Warner Echols slid his Porsche 911 to a stop in the gravel driveway in front of Eagle’s Roost and leaped from the cockpit before the engine had stopped turning over. He dashed up the steps to the entrance and banged on the carved oak door, ignoring the bell.
The maid who answered the door recognized Echols and admitted him at once, stepping back out of the way when she saw the look on his face.
“Where is he?” Echols demanded. He gripped the rolled copy of the Los Angeles Times in his fist like a weapon.
“Mr. Fain?” the maid said.
“Hell yes, Mr. Fain. Who do you think?”
“H-he’s relaxing in the hot tub.”
“Relaxing,” Echols repeated through clenched teeth. He pounded through the great entrance hall and on out toward the terrace where Fain had directed them to put in a hot tub.
The maid watched the agent’s retreating back with wide, frightened eyes.
• • •
The water bubbled and steamed and swirled about the interior of the six-foot redwood tub. The effect, according to the ads, was supposed to be soothing, but neither of the occupants looked particularly at ease.
“Damn it!” Mac Fain scowled at the soggy Marlboro that was falling apart between his fingers. “Why don’t they make those things waterproof?” He wadded the debris into a small ball and dropped it over the edge of the tub. He took a long pull from the Bloody Mary that was balanced on the wooden ledge.
“You shouldn’t smoke, anyway,” the blonde said. “It’s bad for you.”
Fain stared into her empty blue eyes. Then he looked down at her fine plump breasts bobbing happily atop the bubbles. He had to think for a moment to remember her name. Debbie? Candy? Sandi? That was it. Sandi. And don’t forget to spell it with an “i.”
“Honey, do me a favor,” he said, “stop with the medical advice.”
She worked on him down under the water with a practiced hand. “I just want to keep you well and strong.”
“Thanks, I’m touched.”
“Everybody knows cigarettes cause lung cancer,” she said.
“Will you quit?” he snapped.
The blonde withdrew her hand.
“Not that,” he said, replacing her hand, “nagging me about cigarettes.”
She was silent. Her wide blue eyes showed hurt.
“Anyway, nobody lives forever,” he grumbled.
Actually, Fain had given up smoking eight years ago and only recently took it up again when his nerves began jumping. With a sigh he grabbed the rest of the pack from the tub ledge, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it into the trees.
“There, satisfied?” he asked.
“It’s really better for you not to smoke,” she said.
This from a girl he had watched snort about two-hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine to get herself going that morning. Fain shook his head and reached for the Bloody Mary.
The French doors opened behind him, and Warner Echols came out onto the terrace. “I’ve got to talk to you, Mac.”
“Does it have to be now? I’m getting a health lecture.”
“Yes, it has to be now. It’s important.”
“So talk,” Fain said, shifting his position gently so as not to dislodge the blonde’s hand. “You know Debbie, don’t you?”
“Sandi,” said Sandi.
“Alone,” said Echols.
Fain edged around to look at the agent. “Can’t this wait?”
“No, goddammit.”
Frowning, Fain pulled Sandi’s hand free and gave her a squeeze. “Take a hike,” he said.
“Are you going to want me later?”
“I don’t know. Stick around in case I do.”
Sandi climbed gracefully out of the tub, giving Echols an opportunity to behold her gleaming ass before wrapping herself in an oversize towel.
Echols paid no attention to the naked girl. He stood shifting his feet impatiently, glaring alternately at Fain and at the newspaper in his hand.
When Sandi had strolled on into the house, Fain said, “All right, what’s the problem? Every time somebody comes at me with a newspaper in his hand, it’s trouble.”
“Have you read the Times?” Echols said.
“No.”
“You’d better read it.”
Fain hoisted himself up onto the tub seat so that the water level was at his waist. He reached out, and Echols handed him the paper.
“‘New Setback for Tax Program,’” he read. “So what?”
“Not that. The left-hand column on page one.”
Fain held the paper carefully up out of the water and read:
BACK FROM THE DEAD — BUT BACK TO WHAT?
By Dean Gooch
(FIRST OF A TIMES INVESTIGATIVE SERIES)
He read quickly through the story, which was continued twice on the inside pages, and looked up at Echols.
