Chapter Six
The cold, clear night air was bracing after the musty, mothy fug of the interior. The adrenaline flooding Nick’s bloodstream gave him the fuel to clear the terrace in a couple of strides. Action, any action, was a relief after a day spent wandering around the rubble of the hotel grounds and listening to old Horace babble about his Hollywood glory days. Horace didn’t need a PI, he needed a shrink. Nick almost would have preferred sitting on a stakeout. Except there was no Perry on stakeout.
Even so.
Bad idea, Reno. You don’t know who else is out here. You don’t know if he’s armed with more than a sword this time.
He could hear the rattle of leaves, the snap of twigs beneath the intruder’s feet as he ran through the courtyard—he was no more than two yards ahead of Nick as he burst out of the enclosure and fled down the stone steps leading to the garden.
Thanks to the sickly moonlight, Nick got a pretty good look at him then. The asshole was wearing a cape. Yep, a cape. His head was covered by something white. A rubber mask? Probably. Best guess? A skeleton mask. Credit where credit was due. This asshole had the balls to return to Angel’s Rest so soon. And all by his lonesome too.
You are so mine.
The target made it down all three flights of stairs without tripping, turned left, and fled down another walkway. Where the hell was he headed? There was a gate leading to the back of the property only a few feet in front of him. Did he think he could hide in the greenhouse? The old swimming pool? Nick could hear him crashing through dead brush and dried shrubs, and he seemed to be moving with purpose, clearly familiar with the hotel grounds. Nick had memorized the general lay of the land, but there was a lot of acreage to cover. Meandering pathways and flights of steps leading nowhere complicated his pursuit.
His quarry had now reached the terraced hillside, scrambling up the dry slope like an energetic mountain goat, confirming Nick’s belief that he was chasing someone young and male. Someone with an already mapped out plan of escape—and an exit strategy.
Which Nick now understood. The intruder knew better than to simply try to outrun him. Instead, he was trying to lose Nick by leading him through an obstacle course.
Sweating, breathing fast, Nick reached the top of the hillside. He was in good shape, though not like back when he’d been a SEAL, so yeah, this guy was definitely younger than him.
The man in the cape disappeared into a copse of dead trees. From not far ahead Nick heard the scrape of boots on rock, the clink of rolling bottles, the clang of something heavy and metal landing on stone.
He slowed his pursuit in time to avoid falling over the iron patio chair that had been placed directly in the middle of the brick path—and to sidestep the beer bottles that had been kicked onto the trail. It cost him valuable seconds.
Deciding to try and head the other off, he veered from the brick path, pushing his way through a mostly dead nine-foot hedge. He found himself on the edge of an empty field of weeds and rocks. With no trees or buildings to act as breaks, the wind whipped across the open space, stinging his eyes and filling his ears.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one looking for shortcuts. The caped figure had opted for the same strategy. He was several yards ahead of Nick and covering the uneven terrain like an antelope, making for the chain-link fence at the back of the property. Nick threw on a last burst of speed and gained some lost ground.
Not enough.
If his quarry had had to climb the fence, he’d have caught him for sure. But instead, the target swerved left, disappearing behind a couple of scrub oaks—bent nearly in half with the force of the wind—and coming out on the other side of the chain-link where a small dirt bike was parked.
Nick reached the cut fence a few seconds too late. He watched, fuming, as the intruder straddled the bike and gunned the engine. Nick swore. The guy on the bike flipped him the bird and rocketed off into the night.
Nick swore again, watching the red taillight vanish down the dirt road like an errant spark.
Mission failed.
Hell, he hadn’t even managed to get a license number.
Fuck.
He examined the cut fence. It was hard to tell in the moonlight and with chain link, but it did not appear to him that the fence had been cut recently. He was pissed at himself all over again for not discovering this point of entry when he’d walked the perimeter that afternoon.
Although, in fairness, there were countless points of potential illegal entry on the property. Mending the fence—which he would see about tomorrow—wouldn’t guarantee keeping anyone out. Not if they were determined to get in.
He listened to the angry whine of the motorbike fading into the night sounds of katydids and crickets. He turned and walked back to the hotel. As he retraced his footsteps through the little garden where the intruder had tried to ambush him, he could hear the alligator bellowing its mating call from the old swimming pool area. Just another lonely old codger in a place overrun with them.
