3 Malled to Death (23 page)

Thirty-two

• • • 

I returned to
the security office for my Segway, letting the surveillance team know where I was going by the simple expedient of whispering, “On my way to the security office.” Helland had insisted I keep them updated on my whereabouts since they wouldn’t have line-of-sight on me. I thought it unlikely that Anya would attack me in the office, so I needed to make myself available by being out and about. Unfortunately, Joel was in the office and he immediately spotted the Taser.

“What’s that?” He bit into a carrot stick and chewed ferociously, his plump cheeks making him look like a chipmunk.

“Taser,” I said lightly.

His face brightened. “Really? Do we all get one?”

Shaking my head so my bangs whisked against my forehead, I said, “This is a test program.” I felt bad lying to him, but Joel was transparent: if he ran into Anya Vale, his face would give the game away.

He shrugged philosophically and chomped into another carrot. “I wish I’d had one yesterday, I can tell you. There was a customer outside of Dillard’s chewing out his son with the kind of language they probably don’t even use in a prison. He could have used a few thousand volts.” He stiffened and vibrated as if being jolted by electricity, making his curly hair bob.

“Give me a call if you see him again, and I’ll take care of it,” I joked, patting the Taser.

“Will do.”

Joel gave me a two-finger salute as I retrieved the Segway and headed out on patrol.

• • • 

As the morning
passed and nothing happened, the stiffness in my neck and shoulders eased somewhat. I felt slightly ridiculous giving updates to the unseen listeners on the other end of the wire, like I was talking to an imaginary friend, but it did make me feel marginally safer. Late in the morning, I swung by Merlin’s Cave to see how Kyra was doing. I was surprised to find Jesse Willard and his father there, talking to Kyra.

My friend gave me a big grin when I came in. “EJ. Good news. Jesse has agreed to a trial period as my assistant.”

I looked from the young soldier to his father, both of whom looked more nervous than gratified, and smiled. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll do great.” I wasn’t sure he would, but I’d already expressed my qualms to Kyra and it would serve no purpose to say anything now.

“I’m going to work hard at it,” Jesse said fiercely. “I don’t know much about the merchandise, except the books, but I can learn. I’ve read all the Lord of the Rings books at least twice, and I love Madeleine L’Engle’s
A Wrinkle in Time
ones. I was really into fantasy when I was in high school. Still am.”

“Ms. Valentine has said she can work around his doctor’s appointments and therapy schedule,” Mr. Willard said. “Since I’m retired, I can be here with Jesse sometimes, too.”

Aah. I thought I understood. Mr. Willard was willing to keep an eye on Jesse’s performance at Merlin’s Cave for a while, make sure his son’s erratic emotions didn’t get him into trouble. That was probably a good idea; I didn’t know if it was Kyra’s or Mr. Willard’s, but I hoped it worked out for all of them.

Leaving Merlin’s Cave and telling my invisible minders, I Segwayed to the elevator and descended to the lower level, looking to see how preparation for the day’s shoot was going. The action was taking place in the garage and it had been put off-limits to customers for the day while the movie crew set up and filmed. I didn’t know what the exact sequence of events was, but it was the movie’s climactic scene and included a car chase inside the garage, a gun battle, and enough dead cops and mafia types to keep a mortuary in business for a year, according to Joel, who had read about the movie’s plot in, of course, a fan magazine. The stunt drivers, clad in protective jumpsuits, were walking the course of the chase scene with Van and Bree Spurrier, a cameraman tagging along behind them. Iona Moss took notes on a clipboard as they made measurements and studied the turn from the upper-level garage to the lower-level garage and the exit. If I’d been less tense, I would have found it all surprisingly interesting.

Craning my neck, I looked for Ethan, but didn’t see him. Anya Vale, too, was absent. An extra done up like a mafia thug stood nearby (at least, I hoped he was involved with the movie and wasn’t waiting to give some mall denizen a pair of cement shoes), and I asked him when filming was supposed to start.

“An hour ago,” he said glumly in an incongruous midwestern accent. “I don’t know what the hold-up is. No one tells extras anything. I heard Bree say something about being ready to go in an hour.” He sniffed loudly and swiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Thanks.”

Segwaying up the ramp to the upper level of the garage, I did a quick patrol, spotting nothing out of place or suspicious, and returned to the mall on the top floor. “Entering mall, upper level, Dillard’s wing,” I told my minders in a low voice. Cruising by the bathroom, I turned in, debating whether I needed to tell Helland’s team I was answering the call of nature. I’d be in and out in a few seconds, I rationalized, so I didn’t need to embarrass myself by mentioning my location. They also didn’t need to hear what went on in the stall, so I pressed my hand against the microphone through my shirt to muffle transmissions.

