For one thing, he couldn’t be spotted by anyone in the theater. So he went to the twelve-o’clock; then, when the show let out, he waited around in a bathroom stall until the 3:10. Nail-biting, nerve-thwacking ordeal, but not that bad really. Especially since if he was spotted, he’d simply abort the mission.
But the Storyteller was
n’t seen—at least he didn’t think so—and he didn’t see anyone he knew.
Now, the theater had more than a hundred viewers, or rather, suspects, right? At least a dozen of them were perfect for his purposes.
Most important—his gun had a silencer now. Something he’d learned from the thrill-packed run-through in New York City.
Patrice sat in the balcony. Works for me, Patsy, he thought. You’re being way too thoughtful, especially for you, you überbitch.
He was watching her from across the aisle and a few rows behind. This was so delicious—he wanted the luxurious anticipation of revenge to go on and on. Except that he also wanted to pull the trigger and get the hell out of the Westwood theater before something went wrong. But what could go wrong, right?
When Joaquin Phoenix got stabbed by Adrien Brody, he calmly rose from his seat and went directly to Patrice’s aisle. He never hesitated for an instant.
“Excuse me. Sorry,” he said, and started to make his way past her, actually over her bare, skinny legs, which weren’t very impressive for such an important woman in Hollywood.
“Jesus Christ, will you watch it,” she complained, which was just like her, so unnecessarily nasty and imperial-sounding.
“Not exactly who you can expect to see next. Not Jesus,” he quipped, and wondered if Patrice got his little joke. Probably not. Studio heads didn’t get subtlety.
He shot her twice—once in the heart and once right between her totally shocked, blown-away eyes. There was no such thing as too dead when it came to this kind of power-mad psycho. Patrice could probably come back at you from the grave, like that reverse trapdoor ending in the original Carrie, Stephen King’s first story to reach the silver screen.
Then he made his perfect escape.
Just like in the movies, hey.
The story had begun.
Part One
THE “MARY SMITH” MURDERS
Chapter 3
To: [email protected]
From: Mary Smith
Arnold Griner squeezed his small, squinty eyes shut, put his hands over his practically hairless skull, and scrubbed his scalp hard. Oh, God save me, not another one, he was thinking. Life is too short for this shit. I can’t take it. I really can’t take this Mary Smith deal.
The L.A. Times newsroom buzzed around him as if it were any other morning: phones jangling; people coming and going like indoor race walkers; someone nearby pontificating about the new fall TV lineup—as if anybody cared about the TV lineup these days.
How could Griner feel so vulnerable sitting at his own desk, in his cubicle office, in the middle of all this? But he did.
The Xanax he’d been popping since the first Mary Smith e-mail a week ago did absolutely nothing to hold back the spike of panic that shot through him like the needle used in a spinal tap.
Panic—but also morbid curiosity.
Maybe he was “just” an entertainment columnist, but Arnold Griner knew a huge news story when he saw one. A blockbuster that would dominate the front page for weeks. Someone rich and famous had just been murdered in L.A. He didn’t even have to read the e-mail to know that much. “Mary Smith” had already proved herself to be one sick lady and true to her word.
The questions attacking his brain were who had been killed this time? and what the hell was he, Griner, doing in the middle of this awful mess?
Why me of all people? There has to be a good reason, and if I knew it, then I’d really be freaking, wouldn’t I?
As he dialed 911 with a badly shaking hand, he clicked open Mary Smith’s message with the other. Please, God, no one I know. No one I like.
He began to read, even though everything inside told him not to. He really couldn’t help himself. Oh, God! Antonia Schifman! Oh, poor Antonia. Oh no, why her? Antonia was one of the good people, and there weren’t too many of those.