She rolled down her window. “Allie!” she yelled.

The light turned green. Behind her, a car was approaching. Fast. The driver laid on his horn, then blinked his lights, nearly blinding her, as a bus heading in the opposite direction rolled through the intersection.

Cassie froze. The bus slowed, exhaust pluming, obscuring the face of the building as the van behind her zoomed past, the driver shaking his head. Once the rig was out of the way, Cassie hit the gas and did a quick and very illegal U-turn.

Overhead, a traffic cam flashed.

Crap!

Well, it was just too damned bad. So she got a ticket? So what? It didn’t matter if she could just get to Allie!

The bus, not expecting her to be suddenly upon it, rolled into the lane in front of her. Cassie stood on her brakes.

Her car screeched to a halt, sliding on the wet pavement as the lumbering city bus rolled away, gathering steam and belching exhaust.

Her pulse on overdrive, her headache throbbing, Cassie glanced into the shadowy alcove of the doorway to the coffee shop.

It was empty.

The woman who’d been waiting there had vanished.

 

Brandi Potts’s new running shoes pinched her toes a little and were getting wet as she ran through the city streets. It was later than she liked to run, as it was after midnight. If she weren’t so fast and didn’t always travel with her small canister of pepper spray, she might have been worried. But tonight, pounding through the Portland streets, music pulsing from her iPhone, she felt invincible, just as she always did when her endorphins kicked in. Right now, with the rainfall increasing and only a couple of miles left on her run, those little feel-goods were definitely horse-kicking in.

Around a corner, across a street against the light, faster and faster she tore along the sidewalks and paths, feeling the exhilaration of rain against her face, listening to an up-tempo song from Katy Perry as she cut through the park. The thought of a hot shower, good book, and tumbling into bed were her incentive. That, and needing to have a personal best in her next race.

Soon.

She had her eye on her next marathon. Okay, really if you wanted to get technical, a half marathon, but still. Thirteen-plus miles was nothing to sneeze at, even if her never-going-to-commit boyfriend, Jeff, thought the race was child’s play. What a jerk. She called him a running snob to his face and something a little harsher behind his back. She should break up with him. But
after
she’d finished her full marathon. Only then.
Take that, Jeffrey-Boy!

To train for the upcoming race she was into power walking, racewalking, and, of course, running, which was her workout for tonight though she would have rather avoided this section of town where that damned near-murder took place on the set of
Dead Heat
. Dodging a crazy-ass bicyclist who streaked past, tires zinging in the rain, caused her to veer, shorten her stride. She nearly stumbled, then caught herself and swore. “Bastard! Jerkwad idiot!” Seemingly oblivious, he sped off, gliding away, leaving her seething as she turned down the street where one of the key scenes in
Dead Heat
had been filmed, the very spot where the terrible accident had taken place. Her guts clenched as she thought of the day. She’d been there as an extra in the movie. She’d seen Lucinda Rinaldi stagger and fall, and had immediately sensed something was seriously wrong.

Now, as Brandi found her stride again, she thought about that accident. The police had quickly deduced that Sig Masters, the actor who had fired the gun, hadn’t known the weapons had been switched. Brandi wondered. She’d never liked Masters, considered him a bit of a bully. And he was an actor, so he could probably fool the cops. The only problem was why would he do it?

Motive, motive, motive!

Dead Heat’
s last scene had been changed so many times, who could tell who the intended victim was? Maybe Lucinda Rinaldi, another A-one bitch, had just been caught in the crossfire, literally in the wrong place at the wrong time. At one point Cassie Kramer’s character was supposed to be the second runner, then Allie’s, in a reversal of the sequence during the reshoot. Maybe Sig hoped to kill Cassie or Allie. God knew the two sisters were insufferable in different ways. Cassie, not much of an actress and a mental case to boot, now fancied herself to be a scriptwriter. As if. Then there was Allie, an egomaniac’s egomaniac. It was as if Allie had to prove to everyone else, or maybe herself, that she was a certifiable star.

Brandi turned her head and spit at the thought, never breaking stride. Thinking of the Kramer sisters made her grimace. She didn’t like either one. Having both Allie and Cassie on the same film, in Brandi’s estimation, had been a recipe for disaster. And she’d been right. What had Karen Stenowick been thinking? Casting the two siblings in the same film had been a colossal mistake. Brandi thought the idea of putting the two women in the same film had been a ploy for publicity, as Cassie couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag. There had been rumors Dean Arnette had wanted to lure Jenna Hughes back to the screen by offering her the bit part of psycho aunt to the heroine. Jenna, another head case, had refused and the part had been written out.

All in all,
Dead Heat
might end up being a complete disaster and Lucinda Rinaldi almost paid the ultimate price.

Well, it was all water under the celluloid bridge now.

Brandi kept running.

But thoughts of the accident kept coming to mind as she now was on the same flippin’ street where it had all come down. During the filming she’d sensed the electricity of the set filmed in a real storm, though the lightning and thunder had been faked, of course. But the Portland drizzle, enhanced by sprinklers, had added to the dark mood.

Tonight no one, not one damned soul, was on the street, yet she suddenly had the eerie sensation that someone was watching her. She glanced around quickly. Saw no one. Nonetheless the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. As much as she tried to convince herself that her fears where hyped because of the horrendous accident on the set, that her mind was playing tricks on her, she was still unnerved.

Something was wrong here.

Something evil lurked in the darkened facades of the stores and shops, she could feel it.

The skin on the back of her arms prickled.

