Smoke and Shadows (9 page)

The glass began to warm under his palm. “And I should just accept that?”

“Just accept death? I think you're asking the wrong person.”

“I think I'm asking the only person I have a hope in hell of getting an actual answer from.” When he turned, Henry was less than an arm's length away. He hadn't heard him move. “I don't need more platitudes, Henry.”

“All right. What do you need?”

“I need . . . I need . . . Damnit!” He tried to turn again, but an unbreakable grip on his shoulder held him in place.

“What do you need, Tony?”

He fought for a moment against relinquishing control then surrendered and sank into the dark, familiar gaze. “I need to remember.”

“Remember what?”

Impossible not to answer. His mouth moved. He wondered what he was going to say. “Remember what I've forgotten.”

The dark eyes crinkled at the corners as Henry smiled. “Well, that's a place to start.”

In a business where twelve-hour days were the norm and seventeen not unheard of, Chester Bane often stayed late at the office. His third wife had divorced him because of it. He'd enjoyed her company, but he'd preferred to walk around the soundstage, around the world he'd created, without the distraction of actors and crew. Over the years, security and cleaning staff both had learned to avoid him.

Tonight, fish fed, he walked across the dark production office and stood outside the basement door. His set PA had been down in the basement the day after he'd distinguished himself at a second unit shoot.

The day after something had gone wrong at a second unit shoot.

The day a young actress had died, the body found by that same set PA.

Individually, the first was unusual, the second unexpected, and the third a tragedy. Together, they added up to something. CB didn't believe in coincidence.

In the seven years since buying the old box factory, he'd seldom gone down to the basement. He could have. Nothing stopped him. He just hadn't. Arra Pelindrake provided him with inexpensive special effects and he in turn provided her with a way to exist in this new world. They never spoke of how the air had torn above his head and she had dropped through the rent stinking of blood and smoke. They never spoke of flames that didn't burn and squibs that used no gunpowder. They never spoke of what she did or how she did it as long as his shows came in on budget. In under budget; even better.

That was the sum total of their relationship.

He neither knew nor cared if she spoke of him outside the studio although he expected she did. Everyone bitched about their boss.

He was unable to speak of her. His choice. He wasn't fool enough to believe that he'd never want to share so unbelievable a story and rather than lose her—and what she could do for him—he'd asked her to ensure his mouth stayed shut. He remembered everything and could put the necessary spin on her activities vis-à-vis the outside world but he was incapable of discussing what she was or where she'd come from.

At the time, it had seemed like the smart thing to do in order to protect his investment. All of a sudden, he wasn't so sure.

His hand closed around the door handle.

Something was going on. Something attempting to make an end run around his control.

The stairs made no noise as he descended into the gray on gray of the lower level. He noted models and masks as he crossed to the desk, adding them to the mental inventory he kept of his possessions. Although the computer had been powered down, the ready lights on both monitors and speakers glowed green. He barely resisted turning them off. Wasted power meant wasted money.

There were modern fetishes scattered all over the desk. Little plastic Teletubbies. An octopus with only six arms. A red cloth frog exuding cinnamon and dust about equally mixed.

He had no idea what he was looking for and suddenly felt ridiculous.

A startled squeak from the stairs spun him around and he glared silently at the cleaning lady standing frozen in place about a third of the way down. The CB in CB Productions stood for Chester Bane and he had every right to be where he was. When it became clear she was not going to move without his permission, he beckoned her forward and, as she stepped off the last tread, he growled, “Do your job and go.”

Arms folded, he watched her scuttle across to the desk and scoop up the garbage pail. As she tipped it up into the green plastic bag she carried, he frowned.

“Hold it!”

She froze again; a tiny statue in a green duster.

He scooped half a dozen sheets of paper out of the trash one-handed. “These are not garbage. The writing staff can use the backs for notes.”

She nodded although it was clear she had no idea what she was agreeing with.

“Carry on.”

For her age, she moved remarkably quickly back up the stairs. CB followed considerably more slowly, the knees that ended his football career protesting painfully as they hauled his weight back up to the first floor. He flicked off the basement lights, recrossed the production office, and paused at the door to the bull pen. No. He'd give the paper to the writers in the morning. They'd likely need it explained.

Back in his own office he tossed the papers on the desk.

Paused.

Picked up the top sheet. Thick, slightly rough. Drawing paper. Blank on both sides. Wasteful. Perhaps it was time to have a word with . . .

