The Big Sheep (24 page)

Roy reluctantly released Peninsula and turned to face me. “What's going on?” he asked, suddenly all business again. “What are we doing here?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” I said. “You just get Peninsula somewhere safe.”

“Peninsula?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said, glancing at her. “I meant Priya. Long story.”

“Whose house is that?” asked Roy.

“Just some guys Keane and I need to deal with. They stole something we need to get back.”

Roy looked from me to Keane, who was busily inspecting the bark of a nearby sycamore tree.

“How many guys?” asked Roy.

“Three that we know of.”

“Armed?”

“Most likely.”

“Is he going to help?” Roy asked, indicating Pavel, who was tapping the steering wheel of the Suburban and singing along to the Pet Shop Boys' “West End Girls.”

I shook my head. “Pavel doesn't do guns.”

“So it's just you and Keane? Against at least three armed guys?”

“Looks that way.”

“What did they steal?”

“Believe it or not,” I said, “a sheep.”

“They have a sheep in their house?”

“It's in the garage.”

“This must be a pretty valuable sheep,” Roy said.

“Extremely.”

“Can you just take the sheep and leave?”

“It's a really big sheep,” I said. “And we can't risk her getting hurt. We're going to have to neutralize the threat in the house first.”

Roy nodded. “All right,” he said. “I'll take the front door. You and Keane go around back.” He looked at Keane, who seemed to be chewing on a piece of bark. “In fact, leave Keane here.”

“You don't need to do that, Roy,” I said. “I really just called you here to get Priya to safety.”

“She'll be fine for a few minutes. Keane can watch her.”

“Hey?” said Keane.

I sighed. Roy was right: Keane wasn't going to be much help under the circumstances. I didn't like it, but I needed Roy's help. “Sheep's in the garage,” I said. “Roy is going to help me get her. You stay here with Pen—Priya.” I handed him the backup gun. “Keep her safe.”

“Sure,” said Keane. “No problem.”

“Good luck,” said Peninsula.

I turned to Roy. “You think you can kick that front door in?”

He shot me a pained look.

“Yeah, okay,” I said. Dumb question. “I'll message you when I'm in position. Wait ten seconds and then go in.”

Roy nodded, and I went around the back of the Suburban and crossed the street. Then I made my way around to the back of the house. When I was safely ensconced behind a post in view of the back door, I messaged Roy. I counted to seven and then ran to the door and tried the latch. It was unlocked. I opened the door and stepped inside, my gun drawn. As I did, I heard a loud crash from the front of the house.

“On the floor!” I heard Roy yell. There was some more yelling and scuffling as I went through a small pantry and the kitchen. I threw open the door to the living room to find three men lying on the floor, Roy standing over them. The house was a mess, fast-food containers, beer cans, and other trash scattered over every flat surface. In the center of the room was a coffee table that had been cleared off to make room for several stacks of cash and a large ziplock bag filled with what looked like orange pills. So that's how our out-of-work actors supported themselves when they weren't stealing sheep.

“I'll watch these guys while you get the sheep,” said Roy.

“Give me a minute to check the rest of the house,” I said. Once I knew the house was clear, I'd call Pavel and have him back his Suburban up to the garage door.

“Roger that,” said Roy. “These guys aren't going anywhere.”

But before I could even start down the hall to the bedrooms, another man, in black jeans and a black T-shirt, came through the front door behind Roy. He had a gun.

“Roy!” I shouted, training my gun on the newcomer. But then I felt cold steel on the back of my neck. The gunman wasn't alone. Our situation had taken a sudden, and seemingly inexplicable, turn for the worse. Who the hell were these guys?

“We'll take it from here,” said the man behind me, with a slight Russian accent. And there was something else: the smell of licorice.

“We were managing okay,” I said. I noticed one of the guys on the floor—the guy called Braden—was taking advantage of this new complication by pulling himself across the floor toward an end table on which was resting a .357 revolver. I hadn't noticed it before because it was partly hidden by all the garbage. Sloppy.

