Chapter Fourteen: Dead Man Walking
The entrance to the Kaiser Hospital on Sunset Boulevard was completely swamped with reporters.
Mary Briggs pushed her car door open, face clipped with a tight frown, blazer swinging open to reveal glimpses of a standard police issued revolver nestled against her hip. A particularly nosy reporter from NBC spotted her first.
"Briggs! Mary Briggs!"
"Shit," she whispered, steps faltering as she and the other uniformed officers suddenly found themselves swarmed by an army of cameras flashing and people bearing microphones.
"Ms. Briggs! What's your statement!"
"Have you been able to determine the identity of the Celebrity Sniper?"
"Is the FBI investigating a possible security breach?"
"Get them out of my sight," Mary hissed, pushing a brown-haired cop in front of her as she shouldered her way through the crowd.
"Ms. Briggs-"
"No comment," she snapped, pushing past a guy hefting a camera and ducking under another with a notepad. "No comment!"
By the time she actually reached the emergency room doors, she was sweating, brunette hair sticking to the back of her neck. Taking a moment to breathe an impatient sigh, she motioned with a quirk of her finger to the detective standing guard.
"I want lists," she snapped. "Who was in there, who was out, and who the HELL told that guard he could leave!"
"Yes, Ms. Briggs!"
He turned away immediately, barking orders into a radio.
"Hey!" He paused, almost absurdly thin in his dark blue suit and longer than usual black hair. Mary gave him a searching glance, moving over his badge.
Oh, hell – she didn't give a fuck anymore if she didn't recognize him.
"Get everyone out of that room. I want that room quarantined until I inspect it personally. No one leaves, and no one gets in that room but me."
He hesitated, but nodded, holding the black radio to his mouth and rasping away.
Pulling uncomfortably at her shirt, Mary stood in the midst of the chaos caused by an attack on a super-celebrity.
"Good Lord," she whispered, eyes closing as her heart beat an erratic thump. "Why can't that bastard be a good little boy and just kill someone."
The detective walked with a quick, brisk gait.
His eyes were dark, almost black, and his features were soft, almost too feminine.
At this point, he didn't seem to care that his hips swaggered as his walked, or the fact that as he rounded the corner, his jerked his head to the right, as if flipping hair that wasn't there.
The private wing that held Jason Gibbons was now flooded with security, personnel.
A bored uniform shot him a glance, and immediately stepped aside, letting him through.
Another detective, an older lady with defined features and a wise face, fell into step behind him.
"Briggs finally decided to grace us with her presence?"
"Apparently," clipped the detective. "Is that room cleaned?"
"Everyone's outta there but Gibbons, his bodyguard and a dog."
"A dog? There's a dog in there?" he asked, coming to a stop to look back.
The detective, even with tired shadows under her eyes and hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, had a trace of her younger self upon her face in the form of a mischievous smile.
"Hey, I don't know how that got in there. To be honest, I was too busy looking at the bodyguard."
"Excuse me?"
"Cute guy with the brownest eyes I've ever seen. Not your regular bodyguard. Lean. Gotta say – Gibbons is a cutie, but that guy sure gives him a run for his money in the looks department."
The detective was unamused. "Well, it's refreshing to know that while there's been an attempted murder in the room just half an hour ago, instead of looking for the possible suspect who is more than likely within five miles, you're checking out how cute the bodyguard is."
Detective Brown's smile fell. "Hey... lighten up."
He shuddered once, stepping away from her with a curt nod. "I don't lighten up."
Stepping away, he didn't stop, even as he heard the detective speak in a low voice behind him, "Who is that guy?"
--
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Natalie hesitated, palm smoothing around a hot plank that rose out of the ocean, pinning the planks of the dock in place. Dylan, ten feet ahead, curled a hand around the rope that led down to the dock that she had stopped coming down years ago.
"He's a go-to guy, Natalie," Dylan said, blinking in the sun, before glancing back toward the little red tug-boat. "They'll be looking for the speedboat."
Natalie understood Dylan's logic. But Chad, or The Chad, as he liked to refer to himself, was hardly someone she thought Dylan wanted to see again. Despite the fact that they had what was barely termed as a 'relationship', Chad was by and large a big weirdo, and as sweet he seemed to be, he had a habit of causing Dylan more trouble with his clingy ways than actual help.
Then again, considering Dylan's luck with her love life in the past few hours, this by and large could have been considered an improvement.
"All right," she said, finally, hand on her hips as her head dipped in approval.
Dylan's frown was evident, but her sunglasses were stripped on and immediately it shifted upside down, a pale copy of the true radiance of Dylan's sincere grin.