I’d barely settled on the toilet seat when the door to the restroom wheezed open and another woman entered, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor. I heard a skittering sound I couldn’t place as water gushed from one of the sinks. Then, four dainty paws pranced into my line of sight, inches outside my stall, and I caught my breath on a sharp intake. Anya Vale’s dog.

Thirty-three

• • • 

I’d never felt
more vulnerable.

Footsteps approached my stall door and my chest tightened. Elegant black pumps appeared in the foot of space between the stall door and the floor. Slim ankles and calves were clad in sheer black hose. Hardly the attire of a murderer, I thought inanely. I half rose, muscles tensed, and fumbled to tuck in my shirt and zip my pants. Oddly, I felt somehow safer with my slacks secured.

A hand struck the door with a hollow thunking sound.

“Occupied,” I croaked, watching the feet.

They remained stationary for a split second and then stepped to the right as Anya Vale’s voice said, “Sorry.” The other stall door opened, then shut with a gentle bang, and the lock shot home.

I looked up, eyeing the partition that separated our stalls, half expecting Anya Vale’s face to appear above it. If she had a gun, shooting me in the stall would be easier than plugging goldfish in a bowl. Nothing happened. A moment later the sound of pee hitting the bowl let me relax a bit; she couldn’t attack me at the moment. The toilet paper roll rumbled in the other stall. The sounds of flushing and the stall door opening followed.

My brain whirred. Had Vale seen me in the garage and followed me in here? Or, was her presence a coincidence, in which case I might be better off remaining in the stall until she left? I didn’t believe in coincidence and I was damned if I was going to hide in a bathroom stall. Flushing the toilet, I emerged.

The Chinese crested dog yipped and growled. Truly an unpleasant dog. Fubar would make mincemeat out of him. With a pointy snout, a ridiculous quiff of hair atop his head, a similar plume on his tail, and a liver-colored, hairless body, he looked like something designed by genetic scientists on April Fools’ Day.

“Ssh, Conan,” Vale hushed the dog. She stood at the sink, her back to me, clad in an above-the-knee mulberry-colored knit dress that revealed every nuance of her lush curves. Inky hair spilled over her shoulders and she was apparently trying to get something out of her eye because she was holding the right eyelid up with one forefinger and using her pinky to dislodge something from the corner of her eye.

“Aren’t you Anya Vale?” I asked, hating to sound like a fan girl, but needing to let Helland and his troops know I was in the presence of the enemy.

“Yes.” She smiled at me in the mirror, red lips sliding back from vampire-white teeth, her green eyes meeting mine in the glass. They glittered disturbingly, or maybe that was my imagination on overdrive. I got the feeling I’d been assessed and dismissed, which was perfectly justified if she was cataloging our respective physical attributes. If she was sussing me out as a victim, however, she might find out that she’d taken on a bit more than she anticipated, even though I was a couple of inches shorter and walked with a limp.

Somewhat reluctantly, I approached the sink beside her, stepping over the dog which had come to sniff at my ankles, and turned on the water. A lavender scent bloomed when I squirted soap into my palm. While I hastily washed my hands, my whole attention on the woman beside me, she blinked rapidly several times, and said, “Finally. Amazing how something so tiny can be so irritating, isn’t it?” She extended her pinky toward me so I could examine the invisible speck of grit.

“Um-hm,” I agreed, every nerve taut. She carried a small leather purse slung over her shoulder; if she had a weapon, it had to be in there because her dress clung tightly enough to make it impossible to conceal a safety pin, never mind a knife or gun.

Even as I had the thought, she reached into her purse. I spun away from the sink, putting a couple feet between us, automatically flexing my knees so I could spring out of harm’s way if she pulled a weapon. Vale brought her hand out, holding . . . a pen. “Would you like an autograph?” she asked sweetly.

Pretending I’d been headed for the towel dispenser, I pulled one free and dried my hands, not taking my eyes off her for a moment. “Uh, no thanks,” I said. “Autographs aren’t really my thing. But thank you.”

With a shrug, she returned the pen to her purse and hitched it higher on her shoulder. “I’ve seen you around the set, haven’t I? Aren’t you with mall security?” Her sultry voice revealed nothing but casual interest; yet, I felt almost as if she were mocking me.

