The Mountains Bow Down (32 page)

Closing his eyes, Webb massaged his temples and Sandy Sparks walked over, placing an arm around the director's shoulders. He spoke into his ear, and after a moment Webb turned, retreating to his chair.

Sparks stood in the middle of the set and raised both arms, like a referee calling the game.

“All right, everybody. Cool down. Five-minute break.”

The extras, accustomed to waiting, pulled out the playing cards. Larrah complained her makeup needed fixing. And Milo staggered back to his stool. Sparks followed him, still looking like the referee, only now he was going to explain why the foul was called.

Milo stared at his empty glass.

Jack had carefully made it back to where I stood. “Nice pebbles?” he asked.

“Very. What's going on here?”

“He's drunk. Again. They're just now figuring out that he's drinking the beer on every take.”

“That seems like a no-brainer.”

“I think Sparks is finally cutting him off.”

Finishing his pep talk, Sparks glanced at his wristwatch. The producer, keeping the schedule.

I whispered to Jack, “Quick, hand me the key.”

“If I still had it.”

My head snapped. “What—?”

“Harmon, what took you so long?”

“I got . . . interrupted. You gave it back to him?”

“I stayed away until it seemed obvious we were gone too long. My plan was to hang in back until you got here, but Milo took one look at me and held out his hand. The guy can't remember his lines but he remembers giving me his key. Drunks, they surprise you.”

Webb was gripping the megaphone. “Everyone! This is the last take.” He glared at the bar. “Milo! Last take. Get it
right
.”

“Jack,” I whispered. “I can't keep these.”

“You're just now figuring that out?”

I held my tongue. The cameras rolled and the actors went through the scene again, every word, every facial expression unfolding exactly as before. And now the burly extra's irritation seemed authentic.

“What'll you have?” Larrah asked him.

“What'll I have?” He grabbed her hair. “You!”

Milo leaped off the bar stool and ran—really ran—jumping on the extra's back. He wrapped an arm around the guy's wide neck and squeezed. The extra's face went red. His eyes bulged.

I looked at Jack. “Nice hold, huh.”

Jack was watching the scene with a distant expression. But that was deceiving. When I worked with him in Seattle, I made the mistake of thinking that look was cold detachment. Only later did I realize his brain had switched on its own camera, coolly documenting every moment, committing it to memory.

The extra flung his arms around until his hands found Milo's forearm. He yanked on the arm around his throat. But he couldn't move it. Gagging, he staggered backward, crashing into the table of extras. The cards flew to the floor and the men glanced furtively at each other, then over at Webb. The director was watching intently. So was Sparks. Nobody said “cut.”

Leaping up, one of the extras raised his fist and pretended to swing at Milo, who pretended to duck. He continued choking the burly man, who was now making a sound like a sick cat hacking up fur balls. And his tongue came out of his mouth. It was a burgundy color, engorged with blood.

“Hey, Milo!” Sparks came out of his chair.

Webb picked up the megaphone. “That's enough. Cut!”

Milo didn't hear. Or didn't care. He pulled tighter. The man's eyes bulged from his small head.

“Cut!” Webb said. “Milo, I said, cut!”

Two extras landed on Milo's back. The choking man staggered under the added weight. Like a rugby scrum, the man-pack shifted across the room until crashing into the bar. Suddenly the burly man shot out.

Bent, coughing, he looked up. Eyes like cups of blood.

“He was gonna kill me!” His voice sounded like rust.

Holding Milo's arms, the extras restrained the actor. He was panting, out of breath, his famous face shiny from exertion. But the most disturbing sight was his glassine eyes. They were blind. Without emotion.

Sparks walked toward him, arms open. The dad who can't believe what his son just did. “Milo—”

I turned to Jack. “That's quite an effective choke hold.”

He nodded. “It gave me an idea.”

“Me too. He choked her to death.”

“No, the shoes.”

“What about the shoes?”

“The plastic ones. The black ones. I'll tell him I want them back. Then we can get in there again.”

“But those shoes don't fit.”

“I'll say these sneakers are worse. I'll tell him they gave me blisters, then he can go on and on about the blisters on his feet. I'll listen while you go put those pretty pebbles back where they belong.”

“You think he's going to let me into his cabin—by myself ?”

“My feet hurt, remember? I can't walk.”

Milo was stumbling back to his bar stool and staring into the empty glass, as though willing it to refill. Sparks was talking to the extras, explaining how his lead actor was going through “a really tough time.”

Jack stepped forward, touching Sparks on the shoulder.

“Sandy?”

“Yeah, Jack.”

“Give me a minute with him? Maybe if I explain how an agent would handle this situation.”

Sparks nodded, then looked directly at me before broadcasting his opinion. “Here's a concept. The consultant who actually helps. All right, everybody, take five.”

With his back to the set, Jack leaned in so close to Milo their heads almost touched. I saw Milo glance down at the bright blue sneakers before reaching into his back pocket. Jack, like a magician concealing the more important move, began patting Milo's shoulder while his other hand took the keycard and slipped it up his sleeve. He offered Milo more pats, then waved to Sparks.

“We're good to go.”

Jack stood beside me as the scene began again. When the extra kicked back his chair, it hit the floor with an impressive crash. He lumbered to the bar, growled at Larrah, and recited Milo's cue—
What'll I have?
Milo ran straight for him and Larrah jumped back in pretty disarray. The actor and the extra followed a series of choreographed punches, though Milo kept glancing down at the floor, locating the taped marks. And the extra seemed to regret every pulled punch. But they crossed the bar swinging and pivoting toward MJ, who sat at the piano, and when Jack touched the back of my hand, a sudden tingling raced up my arm. I held my breath, kept my eyes on the men, and suddenly MJ screamed.