The music floating out of the boat was an old rendition of 'Iko, Iko', an odd choice to be coming out a single man's boat, to be sure.
But nothing about Chad was really normal.
"Hey!" she called, tapping on the big bell that was hung just outside the loading dock of the little tugboat. "Can The Chad come out and play?"
Natalie sighed, shifting the vest under her shirt, and glancing at her watch.
Dylan waited only a minute, meeting gazes with Nat before banging the bell.
"Chad!"
The music shot off with a click. Natalie bit her lip, pushing off from the plank and searching the boat as a timid, "Starfish?" came from a window.
Natalie swallowed tightly as Dylan slipped a hand to her waistband, dipping under her leather jacket to secure what was hidden underneath before she jerked the jacket back over the gun, looking cool and distant and beautiful as she waited for her ever faithful lap dog to scurry out of the boat.
"Starfish?!"
Dylan grinned. "Hey, Chad. I need a favor."
The lanky man stood uncertainly, hands closing over the ledge of his boat.
When Dylan nodded, Natalie came forward, shifting both backpacks over her shoulder and clipping her way down the door. "Hey, Chad," she said politely, mouth spreading into an inviting grin and waving a manicured palm.
Watching his adoring eyes on a coolly ambivalent Dylan, Natalie felt suddenly as if she was in the middle of a vicious carousal.
She was getting dizzy, and she wanted off.
"Alex," she whispered. "Where are you?"
--
Jason had been moved to an adjoining bed, but the room was still stained with blood, chairs overturned and a broken window bringing a cool breeze into the room.
The Hollywood actor was carefully still, palm gently rubbing up and down Spike's head, as the little dog settled into his lap, muzzle resting on his thigh.
Pete, an ice-pack held carefully to his head, glanced up as a slim detective snapped open the door, stepping in to close it behind him.
Rising to his feet, Pete gave a narrowed glance. "Hey, can you explain just what the heck is going on..." Words seemed to fail him when the detective walked right past him, and embraced Jason in a desperate hug. "... here?"
Spike gave a yip of anger, plastered between the detective and Jason.
"Jason!"
Jason looked understandably freaked when he found his cheek pressed against the wrapped breasts of the male detective. "Uh..."
He blinked. Breasts?
"Alex?!"
He struggled, craning his head and shoving at the embrace to get a better look at the male. "Alex?"
Pete's mouth fell open. "Alex?"
Alex Munday straightened, pulling deftly at her mustache the minute she let Jason finally slide back down on the sheets.
"Hey," she said breathlessly, flashing a tight grin as she unclipped the voice synthesizer from her mouth, pulling at her wig, and finally letting her hair fall free.
Jason blinked, staring up at her for a full second before he slumped back down onto the bed in relief. "Oh, thank God," he said, reaching for her hand and squeezing. "I mean, I know the cops care and all that, but it was just a little scary-"
"Are you guys okay?" she asked, shoving off the blazer and throwing her briefcase on the available chair.
"We're fine," Pete said, motioning at his head with the icepack. "Got clipped by a chair, but nothing serious?"
Alex swallowed down the lump in her throat in an unconscious effort to bring moisture back into her mouth. Turning, she took in a heavy breath, glancing over the room as she continued to undress.
Pete coughed quickly and turned away immediately.
"Relax, Pete," Jason's tone was tired, but he was avidly watching with interest. "She's got something underneath."
She did indeed, a black catsuit and fitted boots that completed her ensemble.
"God, you look good," he finished with a grin.
There was no time to thank him for the compliment. Stepping out of her long slacks, Alex rubbed a hand into her hair, stepping over broken glance as she surveyed the room.
The bed was largely untouched, but there two splotches of blood over it, and another trail of it scattered over to the window.
She moved forward. "He stood over here?" she asked, leaning over the windowsill.
"Yeah," Pete said, hands on his hips. "Then he chucked the chair and jumped out."
There was about fifty feet of space between the window and the ground below. He would have gone straight up. Alex pursed her lips, craning her neck to view the roof- some twenty feet away.
He had come from inside the building.
"Of all the stupid-" Biting off her comment, Alex turned around. "Where did he get you?"
Jason blinked. "Get me?"
"With his sword, Jason," she said quickly. "You're okay?"
"Oh..." Jason looked slightly sheepish as he rubbed at his stomach, curling the dog into his lap as he nodded thoughtfully. "Well.. um... see it's kinda weird... what happened."
Pete gave a large sigh, hands reaching once more for the watery blue icepack.
Alex blinked.
"What happened?"
"Well... um...see I was in here with Spike, and Pete had gone to get a nurse..."
