Flash Point (27 page)

“I know you don’t. You’re not the kind of person who would get it. That’s why I—shit, I’m sick of explanations!” Rafe grabbed Amy and kissed her.

This wasn’t like the previous time he’d attempted to kiss her. This was hard, his lips pressing into hers, and his arms surprisingly strong around her. He wasn’t much taller than she was, but his body felt firm and taut against hers, and something stirred in Amy’s chest. In her breasts, in her body. Startled—for
Rafe?
—and more than a little drunk, Amy pushed him away.

Instantly he released her. In the dim half-light of the maintenance cave his face went bleak. “So,” he said.

“Rafe—”

“It’s Cai, isn’t it?”

She wanted to tell him no, but she wasn’t sure that was true. Kaylie was breaking up with Cai. Cai would be free for another relationship. . . . But Rafe’s kiss had felt both exciting and sweet. . . . Amy couldn’t find words. The eloquence of just a few moments ago seemed to have used up her total supply.

“I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Amy. Anything but that. I saw your face when Kaylie said she’s dumping Cai. You have a very transparent face.” He scowled. “It’s like falling in love with Saran Wrap.”

Falling in
—

“And now I see your face again. Don’t look so appalled. I won’t bother you with my stupid feelings again.”

“Rafe—”

But his pride had apparently taken all the beating it was going to. He left the maintenance cave.

At least he didn’t slam the door
.

Amy stood up from her burlap sack. Her legs wobbled under her. With one hand braced against the wall, she groped her way to the door and outside. A light drizzle had started to fall. The gorgeous, meticulously maintained flowers dripped gently as she stumbled down the winding paths, over the miniature bridges, to the elevator that needed no VIP keycard to carry her down. You were only a Very Important Person if you were on your way up.

* * *

Myra’s cell rang at two a.m. She and two exhausted techs had been working on the hotel-fire footage for sixteen hours straight. By six o’clock tomorrow—no, today—it had to be finished and on its digital way to the affiliate stations for the eight o’clock special show. Myra glanced at her cell, planning to ignore anyone but Taunton.

It was Mark Meyer. He had, fortunately, been on vacation for several days with his appallingly scruffy girlfriend. Away, he couldn’t interfere. Myra didn’t trust Mark. He was like rain: necessary but unpredictable, and out of her control. She didn’t like things she couldn’t control, and a part of her suspected that Meyer was capable of deluges, storms, floods. The only thing to do with such phenomena was to keep a close eye on them. She answered the cell.

“Yes, Mark.”

“I’m back.”

“Good. Did you have a nice vacation?”

He ignored this, as he ignored all personal questions. How had he even acquired a girlfriend?

“I want to know what time tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Her mind had gone blank.

“For the scenario,” he said impatiently. “Our plane was late—it sat on the tarmac for six fucking hours. That’s illegal here but not in Fiji. I just got in and I want to get at least a little sleep. Can we push back the scenario from eight o’clock to eleven? I can do it earlier if you want because everything is set, but I’d rather not.”

Tomorrow’s scenario. In the rush to get the special-edition show edited, Myra had forgotten all about it. Her first impulse was to cancel the whole thing; next to the ratings gold she had in her editing machine, the planned scenario looked too tame. On the other hand, after tomorrow night the show was sure to finish out the season, and she would need the episode. And it would keep the pesky talent occupied and controlled for the day.

She was a little surprised that Mark hadn’t mentioned the TV ads for the upcoming special edition. But if he’d been slogging through airports and waiting on tarmacs, perhaps he hadn’t seen the promos. He had called after the riots themselves, to make sure everybody was safe, but Myra had said nothing to him then about the precious footage of the tunnel escape.

“Yes, eleven o’clock is fine. I won’t be there but you can handle it.”

“Sure.” He hung up.

Myra went back to editing. She found a close-up of Waverly’s face twisted with fear. “Cut that into the tunnel sequence with the actors.”

“But we said the tunnel sequence was only a simulation of—”

“Just do it!”