“What about it? This Gooch character has had a hard-on for me since day one.”
“If I were you,” Echols said, “I’d be a little more concerned.”
“Why? I’ve had bad press before.”
“I know, but this time it’s not the L.A. Insider. This is the Times.”
“The Los Angeles Times can be wrong, you know. It’s not the Bible.”
“I don’t think they’re wrong this time,” Echols said. “I’ve had Gooch’s story checked as far as I could. We sent private investigators to see all three of those people — Leanne Kruger, Miguel Ledo, and Kevin Jackson.”
“And?”
“And they’re all missing. The Mexican kid and the basketball player for sure, Leanne Kruger probably. Kruger wasn’t talking, but our man sounded out her maid. All three people just walked away.”
“So they’re missing. That doesn’t mean all this shit of Gooch’s is fact.”
“He says in there you were ‘unavailable for comment.’ What does that mean?”
“It means I gave orders that Dean Gooch was not to be allowed anyplace close to me. That SOB dumped on me when I was nobody. Now let him get his news by reading the Herald.”
“That’s not a good attitude, Mac. Gooch swings a lot of weight down at the Times. And his column is syndicated around the country.”
“I will not kiss up to that asshole. So he writes one critical story. That’s not going to kill me. Overall the media has been favorable.”
“And it’s important we keep it that way. If you don’t think the media can turn on one of its darlings, think about what happened to Jesse Jackson.”
“I’m not running for office,” Fain said.
Echols drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Damn it, Mac, don’t you see what kind of effect this will have on our whole program? The book, the movie, the public appearances — everything depends on keeping a positive image in front of the public. A thing like this could blow us right out of the water. We’ve got to do something to counteract the bad effect this has already had, and we’ve got to do it fast.”
Fain hauled himself out of the hot tub and pulled on a thick terry-cloth robe. “What do you expect me to do about it? Apologize for bringing people back to life? I’ve got a power; I use it. I can’t be held responsible for what happens to these people once I’ve revived them.”
“Maybe you can,” Echols said darkly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m thinking of the Oriental custom where you save a man’s life, you become responsible for him from then on. You went a lot farther than just saving these people’s lives; you brought them back from the dead.”
“Do me a favor, Warner. Knock off the Oriental philosophy. If you think we’re in trouble here, let’s have some positive input.”
“I know we’re in trouble,” Echols said. “We started getting calls at F-A early this morning. You must be the only person in town who didn’t read Gooch’s story.”
“I got up late.”
“What I thought we might do,” Echols continued, “is have you make public appearances with some of the other people you’ve brought back. The more recent ones. Sort of a reunion showing that you’re okay and they’re okay.”
“If you really think it’s necessary,” Fain said.
“I do.”
“Then go ahead and set it up.”
• • •
In the days that followed, Warner Echols became increasingly worried. The people he sent out to contact Fain’s recent “clients” came back with troubling reports. So troubling that Echols went out to see for himself.
His first stop was at the home of Glenn Meiner, the heroic fireman killed in the nursing-home blaze. He was taken into the living room by Meiner’s pregnant wife. The Venetian blinds were tightly closed, locking out the sunlight. A moist, unhealthy smell permeated the room.
Meiner sat slumped in a frayed easy chair. He did not look up when Echols came in. His wife hurried over to take a position behind him. The fireman responded to Echols’s greeting and his questions in a voice that had been drained of life.
“I don’t want to be on any TV show,” the fireman said.
“You wouldn’t have to go into a studio or anything,” Echols said. “We could do the interview right here. As a matter of fact, it might be better that way.”
“I don’t want them coming here. Too much fuss, too many people, too many lights.”
“We could make it as simple and quick as you like,” Echols persisted. “Just a short conversation between you and McAllister Fain.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
Echols leaned forward, trying in the dim living room to read the face of the man sitting across from him. “Mr. Meiner, I’m not asking a lot of you, and it could be very important to Mr. Fain.”
“No.”
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t want to, that’s all.” He raised his head to face Echols for the first time. Something dangerous glimmered in the shadowed eyes. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”
“He doesn’t mean that,” Meiner’s wife said quickly.
