The Cross (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

London

It was just before midday by the time Alex arrived at the Ritz off Piccadilly and walked up to the desk.

‘Hailey Adams,’ she said to the receptionist, charming but authoritative, flashing her VIA ID too quickly for the woman to scrutinise it. ‘Starburst Pictures. I’m here to see Mr Burnett. The Trafalgar Suite, right?’ It was only fifty–fifty, she thought as the receptionist checked the register, that Baxter hadn’t left his regular London hideaway and headed back home to the States. Life as one of the beautiful people.

The receptionist smiled. ‘Trafalgar Suite, that’s right.’

Alex used the stairs. Lifts were too slow. Arriving at the door to the suite, she pushed straight through with a splintering of wood.

The lavish rooms were just as she remembered them. Except . . . no Baxter. The only sign of him was the Armani jacket carelessly thrown over the back of one of the Louis XI settees and the laptop sitting open on a marble-topped coffee table. Alex strode across the Persian rug and peered at the screen-saver, a handsome close-up of Baxter’s face, a still shot from one of his
Berserker
movies – Alex couldn’t remember which. Still, it was definitely his computer.

With a flick of the keys, the screen-saver vanished to reveal Baxter’s opened email program. The last message to have come in was clocked at 10.38 that morning. Its heading was ‘Let’s have lunch’.

The name of the sender, Piers Bullivant, was one Alex recognised. A cinema fan right from the days of silent movies, she’d been there for the heyday of Keaton, Chaplin, the Marx Brothers, all the greats, and must have seen a hundred thousand films since. She rarely missed an issue of
Movie Mad
magazine, and Piers Bullivant was one of their long-standing writers. Alex had read enough of his articles to know that Bullivant was a savage and vitriolic critic of anything to do with the commercial movie industry, Hollywood in general, and vulgar, untalented and overpaid stars like Baxter Burnett in particular.

Let’s have lunch
? It seemed just a little unusual, Alex thought to herself, that Baxter should be in friendly email correspondence with the critic who, more than anyone, seemed to delight in every opportunity to hack and bludgeon him to death with the pen. But then, looking at the message more closely, she saw something even odder. Bullivant’s reply read:

Below, Bullivant gave his address in Wimbledon. Seeing that the email had been replied to, Alex clicked into the sent messages folder. The reply from GwendolynCooper@hotmail. com had been posted at 11.46, just a few minutes before she’d got here.

‘Shit,’ Alex muttered as Baxter’s ploy began to dawn on her. She scrolled up and found six more messages from ‘Gwendolyn’ to Bullivant. Attached to the first message was a picture that most definitely wasn’t of Baxter Burnett. The blonde was maybe nineteen or twenty. Low-cut blouse, painted-on jeans, heavy eye-shadow, glossy lipstick, provocative pout, the works. Apparently, she was a final-year media student at London University and a huge fan of Piers’s work, passionate about getting into film journalism; and did he know of any openings coming up at
Movie Mad
? She’d just love to meet and talk.

‘Come on, Bullivant,’ Alex snorted. ‘Even a human can’t be this easily taken in.’

But, seemingly, a human could. It hadn’t taken much wooing from Baxter before the critic had gulped down the bait.

‘Bugger,’ Alex said, looking at her watch. Baxter must have left just a few minutes ago, but he still had a pretty good headstart on her. She’d little more than quarter of an hour to cut across town to Wimbledon, if she wanted to interrupt the romantic lunch date before it went too badly for Piers Bullivant.

Seconds later, Alex was tearing out of the smashed door of the Trafalgar Suite and running for the stairs.

Chapter Twenty

Wimbledon

A giant poster of Jean-Luc Godard frowned sardonically down from the wall over Piers Bullivant’s desk in the cramped study of what he liked to call his
bijou residence
. Tapping on his keyboard and pausing every few words to titter to himself, the critic was just putting the finishing touch to his latest torpedo attack.

When he’d finished tinkering with it, Piers read the piece back out loud and gave a satisfied cackle. He looked at his watch, wishing it was a twenty-four-carat Rolex Oyster like the one that bastard Baxter Burnett had been flaunting in his last TV interview. But, Piers quickly consoled himself, was it not he, and not the hated Burnett, who was about to be visited by the super-hot Gwendolyn Cooper? Was it not he who . . .

12.26. She’d be here any minute. Piers shot out of his desk chair and hurried into the tiny living room of his flat. He put on some mood music, lit a scented candle, tore open a bottle of wine, set two glasses on the table, polished his thick spectacles with the hem of his short-sleeved shirt, adjusted his tie in the mirror, took a breath spray out of his pocket and gave it a couple of squirts. He smiled and felt in his other pocket, touching his fingers against the packets of condoms in there and wondering if two would be enough.

