Rage Factor (26 page)

“Open it!” said the redhead.

Fingers pried the eyelid open. Tape plastered her lashes to her forehead.

The cigarette glowed hotly, a quarter inch from her eyeball. Smoke bit at her nostrils, choking her—but if she coughed, her own movement could bring the glowing tip against her eye.

Her tear ducts spilled over, blurring her vision. Mucus streamed down her lip. Her lungs ached from the effort of not coughing.

“Don’t worry, Trisha,” Raggedy Ann crooned. “I won’t let the cigarette actually touch you. That would leave a mark, wouldn’t it? But the heat alone will raise a blister on that eyeball, swell up big as an egg. And hurt! Remember what Paulie said? Said he thought he’d die, it hurt so bad.”

The heat was a burning auger boring slowly through her brain. The struggle to breathe was like a hot poker turning in her chest.

Patricia tried to remember why she didn’t want to sign their papers. Why shouldn’t she give them Paulie? Why would she want to spend the rest of her life saddled with such a sniveling, whining brat? He’d never been anything but a burden, never learning the lessons she taught him. Why not sign their papers?

She never knew there could be such pain. “Aw—” She choked, trying to steady her wheezing lungs to push out the words. “Awright.”

“All right?”
Raggedy Ann demanded. “All right,
what?
Does ‘all right’ mean you want to sign the papers, Trisha?”

“She wants to sign. Let her go.”

“I want to hear her say it. Trisha, the good Lord wants you to
beg
to sign those papers.”

“I—” She tried to spit the words out, but another spasm of coughing racked her body, her lungs stretched to bursting,
raw, as if they’d been sandpapered. She
could not
breathe. Blackness edged her vision.

“Back off!” snapped the brunette. “Let her sign the damn papers.”

“Beg me, Trisha,” the redhead crooned. “Tell me how much you want to sign. Tell me you’ll be a good girl and get on that plane.
Beg
, Trisha. The way little Paulie begged you to stop hurting him.”

Please Mommy please. Please.
She’d only done what would make him strong! She tried to form words, but her wheezing lungs weren’t drawing any air.

“P—please.”

“She said
please”
Betty Boop cheered.

“Now, back off,” said the brunette.

Then the cigarette was gone but not the pain. The cruel hands released her bonds and Patricia fell. And signed.

Afterward, the hands lifted her, washed, dressed, and transported her, pressed a plane ticket and boarding pass into her grasp. Patricia’s eye swelled shut, but she could breathe again. For an instant she considered turning around and going home. But Raggedy Ann’s breathy whisper propelled her forward, into the airport, onto a plane headed somewhere safe.

Spotting the crowd queuing up for movie tickets, Dixie knew she’d made a mistake bringing Sarina here. Nearly half the people at the cineplex were dressed as space creatures.

“Outstanding! These costumes are all from the first movie,
Star Exile”

“Outstanding” was not the word Dixie would’ve chosen, but the ones that came to mind were not meant for gentle ears. Joanna’s stalker may or may not be in Houston, but this bizarre crowd would make a bodyguard’s job nearly impossible.

“Look!” Sarina pointed to a white Cadillac limousine parked at the curb. “Only the director or producer would arrive in a stretch. Or maybe one of the stars.”

Judging by the girl’s tone, movie stars weren’t nearly as important as production people. Dixie guided her into the ticket line. When she tried to pull away to talk to someone, Dixie held her wrist until they moved inside the lobby, where more bedlam awaited.

“That’s the director.” Sarina pointed to a man wearing a white tuxedo with rhinestone trim and white hand-tooled boots. Two women alongside him wore identical white cocktail dresses, white fur draping their shoulders, rhinestones sparkling at their ears and necks. “The twins were
killed
in
Star Exile.
In this film they come back as cyborgs.”

Dixie raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Half human, half robot.” Sarina skipped forward to join the cluster of groupies eager to speak to the director, but Dixie grabbed her arm.

“A cyborg, is that what you’ve been building with your bits of plastic and metal?”

“Not quite. Different technologies.”

Dixie tugged her toward the concession stand. “Let’s buy some popcorn and find a seat before they’re all taken.”

The number of people milling around made her edgy. It was impossible to tell who they were. Or, in some cases, whether they were male or female.

