The Last Cheerleader

That thought blew through my mind only an instant before bullets whistled by my ear. There was no loud pop, but more of a quiet thud, which told me the intruder must have a silencer on his gun. I dropped to the floor and set the flashlight as far away as my arm could reach. Then I flicked it on and pointed it in the direction of a large, dark figure by the bed. The figure was big enough to be a man, but he wore a ski mask and was dressed all in black. In the perimeter of the light, I saw that Lindy was leaning back against the headboard with my sheets pulled up to her neck, her eyes wide open and horrified.

As another bullet zinged into the floor next to my flashlight, I wiggled around about eighty degrees and reached for the baseball bat I kept by my closet. The intruder’s eyes must have adjusted to the dark by now, however, because he was on me before I had a chance to grab it. An arm came around my neck, cutting off my breath, while a knee in my back kept my lower body from moving. I couldn’t kick, couldn’t fight back in any way. I started to see pinpoints in my eyes, little flashes of light that told me I’d soon be left in eternal darkness.

Just when I thought I was checking out for good, though, the crushing weight of my attacker slumped on top of me. A few seconds later he hoisted himself to his feet. Cursing in guttural tones, he ran past me into the living room, kicking the flashlight aside.

“Mary Beth!” Lindy yelled. “Are you all right?”

I rose quickly and saw that she was holding the bat, and that was what had made the intruder fall. Little Lindy Lou had smacked the bastard with it.

I held two fingers to my mouth. “Shh. I think he’s still out there.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Do you know who it is? Is it Roger?”

I gave her a sharp glance in the dim light. “I didn’t see his face. Why do you think it was Roger?”

She didn’t answer. At the sound of a loud crash in the living room, I said, “Never mind!”

I grabbed her hand and the robe she’d never put on and pulled her, naked, out onto the deck and down the wooden steps to the beach.

“Mary Beth, wait! Where are we going? I need my clothes!”

I ignored her cries and pulled her along the sand—away from the usual floodlights that people who live here shine on the waves—and into the shadows.

“Put this on,” I said. “Hurry!”

While she shrugged into the dark blue robe, I kept tugging at her, wanting only to get as far away from the house as I could. I’ll admit I was panicked. Never in my life had I been shot at, nor had I ever had a break-in. I didn’t know where I was going, and was running on instinct, just trying to put distance between us and my house.

Then it hit me—Patrick. Patrick Llewellen, who used to be one of my authors, lived only five houses down from mine. I dragged the half-clothed Lindy up along the sand toward the modern three-story house. She kept stumbling, and I just hoped she could make it up the stairs.

Still pulling her, I raced up the stairs to Patrick’s deck, with its potted palms that were set off by colorful Malibu lights.

Damn. I’d forgotten that he kept these lights on all night, every night, without fail. We should have gone around to the front.

But I hadn’t had time to think clearly, and this would have to do. I began to pound on one of Patrick’s three sliding glass doors, then the other and the other, hoping I could rouse him from his sleep. He didn’t answer, though.

God, what if he’d stayed overnight somewhere? What if we couldn’t get in?

“Mary Beth, look!”

I looked back to where Lindy pointed, and saw a dark figure running toward us on the beach. It was less than three houses away. I ran over to another door and pounded on it. “Patrick!” I yelled. “If you’re there, let me in! It’s Mary Beth!”

The wait seemed endless, but finally a light came on inside. A drape was pulled back. “For God’s sake, Mary Beth, what are you doing here!” Patrick said as he slid open the door.

“Just let us in. Hurry!”

I didn’t waste time on the niceties, pushing by him with Lindy in tow. Once inside, I pulled the door closed and locked it, yanking the drapes shut.

“Someone broke into my house,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “They shot at us. He’s right out there, Patrick! I need to call the sheriff.”

Patrick wasn’t in pajamas, and didn’t look as if he’d been sleeping. He wore a forest-green silk robe over his trousers and an open-collared white shirt, looking for all the world like a screen idol—except for his nose, which was a bit on the large side. I liked that about him; it kept him from looking too pretty.