“Yes. It’s been interesting having the movie crew here,” I said. I tossed the towel toward the trash and it fell short. Damn. No way was I stooping to pick it up with Anya Vale mere feet away.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” she asked with a lift of elegant brow.

Before I could answer, Conan pounced on the paper towel and began to shred it, growling like he was disemboweling his archenemy.

“Well, I guess that’s what janitors are for,” Anya said dismissively, watching as her pet strewed paper towel from one end of the bathroom to the other.

I wondered what Helland was making of this conversation.

“Come, Conan.” Anya glided toward the door, then turned toward me. “Be sure to watch the filming this afternoon—we start in a few minutes. It’s our last day here and you wouldn’t want to miss my big scene. Here.” She reached into her purse again, scrawled something on a card, and thrust it at me. “This will get you on the set.”

“Thanks,” I said, puzzled. She was through the door before I finished speaking, the dog darting after her a hair before the door closed on his jaunty tail.

I waited a few moments and then cautiously pushed the door open, awake to the possibility that she might be waiting in ambush. No one was in the hall. Taking a deep breath, I muttered to the microphone, “She’s gone. I don’t know what the hell that was all about, but she’s gone.”

I thought for a moment, then added, “I’m going after her. To the movie set.”

• • • 

The garage was
much busier now, humming with activity as technicians set up lights, cameras, and sound equipment for the filming. A scrawny young man in jeans yelled at Margot Chelius near a support pillar and I wondered what that was about. I could read the anger in his face but not decipher his words. Grayson Bleek’s replacement was seated at a six-foot table pushed against the wall, a line of extras, both cops and mafia types, in front of him. He handed out guns to cast members who signed for them on a clipboard. Ethan, positioned atop a black SUV, saw me and waved. I waved back, scanning the garage for Anya Vale. I didn’t see her. That made me uneasy.

I told myself that she was busy acting, doing her job, that she wouldn’t come after me now. I was safe until the filming was done. My body didn’t believe my brain, though, because I still had the itchy feeling between my shoulder blades and tension kept my spine stiff. I leaned forward slightly to put the Segway in motion, and glided over to where Iona Moss stood, temporarily alone, watching Vandelinde and Bree Spurrier converse with a couple of cameramen.

“Big day, huh?” I said.

She looked up and pushed a strand of gingery hair behind her ear. “Finally. Not to sound insulting about your mall, but I’m ready to get back to California. Living out of hotels gets old. Just a minute.” Snagging a bottle of water out of a nearby cooler, she carried it to where my father now reclined on the hood of the SUV. I couldn’t hear their exchange, but she gave him the water, he took it with a smile, sipped from it, and handed it back. She beamed.

“Ethan is such a gentleman,” she said when she returned. Her gaze stayed on him, even though she was addressing me.

I wondered briefly if she fancied herself in love with Ethan. She certainly never took her eyes off him, and seemed ready to anticipate his every need or want. Working in the office, she’d have access to his address and other data. Could Iona—? I frowned. No. I’d analyzed the letters from TMD. The timeline, the expensive perfume—it all added up to Anya Vale. Iona might have a crush on Ethan, but I didn’t see her as the stalker driven to murder by jealousy. Somehow, Iona didn’t have sufficient
intensity
. I couldn’t explain it any better than that.

One of the policemen waiting in line for a weapon gave me a half wave, and I recognized Grandpa Atherton. I smiled involuntarily, ridiculously happy to see him, to know that he was nearby, watching out for me as he always had. That feeling of warmth buoyed me as the set manager yelled, “Positions!” and the chaos resolved itself into a moviemaking enterprise. Grandpa and a handful of other police extras headed for the barrier at the garage entrance. Fernglen didn’t have one of those arms that lifts up to allow cars in and out; the set people had installed one especially for this scene, probably to have it splinter as someone drove through it.

Ethan and the SUV disappeared up the ramp to the upper level and a black sedan full of mafia types followed them.

“The script calls for Ethan and his partner to chase the sedan through the garage, trying to stop them from leaving. They’ve kidnapped Antonia, Anya’s character. As they come around the corner”—she gestured with the clipboard—“and start down the ramp, Ethan climbs onto the roof of the SUV to get a better shot at the driver of the sedan. He kills him and the sedan crashes into that pillar.” She pointed.

“Sounds great,” I said, thinking it sounded cliché. How many thrillers had I seen with garage car chases?