At the counter, they squeezed between a six-armed serpent and a two-headed gorilla. Dixie ordered popcorn and drinks.

“Anything else?” she asked Sarina.

“Milk Duds. Look, there’s Alroy!”

Sarina shot off across the room before Dixie could collar her. The boy behind the snack counter slapped a candy box beside the other items, and Dixie dropped some bills on the counter, keeping one eye on Sarina. Alroy Duncan had trimmed his light hair and beard for the occasion. Even from the distance, the effects guru’s emerald eyes glowed with intensity. He waved one of the twins over to try on a metallic helmet and torso.

Balancing the cardboard snack tray, Dixie threaded her way among Duncan’s growing audience as he explained how the cyborg costume was created.

“First we make a head mold, right? Then construct the helmet out of polyurethane, and vacuform the body and
arms. The suit’s only used in close-ups, so we stop it here at mid-thigh.”

Fascinated, Dixie watched half the girl’s face disappear behind mechanical eyepieces and knobby protuberances. Like a transformer toy, her right arm and hand converted to a laser blaster.

“How does she operate the laser?” Sarina asked. Puppy-dog enthusiasm gushed through every word.

“She doesn’t. We take care of it off-camera.” Duncan snapped on the cyborg’s left arm, then picked up a remote control module, too small for his broad hand. He turned toward a piranha-faced space creature, a superbly realistic model about the size of a large dog. “Watch this. Ready?”

The twin raised her blaster. Duncan fingered the remote.
Zzzing!
A red beam shot out, striking the creature in the chest. The creature howled; flesh and blood burst from his wound.

A collective gasp issued from the crowd.
Zzzing!
More flesh tore loose.
Zzzing!
The creature screeched and groaned and writhed, and stopped dead.

For a moment, the crowd was silent. Then someone applauded, someone else chuckled, and the whole room broke into applause and cheers.

The first blast had sent Dixie’s adrenaline into overload. It took only a second for her to realize there was no danger, but in that second she also recognized the position she’d be caught in had the gun been real and pointed at Sarina. With her hands full of sodas and popcorn, the only way to stop a bullet was to launch herself in front of the girl. She stashed the tray on empty counter space to free up her hands.

“That one was a puppet, see?” Duncan was saying. “But we do the same thing with body padding.”

Dixie’s heart pounded furiously. She scanned the crowd. If the stalker was here, he’d have been surprised and startled by the shooting, possibly even frightened, before he realized it was staged. Everywhere she looked, though, people were
laughing, talking, immensely entertained. No
reason to think the stalker flew to Houston
, she reminded herself.

But your job is to assume he did.

“Hey, Hap! Tori! You missed it,” Sarina called, darting off again.

Hap Eggert, the red-haired techie from Joanna’s film crew who’d carried the shivering star a wrap, had entered the cineplex with the young woman from wardrobe, Tori Pond. Sarina met the pair mid-lobby and pointed toward the wounded space creature.

Watching the crowd, Dixie strolled toward them. No one seemed to pay undue attention to Sarina as she reenacted the scene for her friends, complete with shooting motions and sound effects.

Eggert’s gangly, freckle-faced friendliness made Dixie think of county fairs, apple pie, and Opie on the old Andy Griffith TV show. Pond was almond-eyed, darkly pretty, and a few years older than Sarina. Before Dixie could reach them, the trio rejoined the cluster around Alroy Duncan.

“Actually, it’s old technology,” Duncan was saying as Dixie walked up. He grinned at his circle of fans. “Seen it a zillion times, right? But it still works.”

“Smooth, though, the way you handled it.” Sarina’s eyes shone.

“Will you present that same outdated technique at Illusions?” Pond asked.

Apparently, the young wardrobe tech wasn’t as taken with Duncan as Sarina was. Perhaps she viewed him as competition.

Duncan twinkled at her. “Along with some nifty computer imaging.”

“Like the fight scene you simulated for
Devil’s Walk?”
Pond challenged. She tossed a guarded look at Sarina. “By the time you finished ‘simulating,’ most of Joanna’s clothes were ripped away—”

“The devil had sharp claws. Or maybe those clothes you
made weren’t constructed for action scenes.” Frowning, Duncan turned away to answer another question.

“What was that all about?” Dixie whispered to Sarina, urging her toward the theater doors.