At least four more hours of work. Myra poured herself another cup of strong coffee.

* * *

Mark didn’t go straight to bed. He never went to bed without a final check of certain tech, not even when he was so tired he swayed on his feet. Elena lay crumpled across their bed, asleep fifteen seconds after her head struck the pillow. Mark meticulously checked his tech. His sagging eyelids flew open.

“Shit!” he said.

Twenty-eight

S
ATURDAY

WHEN HER ALARM
went off at six thirty, Amy woke with what she supposed—never having had one before—was a hangover. She wanted to be at the hospital when Gran woke. Her head hurt, and her stomach felt queasy. Cautiously she eased herself off the bed, lurched across the dark room, and tripped over one of Kaylie’s shoes.

Kaylie lay heavily asleep in the other bed. Here, not with Cai. That would need thinking about, but at the moment thinking wasn’t possible. Memory of the events in the maintenance cave made her just as queasy as the hangover. First Kaylie had attacked her, then Violet, then Rafe—why was everyone so mad at her? She hadn’t
done
anything.

No self-pity. Get to Gran. No, wait, Jillian had said a van was coming at seven thirty . . .

In the bathroom Kaylie had scrawled lipstick across the mirror:
YOUR RIDE NOT TILL 10:00
. Thoughtful of Kaylie, even though it meant that Amy had to peer at herself through smears of L’Oréal Cherry Red.

A shower, three aspirin, and a cup of coffee helped her physical state, although not as much as she’d hoped. She was just leaving the hotel lobby for the taxi stand when Mark Meyer came in.

“Amy. Where you going?”

“To the hospital to see my grandmother.”

“No, you’re not. We have a scenario in less than an hour.”

“But there was a message from Myra’s office that we didn’t need to go to the conference room until—”

“I
said
in less than an hour.”

He looked terrible. The skin under his eyes, dark and bruised-looking, sagged as if he were twenty years older than his age. His clothes were rumpled and stained, as if he’d been wearing them for days, and he smelled. Amy said, “Are you all right?”

“You can’t go to the hospital now.”

She said, with great and deliberate emphasis on each word, “I. Am. Going. To. See. My. Grandmother.”

Something moved behind his eyes. He glanced at his watch. “OK. I’ll drive you. One quick look and back here.”

“Mark—”

“Come on!” He strode out the door, elbowing past a group of Asian businessmen who eyed him with distaste.

In his Porsche he said nothing, driving expertly and too fast over the long causeway off the island. At the hospital he went with her to Gran’s floor, sank into a plastic chair near the nurse’s station, and pulled a tablet from his pocket. “I’ll wait here.”

“Mark,” Amy said firmly, and over the throbbing in her head, “I’m not going back with you. I’m staying here today with my grandmother.”

“No, you’re not,” Mark said, not looking up from his tablet. “You have a contract, and the scenario is brief. But go see how she is.”

Gran was asleep. A young nurse was adding something to her IV. She looked questioningly at Amy.

“I’m Amy Kent, Mrs. Whitcomb’s granddaughter and her next-of-kin. Is she—”

“You’re the girl from the TV show!
Who–You
!”

Amy scowled. The nurse didn’t notice. “I really love that show, and you’re great on it!” All at once she turned professional. “Mrs. Whitcomb is doing really well. She had a very restful night. The doctor will be here in a few minutes and you can talk to him. But can you just give me a hint what this special edition of the show is about tonight?”

Amy was saved from answering by the appearance of the doctor, a small harassed Indian who didn’t recognize Amy. He said that Gran was “progressing with great magnificence,” and Amy immediately fell in love with him. Or at least with his musical accent and charming way of reassuring her. “She will sleep a few more hours, we will have a meeting with the cardiologist and some case worker, and all will be decided. Perhaps your grandmother will go to nursing, perhaps to hospice, perhaps stay here a time longer. All will be decided.”

“What time is the meeting?”

“Three o’clock.”

“I want to be here.”

“Yes, certainly.” He vanished out the door, white coat flapping behind him.