His jaw, however, had dropped in shock. “I can’t believe it! Who on earth would do that?”

He glanced at Lindy.

“She’s a friend,” I said, still gasping. “Could you—look, it’s too bright in here.” The light was coming from a Tiffany lamp next to a leather armchair. I leaned over and turned it off. There was only a dim glow left from the kitchen, on the other side of his dining room.

“Patrick, I’m truly sorry. I know this is an imposition. But I need to call the sheriff. While I’m doing that, could you fix Lindy some tea? Anything, really. I think she’s in shock.”

“I’ll put a shot of bourbon in it,” he said, nodding. “And the phone’s over here. Next to the light you just turned off.” He shook his head. “You always were the type to take over.”

“Sorry. But before you go, are your doors all locked?”

“Yes. And, Mary Beth, I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the door. I was downstairs in the cave, working.”

Patrick’s “cave,” I’d learned years ago, was a dark enclosed room in the basement—the only place he could write in this house, as the magnificent views from every other room distracted him.

I picked up the phone and punched in 911. My breath had slowed a bit, but my side hurt, and Lindy sat huddled in a chair, her head down, twisting her hands. She was breathing heavily, and I remembered that she’d had a long walk earlier to get to my place. The poor thing must be totaled.

When the dispatcher answered, I told her what had happened, and asked that a car come around and check the house out before my friend and I went back there. She said they’d send someone right away, and we should wait where we were until the sheriff’s deputy came to tell us it was safe to go back.

Hanging up, I walked to the sliding glass door and pulled back the heavy brocade drapes a crack, to see if anyone was out there. The outside lights would have revealed anyone on the deck, and a quick glance showed that it was empty. I couldn’t tell about the beach.

I carefully put the drape back in place and turned on the lamp again, looking now at Lindy. I’d just heard a teakettle whistle, and knew Patrick would be back with tea soon. Before he returned, I wanted to find out a few things from my old friend Lindy Lou.

“Why did you think that might be Roger?” I demanded, standing over her with my arms crossed, in no mood to be gentle about this.

“I don’t know,” she said, shivering, her teeth chattering. “I guess I’ve been so afraid of him for so long, that’s the first thing that came to my mind.”

“Why have you been afraid of Roger?” I asked.

“Mary Beth, I told you what he did! He threw me out on the street with absolutely nothing. Why wouldn’t I be afraid of what he might do next?”

I didn’t say anything, but when she’d used the words afraid for so long, I’d gotten the distinct impression she might have been abused by Roger over the course of their marriage. I had good cause to wonder about that.

I reached for a faux-fur throw cover on Patrick’s sofa and put it over Lindy. “Here, this should warm you up.”

Patrick came in with our tea then, and there was no more time to talk confidentially. Besides the tea tray, he carried a cashmere sweater, and after setting the tray down he placed it around my shoulders, tying the sleeves under my neck.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling a bit awkwardly. It seemed so strange to be taken care of.

I watched as he took a cup of tea over to Lindy. She smiled, said, “Thank you,” in a small voice like a little girl’s, and sipped the tea. There was a large stone fireplace on one wall, and Patrick went over to it and clicked a switch. The gas fire blazed up around fake logs. I imagined I could already feel the heat from it.

Patrick brushed both hands together as if he’d just stirred the logs with a poker. Coming back, he sat in a chair across from me and sighed. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

He put his feet up on an ottoman, and I saw that he wasn’t wearing shoes, just argyle socks, which made me smile. I’d forgotten about Patrick’s love for argyle socks.

Glancing over at Lindy, I saw that she’d set her teacup on the table beside her and seemed fast asleep. Good. She must really need to rest.

Leaning back in the chair with my cup, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us in, Patrick. You know, I haven’t been sure you’d still want to talk to me.”