"And?" Alex clipped.
"Suddenly I look up and there's a guy with a gun pointed right at me!"
"A gun?" The fact flabbergasted Alex. "A gun?"
"Yeah," Jason nodded eagerly, animated in his tale as he mimicked the shooter, pointing with his index, thumb curled into his palm. "Then of course Spike starts barking, and I um... didn't see anything else."
"Why didn't you see anything else?" Jason colored pink, and suddenly seemed to find the golden brown hairs on the top of Spike's head endlessly fascinating. "Jason!"
Even Pete, scruffy with dirt, and looking slightly shaken, managed an amused, reluctant smile. "Because that's about the time he ducked under the covers."
"He was scary!" Jason insisted. "And I kinda hit my head on the bedpost when I did that and..."
"-Passed out," Pete finished.
Alex quirked an eyebrow. "You beat down a guy with a machine gun with nothing but a stick of gum in "Memories of Men" and you passed out?"
"Well, technically that wasn't me," Jason corrected. "That was my stunt double. And besides! That was scary." Alex stared at him in disbelief. "I have an ouchie," he said defensively, pointing to the back of his head.
Alex closed her eyes, fighting between the obvious relief that her boyfriend had come out of a second assassination attempt with nothing more than a bump on the head that was less severe than the time he tripped down her stairs, and the urge to strangle him for not at least keeping his eyes open to tell her what happened.
"Pete?" she tried, turning to Natalie's boyfriend. "What did you see?"
"Well... I was at the vending machine," he began. "Heard two shots, and the dog barking-"
Alex smiled, nodding at Natalie's little terror, who now sat contritely in her boyfriends lap. "Good boy."
"Yeah, he's a good dog, allright," Jason said affectionately. "Hey, Alex, if we're back together– can we get a dog?"
"Honey, it's not the time," she said patiently. "Pete?"
"Right. So I go running back, and find this creepy guy in a suit over there," Pete finished, indicating toward the window. "Holding a bloody sword."
Alex frowned. "But Jason wasn't bleeding. And there's blood on the sheets, and all over the floor."
"Maybe it was his?" Jason tried.
Alex shook her head, thoughtful in her confusion. Her heels cracked on the glass, making odd crunching noises as she examined the evidence left behind. "If it's the guy I think it is, he would never impale himself with his own sword..."
Alex paused, swerving in the small room, the encounter found in the prints on the floor. There were bloody footprints on the floor... the window with the broken glass... blood by the door...
By the door-
"You said he threw a chair, but it didn't hit you?"
"Clipped me on the head," Pete confirmed, rubbing at the tip of his noggin. "But I ducked before he really got me."
It didn't make sense. None of this made sense. Why would Anthony, knowing he had been spotted, not try to kill-
Why wasn't Jason dead? Why wasn't Pete dead?
Why were there bullet shots when he held a bloody sword?
Her eyes shifted to the holes in the wall next to the bed. The aim was truly off.
Coming closer, she fingered the holes. The angle of entry indicated that the shooter had been directed off course-
By maybe a stab wound?
Alex's entire body seemed to suddenly hum with adrenaline, possibilities coming forth that seemed unheard of, unmentionable-
It couldn't be...
"Oh, God," she whispered. Jerking back, her gaze was now on the floor.
The blood splattered, was cryptic and gory, but none of it reached Jason's chest. There was a splash of it on the sheets over where his legs would be, down on the floor there was more-
Footprints. Doc Martins.
And Harley Davidsons.
She sucked in her breath, eyes suddenly on the entrance of the room.
"Pete," she began in a strained whisper. The two men were watching her with fascinated expressions, keeping almost reverently silent as she followed the blood, now mussed by Pete's footprints, Nikes, by the looks of them. "When you came into the room, did you look behind you?"
"Behind me?" Pete repeated.
"Yes, behind you," Alex said, moving across the room in five easy steps. "Like in this corner?" To the left of the doorway, there was about five feet of space between the beams of the door and the wall.
Pete looked bewildered. "No," he said finally. "I just kinda...shot in."
The chair that The Thin Man had flung so sloppily at Pete still lay in a crumpled heap, inches from where Alex stood.
Leaning down, she carefully examined the area.
There, on the floor, were two prints, smudges of red against the gray of the tile.
On the chair, right on the hard angle of the arms of the chair, was another dark crusted blotch.
The Thin Man hadn't been aiming at Pete.
She stood, hands shaking and head swirling, as once again she took in the scene, the footprints, the bullets, the chair, the window-
"Oh, God," she whispered. "There were two of them."
--
Maybe she was just prolonging the inevitable.