“I mean it,” the man said. “All I want is to be left alone.”
Echols rose from the chair and walked stiffly out of the living room and through the front door into the sunshine. Mrs. Meiner followed him.
“I’m sorry about Glenn,” she said. “That isn’t like him at all. Not the way he used to be. He was always a kind, laughing man. We were always having people in and going places. Now all he does all day is sit there in the dark. He won’t see anybody. He won’t do anything. He won’t go back to work; he doesn’t hardly eat anything. We don’t laugh anymore.”
“Is it something physical?” Echols said. “An aftereffect from the fire?”
“I don’t think so. The doctor checked him over and said he was fine right after. He was fit to go to work if he’d wanted to. But I don’t know … he just keeps sitting there. He won’t let the doctor near him now.”
• • •
Sharon Isaacs, the would-be suicide in the Valley, was even less encouraging to Echols than the fireman. He learned from her parents that Sharon had been in a more or less constant state of hysteria since her revival. The psychiatrist that the Isaacses called in recommended putting the girl in an institution, but so far the parents had resisted. They kept her upstairs in her old room, hoping she would come around, but so far Sharon was in no condition to talk to Echols or anybody else.
Paula Foster, the actress who had died during what was supposed to be minor surgery, was welcomed back to River Falls by a cast party. Her return a mere three days after the ordeal was considered miraculous. The day after the party she returned to work. The reports of what happened then were sketchy and guarded, but Echols managed to piece together a rough scenario.
Paula, who was known as a delight to work with, had immediately picked a fight with her costar and refused to do a kissing scene. In rapid succession she argued with the director, the producer, the writers, the network, and anyone else who crossed her path. She walked off the set and was placed on an indefinite leave of absence while her part was “temporarily” written out. Now she was reported to be holed up in her Malibu beach house, seeing no one and refusing to answer the phone. Not even her longtime personal agent at Federated Artists could reach her.
• • •
Barney Quail, the homeless man who had inhaled the lethal chemical fumes, had simply dropped from sight. Since his release from the hospital, he had been absent from his old haunts. There were no known relatives, and no one much seemed to care, so the trail ended.
• • •
John Corely was the clean-cut, well-liked young policeman who had been shot through the head while thwarting a robbery. Echols discovered he was currently in custody in the hospital ward of L.A. County Jail. One week after McAllister Fain brought him back, Corely had emptied his .38 special into the body of his wife.
• • •
Ada Dempsey, the mangled hit-and-run victim, had stayed in the hospital after her vital signs were restored. Then one night she somehow pulled together the torn flesh and shattered bones and dragged herself out of the hospital. No one saw her go. No one had seen her since.
• • •
The next time Warner Echols met with McAllister Fain, there was no blonde, no hot tub, no Bloody Mary. The meeting took place in one of the rooms of Eagle’s Roost appropriated as an office by Federated Artists. The secretary was dismissed, and the door was closed as the two men faced each other.
“What we have here, Mac, is a crisis situation,” Echols said.
Fain lit a Marlboro with a shaking hand, took a puff, ground it out. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating the problem?”
“Exaggerating? Hell, if anything, I’m underplaying it.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “First we have disappearances of the original three people — Leanne Kruger, the Mexican kid, and Kevin Jackson. No word, incidentally, on any of them.”
“Are the police in on it?”
“Only with the Mexican kid, officially. Elliot Kruger has his own security people looking for his wife. Jackson’s mother won’t have anything to do with the cops. Something about a roust of her neighborhood a couple of years ago.”
Fain slumped in his chair, looking glum.
“Now we’ve got a man who sits and mopes in a dark room, a girl who screams all night, an actress who’s locked herself away from everybody, a missing bum, a cop with a hole in his head and a murdered wife, and a bag of bloody bones that once was a woman out on the streets somewhere. If all that doesn’t add up to a major crisis, you’ll have to show me what does.”
Fain ran fingers through his thick black hair. “Okay, Warner, we’ve got a problem. What do you suggest we do?”
Echols hitched his chair closer. “That’s what I came to talk about.”