One essential facet of being a literary agent—at least, for me—is cheering on my authors, helping them to believe they can succeed. A lot of good writers go down the drain after one or two rejection letters, and never write again. They need to learn to let the rejections roll off their backs and just keep going.

In Patrick’s case, however, it was I who had rejected his latest book several months ago, not an editor. It was a dark book with serial rapes in it—too dark for me. I’d reached a financial point where I could turn down manuscripts that bothered me personally, and though I hated to let Patrick go, he had insisted on writing In Peril. We had clearly reached an impasse, and I finally had to let him go.

Patrick had been bitter at first, but then I’d heard that he was with another agent and his book was being picked up for almost seven figures. He’d been seen around town, dining in all the best restaurants with a smile on his face.

Now that I’d lost Tony and Craig, I almost wished I had gotten Patrick that deal. But oh well. Water under the bridge.

“Don’t be silly, Mary Beth,” he said now. “Of course I still want to talk to you. I’ll admit I was pretty upset at first, but that’s just because I felt set adrift without a canoe. And now things are going really great. Did you hear that I’m with Nolan-Frey?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. They’re quite a big agency, on a level now with CAA. And I heard that they got you a great deal.”

“Yes, well, it’s…Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s still in the negotiation phase, nothing certain. It’s going well, though.”

Agencies like Nolan-Frey took on someone on the basis of liking their work, then helped them to polish and even rewrite it if they thought that was necessary. Like a book doctor, except that they didn’t charge until after the book was sold, hopefully with a movie option. Usually they got significant options, with big money and stars attached, while the ordinary writer going through an agent who wasn’t as top-flight might get only two thousand five hundred for the option, and the movie would never be made. The paybacks are often better, then, with the big agencies like CAA and Nolan-Frey, but they’re harder for an author to get into. I was guessing they had taken on Patrick partly for his talent, and partly because I was his former agent.

Not that Patrick’s books didn’t pull in good numbers. But at the time he left me, he was more or less starting out fresh again after three years with no book out, which meant that in his genre, which was mysteries, Nolan-Frey might have had a hard time selling him again to a publisher.

“I heard they got you a high six figures,” I said. “I’m so happy for you, Patrick. I really am. And I’m sorry things turned out for us the way they did.”

He made a doleful face. “Me, too. I miss you, Mary Beth. But I understood about the book. When you liked my work, you were the best agent in the world for me, and if you just couldn’t handle that last one, well…” He shrugged. “I guess it was for the best that we both moved on.”

“I’m sure you’re right. And as I said, I’m happy that you’re with someone who’s doing well for you.”

“So if my book is made into a billion-dollar movie, you won’t be sorry for missing out?” he asked with a grin.

“Sorry as all get out!” I laughed. “But I’ll be here with bells on at your celebration party.” Raising an eyebrow, I added, “You will invite me, won’t you?”

“Mary Beth, you will be first on my list. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. In fact—I’ve been wondering. Would you like to go to dinner sometime?”

At my obvious surprise, he grinned. “It could be like old times. Old, old times. Before business got in the way. And then there was Tony…I mean, you and he seemed to have something going.”

“Not really,” I said. “Tony and I were friends. You’ve heard what happened?”

“It was on the evening news yesterday. About Arnold, too. What a shock.”

“I didn’t get a chance to catch the news. Was there anything about Craig?”

“Craig Dinsmore? No.” His eyes widened. “Has something happened to him?”

“I found him dead in his motel room today. Well, yesterday, now. In the afternoon.”

“My God, Mary Beth! It sounds like Who’s Killing the Great Chefs of—except in this case it’s your, well, you know…authors.” He frowned. “Do I need to hire a bodyguard?”

“I doubt it,” I said dryly. “Since you’re no longer with me, I’d say you’re safe. You might want to hear what the sheriff thinks, though.”

He was silent and seemed to be pondering the possible threat to his own life. The truth was, until he said it, I hadn’t really looked at it that way yet—that someone was killing off my authors. After all, Arnold had been murdered as well, and he was just my ex.