Eventually there would be an investigation, and sooner or later, someone would call into question that APB that had been called for that mental patient on four that completely went berserk for no particular reason right about the time that Jason Gibbons had been attacked.
Mary was good, and her reputation was protected by some very large bribes that were placed in certain pockets on behalf of the Irish mob, but it was only a matter or time before her luck would run out.
At the moment, with three Townsend Sweethearts hating her on one side and a homicidal mob boss on the other, Mary figured it would be sooner rather than later.
Always a survivor, she knew she'd probably scrap out of it somehow. She always did. It was what she told herself.
For some reason, today, it refused to keep her hands from trembling.
The back of the hospital was a dingy alley that was surprisingly quiet, thanks the rattles and chatter of the ten thousand reporters stationed out front.
Her boots echoed like horses hooves, and in the dusk, she finally found herself able to breathe.
Tipping a cigarette into her hand, she stuffed the package back in her blazer, digging further into her pocket until her fingers closed around a smooth metallic box.
With a grim smile, she lifted it out, examining the lighter in the fading light of the setting sun.
It was an interesting design, and Mary was finding herself curiously attached to it.
Snapping it, she took a moment to study the flame, before bringing the cigarette to her lips, burning the tip to ignite the flame.
Taking a long drag, she finally let herself relax, back pressed against the wall, bringing down her lighter, and closing her eyes.
"Forget Seamus," she whispered. "These things will kill me and I'll die happy."
The peaceful respite, well deserved, in her opinion, was cut short when a shrill screamed rang in her ear.
Eyes jolting open, Mary never had even a second to reach for her gun before the blade tipped against her skin, a predatory face at the other side of it.
"Oh," she managed. "Hey Anthony. How's it going?"
As always, the killer seemed immaculately dressed, with exception to his hair. The strands were now falling in bangs, framing his face, as if the wild man was coming slowly apart at the seams.
That was not something she wanted to see.
Anthony was crazy enough. Crazy Anthony was... normal – wild Anthony?
That was just not a good thing.
He gave a visible shudder that went through his entire body, slipping into a defensive stand that indicated he was quite close to lunging forward, driving that sword through her neck and up into her brain.
"I knew cigarettes were going to kill me," she whispered. Louder, she snapped, "Don't even try it. You're really starting to piss me off, Anthony."
He hissed at her, mouth curving into a dangerous frown, as those weird eyebrows of his arched higher into his forehead. She remained perfectly still, the tip of the blade teasingly sharp against her skin.
"You screwed up," she said quickly, keeping her voice firm, condescending, like an irate mother. "You screwed up big time, and Seamus is going to kill you – I can help you, Anthony. You know that. He won't kill you if I put in a good word – maybe a little torture, but you might be able to crawl away from it –"
Lightening fast, his palm shot forward, slamming his palm against her mouth, driving her head against the wall for a blinding shock of pain.
Okay, he wanted her to shut up. She could do that.
Glaring was about the best she could do under the circumstances, and she did it well, hands spread against the wall, so that her knuckles scraped against the rough brick. Anthony kept his gaze on her, visibly seething.
Suddenly, his eyes roved downwards.
His palm eased off her mouth, allowing her to bring her head back away from the wall. The blade shifted threateningly.
"Hey! Not moving! Just... you know – trying to keep from passing out thanks to my slight concussion! Good thing we're near a hospital, right?"
It really worked better when her witty retorts were met with something other than a murderous glare.
She had enough of that from Seamus.
But Anthony had enough of her talking. He now dug into her fists.
The lighter, once in his possession, was carefully, reverently pressed against his cheek, rubbed over his lips with an orgasmic sigh.
Mary blinked.
"See? This is why we could never date."
Her lighter was slipped into his pocket and suddenly, she was free, as the sword was lowered and the Thin Man stepped back.
Rubbing at her throat, she inched for her gun, palm moving slowly into her jacket.
He glared at her, staring at her, then the gun, as if daring her to follow through.
She considered.
With a smile, she lifted her hand out of her blazer. "I think I'll let Seamus deal with you. I think he's got a lot more planned than just a simple bullet in your ass."
Anthony craned his neck, as if ridding himself of some unknown kink, before he plucked the cigarette from her fingers and raised it to his lips.
"Okay, that's just rude."
Understandably disgruntled, Mary found herself watching helplessly as Anthony walked swiftly away from the alley.
"Hey, Thin-y," she called after him. Anthony kept going. She took a couple steps, raising her voice a couple octaves, "I bet it's nothing compared to what he's got planned for your girlfriend."
He stopped for a full second, back straight, and sword shaking, before he disappeared down the alley in a cloud of smoke.
