25 Hour Watch

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

            Darkness obstructed her vision, so complete it became a blindfold. At her back, quiet drafts of breath drew nearer and nearer on the stage. She held perfectly still, afraid even the smallest step would give away her position. Muffled footsteps creaked across the floorboards. Oxygen-drained air pooled heavy in her lungs, allowed escape only in diminutive amounts. She fought the urge to call for help, aware that any danger dwelt in her head. After so many concerts, numerous venues, and one near-deadly encounter in Houston, dreams and reality merged into one terrifying weight on her mind.

            She took one tentative step, and then another. All around her, musicians and dancers filed off stage. She would be among the last to leave. Though the blackness pressed in, she felt her shoulders relax. Nothing bad could get to her; the new security team was too good.

            A warm trickle of breeze swept past her ear. Within it bubbled the hint of a malignant chuckle.

            “Found you.”

            Jacy bolted upright, her hair draped across her shoulders in long, straight curtains of honey-wheat gold. Beneath her silky white camisole, the planes of her chest heaved, rocking her slim body back and forth in panicky surges. Her throat ached with every leashed scream and sob; tonight, not one had broken free. That, at least, was progress.

            Panic slowly draining away, she wiped at the beads of perspiration that covered her face with hands that trembled. One week. One week and two concerts since the Houston show. One week since the first faceless assailant nearly dashed out her life, a follow-up attacker close on his heels. Luck of a single missed shot had saved her on the performance platform. One scant hour later, her inner flame remained ablaze on account of the gleam from a streetlight off metal, seen just in time. She’d reacted instinctively, dragging Kyle down beside her, desperate to elude the bullet.

            No other threats had followed, but police investigators soon confirmed that the shots originated from two different guns, likely two separate gunmen. Only the second was in custody.

            Her chin lifted and the room shifted into focus, emerging from the obscurity of fearful bewilderment: glass topped desk, antique four-poster and matched wardrobe embedded with carvings of oak leaves and acorns, floor length mirror down the far wall, drawing table with half-finished sketch of the spaniel that lived next door, framed landscape prints of places she wanted to visit, a small photograph of her family taken from the carousel fifteen years ago at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk.

            She preferred this room to the rest of her condo, where some big name decorator Marshall recommended had gone to town with new age angles, glass, marble, and modern art themed white-and-black. She hated the sterility, but not yet to the point of doing anything about it. Not enough time in the day, and little justification what with her rare appearances at home. Marshall kept her schedule full of practices, coaching sessions, recordings, public appearances, interviews, concerts, and whatever other image-building sensations he could think of.

            Cool metal met the pads of her fumbling fingers, and she switched on the brass table lamp. Eggshell walls and her creamy white duvet practically glowed in its softly shaded light, a welcome contrast to each shadow that haunted her mind.

            Setting foot on-stage for her final appearances of the tour topped the list of hardest things she’d ever had to make herself do. Nevertheless, she’d marched out one strappy platform pump after the other, grinned like a fool through every upbeat lyric and gymnastic dance step, and escaped backstage with no one the wiser of her crushing terror.

            Except for Kyle Merrimac. He’d recognized when she needed a moment apart; of everyone on staff, he actually seemed to care.

            And of course, he was no longer here.

***

            “What’s up, Briggs?” He leaned into the receiver, gaze lazily fixed on his niece as she played on the floor. Dinosaurs vs. Puppies: an epic late night battle of near-comical proportions.

            Briggs’ favorite band, the Beach Boys, sang in the background about California girls and their alleged superiority. “Just a check in call; I figured you’d be awake. Jacy’s punching up a storm in the workout room. Other than that, not much going on here.”

            Merrimac glanced at the clock. Midnight. Time the munchkin was forced to bed. Sparks would fly if Nick found out about the delayed tuck-in time. “It’s late for a workout. She’s got that park shoot tomorrow.”

            “Christ, what, you’ve memorized her schedule? You’re supposed to be on time off. Besides, she hit the sack pretty early tonight. Probably woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

            Nightmares again. The first night after the shooting, her waking screams had sent him hurtling through two sets of locked doors and into her hotel suite bedroom. Eager to avoid a repeat performance that would unquestionably bruise his left shoulder beyond all recognition, Merrimac slept on her outer room couch for the tour’s remainder. “She seem okay?”