She screamed with a pitch that could shatter glass.

I wondered how anybody could miss hearing a scream like that coming from the chapel Monday night.

I slipped the keycard into my pocket and Webb began whispering directions again. “Roundhouse on three.” He leaned forward in his chair, voice rising with anticipation. “And one . . . and two . . .”

And bursting forth, “Ode to Joy.”

Milo's fist was frozen in midair. The extra turned his head, trying to find the source.

I yanked my cell phone from my belt, smashing my fingers into the small keys to silence the song. Jack was backing away, his hands raised to show his innocence. When I looked up, the extra was shaking his head. Milo looked lost. And Webb needed no megaphone.

“You ruined it!” he screamed. “You killed the scene! We finally get it to work—and you killed it!”

Sparks remained nonplussed. Picking up the megaphone, he said, “Vinnie, get her out of here.”

Only too happy to obey, the Forehead flashed into view.

Chapter Twenty-eight

I
glanced at my phone, checking caller ID.

Area code 804.

DeMott's phone number.

With a flash of fury, I bounded up the stairs to Deck Fourteen, running down the hallway to Milo's cabin. At the other end, a steward's cleaning cart sat outside an open door. Head down, I keyed open Milo's door, went straight to the bedroom, and slid out the bureau's top drawer.

The box was gone.

I pushed the lingerie back and forth. Then opened the second drawer.

T-shirts. Shorts.

The third drawer contained pants.

No box.

Standing still, I listened for noise. The only sound was blood rushing through my head. His bed looked exactly as it did when I left. The drinking glasses were still upside down on the paper doilies.

But the closet door was closed.

Moving to the side, I took hold of the knob, turning it slowly. I threw the door open.

Nothing moved.

I waited several seconds, then came around the front and almost jumped out of my skin.

My phone was vibrating on my hip. Glancing into the closet, seeing no feet, no hands, I tore the phone off the clip, thinking,
If this is DeMott, I'm going to
—

But it was McLeod.

“Yes, sir?” My voice was pinched with fear.

“Larsen got it.”

“The bracelet?”

“Yep. It'll be in the evidence vault when you get to Seattle.”

“But I need it now.”

“Now?
”

“Yes, sir. We've got less than two days left on this cruise.”

“You're serious.”

I stared into the closet, searching for the jewelry box—on the floor, on the shelves—all the while knowing it wasn't here. All that remained was that draping wardrobe, those long and elegant palazzo pants, ready for a party. “Sir, when I know who wants that bracelet, I'll know who killed her.”

“Wait, this guy Ramadan—”

Ramazan
.

“I thought he killed her. For the bracelet.”

“I wish it were that simple. Her body showed almost no signs of struggle. Her death was extremely well planned. I doubt Ramazan even knows the full value of that bracelet. I'm a geologist and I didn't realize how unusual those blue stones were until . . .”

“Until what?”

I felt nauseous. What could I say?
I didn't realize it until I stole some rocks from her jewelry box?

“They're very rare, whatever they are,” I continued. “And somebody on this ship knows it. Ramazan was hired to break into the safe.”

“So why let him keep it, why let him run off with it?”

“I don't know. Maybe he was supposed to hold it. Or maybe he got greedy and took off. Did Larsen find out anything from him?”

“No. The guy found some crackpot attorney in Seattle who wants to sue for religious persecution. They're demanding a prayer rug for the interrogation room.” McLeod paused. “And what's going on with Milo Carpenter?”

“He's at the top of my list, and one reason why I want the bracelet here. He refused to claim it.” I glanced around the bedroom, then at my watch. “We're in Skagway tomorrow, ask Larsen to put the bracelet on a plane.”

“Harmon, you're talking paperwork, insurance, an escort—”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who do you think I am? Moses coming down from Mount Cyanide?”

I was in the living room, looking around, hoping to see the jewelry box. I didn't. In the front closet, I checked the shelves, then picked up the cheap black shoes.

“All right, all right,” McLeod said, mistaking my silence. “I'll talk to Larsen. But I'm not making any promises. You might have to wait.”

“I understand, sir,” I told him. “Really, I do.”

The black shoes protested every bend of Jack's feet as he limped down the promenade, wincing with pain.

I walked behind him. “Jack,” I whispered.

“What?”

“The box is gone.”

He stopped cold and turned around. His face showed a series of rapid thoughts. First shock. Then horror. Finally anger.

His blue-green eyes burned into mine. “You're kidding. Right?”

I shook my head.

He hobbled toward a chair near the window. Setting himself down gingerly, he extended his legs. The inflexible soles were propped up like water skis. “Harmon, you realize what this means?”

I nodded. “How long was I gone?”

“Which time?”

“The first time, when I went to check out the stones.”

“Too long,” he said. “Thirty minutes. I was on the set for fifteen of that.”

He began staring down the promenade, and when I turned around, Vinnie was glowering at the passengers pausing outside the Tiki Bar.

“Did anybody leave?” I asked. “Anybody, say, like the Forehead?”

“I wasn't watching him.” Jack leaned forward and pried the shoes off, wiggling his toes. “The director did call for a break.”

“And?”

He thought a moment. “And it was right after I got there. Webb was frustrated with Milo. He said he needed to get some air, or he was going to kill Milo.”

“He said that?”

Jack nodded. “Sparks told him to rub some rock your aunt gave him. That's when Milo walked over and asked for the key. Harmon, if you never touched that stupid box—”