Nick sighed.
So what had been the point of that little exercise?
In fact, go back a day earlier. What had been the point of three punks dressed in skeleton costumes attacking Horace?
Horace had believed it was an attempt on his life, but how likely was that?
Perry didn’t believe he had stopped an attempted homicide. According to Perry, he had run into the skeleton men on the stairs leading from the courtyard. In other words, they had finished with Horace and were making their escape. They had not killed Horace. They had not even hurt him very badly.
And what about tonight?
It seemed highly unlikely Horace would be in the habit of taking a moonlit stroll, so what had the intruder been waiting for? Had his mission simply been one of surveillance?
To what end?
By that point in his reflections Nick had reached the hotel’s inner courtyard. He used the flashlight app on his phone to search the ground near the steps leading to the terrace. Sifting through the leaves, he found a mound of cigarette butts, some of them still warm. He did some quick calculations. At ten minutes a cigarette, their intruder had stood out here smoking for about an hour and a half.
Even with sunset at six p.m., that was pretty brazen. The guy had positioned himself no more than five yards from the dining-room windows.
Of course, if the bird hadn’t flown into the window, he could have spent the entire evening watching them, and they would have been none the wiser. It was not a reassuring thought.
Nick went up the steps to the terrace. Through the tall windows he could see the residents of Angel’s Rest milling around the table. They looked like actors unable to find their marks on a stage set.
Where the hell was Perry?
The uneasy question had only just formed when Perry said, “Nick?”
His slim, pale shadow crossed the terrace to meet Nick.
“Hey,” Nick said. And then, “He got away.” He was still chagrined. “He had a motorbike parked behind the back fence.”
Perry did not seem surprised. “I tried to get Horace to call the police. He won’t. This time he’s got a bunch of witnesses, but still no. He flat out refuses.”
Nick made a sound of acknowledgment. Perry was right to be concerned. Something was definitely wrong with this setup.
“Were you able to get a good look at him?” Perry asked. “Was it a him?”
Nick sighed his exasperation. “I’m pretty sure it was a him, but no. I didn’t get a good look at him. And even if I had, he was in costume.”
He could feel Perry’s stare in the darkness. “Yeah.” He answered Perry’s unasked question. “A cape and a skeleton mask.”
Perry seemed to think that over, making no move to return to the dining room. “You know what’s weird about this?”
“Uh…everything?”
“Especially weird.”
“No. What?”
“Well, if our theory is that this person is some kind of crazed fan, wouldn’t you think he’d be dressed like someone from one of Horace’s movies?”
“You haven’t seen most of Horace’s movies. How do you know he’s not?”
“You’ve seen his movies. Was he?”
“Not that I recall, but those films all run together.” He was not being critical. He had enjoyed the hell out of Horace’s movies in his teens. But they did all pretty much run together. A lot of boobs. A lot of blood.
Perry was still thinking. “Horace spent all afternoon showing us movie stills and posters and lobby cards. I never saw anyone dressed like the guys I ran into yesterday. They’re carrying wooden swords, so some kind of thought went into their costumes.”
He was right. The choice of wooden swords was too impractical to be random.
Perry added, “And wouldn’t you think someone obsessed with Horace’s movies would focus on one particular film or character?”
“Maybe.” That was an interesting angle. Leave it to Perry to offer that kind of unique insight. At the same time, it was hard to predict how a deranged brain might reason.
“Horace never pointed out any particular film as one that might have inspired these crazed fans. Which…wouldn’t you think he would?”
Nick said, “He may not know which film. He may not remember. He made a lot of movies.”
Over one hundred films in a relatively short career—a career interrupted by alcohol, drugs, and an extended stay in a mental-health facility. That last one was something Nick planned on finding a little more about.
“Even so,” said Perry. “His most famous film is probably Why Won’t You Die, My Darling? which I did see. It was set in the 17th century. It’s about witch hunters. There aren’t any skeletons. And even if there were, the costumes Horace’s attackers were wearing were just ordinary modern skeleton outfits. You’d think people who were going to the trouble of stalking someone would be more obsessed with the details.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nick was a little amused. “You can’t judge based on the type of stalker you would be.”
“Still. Vampires, monks, witches, zombies…any of those would make sense in the context of Horace’s filmography. And, given the fact that it’s almost Halloween, those are costumes that would be readily available too.”