Piers’s heart leaped as the doorbell rang. After a last-minute armpit sniff-check, he raced to the door and flung it open with a beaming smile on his face. ‘Come in, Gwe—’

That was as far as he got before Baxter Burnett grabbed him by the tie and almost ripped his head off as he hurled him backwards into the room. Piers triple-somersaulted into the sofa and overturned it, sprawling across the rug. Baxter slammed the door shut and marched inside the flat. He was wearing a heavy black cowhide motorcycle jacket, leather jeans and boots. In his hand was a torn-out page from
Movie Mad
.

Squirming on the floor, Piers recognised it as last month’s review of Baxter’s star vehicle,
Berserker 6
.

Baxter stood over him. ‘Pleasure to meet you at last, asshole. Hey, nice fucking place you got here, toilet licker. Couldn’t swing a mouse in it, but hey, you won’t be needing it much longer. Now, something I wanted to ask you about what you wrote.’

Piers stared up at him and could only whimper.

Baxter held the torn-out page out in front of him and stabbed the text of the article with his finger. ‘Says here, now let’s see . . . “the Parisian café scene is one of the most risible pieces of cinema ever committed to celluloid, featuring a Burnett performance so wooden that one might have mistaken him for part of the pine café furniture”. Oh, yeah?’ Baxter shook the paper furiously. ‘And what about this bit – “The twist that follows is so insultingly contrived that the smallest infant could see it coming from thirty miles away. This is a film that should never have been allowed to escape from pre-production . . .”’ Baxter lashed out with his foot, and Piers doubled up in agony. ‘All right, scum sucker, let’s talk about the twist. Tell me what you know, dumbass. Spit it out.’

Piers opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a string of bloody mucus.

‘Oh, the great critic’s at a loss for fucking words. You know what? I don’t think you even saw this movie. You know how I know that, inchworm? Because that part was in the fucking
trailer
’ – Baxter kicked again, harder, and Piers screamed – ‘and it never even made it to the final fucking cut. So you just gave yourself away, you big dicksmoking phoney.’ Baxter crumpled up the sheet and smiled. ‘And now you’re gonna die.’

Piers Bullivant’s bladder let go at the precise moment that Baxter opened his mouth wide and the fangs came out.

The Jaguar’s dashboard clock read 12.37 as Alex skidded to a halt outside Piers Bullivant’s apartment building. She sprinted to the entrance. Pounded up the stairs, and crashed through Bullivant’s door.

Whoops. Too late.

Among the blood-soaked wreckage of the tiny living room, the movie star was crouched on the floor, bent low over the twitching, but very obviously lifeless, body of his critic, gnawing and sucking at the ripped flesh of his throat. Baxter looked up as Alex appeared in the doorway. The blood that slicked his chin was running down his throat and soaking into his shirt.

‘Hi there, Agent Bishop,’ he said, bright red foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

Alex popped the retaining strap of her shoulder holster and drew the pistol. ‘Don’t do anything silly, Baxter. You know what I’ve got here, don’t you?’

‘Nosferol bullets,’ Baxter sneered. ‘Right. As if your goddamn Feds won’t pump me full of that shit anyway.’

‘What’s got into you, Baxter?’

‘Fuck you!’ Baxter sprang to his feet, seized the overturned sofa and hurled it across the room. Alex ducked out of the way, but the sofa hammered into the wall next to her and bounced back at an angle, knocking the gun out her hand before landing with a crash on a side table. A pair of wine glasses and a lit candlestick tumbled across the carpet. Flames quickly caught a hold on the bottom of one of Bullivant’s flowery curtains, but there wasn’t much Alex could do about that right now. She grabbed the pistol from the floor as Baxter leaped across the room and through a doorway into the tiny kitchenette. There was a smashing of glass.

Chasing after him, Alex got there just in time to see him dropping the eight yards to the ground and sprinting franti c ally away through the little gardens at the back of the apartment building. She raised the Desert Eagle and felt the light trigger break against the pad of her fingertip. The blast of the gunshot punching against her eardrums. The hard recoil back into her palms being absorbed through her elbows. The fat .50 calibre shell casing spat from the pistol’s maw as the breech opened and closed faster than even a vampire eye could see. Masonry dust erupted from the wall of the neighbouring building as Baxter darted around the corner and out of sight. Alex vaulted out of the window after him and hit the ground running for all she was worth towards the spot where Baxter had disappeared.

She heard the roar of the engine a fraction of a second before the blazing headlight and raked-out chrome front forks of the Indian V-twin motorcycle bore down on her from around the corner. Baxter’s fists were tight on the handlebars and his hate-filled face glared at her from between the clocks. She dived aside just in time to avoid being run down. The bike thundered past and kept on going.