            “I guess. I mean, it’s hard to tell with her. Did Chief give you a ring?”

            “Not today.”

            “He’ll send us a couple of extra guys if we want ’em, and he’s juggled our schedule since this contract extended out longer than planned.”

            Originally, their security agreement spanned the tour solely. After Houston, however, manager Mitchell Jansen had requested they stay on for another month, potentially longer. He wanted Jacy in the public eye, but not unprotected.

            “Let’s make it a yes on the extra hands. We’ll need more players on our side of the court.”

            Briggs grunted his confirmation. “On that note, I made some calls this afternoon. Word is, they seem like two separate incidents. The guy in custody denies any knowledge of another shooter, motive is twenty thou. Nothing on the first guy.”

            “Who put out the contract?” Over near the couch, half a dozen plastic dinosaurs hemmed in the puppy pack, some of whom easily outsized the largest brachiosaurus.

            “For our second man? A guy called Ritchie. The police are tracking him down, but it looks like a dead end. I’ll see if Chief will give us Porter. He’s got the right contacts for this sort of thing.”

            “And on the security front? Any problems today?”

            The sigh on the phone’s other end imparted all the annoyance of an eye-roll. “I’d have told you if there were. So no. Jacy’s a touch jumpy, but then, so am I. That manager’s crazy, thinking a handful of men can secure these wide open areas from the sidelines.”

            No arguments there. “If you need me back early, I can be on a plane first thing in the morning.”

            “Nah, we’ll manage. How’s the family?”

            “Good.” A fluffy brown-and-white St. Bernard poked its head out from under the couch. “I’m watching Haley for Nick tonight. Dive team got called in for a boat crash.”

            Brigg’s breath whistled through his front teeth. “Jeez. Bet you don’t miss that.”

            “No.” The word stiffly burst free, almost an interruption.

            Too many people who went into that river’s dark waters never came out, or at least not alive. He preferred a job with a better shot at success, where death wasn’t always his close companion. As a security professional, he sat posed at the center of the action, ready to provide assistance or protection quickly if called upon. However much he preferred serving the layman, this stint among egocentric celebrities and their retinues would do for now.

            Because contrary to popular belief, beneath Jacy/Laine’s composed exterior, she was just as fragile as everyone else.

***

            The photographer, Phil, clicked his camera for maybe the millionth time that morning and gave a satisfied nod. “That should finish us up. Good shoot, everyone.”

            Expression set on pleasantly neutral for the benefit of the small crowd gathered around Exposition Park Rose Garden, Jacy made a beeline for the water table. L.A. was too hot, too sunny, too crowded. The nearby beach helped make it bearable, though she rarely got much chance to spend time there. At present, even that much-loved locale held little appeal; her day-to-day duties already put her at risk enough.

            She lifted a small bottle of water from the table and twisted off its cap as Kevin Briggs wandered toward her side, his sharp gaze scanning the perimeter.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, tone deceptively casual. “I’d rather we took the car.”

            And admit her fear publicly? Hell no.

            “The café’s only a couple of blocks away. It’d look really bad to drive that short a distance when there’s nothing wrong with my feet.”

            “Jacy, it’s fine. People will understand.” He left the more critical factor unspoken: he lacked confidence in his security team’s ability to protect her through so unsecure an area.

            “We’ll walk.” And face her problems head on, the best way she knew how. Confidence, or the appearance of it, was the only weapon she had left. “Are your guys ready?”

            He sighed, obviously unhappy with her decision. “Whenever you are.”

            They set out along the sidewalk, headed for one of the lesser thoroughfares. Hancock moseyed a few yards ahead of her, Kevin and Rick Mercier a few yards behind. After dodging bullets with Kyle, she’d made it a priority to learn the names of all four security personnel. Mercier had not been present initially. On assignments that lasted more than one day, the team rotated duty so one man could catch up on rest while the others worked. Kyle, for example, had recently flown home for a well-deserved stint of R&R.

            While she recognized the thought as selfish, she wished he had stayed. Rick seemed okay, and the combined efforts of Kevin and Hancock had taken down the second shooter, but it was Kyle who had stuck close by her side throughout that terrible night, and for the rest of the tour. Two days left before he returned.