Then I remembered that I’d negotiated a deal for Arnold years ago, for one of his toy-creations books. That qualified me as his agent, as well.

But the idea was preposterous. Who would be out to get my authors? Or me? No, there was something else going on. I was sure of it.

Lindy, who had been dozing in her chair, the tea and bourbon growing cold on the table beside her, stirred. Sitting up like a shot, she gazed wildly around her. “What? Where—where am I?”

The faux-mink throw slipped to the floor, and I went over to her and put it back in her lap. “Here, cover up. We’re at the house of a friend of mine, remember? Patrick Llewellen. He used to be one of my authors, and we’re waiting for the sheriff to come and tell us it’s safe to go back to my house.”

Lindy looked toward the sliding glass door we’d come through. “What if—what if whoever chased us down the beach is out there right now? What if he’s just waiting for us to come out?”

“I saw a reflection of flashing red lights going by in front,” I said. “I’m sure the sheriff’s deputies are already there, and they’ll check out the beach, too. In fact, I’ll ask one of the officers to escort us back to my house.”

When she didn’t seem at all mollified, I said, “Would you like me to warm your tea? There’s bourbon in it. It’ll take off the edge.”

“I noticed,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Thank you, Mary Beth. I don’t know what I’ve had done without you tonight.”

Again, her words seemed fraught with another meaning, but I let it pass for the moment.

I left her with Patrick and went to the kitchen, while he sat on an ottoman in front of her, talking in low, soothing tones. I’d almost forgotten that about Patrick—how comforting he could be in a pinch. It was one of the things I’d lost when we split. That, and the sex—which, come to think of it, hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d tried to remember it.

The deputies came finally and spoke to us in Patrick’s living room. First, they wanted to know who he was and how we’d come to end up here. I explained, and they moved on to the search of my house.

“We didn’t find the intruder,” one of the deputies said. “Your front door was wide-open, though. Did you leave it that way?”

I shook my head. “He went from the bedroom into the living room, and we ran out on the deck through the bedroom door, then along the beach. When we first got here we saw someone following us, though, about three houses away.”

“And you say he shot at you?”

“Yes, in the bedroom. I ran in there when I heard my friend scream.”

The cop who was asking questions looked at the other one. “Fits what we found at the scene,” he said. Turning to me, he added, “You were lucky.”

I felt a chill, remembering the displaced air as the bullets whizzed by my ear.

“We’ve checked the road and the beach,” he continued, “and we couldn’t find anyone. At least, anyone who shouldn’t be here. We’ll walk you back to your house, though, and look inside once more before we go.”

“Thanks,” I said, turning to Lindy. “Ready?”

She stood and came close to me, as if afraid to get too far away. I turned to Patrick and handed him the throw cover. Half smiling, I said, “Well, good night, then…not that it hasn’t been lovely.”

“I’ll call you,” he said, walking us to the door with an arm around my shoulders.

It took me a moment. “Oh, you mean dinner. Sure. Call me. It’ll be fun.”

The deputies left my house and I got Lindy settled in bed just in time to see the sky lighten up over the ocean. I checked to be sure the front door and windows were locked, then took a shower. After that I made some dark Sumatran coffee and took a cup out onto the deck, along with an old newspaper. My Adirondack chair was dripping with sweat, as usual, from a light mist, and I put the newspaper on it to keep my jeans dry. Over my clean tee, I’d pulled on a sweatshirt with a hood because the air was chilly. It was June, though, and by the time ten o’clock arrived the sun would be high and warm.

Living at the beach was something I’d always dreamed of. I didn’t kid myself, though. With Tony gone, and with Craig’s new contract a question mark, I might not be able to afford a house in Malibu and an office in a Century City high-rise. Oh, I’d do okay, because I’d made investments and saved, getting out of the worst stocks before they crashed. And there would still be commissions from Tony’s royalties. Maybe more than ever, now that he’d been murdered.