Amy kissed Gran, who didn’t stir. Certainly Gran looked better: good color, steady heartbeat on the pinging monitor. Amy could do Mark’s “brief” scenario and be back in plenty of time.

She lingered a few moments longer, studying the numbers on various monitor screens, wishing she knew what they all meant. Rafe would probably know. Rafe would be at the scenario, and Violet, and Cai. Oh, joy. But there was no help for it, not really. “Nursing” or “hospice” or “stay here a time longer.” They all depended on the medical benefits attached to Amy’s job. She went back to Mark Meyer.

On the drive back he was even ruder than usual, ignoring her attempts at conversation, until she just gave up. At every traffic light his frown deepened. But when they waited in line for valet parking, Mark turned to her.

“Listen, Amy, I’m going to tell you something.”

“OK,” she said warily.

“I’m telling you this because you’re the only girl who hasn’t hit on me in an attempt to get advance knowledge about my tech. As if.” Mark drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “All I’m going to say is this: ‘Think twice what is real.’”

Amy stared at him. But he had turned away, getting out of the car and handing the keys to the valet.

* * *

The Lab Rats were driven to yet another unmarked brick building. There was little talking in the van. After last night, Amy felt embarrassed to look at Rafe, at Violet, even at Cai. Waverly sat wrapped in a disdain so thick that you could practically see it. Amy wedged herself in the first seat beside Tommy, who drummed his fingers nervously on his knee for the entire ride. Jillian made a few sprightly attempts at general conversation, which met with such stony silence that she gave up.

Another sparsely furnished waiting room. Jillian said, “This is another one-by-one scenario. Amy, you’re first again, so that the van can take you back to the hospital.”

“Thanks,” Amy said, with what she knew was not enough gratitude. Her head hurt, and she’d had no breakfast because the thought of food was still nauseating.

Jillian led her down a corridor to a plain metal door, unlocked it, and smiled. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Amy repeated, again without enthusiasm.

The room beyond the door was a blank cube: white walls, ceiling, floor of rough stucco. Its small size reminded her unpleasantly of the maintenance cave the night before. The only object was a white birch tree growing incongruously from a hole in the floor, and in the top branches of the tree, a whimpering puppy.

Amy blinked. Hadn’t she already done this one—fake dog in a tree? Before she’d even known she was in a scenario. What the—

A tiny door opened on the wall across from the tree, an opening no more than six inches high. Three spiders crawled out.

Amy gasped. She wasn’t more than ordinarily afraid of spiders—it was rats that terrified her—but these spiders were really repulsive, and
huge
. Each hairy dark-brown body looked the size of her palm and just as tall, with eight legs extending out another three or four inches. Each leg bristled with hair. The spiders began to crawl.

She could hear the faint click-click-click of small claws on the white floor, a horrifying sound.

Amy backed away from the crawling spiders. They looked like tarantulas—but what did she know about spiders? They were moving steadily across the floor, but not toward her. Something seemed to draw them steadily toward the tree.

In the high branches the puppy whimpered.

For just a moment vertigo swept through Amy, sagging her against the wall. But then sense returned. These spiders weren’t real. Mark Meyer had just told her as much: “
Think twice what is real
.” And not even Myra would subject her lab rats to venomous spiders on national television. If Amy kicked one of these spiders, her foot would go right through it.

She moved to the closest one—then hesitated. The Miu Miu sandal exposed her bare toes. If she was wrong—

She wasn’t wrong. These were more of Mark’s clever holograms. She raised her foot to stomp on the spider.

It reared back, raised its front legs into the air, and
hissed
.

Amy jumped back. Then she felt ridiculous—Mark was a tech genius, but so what—followed by feeling furious. He was a tech genius and he used that formidable talent to terrorize people more gullible than she. Tommy, for instance—

Fury took her, aided by exhaustion and her hangover. Amy swooped down to grab at Mark’s collection of pixels and laser light. Her hand closed on a hard furry body.