            Other pedestrians flowed up and down the street curb, an eclectic mix of college students, tourists, businesspersons, joggers, and shoppers. Several glanced her way curiously, and two asked for autographs before they came within sight of the little sports bar and café where Marshall waited, like as not with martini in hand. The security men looked uncomfortable at each halt, but her manager had made it very clear that she not alter from her approved routine in any way.

            Half a block from their destination, a preppy young blonde stopped her, holding out the denim book-bag that hung from her shoulder. Obligingly, Jacy took the offered Sharpie and started in on the stylized “J” she’d practiced to perfection. Curious stares impaled her from every direction as they always did whenever someone recognized her on the streets and made public acknowledgement of it. One hefty woman wielded her camera phone like a weapon, recording pictures or video, she couldn’t tell which.

            Her hand had just started in on the plunging “Y” when the undergraduate inhaled sharply. Jacy didn’t stop to think. She shoved the girl away from her and whirled around. Light flashed off the knife blade and instantly, her foot rose and struck out in a forceful front thrust kick, proving all those hours of kickboxing well worth the effort. The suit-clad Ben Affleck wannabe stumbled back, caught off guard by her sudden reaction. Kevin and Rick jumped on top of him before he could make another move, while at her back, Hancock’s bulky presence warned onlookers away.

            Her face a mask of composure, Jacy plucked the baby blue iPhone from her purse and dialed 911.

***

            “Why, good afternoon, dear brother. Did we have a late night?”

            Nick glared at him from the kitchen doorway and crossed to the pot of coffee percolating on the laminate counter. “You know I didn’t get back until almost five.”

            “And you look fresh as a daisy.” Seated safely behind the kitchen table, Merrimac smirked at his disheveled older sibling. “Extra pancakes in the refrigerator, if you want them.”

            “Thanks.” Nick snagged the Tupperware container and placed its contents on a plate, shoving it inside the microwave. “Where’s Haley?”

            “Outside playing in the sandbox. I thought her dinos needed a bit of fresh air.”

            “Huh.” Sunlight poured through the open kitchen window, intertwined with gentle wisps of fresh air. Twin faded blue curtains rustled lightly as Nick stared out after his daughter. Then the microwave dinged and he retrieved his breakfast. “Everything go okay last night?”

            “Yup. Dinos almost had the puppies cornered at one point, but her littlest St. Bernard led them all to safety through the secret couch dust-flap.”

            His brother laughed. “About time those puppies caught a break.” He nodded toward the muted television screen. “Anything happen in the world?”

            “Haven’t really been watching. Briggs called last night, and the one lead the police have is shaky. I’m still checking into it, of course, but I just can’t see why someone wants to kill this girl. She’s popular and non-controversial, practically to the point of being Little Mary Sunshine. While her manager has no problem painting a giant target on her head, she does him more good alive than dead. And that second man was definitely out for the kill.”

            Thoughtfully, Nick chewed a bite of pancake. “Have you taken it the next step? I mean, let’s say someone tries again and this time, they get everything right. Who stands to benefit?”

            “That’s what I’ve spent the morning working on. Relatives, rivals; nothing pans out.” Merrimac shook his head, frustrated.

            “And the money? Where does it go?”

            A half-bemused grimace trailed along his mouth. “Mostly charities; the biggest chunk to an organization that cares for foster kids and finds them permanent homes.”

            “Hard to argue the ‘follow the money’ adage on that,” Nick admitted.

            “I know. As much as I hate to say it, we may have to wait for the next attempt before we can tie anything together.”

            Nick frowned and reached for the controller, finger on the volume button and expression ill at ease. “Hope you didn’t speak too soon.”

            Craning his neck around, Merrimac’s stare hit the red news banner that scrolled across the screen bottom. “Shit.”

***

            On the digitized display in front of him, a grainy image revealed the young star bent toward another shorter girl. Her head snapped up suddenly and she pushed the girl back, neatly whipping around to plant her foot against the stomach of a dark-haired man, seen here from behind. The would-be assassin stumbled backward, where two men dressed in casual jeans and polos grabbed him and took away the knife. In the background, a woman’s voice narrated the news story.

