O’Reilly lay on top of a musty-smelling bed in a dark, unused guest room at the back of the house, trussed like a duck in a Chinatown market. At least he wasn’t hanging from a hook, he told himself. Not yet, anyway. And he nearly choked on his fury. Who would fucking believe this?
What had Barstow said? It was hard to remember after that awful shock. The sonofabitch had tasered him. Knocked him down flat. Messed up his head, too—memories of the last hour or two were coming back in dribs and drabs. Like someone turning a film projector on and off.
This was unbelievable. Who would have thought the guy was wound so fucking tight? O’Reilly took a deep breath through his nose. But here he was, trying not to panic at the gag Barstow had stuffed in his mouth. His own sock, and some moldy old handkerchief.
Barstow had gone ballistic, then threatened to blackmail him. Blackmail him! O’Reilly snorted and flopped on the mattress, which squeaked with abuse, and banged the headboard against the wall. It gave him a sort of juvenile satisfaction, but shit, he could hardly breathe. Christ, he had to stay calm.
First, Barstow had told him he knew about the cocaine Goober had procured for him. Shit. Then he went on about how he had some local girl’s father lined up to go to the local paper and accuse him of statutory rape. What girl, O’Reilly asked himself. The one you thought was a tourist? She wasn’t fifteen, she was driving a car. But you didn’t ask her age, did you, old buddy?
What had set Barstow off, anyway? More like which event had done it. Barstow had been getting more and more eccentric. He’d turned into a fanatic with those protein blender concoctions. Had to have one every morning, his special ritual, with awa and some other crazy Hawaiian remedies.
Jesus, maybe he should have seen this coming. They’d been arguing over everything the past few days, from the lineup to whether to call the meet early this afternoon.
O’Reilly sagged into the mattress. He had to think about this whole thing. His first real glimmer of Barstow’s instability, though he hadn’t seen it as such, was his reaction to Pua’s appearance. It wasn’t anything O’Reilly couldn’t handle. In fact, she’d looked great and he’d found he wanted to talk to her. Apologize, even.
But Barstow had called security, then pelleted O’Reilly with questions. He couldn’t let it go, wanted to know all about her, and what O’Reilly’s relationship had been with her.
O’Reilly could see now where he’d fucked up, but he’d had no idea Barstow was as bad as this. He was just trying to needle him, show him that they both had faults, get him off his back. So he’d made a comment about how Barstow had manipulated the slate of contestants. Letting him know that he was aware two qualified surfers had been bumped from the contest so that Ben and Goober could compete.
O’Reilly remembered the flickering light behind Barstow’s squinting stare and got very still. O’Reilly admitted to himself that in many ways, he’d been a self-involved fuck-wad. But he’d also been working his ass off trying to make the Intrepid a world-class event. He felt like a juggler keeping ten balls and a dozen spinning plates aloft, simultaneously trying to pull money from the air.
He’d done it, too. The contest was a booming success. But he’d lost track of things, too. People, that is.
Goober had tried to warn him, but he’d been too busy to listen. The kid had come back to the house this morning after Barstow left and started spouting some pretty wild stuff. Something about Barstow using a cave and stealing a warrior’s mana through his teeth.
Teeth? O’Reilly still had no idea what he was talking about. Goober’s timing, as usual, sucked. O’Reilly was already ten minutes late leaving the house for an interview with five—count ’em—TV networks. PR was the bedrock of this business.
But he should have paid attention. O’Reilly sucked air through his nose and struggled against the line around his wrists. The headboard banged the wall again. He’d make it up to the kid, send him to college or something. He should have listened.