Exit Strategy Part 51

"She thinks you're a pervert," I whispered.

Xavier jumped, then grinned. "Is that it? Whew. I thought she was trying to pick me up."

The woman at the other table breathed a sigh of relief as I sat across from him.

"I was starting to think you weren't going to show," he said. "So does the location suit? Nothing safer than a playground. Absolutely no reason to regret not bringing the boyfriend."

"How do you know I didn't? You've never met Clay."

"I've seen pictures, remember? Blond curls, big blue eyes, everything but the G.o.dd.a.m.n cleft chin. I'd feel really inadequate...if he wasn't a raging lunatic."

I shook my head.

"Hey, don't tell me I'm wrong. I've heard the stories. Saw a photo too. You ever seen those pictures?"

"No, but I've heard about them."

"And that's okay with you? Your boyfriend spent his teen years hacking up people? But hey, high school was rough on all of us. Everyone had his own way of coping."

I could have set Xavier straight, but wouldn't risk wiping away the reputation Clay had built for Jeremy's protection.

Xavier leaned forward. "Sarcasm aside, I've seen what you can do, and you don't need protection from some f.u.c.king psychopath like Clayton Danvers-"

He stopped, noticing my gaze. He tilted his head back, saw Clay standing right behind him and disappeared. He reappeared standing at the end of the table.

"You must be-"

"The f.u.c.king psychopath," Clay said.

"Er, right, but I meant that in the most respectful way. I have the utmost regard for, uh..."

"Raging lunatics," I said.

Xavier shot me a glare.

"Oh, sit down," I said. "He didn't bring his chain saw. Clay, this is Xavier, Evanidus half-demon. Specialty? You just got a little demonstration of that."

"A d.a.m.ned indiscreet demonstration," Clay said.

"No one saw," Xavier said. "And even if they did, they've already explained it away. You guys could change into wolves right here and you'd only have twenty parents calling the Humane Society to pick up a couple of really big dogs that are definitely violating the leash laws."

"Speaking of violating leash laws, we want Hargrave. What do you want?"

"You guys ever hear of the From h.e.l.l From h.e.l.l letter?" letter?"

"No, and from the sounds of it, I'm not sure I want to."

"It's just a letter. Supposedly sent by Jack the Ripper, and stolen by a sorcerer, who still has it."

"I hope you aren't going to ask us to steal-"

"You can't steal stolen goods. What I'm asking is for you to right a very old wrong."

"And return it to the London Police."

"Ha-ha. I'm pa.s.sing it on to a buyer, yes, but he wants to have it a.n.a.lyzed by a team of DNA experts so the world can know once and for all the ident.i.ty of Jack the Ripper."

"d.a.m.n. That is is a righteous cause. Now we can finally catch that murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d and lock him up in prison where he belongs." a righteous cause. Now we can finally catch that murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d and lock him up in prison where he belongs."

NO HUMANS INVOLVED.

It's the most antic.i.p.ated reality television event of the season: three spiritualists gathered together in one house to raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. For celebrity medium Jaime Vegas, it is her best shot at the celebrity holy grail: a TV show of her own. Because, unlike her colleagues who are more show than substance, Jaime is the real thing. Yet, reluctant to upstage her fellow spiritualists, Jaime suppresses her talents, as she has always done. But something is lurking in the gardens behind the house: trapped spirits without a voice. And for the first time, Jaime understands what it means to be haunted. When events culminate in a psychic showdown, she must use her darkest power to defeat a shocking enemy-one whose force comes from the last realm she expected....

One drawback to being onstage for most of your life is that eventually you forget how to act when you're off it. Not that it matters. In such a life, you're never really offstage. Even walking from your bedroom to the kitchen you can't lower your guard...at least not if you're on the set of one of the most antic.i.p.ated TV specials of the season-one costarring you.

The buzz of a saw drowned out the clicking of my heels on the hardwood. I caught a whiff of sawdust and oil, and shuddered to imagine what alterations the crew was making to the house. From what I'd heard, the homeowners weren't likely to complain-they desperately needed the money. The "official" rumor was a failed film project, but the one I'd heard involved an unplanned baby project with the nanny. Tabloid stories to be suppressed, a young woman to be paid off, a wife to placate-it could all get very expensive.

As I pa.s.sed a young man measuring the hall, I nodded and his jaw dropped.

"M-Ms. Vegas? Jaime Vegas?"

I swung around and fixed him with a megawatt smile that I didn't need to fake. Shallow of me, I know, but there's no ego boost like the slack-jawed gape of a man half your age.

"Geez, it is is you." He hurried over to shake my hand. "Could I-? I know it's unprofessional to ask, but is there any chance of getting an autograph?" you." He hurried over to shake my hand. "Could I-? I know it's unprofessional to ask, but is there any chance of getting an autograph?"

"Of course. I'm heading to a meeting right now, but you can grab an autograph from me anytime. Or if you prefer a photo..."

"A photo would be great."

My smile brightened. "A photo it is, then."

"Thanks. Grandpa will love it. He's such a fan of yours. All his buddies in the nursing home think you're hot."

Just what I needed on the first day of a big job-the reminder that in Hollywood time, I was already a decade past my best-before date.

I kept smiling, though. Another minute of conversation, and the promise of a handful of signed photos for Gramps and the boys, and I was off again.

As I neared the dining room, a crisp British voice snapped, "Because it's ridiculous, that's why. Mr. Grady is a professional. He will not be subjected to mockery."

Before I pushed open the door, I pictured the speaker: a stylish woman, roughly my age, dressed in a suit and oozing efficiency. I walked in, and there she was-short blond hair, thin lips, small and wiry, as if extra flesh would be a sign of softness she could ill afford. Icy green eyes glared from behind her tiny gla.s.ses. Personal a.s.sistant model A: the bulldog, designed to raise h.e.l.l on her client's behalf, leaving him free to play the gracious, good-natured star.

Facing her was a younger woman, maybe thirty, dumpy, with a shoulder-length bob and worried eyes. Director model C: the overwhelmed first-timer.

The homeowners had "redecorated" the dining room to accommodate the shoot, clearing out anything they didn't want damaged. As for the dead guy hanging from the chandelier, I suspected he came with the house, and would be tough to remove without an exorcism or two.

The hanging man was maybe fifty, average size but with heavy jowls, as if he'd lost a lot of weight fast. He swayed from an old crystal chandelier, superimposed over the modern one. His face was mottled and swollen, eyes thankfully closed.

I eyed him from the doorway so I wouldn't be tempted to stare once I was in the room. After thirty years of seeing ghosts, you learn all the tricks.