            “—captured this footage of the singer as she fought off her assailant. The man was taken into custody by the L.A.P.D. shortly after; his name has not yet been released.”

            A heavily made up older blonde and her intern-age co-anchor replaced the amateur film job. The anchorman nodded, impressed. “That’s some quick footwork, Marty, and another close call for Jacy. Late last week, the singer was attacked on tour following her Houston show. Two gunmen fired one shot each. The second gunman, identified as Jared Gleason, is now in custody. The police have yet to release details on the first.”

            But they would soon, he thought to himself as he clicked the power off. The police had their suspect now, and enough evidence to connect him with the earlier incident. Both Burkhart and Gleason would quietly serve out their sentences on his lucrative payroll. In a few year’s time, they’d hit the streets again; they hadn’t, after all, actually hurt anyone. Good thing too. Orders had changed as of fifteen minutes ago. Hopefully, Ritchie got the message before going incommunicado. Otherwise, they were all in big trouble.

***

            “Excuse me for a sec?” Jacy flashed a quick smile and fled for the bathroom, anxious to escape every eager journalist and well-wisher that mingled throughout the penthouse. Attending fellow singer Bobashank’s cocktail mixer was a mistake. She should have insisted Marshall let her go home, where she could shake and cry within the safety of her bedroom, away from each shallow compliment and whispered conversation.

            The ebony door swung easily beneath her white-tipped fingers. Cool air rushed out to meet the warmth of a hundred socialite bodies as her feet touched down on black marble tile. She glanced into the enormous gilt-framed mirror: not a wrinkle of fatigue or anxiety marred her cosmetically ornamented visage. In her eyes, though, she could see something of the fear that plagued each moment spent in the outer world. Door lock firmly in place, she sank down onto the polished floor, spine against sink cabinet and arms wrapped tight around her knees. She heaved quiet breaths into the silky cerulean fabric of her sari-style wrap skirt, the entirety of her body quaking in tune with the San Andreas Fault.

            This was the first time she’d been alone all day. Instead of lunch with her manager, the thwarted knifing had forced a trip to the police station, where she made her statement and answered seemingly endless questions while the police searched for motive, means, and opportunity—that last was the easiest to establish. After a quick wardrobe change in the women’s locker room, she’d traveled straight here, joining a slew of music industry brass, performers, and management, on top of the celebrity reporting staff. Except by slight acquaintance, she knew hardly anyone here.

            Motive. No one had much reason to kill her as far as she could tell. Nevertheless, three attacks in a little over a week forced her to see the reality: someone out there clearly wanted her dead. What held her huddled in a ball was the inevitability of this unknown threat trying again and again until they got what they wanted.

            Even now, Marshall insisted she keep on like normal; no alteration of routine, no allowing this glitch to affect performance. She understood. Buying into the fear, publicly at least, let it dictate her life. She wouldn’t give her anonymous adversary that kind of leverage, or that kind of satisfaction.

            Her utter helplessness burned. No one knew when or where the next assailant might strike, and she understood all too well that by keeping to her game-plan, means and opportunity would never disappear. She needed another solution, but what?

            Grabbing for the counter, she hauled herself upright and checked her appearance in the mirror. Every hair in place, a look of pleasant unaffectedness plastered over the tightened spring of her emotions. Time for another hour of questions. Kevin and Rick prowled around somewhere out there; after earlier, they were rolling on high alert. Nothing would happen.

            She repeated the words aloud, willing them into truth. “Nothing will happen.”

            When she pushed through the door, a glint of light instantly pierced her sight and she cringed away, heart thudding hard against her chest.

            Chandelier light caught on a wineglass, nothing more. Her eyes shut for the barest moment while her composure went on reboot. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head clear. Get a grip.

            Bobashank chatted with a photojournalist near the room’s center, his mocha skin tones exaggerated by the stark white of his button-up shirt, worn untucked over grey slacks. Resigned, she crossed to join him.

            “Jacy!” Deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he pulled her into an airy hug. “My god, you look gorgeous. Saw the footage of you from earlier. Sure scared the heck out of me, but hey, if you ever want a job guarding my body, you’ve got it!”