Hmm. That sounded like Perry had been checking out Halloween costumes. Had he been invited to a Halloween party? Had he planned on attending a Halloween party before Nick got home ahead of schedule?
And why would that be a problem?
It wouldn’t be, and yet Nick didn’t like the thought of it. At all.
He forced his thoughts back on track. “Okay. What do you think is going on, then?”
“I don’t know,” Perry admitted.
“Do you think these are just random guys wearing random costumes?”
Perry thought it over. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Horace has a good point about there being three of them.”
Nick thought he could follow this line of Perry’s reasoning. “One obsessed fan is understandable. A coordinated effort defies belief.”
“Right. Exactly.”
“It’s not impossible, though. Old people get bullied too. It’s not a nice thought, but sometimes people who seem a little odd or out there, get targeted. That could be happening here.”
Even as he framed his argument, Nick felt unconvinced by it. Yes, it could be the case that Horace had come to the attention of a trio of young thugs who were having fun tormenting him. But according to Horace, the threats and attempts on his life happened every Halloween. As far as Nick knew, bullying was not a seasonal occupation.
The glass door opened, and Enzo said, “Horace wants to know what you’re doing out here.”
“Nothing. We’re coming in,” Nick said.
Enzo stopped Nick as he followed Perry through the door. Enzo’s usually mournful brown gaze was suspicious, hostile. “I’m watching you.”
“I don’t charge,” Nick said.
Enzo’s face darkened. “What kind of a crack is that?”
What kind of crack did Enzo think it was? Nick didn’t know or care. He was rapidly losing patience with all of Angel’s Rest’s guests, barring one. The one he planned on extracting as soon as possible.
He said curtly, “Take notes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two,” and left Enzo spluttering his indignation.
Back in the dining room, Perry was explaining to Horace and the others that Nick had been unable to catch the intruder. With the exception of Horace, everyone seemed disappointed but not surprised. Horace waved off the news of Nick’s failure.
“He chased him away. That’s the important thing.”
Perry looked troubled. “Well…”
“It’s not that simple,” Nick said. “There’s nothing to keep him—them—anyone from coming back. In fact, there’s evidence to suggest they’ve created a regular path of entry onto the property.”
Horace pursed his mouth and looked thoughtful.
“I strongly recommend you phone the police,” Nick added, since Horace still didn’t seem to get the message.
The more he thought it over, the more certain he was that this was not a simple case of stalking. Not that stalking cases were ever simple. But they weren’t generally a group activity. A police presence might or might not act as a deterrent, but at the least it ought to give someone second thoughts.
Horace said, “I know you mean well, my dear boy, but the last thing we need is the fuzz poking around here.”
The fuzz?
“Okay, then maybe you should think about hiring a bodyguard,” Nick replied. “Which I’m not.”
“Nick,” Perry said.
Nick put up a hand. “Okay. Fine. I just want us to be on the same page. It’s going to be hard for me to figure out what’s going on here when I’m not getting much—or any—help from the client.”
The Winthrop woman, who was making short work of an acre of lasagna, said, “Got it. You are not to be blamed if the old fool is murdered in his bed tonight. Now sit down and have your supper. You’ll feel better. There’s never been any use in arguing with Horace. He’s as stubborn as a mule and only half as smart. And I say this as someone experienced in the ways of mules.”
Perry was waiting for him to decide. Not that there was really any decision to make. He wasn’t going to let Perry down. Or leave Horace to his fate, however deserved, if at all avoidable. Nick nodded, and Perry smiled, relieved and slightly apologetic, not that he had anything to apologize for. He was too kindhearted for his own good, but it was one of the things Nick loved about him.
Though he loved it less tonight.
They took their places at the table once more, and the wine bottle was handed their way. Nick topped up Perry’s glass. Perry smiled at him. Nick’s heart warmed and expanded the way it always did when Perry looked at him that way. Like Nick was his own personal knight in shining armor. He—Perry—was bound to get over thinking of Nick that way eventually, but it sure was nice while it lasted.
Gilda the Great suddenly piped up, intoning in a faraway voice, “Horace is not destined to die tonight. Nor in his bed—”
“Perfect. Then we can all relax for the evening.” Winthrop reached for her wineglass, held it up. “Cheers, everybody!”