But for now all he could do was wait. It would be a few hours yet before either Matty or Ellen’s parents got there, and he guessed that some time soon, probably when they’d finished with Sandy, the police would want to talk to him too.
As the movie was only a couple of weeks into shooting, and no vote had been taken to alter its course, Ted Forgon got on the phone to Vic Warren and told him he was recasting the part of Rachel. If Matty was going to be away for a while, they couldn’t afford the delay.
Warren could hardly believe what he was hearing. Matty had only left the set a couple of hours ago, and as far as he knew Ellen was still in the operating room. He called Forgon every foul name he could think of, then refused to do anything until he’d heard from Michael. Forgon promptly fired him, then got straight on the phone to another director and told him to get himself down to Los Mochis, pronto. And while he was at it he called up a couple of screenwriters and told them to get themselves down there too, because the way things were going it was pretty certain a few changes would be needed.
‘Give it some more blood and guts,’ he told one of them. ‘A couple of good chase scenes and some nice big tits up there for the love stuff. Go easy on the laughs though, this is supposed to be a serious piece. But forget about naming names, maybe you should elbow Colombia altogether. Turn it into a Russian spy piece if you have to, and do what you can to lighten it up a bit, or we’re going to drive half the nation to Prozac.’
‘Don’t you think you should take a look at Tom Chambers’s contract before you go ahead with that?’ Chris Ruskin suggested. He’d just walked in on the end
of
Forgon’s call, and having no great love for Hollywood ethics, he had even less for Forgon.
‘Fuck Chambers’s contract!’ Forgon responded. He was clearly really charged up by the idea of taking over.
Ruskin’s face was impassive, though the contempt was only a layer away. ‘I think you’ll find he’s got exclusive rights on the …’
‘He gave up his rights the day he went into movies,’ Forgon snarled. ‘Now unless you’re going to be some use around here, I suggest you get your fairy ass back to New York where it belongs.’
Sandy was the first to find out about Forgon’s assumption of control. Having spent the past hour with the police she returned to the hotel to find a message from Vic Warren demanding someone get on Ted Forgon’s case now or he, Warren, really would walk. There was another message from Chris Ruskin telling her to call him
immediately
she got back. There were still others from the set producers asking what they should do, and from at least half a dozen publicists saying they must have some kind of statement to give to the press. In fact it seemed as though the whole world was trying to get hold of her now that the news of Ellen’s accident was out – and that was how everyone appeared to be referring to it, as an accident, for she could find no mention anywhere, either in her messages or on the few channels she quickly flicked through, of a shooting.
Exhausted though she was, she could feel a new energy starting to kick in. Obviously there was no way she could trouble Michael with any of it, nor was there any way she was going to stand by and let Forgon hijack this movie as though it were some vacuous thriller for the testosterone titans.
Picking up the phone she called Chris Ruskin first and asked him to come over to the Four Seasons right away. While she was waiting she tried calling Alan Day in
Colombia
, but couldn’t get a reply. By now Tom’s flight would be halfway to Miami, where he would then make the connection to Bogotá. Quickly she got back on the phone and spoke to Maggie, Michael’s assistant, telling her to put a message out at Miami airport for Tom to call the minute he landed. If nothing else, she should tell him about Ellen, and with any luck that alone would persuade him to turn around and come back. Forgon’s attempts at sabotage would hopefully clinch it.
Chris Ruskin arrived, and over a fortifying few shots of brandy she told him what she intended to do if, for any reason, Tom didn’t get the message and call back. She was still too beset by shock and the aftermath of all that had happened to calculate properly the size of the risk she would be taking, which was why she had wanted to run it by Ruskin to see how he responded. To her relief he was in total agreement, and even declared himself to be more than ready to share the responsibility should her plans backfire. From that Sandy realized he wasn’t entirely in tune with how dangerous her plans could prove, but as they were really only a danger to her, she saw no reason to elaborate.