Flicking on the desk lamp, he aimed the circle of light directly at the sheet of paper. Faint gray lines ghosted across the page. There. And then gone. Although under the caress of a fingertip, the imprint of a pattern remained.

Something was
definitely
going on.

“It's no use.” Henry sat back in his chair, allowing Tony to look away and break the contact between them. “There's definitely something blocking the memories.”

“Shock?”

“Perhaps. I've seen shock block memories in the past and for all your experience with the . . . unusual, you've never had the corpse of a friend drop at your feet before.”

Tony sighed. “She wasn't exactly a friend.”

“And you feel guilty about that now she's dead?”

“No. Maybe.” He picked at the faded patch of denim on one thigh. “I don't know. Henry, what is it if it
isn't
shock?”

“I have no idea.”

“Educated guess?”

Prince of Darkness safely tucked away, Henry smiled and stood, dragging his chair back to its usual place at the dining room table. “You must believe I had an interesting education, Tony.”

“Well, yeah. Interesting experiences anyway.”

“True enough. But, in this instance, none of them seem to apply.”

Tony didn't entirely believe that, but since he had nothing to back up an accusation except that Henry was spending just a little too much time fiddling with the chair, he dropped his gaze to his watch before his face gave the whole thing away. The numbers took a moment to sink in, but when they did he stood. “Oh, crap. It's almost 3:00. No wonder I'm feeling so punchy. I've got to get going.”

“Why not stay here?”

“Why
not?
”

Henry ignored him. “There's an extra bed and a change of clothes and we're not a lot farther from Burnaby than your apartment. What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”

“Uh . . . unit call's at 9:30.”

“An early enough call given that it's nearly 3:00.”

What he could see of Henry's expression showed nothing more than an almost neutral concern. They were long over and he'd ended it. They were friends. Friends had the keys to friends' apartments. Friends offered crash space. “I guess it wouldn't hurt to stay.”

“Good.”

“Will you be . . .” Funny how a distance of eighteen months suddenly made what had once been a perfectly normal question sound like horror movie dialogue. “. . . going out to Hunt?”

“No.” One hand rose to tug at the edge of the cream-colored sweater. “It's too late.”

Suddenly the earlier indecision over which shirt to wear made sense. Tony felt his cheeks flush. Knew Henry was aware of the sudden rush of blood and that only made it worse. “You were on your way out.”

“Yes.”

“You were going to feed.”

A graceful nod in acknowledgment. “I'll call her tomorrow and explain.”

“I'm sorry . . .”

“Weighing a new acquaintance against the needs of an old friend was no choice at all, Tony.”

“I'm not your responsibility.”

One red-gold eyebrow rose. “I know.”

“I feel bad about you not feeding.”

“I can wait until tomorrow night.”

You don't have to.
He could feel the words waiting to be said and was fairly certain Henry could as well. And if not, he
knew
Henry could hear his pulse pounding. Trouble was, he couldn't think of a way to say them that wouldn't make him sound like a desperate heroine in a bad romance novel. Not that he read bad romance novels or anything. It was just something that he thought a desperate heroine would say because it had been eighteen months, for fuck's sake, and Henry saw him now as a person, an individual, and surely that meant they could—all right,
he
could—act like an adult and not fall back into need at the feel of teeth through skin.

The moment lengthened, stretched, and passed.

Henry smiled. “Good night, Tony.”

“Yeah . . .”

“It's a great piece of music, Zev, pretty damned near perfect, but you know CB won't pay much for it.”

“Not a problem. It's a local band; they're desperate for publicity, and I can get the rights for little more than a screen credit.” The music director glanced up and smiled as Tony came across the office. By the time he reached Amy's desk, Zev's smile had slipped slightly. “Are you all right? You look . . . tired.”

“Just didn't get much sleep last night. All I have to do is hang on until lunch, then I can catch some zees on the couch in Raymond Dark's office.”

“Catch some zees?” Amy snorted. She slid the headphones off and passed them back to Zev. “Do people actually say that?”

He shrugged. “Apparently.”

Before Tony could get up enough energy to wave a finger at the two of them, the door to CB's office opened and Barb emerged looking pale.

“Your turn, babe,” the company's financial officer muttered to Zev as she passed the desk. “Word of warning, if you want him to spend money, he's in a mood. Play this wrong and you'll end up humming the score yourself.”

Amy raised a hand as Barb disappeared into her office. “I can help. I used to play the kazoo!”