“Hey, Muffler Guy!” I snapped, pointing my gun at him. “Don't get any ideas.”

“Put down your guns,” said the man behind me.

“I think there's been a misunderstanding,” I said to Licorice. “We both work for the same person. You're just making our job more complicated.”

Licorice laughed. “There's been no misunderstanding,” he said. “Selah has decided to cut out the middleman.
All
of the middlemen.”

I had a bad feeling about that last part. It was a little too easy to imagine a news report about a drug deal gone bad and resulting in the deaths of five men in a small house in Culver City. Whether Roy and I got out of there alive depended on how concerned Selah was with tying up loose ends, and she struck me as rather thorough.

Braden crept closer to the end table. “Hey!” I yelled. “I realize you're an actor, not a writer, so let me help you out here, Braden. There is no variation of this story in which you grab that gun and get out of here alive. Leave the gunplay to the adults, all right?”

“Last chance,” said Licorice. “Put down your guns.” The barrel ground into the hollow of my neck.

“Fine,” I said. “But in case you didn't notice, Muffler Guy over there is itching to play hero, so I highly recommend either putting a bullet in his head or letting me move that gun to a shelf he can't reach.”

“Muffler Guy?” asked Licorice.

“Are you dragging in the morning?” said Braden, suddenly falling into character. “Come see the Muffler Guy!”

Licorice was quiet for a moment. “Go,” he said, nudging me in the back of the head with the barrel.

I began walking toward the end table, my gun still trained on Braden.

“Slowly!” said Licorice from behind me. “Pick up the gun by the barrel and then walk backward toward me.”

I was two paces from the gun when I heard another man's voice behind me. “Are you guys just about done in here?” he asked. I groaned as I recognized the voice. Risking a glance behind me, I saw Keane, standing, unarmed, in the middle of the room. He had simply strolled in through the front door, past Roy and the other man, and was just standing there expectantly, like someone waiting for a train. “Sorry I'm late,” he said. “Had to see a man about a sheep.”

Licorice and the other man didn't seem to know what to do. Keane clearly wasn't a threat, but he'd upset the equilibrium of the situation. I wasn't terribly happy about his appearance either, because now I had to worry about his safety on top of everything else.

“Keane,” I growled, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” he said. “Passing time, creating a diversion, that sort of thing.”

Sensing something in the mood of the room had changed, I moved to the edge, where I could see what was going on while keeping my gun trained on Braden. Standing behind Licorice, with a gun pointed at his head, was Priya Mistry.

I took a deep breath. The odds had shifted—slightly—in our favor, but there was an ungodly number of variables to account for: me with my gun on Braden; Roy with his gun on the other two actors; the Man in Black with his gun on Roy; Licorice with his gun on me; Peninsula Priya with a gun on Licorice; and Keane, the ultimate X factor, standing in the middle of the room like a man with a death wish.

“Priya,” said Licorice, with a smile. He looked over his shoulder at her.

It took a few seconds for it to hit her. “You,” she said, and gasped.

“You remember?” said Licorice.

“You … did something to me,” Priya said, the gun quavering in her hand.

“I … tried to help you,” said Licorice.

“No,” Priya said, shaking her head. “You hurt me.”

“Never,” said Licorice. “I would never hurt you, Priya. You're special.”

“No,” Priya said. “I'm a copy. A clone.”

Licorice turned his head to face me again and looked me in the eye. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Who told you that?” he asked. “Erasmus Keane? He's a liar, Priya. Why, he and his partner are double-crossing Selah Fiore right now.”

Priya glanced at me and then at Keane, who was listening with apparent interest.

“He's playing with your head, Priya,” I said. “Don't listen to him. You saw the other Priya. You know what Keane told you is the truth.”

“The truth,” said Licorice, “is that there are several clones of Priya Mistry. But you're not a clone, Priya. You're the original. You are the real Priya.”