Funny how dead writers and artists sell better after they’ve passed on. It’s as if the readers want to get into their heads, to figure out who they were and why they died. In the case of fiction writers, though, that’s a misconception. Fiction usually contains bits and pieces of the writer, the writer’s mother and father, the writer’s neighbor, some guy the writer met while walking his dog, and umpteen characters he or she may have seen on television and in the movies. It would be difficult for an author to write about him or herself every time, as it’s said that there are only thirty-six plots that exist in the entire world. The trick is to tell them differently and more originally each time. For that, you need a lot of people in your head.

Sometimes I wonder how they do it. Especially the ones who write about serial killers. How do they keep all that horror in their minds for the length of a manuscript, and not become affected by it?

As for Tony and my commissions on his royalties, I figured that those, along with my other authors commissions, would hold me for a while. Real estate around L.A., however, especially here at the beach, was out of sight. The mortgage payments on this house and the office in Century City would quickly eat up whatever monies the near future would bring in.

Well, that was the life of an agent, as well as just about everyone else in the entertainment and literary business in L.A. Up, down. Up, down. It was like riding a pogo stick.

That, or wearing a little pendant with cocaine in it. I know several who do that, and inevitably, they end up cheating their clients and keeping their money. They cash authors’ royalty checks from overseas without telling their clients that they’ve come, and with this they pay for their drugs and their high-flying lives. Until someone catches them out and sues. Then they lose all their clients, several of whom have come to me with stories of having been betrayed that way. It takes a while for them to trust anyone after that, but some of the best authors around have come from that kind of situation and have stuck with me now for years.

There must be someone in that group, I thought. Someone with a potential best-seller sitting on his or her desk right now. I’d have to go over my list of authors and their books in progress, see what I could turn up, and what project might be worth putting my own personal energy into. It might not be so bad, working with an author again to pull a book into shape…page by inept page.

Oh, God. Save me.

I sighed and drank the fast-cooling coffee, turning my thoughts to Lindy and the night before. Had the intruder been Roger? The main reason I’d taken Lindy in was because I knew something about Roger that she didn’t, and I’d felt sorry for her. But now what did I do with her?

Lindy answered that question herself, standing at the door with a coffee cup in her hand. “I’ll be leaving soon,” she said. “I just wanted to talk to you first.”

“Come, sit down,” I said, patting the seat of the chair next to me. “Here, it’s wet. Let me put some of this newspaper on it.”

I spread out a few dry pages, and Lindy plunked down on the chair with a tired sigh. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. “I feel so helpless. I don’t know why I came here, Mary Beth. I just didn’t know where else to go, and I felt like I was losing it. For good, I mean. I guess I’ve really been losing it for years.”

“Do you want to tell me why Roger threw you out?” I asked.

She looked at me briefly, then glanced away. “It’s not a pretty story.”

“Something you did that angered him?” I asked. “Another man?”

“Oh, God, no. I’ve got enough to handle at home without another man in my life.”

She appeared to be thinking over whether to tell me about it. Finally she said, “I found out something about Roger. Something really bad.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Some marriage, huh? The homecoming queen and king, the perfect match. Most likely to succeed.”

I didn’t respond, but wondered how much I should say. I thought I knew what Lindy had found out about Roger. Not the details, of course, but in general. If I turned out to be wrong, though, I’d only be opening a hornet’s nest.

Roger Van Court was someone I had loved from afar in high school. He was the rich kid in class—not that I was impressed by that, or the fact that he was captain of the football team. If anything, I saw those aspects of Roger as a cliché. His good looks were something else, though. He had the cutest dimple in his left cheek, and when he smiled it seemed like the sun came out. Who wouldn’t want him, at the age of sixteen when flaws are never seen or even believed in?

I was horribly shy, however, and I always had my nose in a book. As for Roger, even before Lindy there was usually some gorgeous girl with him. When Lindy started going steady with him, I felt envious, of course. But I also lived vicariously through her. She would tell me all about their dates, and how wonderful he was, and how well he treated her. I could only hope that someday I’d have someone like that.

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