Mary grinned. Rubbing ruefully at her throat, she dug into her pocket for another cigarette. Patting her pockets, Mary suddenly groaned.
Raising her radio to her mouth, she spat, "Brown, get somebody down here with a match or something, will you?"
--
The cool sea breeze slapped against Dylan's face like a wet rag.
She felt dirty and despite the fact that on a normal day, she loved a day at sea, the taste of the salt was vile on her tongue.
Green eyes, dark with emotion, were focused intently on the ship only a few hundred yards away, docked in a heavily guarded port that made Chad's little alcove seem like the Lego version by comparison.
"Dylan?" Natalie's voice rattled in her ear, and also in the air, as her blonde best friend came forward, adjusting the molar mike in her tooth as she stepped up to her. "Find anything?"
Lips pulling down in a heavy frown, Dylan shook her head slowly, wiping at the damp red locks that stuck to her face. "No activity other than the usual. All's quiet on the Western front."
Natalie's arm brushed hers, silent as the whir of the tugboat engine thumped below them. "Nothing on my side either," she said honestly. "But I think I might have found a way in."
Dylan's glance was a curious one. "Yeah?"
"Give me a couple minutes," Natalie answered, voice somber and darker than usual. "But I think it may-"
"Starfish?" Both women were distracted when the captain of the little tug-boat that could emerged from below deck, carrying a tray of two Seabreezes. "I brought you a drink."
On what had to be the worst day of her life, Dylan had make a promise to remain closed to herself. No sympathy, no empathy, nothing but the pure thirst for revenge. The cold butt of the gun as it rested on the small of her back was her nagging reminder. She figured there had to be a part of that in her, the unfeeling bastard that took what she wanted and never looked back, since her regular habit of falling for them had to come from somewhere.
But Chad was harmless, and insecure. His wide brown eyes had drawn her in once, with his beautiful adoration, and her insatiable thirst for 'normal'. Dylan had her fantasies – she envied Alex and Natalie for their infallible abilities to find wonderful, genuine men who adored them for who they were. Jason and Pete, despite movie star status and bartending after-hours, were good souls with a tinge of normal.
Dylan had once wanted normal so badly she had clung to a simple tug-boat captain who had tried unfailingly to provide that for her.
She realized as the relationship deteriorated, that normal wasn't ever going to be for Dylan Sanders. Normal wasn't in her blood, and despite the bitter twinge in her heart that still wanted it, there was a sad resignation that told her she'd be fucking and hating and loving the same type of men for the rest of her life.
It wasn't fair. She didn't want it.
But her heart broke and even with sweet Chad and his seabreezes, she stung inside as a pair of blue eyes seared her soul.
Natalie squeezed her shoulder and stepped away from her, moving to the head of the tugboat.
"Thank you," she said, taking a glass that he procured for her. "For the tugboat."
He gave her a small, shy smile. "A sailor is a slave to the oceans, and all its storms."
"Sure," she answered, staring hard down into the blue of the seabreeze. "It's pretty easy to drown."
Chad leaned in next to her, breathing in the salty air with a sigh, eyes on the blue-green darkness of the waves lapping against the boat.
"Drowning... yes." He seemed to struggle with his words, and finally, he managed a smile. "But a funny thing about starfish – they have this way of sticking to the rocks. You try to move them, and you can't. Waves beat at them, and they survive. Strong and beautiful, starfish are."
It was his roundabout way of trying to comfort her, awkwardly phrased, and simply put, but it gave a warm chill in Dylan's heart. For a second, she wished desperately she could have loved Chad, for all his irregular charm.
Gently, she shifted and pressed her lips against his bearded cheek. "I'll envy the woman who finally gets you, sailor," she said, as she pulled back. His skin flushed pink, but his smile was shy, and his gaze, aware.
"Dylan!"
Natalie's call was loud and intrusive, forcing Dylan to wince as she held a finger to her ear. "Nat?"
The blonde Angel was waving frantically, motioning Dylan to the stern of the tugboat.
With an apologetic glance to Chad, Dylan pushed away from the rail, making her way to Natalie, who held a phone to her free ear.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Natalie handed her a cellphone, one that Dylan noted as a spare they kept. With a questioning glance, she obeyed, clipping in the small microphone and inserting the small speaker into her ear.
"Hello?"
"It's Alex," came the tinny voice. "Guys, we have a serious problem."
As if things weren't going to get any worse.
Dylan's eyes closed in resignation, her heart already a lead lump as she pressed a palm to her ribs with an inward hiss. "What?"
"The Thin Man isn't the Celebrity Sniper."
end chapter