            She laughed, the sound a perfect mix of modesty and discomfort. “Not an experience I’d like to repeat, Bobs, thanks all the same.”

            “Yeah, well awesome moves. Have you met Alex, here?”

            Courteously, she allowed the introduction and posed for a picture. The photographer wandered further into the crowd. “You haven’t seen Marshall, have you?”

            His curl-topped head angled left and he gave it a little nod. “Over by Jonagold, the Apple King himself. I’m surprised he came. Jonny doesn’t like me much.”

            The corner of her lips quirked. “But you throw awesome parties. That makes up for a lot.”

            Bobs grinned in response. “You know it, babe. Now how ’bout we give the paparazzi something to speculate about before I make my rounds?”

            “Ah, no,” she neatly ducked a step apart. “I’ve already gotten more than my share of the spotlight today. You might give Trisha Lee a shot.”

            “Nah,” he leaned in quick and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I prefer the nice girls. Give me a call if there’s anything I can do to help you out. And seriously, Jace, be careful.”

            “Sure,” she smiled goodbye and turned away from a flashing camera—straight into the bane of her existence.

            StarScope reporter Robin Kasey pushed close, digital recorder in hand. “Hey there! I hoped you might answer a couple of questions for our readers after all that drama earlier this afternoon.”

            She managed a mannerly response in the affirmative. Hidden deep behind ice blue eyes, her mind screamed frustration.

***

            Merrimac watched from near the bar beside Briggs, their water glasses untouched. He’d flown in from Sea-Tac less than an hour before and driven straight over.

            “She shouldn’t be here,” he muttered with disgust. That demon manager of hers deserved a sharp slap to the head. Laine could have overruled Jansen, but if he’d learned anything this week, it was that she refused to shy away from danger. She called it not letting fear rule her life.

            He called it an unacknowledged death wish.

            Had the assaults been simple nightmares, she’d never have considered ditching the event; so despite her clear lack of enthusiasm, to Bobashank’s she went. That rough-and-tumble rapper kept well within the boundaries of what she could take. The interrogator now layering query after query, on the other hand, obviously pushed those limits. Laine’s contact-colored eyes darted about in search of escape each time the pushy brunette gave her a moment’s space.

            “Hey, I tried talking her out of it,” Briggs protested. “Just like I tried talking her out of walking to the café this afternoon.”

            “Then I think it’s time we insisted. We need to regroup, and our girl, there, needs a break. I’ll bet she hasn’t been home since this morning.”

            “She hasn’t.”

            The reporter pressed in closer toward Laine and inadvertently, the singer stepped back, nearly tripping over her own feet. Now seemed an appropriate moment to get involved. “Grab Mercier and head for the car. We’ll meet you there.”

            He strode across the room, glad for his fortunate wardrobe selection earlier that morning. His chinos and black polo blended in nicely with the other men of this casually formal crowd. Firmly gripping Laine by the elbow, he pulled her from the brunette’s expansive sphere of aggression.

            “Kyle?” she blinked, confused at his presence.

            “Hi, hon.” All polite professionalism, he nodded toward the brunette. “We’d better get going, if you don’t mind.”

            Laine blinked again, and then turned her gaze on the reporter. “Was there anything else?”

            Equally puzzled by Merrimac’s appearance, the brunette’s eyes swept back and forth between the two. She shook her head. “I think that should do it.”

            “Great,” he half-smiled and unceremoniously strolled off, towing Laine beside him. Minus a single word of protest, she drifted along easily, caught in a state of sheer bewilderment that lasted until the elevator doors closed behind them.

            “You’re not in Washington?” she asked finally.

            “Hancock met me at the airport a bit ago. How are you holding up?”

            Her lashes lowered and she shook her head, as honest an answer as she was likely to give anyone. Hesitant, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

            “Let’s get you home.”

***

            He cursed and lowered his weapon. More men surrounded the target than he’d counted on, and he couldn’t get off a clean shot. So much for taking care of this himself. He refused to risk arrest. Shit, and two of his best guys taken in already. No, he’d call Krimmer and they could discuss options. Better options.

            Slipping his emergency mobile from a pocket, he switched it on. The blinking envelope alerted him to a new message: Abort. Mission cancelled.