Alex scrambled to one knee and let off three more pounding shots from the Desert Eagle. The Indian’s back light exploded and its rear wheel stepped out of line as the fat tyre burst apart. Baxter sawed wildly at the handlebars, but couldn’t prevent the machine from toppling over and sliding across the pavement with a grinding of steel on stone, showering sparks. The movie star tumbled to the ground but was quickly back up on his feet. A glance over his shoulder at Alex already coming after him with the gun, and he was off like a madman down the street.

It was a quiet residential area, only a few terrified passersby and a smattering of traffic. Public gun battles weren’t strictly part of VIA’s low-profile policy, but then allowing a celebrity vampire to run amok wasn’t exactly on the agenda either. Alex raised the pistol again and was about to fire at the fleeing figure of Baxter Burnett when she realised that the set of open wrought-iron gates he’d just sprinted past was the entrance to a school and that there was a crowd of kids gathered just inside them. Some of the older ones, girls and boys of up to about twelve or thirteen, had ignored the frantic shouts of their teachers to get inside, and had come running towards the street at the sound of the gunshots. Alex lowered the gun, not daring to risk a shot. Killing humans wasn’t on the cards for her.

A couple of yards from the crowd of schoolkids, Baxter’s run faltered. He turned to look at them. Suddenly they were all pointing at him, eyes were opening wide and mouths were dropping open. There was a shout of ‘It’s Baxter Burnett!’ Those who could tear their gaze from their cinema idol stared delightedly at Alex. Not a camera or crew anywhere in sight, but they obviously thought they were in the middle of a film shoot, complete with blank-firing movie weapons.

‘He isn’t Baxter Burnett,’ Alex called out to the kids. ‘He’s just a lookalike. Get away from him.’

But before anyone could react, Baxter reached out and grabbed the nearest of the crowd, a girl of about twelve with masses of golden curls and a look of bedazzlement that very quickly turned to terror as he dragged her roughly across the pavement and wrenched a handful of her hair to one side to expose her little neck. ‘I’ll bite her,’ he yelled at Alex. ‘I’ll turn her.’

Alex hesitated. The kids were screaming. The teachers had run back inside the building.

‘Put the gun down, Agent Bishop,’ Baxter shouted.

Alex tossed the Desert Eagle to the ground. ‘Now you let go of the child.’

‘Back off!’

Alex retreated a step. ‘This isn’t going to look too good in
The Hollywood Reporter
,’ she said. The little girl in Baxter’s grip was howling. Most of her friends had run in fright back towards the school buildings. Others hovered uncertainly, rigid with terror.

‘Like I care,’ Baxter screamed. ‘I’m sick of being told what to do all the time! I’m not going to take it any more, not from you, not from the goddamn fascists you work for!’

‘There’s nowhere you can run that they won’t track you down,’ Alex said.

‘Oh yeah? I heard the rumours. I’m not the only one that’s joining the Trads.’

‘There are no Trads left, Baxter. We wiped them out.’ There wasn’t much conviction in Alex’s voice as she said it.

‘Bullshit. I’m going to find them, I’m going to join them, and I’m going to come back and kick your Federal ass.’ Spotting a car coming down the street, Baxter dragged the little girl to the kerbside and out into the road, blocking its way. Baxter hauled the child around with him to the driver’s side, wrenched open the door and with his free hand hauled the elderly woman driver out from behind the wheel, sending her spinning to the opposite kerb.

Alex could do nothing. Baxter dumped the child on the road, then hit the gas and took off with a maniacal laugh.

Alex scooped up her gun and launched herself at the back of the car as it accelerated away. Her fingers raked smooth metal, but she had no purchase and went sprawling to the ground as the car sped into the distance.

The twelve-year-old girl was still crying hysterically at the roadside. Alex went over to her and quickly checked her for scratches or bites. Nothing. She trotted over to the old woman Baxter had pulled out of the car. Minor grazing, a couple of nasty bruises.

‘I’m with the police,’ Alex told her. ‘My unit’s on its way. They’ll look after you.’ The wail of sirens had been within vampire earshot for the last few seconds. The teachers had reported the gunshots, she guessed, and someone must have called the fire brigade too. A dark column of smoke was rising from Piers Bullivant’s nearby apartment building.

As Alex helped the old lady to her feet, suddenly feeling hungry and trying not to think about the human blood flowing within easy range, the first police car came screeching into view at the top of the street.

Alex wasn’t worried about getting away from the cops. But explaining to her Federation superiors that Baxter Burnett had now officially gone rogue, evaded her and was on the loose . . .

That part might not be quite so simple.