She screamed and threw the spider away from her. It hit the opposite wall and slid lightly down, leaving black hairs on her skin that almost immediately began to itch. Meanwhile, the other two spiders had reached the tree and begun to climb it.

Real
. Oh, the bastards! But Mark had said—

Think twice
.

Cautiously, staying as far away as possible from the spider on the floor, Amy took her cell phone from her pocket. She approached the tree. So did the third spider; evidently the tree had something in it or on it that attracted spiders. Amy got within a few feet of the branches, took careful aim, and tossed her cell phone at the puppy. If she knocked it free, she could dart in and grab it before the spiders change course. But she didn’t think she’d have to.

The cell phone went right through the puppy.

Amy retrieved her phone from where it had hit the floor and went back to the door. She could just imagine the stupid voting choices for this scenario: Who rescued the puppy? Who just stood and screamed? Who stomped on the spiders? That would be one or more of the boys, whoever was wearing boots and didn’t have arachnophobia. Not Violet or Waverly in their high heels.

All at once the whole thing bored Amy. These stupid scenarios, these endless fake choices . . . She was sick of
Who–You
. One more scenario after this and her season’s contract was done. With any luck, the show would then be canceled. The ratings had been sagging steadily.

She waited for the door to open, watching the real spiders climb the real tree toward the fake dog.

* * *

Gran was awake and alert. Not, however, her usual self.

Amy had turned on the noon news, which was full of excited men and women debating the passage of the Emergency Economic Restructure Act. But Gran merely waved her hand—such a thin hand, blue-lined and brown-dotted as a road map—at the television. “Turn it off.”

“Off?”

“Yes. Come here, Carolyn.”

Carolyn. Her mother’s name
.

Startled and disturbed, Amy took the chair next to the hospital bed. Gran’s eyes seemed too bright, too big, in their sunken sockets. But she smiled broadly, and her voice sounded strong. “Remember when you were three, Carolyn? We took you to the zoo, along with the neighbor girl, Elizabeth. And somehow Elizabeth just slipped away from your father. Just skipped off when he took his eyes off her. We both rushed around frantically, me carrying you, and you kept saying with such satisfaction, ‘Maybe the
lions
ate her. Maybe the
tigers
ate her.’ It turns out you didn’t like Elizabeth.”

Amy’s hand tightened on her grandmother’s. It had been Kaylie that had said that at the zoo, when Amy got lost.

“And remember when you painted your sister’s Barbie doll green and said it was an alien? You even gave it some unpronounceable name, like the ones in those dreadful alien-invasion movies.”

Amy had never had a Barbie doll. Maybe her mother had, or maybe Gran was wandering even farther back in time to her own childhood. For the next hour Gran told stories that jumbled Carolyn, Kaylie, Amy, and some other names—Eddie, Christy—that Amy vaguely remembered as being cousins of either her mother or grandmother. Maybe. The stories grew more animated and more chaotic, and Gran’s hand tightened on Amy’s, until abruptly she fell asleep.

“Nurse!” Amy rain into the hall. “Something’s wrong!”

The nurse came in, examined Gran, listened to Amy’s rushed account. Then she said gently, “You have to expect this, my dear, with this sort of illness. But she’s not in any pain, and you say she didn’t seem distressed.”

“No, she seemed happy to talk like that!”

“She probably is. But I’m going to ask the doctor for something to make sure she sleeps right after dinner and on through the night, to conserve her strength a bit. She might wake again this afternoon, though, if you want to stay.”

Amy stayed. At the 3:00 meeting the cardiologist, case worker, and Indian doctor decided that Gran should stay for now in the hospital. Gran did wake, to tell a few more stories with the same animated relish, the same confusion of time and people. She seemed perfectly content. After she had her sleeping pill, Amy took a cab to the hotel.

She was glad that Gran seemed to feel such pleasure. She was also glad there was no chance that Gran would see the “special edition” tonight of
Who–You.
Whatever stupid thing it was that Myra had put together about the riots and the hotel fire, at least Gran wouldn’t have to go through it again.