Turning down the music, she listened hard. Nothing out of the ordinary. All she heard were raindrops splashing on the ground, water gurgling in gutters and downspouts, her own breathing and . . . were there other footsteps? Quick-paced?
Running?
She swept her gaze anxiously side to side.

The street was empty.

A cold stone settled in the pit of her stomach. She kept moving, kicking it up a notch, her shoes hitting hard against the wet concrete. Only about a mile and a half to go. Then she’d be home where she’d lock the door behind her, tear off her wet clothes, and hit the shower.

Maybe she’d indulge in one glass of wine. Maybe two. Just to calm her jangled nerves.

The night closed in around her, streetlamps glowing ethereally in the dampness, the air heavy in her lungs, but despite the cold, she was sweating, moving through the city. Gritting her teeth she started up the slight hill, felt the strain in her calves and thighs.

Again she heard the sound of footsteps but she attempted to ignore the ridiculous feeling that someone was following her. Come on, who could keep up with her anyway? She chided herself for her case of nerves.

Even if someone else was running, big deal.

It was the damned city, right?

People were out at all hours doing all sorts of things, including getting their miles in. Unless the other runner had a machete or a gun, he had the right to tear up the streets just as she was doing.

Yet, she was edgy.

Something seemed off.

She looked over her shoulder.

Again, nothing.

No one.

She swiped the rain from her eyes and told herself she should have taken an alternate route. Unable to shake the sensation that whoever or
whatever
was following her was getting closer, she yanked the earbud from her ear.

Nothing but the steady drip of the rain.

You’re crazy,
she told herself, and fumbled to put the wet bud back into her ear.

As she poked the earpiece back in, she saw something out of place in the shadows a half block ahead. Movement.

Her heart clutched.

Again, a quick flash of shadow and darkness . . . someone stepping from around the corner of a building, lurking? She squinted. Another jogger? A woman?

Brandi felt a moment’s relief. Just another night owl, maybe out to walk her dog, or have a cigarette or whatever. Nothing to get worried about. Still, she decided it might be wise to cross the street. The woman could be a crackpot or—

Holy shit! Was it . . . ?
Wait a second . . .
She couldn’t believe her eyes. Was the woman out here in the middle of the damned night really Cassie Kramer?

Rain collected on Brandi’s eyelashes. The night was blurry and wet. But the person looked like . . . no, no, no. Wait! Not
Cassie
. The woman in the shadows was Allie effin’ Kramer herself!

Brandi raised an arm. To convey that she recognized Allie, which was ridiculous. But now that she was getting closer . . .

No . . . she was just a woman who looked like one of the Kramer sisters. Her imagination, spurred by adrenaline and her own fears about this damned street, was running amok. She was mistaken. The darkness had confused her.

Nonetheless, the woman was closing the gap between them, coming nearer. As she passed under a streetlamp, she was more visible.

Brandi’s heart nearly stopped.

Something was off with Allie’s face. Or Cassie’s face. Or whoever’s damned face. Whoever this woman was, her visage seemed to be melting off her damned skull! Panic burned through Brandi’s blood. She lunged to the side, intent on crossing the street. Frantically, she unzipped a pocket on her running jacket, reached inside for her can of pepper spray, felt the metal cylinder. Good. Still running, she pulled the can from her pocket and it slipped, rolling off her fingertips to clatter to the street.

“No! Shit!”

She kept running, didn’t have time to try to find the canister or chase it down.

But the woman was too close. Brandi couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t risk dropping her cell.

Spurred by her own fears, she increased her pace, shooting past the other woman and watching from the corner of her eyes, as if in slow motion, the disfigured monster spin, raising her arm, a long-barreled pistol in her hand.

Brandi was sprinting now, her lungs burning, her legs aching. She cut to the sidewalk between two parked cars. If she could just reach the corner—

Her body jerked.

Her legs gave way.

She flew forward, twisting to land hard on the rough street. Her hands scraped, her skull hit the asphalt with a loud crack, the skin ripping off her cheek. Burning pain screamed through her face and everything on the darkened street seemed to turn upside down. Overhead the light was still shining, but there was darkness beyond, the thrum of traffic on the freeway somewhere in the far distance. She heard her own breathing and her heart pumping as she tried to fight the blackness overcoming her and climb to her feet.

Her legs wouldn’t move.

Deep inside she was cold, so very cold, yet she felt a warmth oozing from her. In a distant part of her brain she realized it was blood and wondered vaguely if anyone would come to help her, if she would survive. Then she remembered Lucinda Rinaldi lying on this same street.

Help me,
she thought desperately, and tried to yell, to scream over the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching.

The assassin!

With all her strength, she managed to get her feet beneath her and push, scooting backward on the asphalt, hoping to find some kind of cover or that, please God, someone would come to her rescue.

Her shoulder rammed into a parking meter, jarring her. But she didn’t give up. Wrapping her fingers around the cold metal pole she attempted to pull herself to her feet, over the curb and out of the gutter where water was gurgling in a rush.

She was wobbly, her hands slick and unable to do what her brain commanded.

“Oh, God,” she gasped, tasting salty blood on her lips.

And then the would-be killer was there. Standing in front of her. The woman who had leaped from the shadows to attack her.

Allie Kramer with her weird face. No. Now that her stalker was close she realized the disfigured face with the black eyeholes wasn’t Allie Kramer at all, but the twisted face of Jenna Hughes.

What the hell?

Brandi’s eyes rolled back in her head and as she passed out, she felt her head being lifted, something slick and cool being placed over her face and then there was nothing but blessed, silent darkness.