“Duncan got his big break on
Devils Walk
’cause all the big effects houses were booked up. One of the effects went screwy, but it was no big deal.”

Something tickled Dixie’s cheek; she whipped around to find a graceful cat-woman sweeping down the aisle, fluffy striped tail swinging haughtily in her wake. Where did the people come up with these outfits?

Sarina grinned. “Dixie, this crowd is nothing, compared with what we’ll see Friday.”

“What do you mean? What’s happening Friday?”

“Didn’t you see the newspaper ad? This preview is the beginning of the Illusions Film Festival. Three whole days!”

“And you expect to go?”

“Every serious effects artist in the
country
will be there. Festivals are where you find out who’s got the edge-cutting ideas and who’s only working for the buck, afraid to take chances.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve been planning this all along?” Dixie maneuvered her into the theater, to a back row. Taking the aisle seat for herself, the next one for Sarina, she tossed the kid’s denim bag on the third seat, as if saving it for someone.

“I wanted you to see how terrific this is before you start weirding out. I bought my ticket as soon as Mom insisted I come with her to Houston. The festival is the greatest thing that could have happened.”

“I thought your apprenticeship was the greatest.”

“Okay, second greatest.”

“We can’t go. It’s too dangerous.”

“Dixie! Illusions is the
ultimate
film festival. It’s the Lamborghini, the Taj Mahal, the Da Vinci of festivals. I can’t
not
go.”

“You’re not hearing me, Sarina. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’ll be with me,” Sarina pleaded. “And we can get another bodyguard. We can get
two
more bodyguards,
three.”

“The entire Secret Service couldn’t keep you from getting killed in a room packed with space creatures and laser blasters—not to mention your habit of dashing off to talk to everyone who grabs your interest.”

“I swear I won’t leave your side the whole three days.”

“Sarina—”

“You can handcuff me to your arm.”

A dull ache pulsed behind Dixie’s eyes. She hated disappointing the kid, but there was no way she could take Sarina to a film festival. Having registered in advance, the kid had left a trail the stalker could easily follow. He might be biding his time for an optimum moment when hundreds of costume-clad festival attendants gave him perfect cover.

During a particularly loud and bloody battle on whatever-the-hell planet, Dixie’s pager signaled a call from Belle Richards. She scanned the theater, saw nobody whose gaze wasn’t riveted to the screen, and whispered to Sarina that she’d be right outside the door. Propping it partially open with her shoulder to catch the hallway light on her cell phone keypad, she punched in Belle’s number.

“What’s up, boss?” She leaned against the door, facing so she could keep one eye on Sarina and still pitch her voice away from the folks trying to view the movie.

“Dug up some ancient history about Alan Kemp. Don’t know if it’s worth anything, but you may have noticed he uses a cane.”

“Cane, umbrella, Burberry, and perfect vowels. I figure it’s part of his European affectation. He doesn’t limp.”

“Maybe the limp’s not obvious, but he has a genuine injury, one that’s given him trouble over the years.” Papers rattled. “Small-town newspapers print the handiest stories. Seems Kemp and a cousin were climbing a sycamore tree, daring each other to jump from progressively higher limbs. On Alan’s final jump, he broke both ankles. Complications caused the bones to heal slowly, ending his dream of
a sports career. Later, Kemp became interested in drama, and was evidently quite good. Would’ve landed some leading roles, except for those trick ankles. They give out after he’s been on them a few hours.”

“So he took up journalism?” Dixie moved aside to let a man laden with popcorn and drinks enter the theater.

“Kemp has actually done quite well, especially in foreign markets.” When Belle paused, Dixie could hear her pencil tapping on the desk, could picture the point making tiny gray dots on Belle’s blotter. “Now here’s your chance to win die sixty-four-dollar question, Flannigan.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Name the cousin who dared Alan to take that last jump.”

“Joanna Francis.”

“Dead on.”

“You think he’s harbored a grudge all these years, and the notes are meant to drive his cousin nuts?”

“Seems a long shot, but I wanted you to know about it. I’d feel better if Kemp caught the next flight out of town.”

“You do expect me to perform miracles. Anything else I should know? Anything on John Page, or the two techs I asked about, or—” Dixie almost said “Bubble Butt Barton,” but realized Belle probably hadn’t seen the obese director. “Or Barton?”