Exit Strategy (17 page)

“Jackson,” he told the hostess. “With an x.”

Even now, ten years after his agent gave him the moniker, he felt silly saying it. Invariably, the other person frowned, not understanding. It wasn’t like saying “Brandy with an i.” Who the hell put an x in Jackson?

“J-A-X-S-O-N,” he said when the hostess’s brow knitted.

“And your first name, Mr. Jaxson?” she said as she wrote it down beside the reservation list. Before he could answer, her baby blues went double-wide. “Oh, my God.
That
Jaxson. I’m so sorry. I should have recognized—”

“That’s okay. Some days, I’m happy being anonymous. After
No Holds Barred,
I didn’t want to be recognized for months.”

Ba-dum-dum. A line he’d used a thousand times, and not worth a snicker, much less the guffaw the hostess gave it. That’s the hell of being famous. Everything that leaves your mouth is profoundly witty, profoundly charming, profoundly profound.

“Will your guest be joining you later?” the hostess asked as she led him through the darkened restaurant.

“She just got a casting call about an hour ago,” Jaxson said. “She might be late.”

The hostess smiled, nodded, promised to keep an eye out, all the time doubtless wondering which starlet Jaxson (Jackson…with an x) was bedding now. He almost felt guilty, as if he were robbing her of some bit of gossip she could sell or barter on the social market. No one would be joining him. There was no starlet. There was Melanie, a med student, but she was neck-deep in her internship and had no time—or patience—for media.

Instead, he ate lunch with the
Washington Post
. He plowed through his garlic fettuccine—screw the carbs—and finished up with a slice of chocolate cake—double-screw them. He wasn’t in L.A. today, so he didn’t need to play by L.A. rules.

After lunch he signed an autograph for the server and left her a twenty as a tip—more than his meal cost, but not so long ago he’d been waiting tables himself. Since he’d graduated from rehab, he had precious little to spend his money on. He might as well give a bit to someone who could use it.

Onto the street. Not much danger of being hounded for autographs here. This town might be small but, having attained a certain cachet in Hollywood circles, it saw stars quadruple his caliber every day.

Earlier, circling for a parking spot, he’d seen a conservation area. He could use the solitude, and the exercise after that meal.

He turned around, orienting himself, then spotted treetops to the east and set out.

He’d been trolling all day. Time for a West Coast hit, and this town seemed as likely as any. For hours he’d browsed the shops, tossed bills to the street performers, amused himself running through his options. Tourist, townie, celebrity…tourist, townie, celebrity. There was much to be said for each choice. And there was much to be said for not choosing at all, for simply targeting the first person who came into view.

The woman in Boston had been his first taste of the truly random. Set a trap and whoever falls for it, dies. The thrill of that still hadn’t left his bones. The power of it. Power over even his own conscience. It didn’t matter who’d walked through that stairwell door—an adolescent paper-boy, a pregnant woman, an old man—they would have died because that’s what he’d decided and he wouldn’t renege on the deal.

He’d been strolling the main street, savoring his options, when he’d seen the young man. He wasn’t the first actor to walk past. He wasn’t the biggest. But the young man tweaked a memory of sitting in a dentist’s office, flipping through an entertainment magazine. He’d been in there, this pretty-boy actor with the ridiculously spelled name. A chill of delicious déjà vu ran through him. Jaxson, model turned forgettable actor. Sharon Tate, model turned forgettable actress. Perfect.

He’d watched the young man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, clean-shaven and polite, stepping aside for others, apologizing when he bumped a passerby, never disappointed when the object of his courtesy didn’t leap up and ask for an autograph.

Better and better. The portrait of Sharon Tate painted in
Helter Skelter
was of a good, sweet-natured girl, the antithesis of the spoiled starlet. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t, but it mattered little how someone really behaved, only how she was remembered.

He thought about the page in his pocket. A court scene. No mention of Tate. Too bad…or maybe not. Think of all the overeducated experts he’d rob of a paycheck if he was too obvious. He could see them now, pale-faced professors scrabbling over their stacks of books. A jolt of excitement in flatlined lives. Who was he to take that from them?

Tagging along behind a group of chattering retirees, he followed Jaxson to the edge of a conservation area. As the seniors stopped to snap photos, Jaxson’s light gray sweatshirt disappeared down a wooded path and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. If he believed in ESP, he’d almost think that somehow he’d sent out signals, directing Jaxson to the best possible spot for a kill. The strong mind dominating the weak.

He allowed himself a brief smile, broke away from the tour group and headed into the woods.

In the beginning, there was a plan. And it was a good plan. But it wasn’t very interesting. It wasn’t supposed to be interesting. But, to his surprise, after all these years, the act of killing came with a rush of power, a charge of adrenaline, an excitement that bordered on the sexual. It was as astonishing as waking one morning and getting a hard-on from brushing your teeth.

Jaxson’s pale shirt flashed between trees, appearing and disappearing like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. He kept his eyes trained on his target, ears mapping its path when that shirt slipped from view. Undergrowth crunched steadily under the young man’s footfalls, and the birds quieted as he approached.

Time to get closer.

He was near enough to smell the actor’s cologne, harsh against the subtle smells of nature. Near enough to hear him breathing. Inhale, exhale, the rhythm of life. Moving faster, closer, he felt the first twinge in his crotch, a spark of excitement that would remain but a spark. The power of control. He slid his finger along the ice pick and pulled it from his jacket.

Then, with only a curtain of forest between them, he stopped. It suddenly occurred to him that he had more choices than how to kill and whom to kill and where to kill. He could choose whether to kill. Push to the brink and stop.