By five o’clock it was clear Tom wasn’t going to ring. She tried not to take it personally, telling herself that he probably didn’t get the message, rather than confronting the possibility that he still didn’t want to speak to her. She got back on the phone to Maggie to see if maybe he’d called there, but he hadn’t, nor was there any word from Michael. Sandy took that to be good news, for if Ellen hadn’t made it she was sure they’d all know with a horrible speed.
Within an hour the movie’s senior publicist had performed nothing less than a miracle, and Sandy was at CNN’s Los Angeles studios preparing to do a live link-up with their studios in New York. She was to be the first guest of the evening on
Larry King Live
. The news of Ellen’s accident was, for the moment at least, LA’s top
story
. It would probably remain that way for one, possibly two hours, after that it would be lucky if it even got a mention again, which was why Sandy had to strike now, at a time when the incident already had attention. She’d told Larry King’s researchers about the shooting, which was how she’d managed to get the top slot. They were thrilled – not only was this a great scoop for the show, but it was really going to get the American people going to discover that some Colombian drug lord was able to reach out from a prison cell and affect the lives of American citizens who were going about their business on American soil. Added to that, of course, was the fact that the woman who’d been shot was one of the executive producers on a movie about Rachel Carmedi, the American journalist who, most would remember, had been murdered in Colombia.
Somewhere, in the panicked rush of her mind, Sandy knew that if Tom were aware of what she was planning he would do everything he could to stop her. But he didn’t know, and even if she was putting herself in danger something had to be done to stop Ted Forgon – and, maybe, to stop Tom Chambers too.
Fifteen minutes and a couple of commercial breaks later, her interview was over, and now the entire nation, and half the world, knew that Hernán Galeano’s nephews, Gustavo and Julio Zapata, along with a Colombian lowlife by the name of Salvador Molina, had carried out the kidnap and murder of Rachel Carmedi. They also knew that Galeano had been hiring people to threaten those involved in the making of the movie; that Ellen Shelby McCann’s accident had been a shooting carried out by Galeano’s hit men; and about Galeano’s instruction to murder a child a day as a means of getting the movie stopped, and of keeping his nephews, who were now instrumental in running the Tolima Cartel, out of jail. Sandy went on to describe the unspeakable arrogance of a man like Galeano who truly believed he
could
get away with all this; and ended by revealing Tom Chambers’s suicide mission to Colombia now, in a bid to save any more children from dying.
As she walked off the set Chris Ruskin and the publicist were waiting for her, took her shaking hands and congratulated her. She felt horribly faint, and in desperate need of some air. They took her outside, then Ruskin gave her his cellphone so she could call Rosa at the hospital to see if there was any news.
There was. Ellen was out of surgery and in Intensive Care. The next twenty-four hours were crucial, but if she managed to pull through them there was a chance she might make it. Michael was with her now, though she was still unconscious and expected to remain that way for a while yet.
Sandy returned to the hotel, leaving Chris Ruskin to go on to the production office with the publicist to sort out how they were going to handle the wave of publicity that was no doubt already heading their way. She needed to be alone now in order to carry out the rest of her plan, the part she hadn’t mentioned to Chris.
Once inside her room she sat down at her laptop and began composing an e-mail which she then circulated to Michael, Tom, Alan Day, Chris Ruskin, Zelda Frey in London and her flatmate Nesta. ‘After the interview I just did on
Larry King Live
,’ it read, ‘I know my life is now in danger. So I have gone away for a while, to a place where no-one will think to look for me. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll keep watching the news and when it is safe to come back, I will.’ And to Tom she added, ‘I don’t know if what I did has made things more dangerous for you, but I am praying that it will force the Colombian and American authorities to stop the child killings, and to stop
you
carrying out your revenge.’
When she was finished she packed up her computer and put it, with several other of her possessions, in hotel
storage
and took a taxi to the airport. By nine o’clock that nigh she was no longer on American soil.