Priya looked searchingly at me. I could see the pain in her eyes. She didn't know where to turn, whom to trust.

“I feel like me,” she said. “I feel like Priya. But how can I know?” There was desperation in her voice. “How can I know I'm the real one?”

“Surely, you can feel it,” said Licorice. “Your memories are real. We couldn't fake something like that. The others, they went crazy because they could feel that their memories were false. But you … you know they are real.”

“Sometimes I'm not sure,” Priya murmured. The gun was still in her hand, but she seemed to be losing awareness of her surroundings. “What did you do to me … at that place?”

“You underwent a procedure,” said Licorice. “We copied your memories for the clones. You experienced some memory loss as a result. Nothing serious, but some of your recent memories may seem a little fuzzy. It will pass, with proper care. I can help you, Priya, but not if you give in to these delusions about being a clone. Not if you insist on running around with people like Erasmus Keane, playing private investigator.”

Priya nodded slowly. She began to lower the gun.

“Priya,” I said. “Don't do this. You know what he did to you. To the others like you.”

“There are no others like you,” said Licorice. “I promise you that, Priya. You're one in a billion.”

That was when she shot him.

Her aim was a bit off, so the bullet just grazed the side of his head. He staggered forward and then spun around, swinging his gun in Priya's direction. I shot him twice in the back and then turned my attention to Braden, who had gotten his hands on the .357. At that point the whole room seemed to erupt in gunfire. Braden fired at me three times, waving the gun wildly in my direction and missing me completely. I put two rounds in his chest, and with a sigh, he collapsed on the carpet. The other two actors remained prone, frozen in fear. I turned my attention to the other side of the room.

The man who'd been guarding Roy was lying in a heap near the front door. Licorice was lying facedown near the kitchen. Next to him, Roy was bending over Priya. Keane remained standing, unscathed, in the center of the room.

I ran to Priya and crouched down next to Roy. He was cradling her in his arms. A bloodstain grew on her blouse. Licorice must have gotten a shot off before he died.

“Priya, stay with me!” Roy cried. “Somebody, call an ambulance!”

But I could see already there was no point. She'd been hit in the heart.

“I don't … want to do this anymore,” she whispered, and then her head fell to the side. Priya Mistry was dead.

 

TWENTY-ONE

“Roy!” I yelled. “Pull yourself together. We've got to get the hell out of here. Keane, help me get the sheep into the Suburban.”

“Pavel and I can do it,” said Keane. “You should go.”

“Look,” I said. “You feel guilty for fucking this thing up, getting Peninsula killed. We can deal with that later. Right now—”

“It's not that,” said Keane. “You need to get back to the office.”

“The office?” I asked. “Why?”

“Selah's people knew we were going to be here,” Keane said. “Somebody told them.”

I hadn't had time to process the situation, but now it became clear to me. “The other Priya,” I murmured. “Oh shit. April.” Selah's people must have gone to the office and found April and Palomar there. Palomar had talked. And Selah's people probably had April.

I ran out the front door to the aircar.

When I got there, the building was empty. There was no sign of a struggle, or that anyone had been there. But then, if Selah's people had guns, there was no reason there would be. I called Keane and told him the situation.

“Okay,” he said. “I'm sending you coordinates. Meet us there as soon as you can.”

“All right,” I said, and ended the call.

The coordinates turned out to be a remote trailhead in the Hollywood Hills. When I got there, I saw Keane standing in the dark next to Pavel's Suburban. I parked next to it and got out.

“What are we doing here?” I asked. “We need to find April.”

“You got any idea where they're holding her?” asked Keane.

I shook my head.

“Neither do I,” said Keane. “We needed a place to let Mary walk around a bit. And bury Peninsula.”

“You're going to bury her
here
?” I asked.

“Roy's taking care of it,” he said. “Look, we couldn't very well leave her at the house. We don't need that kind of heat.” He had a point. Famous actresses turning up dead had a way of attracting a lot of the wrong kind of attention.

“What did you tell the actors?” I asked.