When he stopped short, he expected the spark to dwindle, to recede into disappointment. Instead, it surged into a full-blown, fly-splitting erection. He stood there, the ice pick in one hand, and let the other fall to his crotch. One caress, so firm it made his eyelids flutter. Then he put the pick back in his pocket, turned and walked away.

The power of control.

The power of choice.

EIGHTEEN

It was only after we left Evelyn’s house that I realized I was hardly dressed for dinner. The jeans and pullover were bad enough, but the wash-and-wear hair and zero makeup had me cringing. Jack was still in a variation on his “aging biker” getup, complete with garish forearm tattoo, so obviously we weren’t dining at any place with a dress code, but I still vowed to make a dash for the washroom when we arrived.

As it turned out, I was glad I had some grooming supplies in my purse, because his choice of restaurant was a steak house. Not a “slap the meat in a frying pan” type, but one where the server brings out a steak for your inspection before cooking it. We had to wait as the hostess scrambled to clear tables for the extended family in front of us, so I had time to slip into the bathroom to touch up and to scrub for dinner. When I came back, Jack was still waiting.

“Is Evelyn going to be upset?” I whispered as the server showed us to our table. “Us taking off on her?”

“Nah. Not here. Hates this place. She likes fussy food. Fancy.” He glanced over at me, frowning slightly. “This okay? With you? Should have asked.”

“This is great. I like food that covers the plate, not decorates it.”

A small smile. “Good.”

The hostess tried to seat us near the kitchen doors, but Jack redirected her to a small room they hadn’t started filling yet. Our table was tiny, but private, the noise of other diners only a distant murmur. The lights were low. Too low really. Nice for atmosphere—not so good for reading menus. When I noticed Jack squinting at his, I borrowed his matches and lit our oil lamp. It sputtered a moment, acrid smoke filling the air, then lit, casting a wavering yellow glow over the table.

Jack considered the wine list, but seemed relieved when I said I’d be having a mixed drink instead. I ordered a Caesar, then—seeing the server’s blank look—changed it to a Bloody Mary. Jack got draft beer.

For our meals, we both chose steaks, with vegetables on the side and loaded baked potatoes. Add on an appetizer, plus the bread they brought with our drinks, and it was probably enough calories to last a week. But after grazing on fast food for days, I considered this healthy eating. At least there would be something green on my plate.

“Today go okay?” Jack asked when the server left.

“You mean with Evelyn?”

He nodded.

“It seemed fine.”

He hesitated, his gaze sliding to mine, searching. After a moment, he broke away and nodded, satisfied.

“If you were worried she was going to pester me about the protégée thing, it didn’t happen. She hinted about better jobs, but didn’t pursue it. I think she’s changed her mind about my suitability.”

Another pause, butter knife raised. Then another nod. He speared one of the bread slices with the knife, offering it to me. I took it. Then the server arrived with the appetizer, and I asked how his trip to Illinois had gone.

As I sipped my Bloody Mary, I thought about how long it had been since I’d had something like a “date dinner.” Not that I’d mistaken this for a date, but the general scenario—sitting in a semidark restaurant, enjoying drinks and conversation with a man over a long, leisurely meal—was one I hadn’t experienced in a while.

Three years since my last relationship. Even that had been casual. My last serious one was six years ago, when I’d been “preengaged.”

That had been Eric’s word for it. He’d even bought me a preengagement ring. It’d been a joke, something to placate his mother, who kept looking at me with visions of grandchildren in her eyes, but after a while, I think it became reality for Eric, and maybe even for me, the idea that we really were headed toward engagement. I didn’t need to get married. But I
could,
with the right guy. And if there was a right guy, Eric was it.

He was a firefighter. My first firefighter, I always teased. When it came to dating, I had a definite “type.” Men in uniform, and it had nothing to do with symbols of authority setting my libido aflutter. I’d grown up in that culture. Lived it, breathed it, loved it. Born to a family of cops. Practically grew up at the station. Raised by the force, as they’d joke. So I’d dated cops, with the odd military officer thrown in for variety. I understood guys like that. I was comfortable with them. Dating a firefighter hadn’t been much of a stretch.

It had been a good time of my life. The right time for someone like Eric. I had my problems, but I’d learned to control them. Then along came Wayne Franco.

When I shot Franco, Eric tried to hide his shock, tried to convince me—and, through me, himself—that it had been an uncharacteristic act brought on by overwork, stress and anxiety over Dawn Collins’s murder.

In the aftermath, Eric stood by me, even when his superiors started “suggesting” he might want to take a vacation, get out of town while all this was going on. Seeing that pressure on him, I did the right thing. I told him I could handle this myself and suggested he step back. To my surprise and, yes, my disappointment, he’d done just that. And I’d realized that he’d supported me not because he believed in me, but because he believed it was the right thing to do, the noble thing to do.

After almost a week passed and he hadn’t called, I phoned and told him where he could stick his nobility.

We never spoke again.

The food arrived as Jack and I were scraping up the last of the crab dip. My steak was a decent size—I’d turned down the “smaller” portion offered by the server—but Jack’s took up most of his plate, so big they had to serve the potato separately.

We both started to eat, quiet for a few minutes, relishing the food. After a moment, Jack paused to watch me, as if making sure I was enjoying it.

“This is great,” I said, tapping the steak. “I haven’t had one like this in a long time.”

“Yeah?” He waved his fork over his plate. “To Evelyn? This is workman’s food. Me? Growing up? Rich people’s food. We’d dream about eating like this. See it in movies, magazines.” He cut off a generous slice. “I was a kid? Used to brag. Saying I’d be rich. Live in America. Eat steak every day.”

I smiled. “Did you ever do that?”

“Tried. After my first big job? Ate at places like this almost two weeks straight. Made myself sick.”