Iona was going to add something else, but the set manager called for quiet and I heard the sounds of shots and squealing tires from the upper level, magnified by the echoing cavern of the garage. The sounds made me cringe, triggering memories of real gun battles. I was glad Jesse Willard wasn’t here. Every instinct urged me to intervene, even though I knew it was all staged. The actors on this level tensed and I could feel anticipation in the air. The black sedan careened around the corner and the SUV followed it, with Ethan levering his torso out of the passenger-side window, a look of grim determination on his face as he leveled his gun. He got off a couple of shots, but the sedan kept coming toward us. My grip tightened on the Segway’s handlebar as Ethan pulled himself onto the SUV’s roof and lay prone, sighting along the barrel of his nine mil. The stunt driver, I thought admiringly, was doing an amazing job of holding the SUV steady; I also suspected there were some kind of handholds on the roof to help Ethan stay on.

He fired and the sedan’s driver-side window exploded in a cascade of glass. I wondered how the special effects guys did that. Fake blood—I hoped—squirted onto the windshield and the car rolled into the pillar. The headlight shattered and the passenger’s side crumpled inward with a groan of offended metal.

I suddenly realized one of the film’s major players didn’t seem to have a role in this scene. “Where’s Anya?” I asked Iona in a low voice.

She turned an excited face toward me. “Watch. This is where Antonia gets out and plugs Hunter. It’s the stinger. Even though she had the fling with Hunter and told him everything about her mafia lover’s operations, she’s gone back to her former lover and has to kill Hunter so he can’t testify against either of them.”

On the words, one of Anya’s shapely legs emerged from the rear door of the stranded sedan. More cliché, I thought as she stepped out of the car, apparently unfazed by the zinging bullets and the crash. Her hair rippled in the slight breeze generated by a huge fan and her face wore a steely expression as she pivoted to face the approaching SUV, a gun hanging from one hand.

Unease rippled up my spine. “Wait,” I said. “I thought the movie ended with Anya’s and Ethan’s characters running off together and having plastic surgery.”

“Too low-key, Van decided. Not enough action. They rewrote it. I think the new ending was Anya’s idea, actually.”

Understanding crashed onto me. She was going to kill Ethan! For real. That’s why she hadn’t attacked me in the bathroom, why she’d invited me to the filming. She’d snapped. My clinch with Ethan this morning had made her think he’d betrayed her. She wanted to kill
him
, not me, and she wanted me there to watch. Faster than those thoughts flashed through my mind, I leaned forward and sent the Segway speeding toward her. I couldn’t risk using Jay’s gun in such crowded quarters.

Gripping her gun in both hands, Anya brought it up, leveling it at Ethan where he rode atop the SUV, for all the world like a figurehead on the bow of a pirate ship.
I’m king of the world
.

“Gun!” I yelled. My voice was raw with fear. Ethan’s head slewed toward me. I fumbled for the Taser, but the Segway jounced over a cable and I dropped the weapon. Damn!

Movie people stared at me, confused. I felt their gazes rather than saw them, because I was focused on only one thing: Anya. I saw the moment she became aware of me bearing down on her because she half turned her head. Confusion flitted momentarily across her face before a small, dead smile stretched her lips and she snapped her head straight again, arms tensing with the weight of the gun.

“Ethan, get down!”

Anya’s finger tightened on the trigger.

I was almost there . . . Only ten feet separated us . . .

Boom, boom, boom!
The gunshots deafened me. I couldn’t count them. The sound ricocheted off concrete and bullets
kranged
off metal. The force backed Anya up a half step. Ethan slid the length of the SUV’s roof until he was hanging off the rear of the vehicle. I didn’t know if he was hurt or was trying to take cover. Movie people dived beneath cars and hid behind concrete pillars as it dawned on them that real bullets were zinging around the garage.

Then I slammed into Anya. The weight of the Segway smashed her against the car, but she didn’t let go of the gun. The collision jolted through me, driving the handlebars back and into my solar plexus and knocking the wind out of me.

“What the hell are you doing, you lunatic?” Anya gasped, her face twisted with confusion, pain, and dawning fury. “Security! Help!” She still held the gun. Disentangling myself from the Segway, I let it fall sideways with a crash and lunged to grab her wrist with both my hands.

“I will sue you,” she bit out. “Ow!” This came as I banged her hand against the sedan to make her drop the gun. It clattered to the ground. I winced, but it didn’t go off. “I think you broke my fingernail. You are certifiable! You belong in an asylum and my lawyers will make sure you’re locked up until hell freezes—”