Ellen got through the next twenty-four hours, and the twenty-four after that. She remained in Intensive Care, connected up to so many machines it wasn’t easy to get close to her. She was still unconscious and there were still no guarantees, but there was hope, and that was something Michael was clinging to, as hard as she was clinging to life.
He sat with her for hour after hour, holding her hand and gazing past the tape and tubes to her pale, scratched face with all its bruises and stitches. Her chest rose and fell in time with the pulsing pressure of the ventilator, and on the floor at his feet a small suction device, that was connected to a place somewhere behind her ribs, bubbled air through water. There was a tube in her nose to suck air and acid from her stomach; IVs were attached to her arms, and patches and snaps on her chest were wired up to yet more monitors.
He talked to her softly, insistently and lovingly. Sometimes he joked, sometimes he urged, occasionally he cried. He told her how sorry he was for all the heartache he had caused her; how desperately he wished he’d been man enough to stand by her when she’d first told him the baby might not be his. He rambled at length about his useless pride and the idiocy that had made him consider it a weakness to trust, or believe her, when she finally told him the baby was his. But because he knew that their son would matter to her the most, he spent long hours making up crazy and outlandish things the little rascal was thinking, all snugged up there in his private little playpen. The nurses had christened him Seven Leaguer because he was improving so fast, though Michael still hadn’t been allowed to hold him yet, that would happen, the doctor said, as soon as he came off the ventilator. He recited
long
lists of names, asking Ellen to squeeze if he said one she liked, but so far there had been no response. He berated himself for being so inept that he couldn’t even come up with a name she approved of, and told her he hoped they weren’t going to fall out over this, because there were quite a few on that list that were OK by him.
On the third day the doctor pronounced her strong enough to try breathing alone. As she was still unconscious they had to leave the plastic tubing that ran down to her lungs in place. But she could still breathe with it there, the doctor insisted, they would simply turn off the machine.
When the time came the tiny room, with so many devices and strange, greenish light from the monitors, was full of doctors, and the tension was so great it was as though something might explode any second. They allowed Michael to stay, and he watched in frozen terror as the respiratory therapist did a final check before turning to the ventilator and putting a hand on the switch. He looked back at Ellen, then quietly shut down the machine. Everyone waited, watching her chest, willing her to breathe. The silence, now that the pneumatic pressure had gone, was horrible. Above her the heart monitor continued to bleep, but the waves were becoming erratic. Michael started to panic and was about to turn the machine back on, when the therapist put a hand on his arm and nodded for him to look. It was weak, very weak, but there was an unsteady rise and fall in her chest. She was doing it alone.
He felt ridiculous as tears poured down his cheeks and everyone, unable to touch Ellen, shook his hand and congratulated him instead. They were all so proud of her it made him want to break out the champagne. When they’d all gone he sat down with her again and leaning on the padded bed rail told her how much he loved her, how well she was doing and how happy she was going to make her parents, who were coming in later. Then, in
a
state of uncontainable euphoria, he expanded even further and told her how thrilled all the people who’d heard about her on
Larry King
were going to be when they heard how well she had done. He knew she didn’t know about them, but they were the ones who were sending all the flowers that were filling up their home, as flowers weren’t allowed in the ICU. Then he related the story of Sandy’s interview, and how she had now disappeared before Galeano’s men could get to her too. Obviously she didn’t want to be yet another burden on Tom’s conscience, though Michael didn’t say that to Ellen.
Nor did he tell her that down in Mexico the movie was still under way, with a new director, new star and new writers. She didn’t need to be troubled by the way Forgon was welcoming all the publicity with open arms, rubbing his hands in glee and telling anyone who cared to listen that this kind of exposure couldn’t be bought at any price. The fact that he personally was the target of a national hate campaign, and had become the subject of every lampoonist from Leno to Letterman, bothered him not a bit. It was all about money and fuck everything else, including the bombardment of lawsuits that were coming his way. He didn’t even give a damn about the Feds and their inquiries; not that he was being unhelpful, but so far he’d managed to get a judge to rule that the movie could keep going until the Federal Government could give good enough reason for it not to.