Mack crossed the yard to where Shelby stood, leaning on the ax handle and looking for all the world like an old-time lumberjack in his red flannel shirt and worn canvas work pants.
“Angling for another stroke?” Mack called out as he approached.
Shelby grimaced. “Blowing off steam so I don’t have one.”
“You still uptight about yesterday?” Mack’s voice lowered as he approached.
“One way to put it,” Shelby said. “I slept about as well as a whore with a full client list and a bad case of crotch-crickets. Also Kay and I bickered this morning.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Come on, Shel. When are you going to admit that I can read you like a book. What else happened? Were you unable to get it up and that’s why Kay was pissed? Or perhaps you missed a payment and got kicked out of the Bowtie of the Month Club?”
“Watch it, Mack. I’m holding an ax.”
Mack grinned. “And I’ve got a gun tucked under my arm.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a gun tucked under my arm.”
“Oh my god, we’re idiots. Can we just stop this witty banter and have you tell me what’s happening?”
Shelby sighed. “Carly called. She’s coming into town today. Wants to reconnect.”
“Uh oh.”
“Yeah, uh oh.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Have dinner with her? I suppose so; she’s an old friend.”
“An old friend you used to park your pecker in. A gorgeous old friend you park your pecker in.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“A gorgeous old friend you used to sleep with, who also happens to be a man whisperer and is younger than Kay.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m interested in her.”
Mack sighed and slapped himself on the forehead. “I take it back. We are not idiots. You are the idiot. I’m not worried about you sleeping with her—not really my business. I could not be less interested in what your dick does, other than the fact that cheating on Kay with an old flame would make you a dick. I’m talking about how Kay will look at the situation.”
Shelby winced.
Mack huffed. “Anyway, I didn’t come out here to recount the number of women who seem to keep throwing themselves at you.
“Then why are you here,” Shelby asked. “And how soon are you leaving?”
“I got a call from Tom Cook. You know, that second unit director.”
“I remember who he is, for god’s sake. We just talked yesterday. What did he want?”
“There’s a situation.”
“At the house?”
Mack nodded. “He needs us there right away.”
“Did he say what the situation is?”
“No. He just said to come right away and not to call the police.”
Shelby chuckled. “As if I would.”
Shelby pulled his Jeep up to the iron gates of the Murder House, which were closed and padlocked per his own instructions. He honked the horn and in moments, a young man appeared and unlocked the gate. But instead of waving them through, he slipped through the opening in the gate and walked to the Jeep.
Shelby rolled down the driver’s side window.
“Can I help you?” the young man said.
“Shelby Alexander, security consultant. We got a call from Tom Cook.”
The young man pulled out his phone and appeared to check some sort of list. “Yeah … sorry, I don’t see you on the list I was given?” His voice ended on upnote, like he was auditioning for a Kardashian TV special.
Shelby, of course, immediately hated him. He even thought about hurting him a little.
Mack, no doubt sensing his friend’s increasing blood pressure, leaned over and looked out the driver’s window.
“Would you give Tom Cook a call? Just let him know that Shelby and Mack are here. He’ll know who we are.”
The young man hesitated. And Shelby growled low in his throat, like a junkyard dog who’s just seen a prowler poking around the spools of copper wire.
“Look, kid—just make the call,” Mack said, almost pleadingly. “It’ll make things easier on everyone.”
The young man’s voice went up a notch. “They told me I was not to bother—”
The Jeep lurched forward as Shelby stomped the accelerator. The front right corner of the vehicle caught the gate and it swung open as if on a spring.
“Heeeeey!” screeched the young man. “You can’t doooooo that!”
“You’re security, ya pimple-faced waste of your daddy’s spunk! That makes me your fucking boss!”
He started forward, as if to chase them down, but the gate had opened with such force that it rebounded, swinging back and smacking the kid in the chest. He sat down hard, his phone clattering to the pavement.
Shelby stopped the Jeep with a squeak of brakes just in front of the house, and both he and Mack glanced back.
“I think he might be crying,” Mack observed.
“Good,” Shelby growled. “It’ll get some of that emotion out of his system so he doesn’t make a fool out of himself when he goes online later to enlighten everyone on social media. Or to update his resume on ‘so you just got shit-canned dot com.’”
“Why do you hate everything so much?”
“Because everything is so … hate-able. Now, come on. Let’s go see what Mr. Screechy wants.”
Mr. Screechy, as Shelby had referred to Tom Cook due to the man’s unnaturally high voice, was waiting for them in the foyer. He was looking very worse for wear, with a pale face, sweating brow, and long-fingered hands that twisting one another mercilessly.
“Wow,” Mack said. “You look awful. Did you happen to browse through a collection of Shelby’s old high school yearbook photos?”
Tom managed a weak smile. “Actually, I wish I had. No—Colton Matthews has locked himself in a basement room and refuses to come out. He says he has someone in there with him.”
“Someone … against their will?” Shelby asked.
Tom nodded. “Yes. He says—” and here he lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard— “he says he’s going to kill them.”
“Who’s in there?” Mack asked.
“No clue. He won’t tell us, and everyone on the cast and crew is accounted for.”
“Anyone come up here from town? A fan? A looky-loo?”
“Not that we noticed. And we have the place pretty locked down, given the secrecy of the project. All done according to the plan you wrote out.”
“Well,” Shelby said, “I can see why you didn’t want the police involved, although you may not have much of a choice if he turns to be telling the truth.”
“Oh, please, Mr. Alexander. This would absolutely destroy the project. Can you even imagine the media fallout?”
“Not really. I try not to listen to the media.”
“Well, I’ll just tell you then. It would be horrific. The company would lose millions. It could ruin the studio.”
Mack cleared his throat. “But if he has someone in there—”
“But we don’t know that he does,” Tom interrupted. “It could all be one of Colton’s bids for attention. He has been acting very strange lately; I wouldn’t put it past him to pull something like this.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do?” Shelby asked.
Tom hesitated. “Well … I’m not exactly sure. Ideally, we could get this situation resolved without anyone getting hurt and without involving the authorities. Otherwise, we might as well just call the tabloids right now and offer a damn exclusive.”
At that moment, Gagne came bustling into the foyer from the kitchen.
“Ah, Monsieur Shelby, thank zee heavens. We find ourselves in quite a pickled herring.”
“So I hear. Exactly where did you say is Colton holed up?
“He’s down in the cellar.”
Shelby sighed. “Okay. Lead me to him.”