Idiot!!
I heard the phone ring inside the apartment. I was holding the box in one arm and the armload of clothes in the other, but I managed to dig my keys out of my purse and let myself in. I dumped my stuff on the chair and dove for the phone like a lifeline. “Be someone I know and love.”
“Will I do?” I recognized the voice instantly. Madison Stone, one of my best friends. We met at an audition for the TV show, House, both reading for a newlywed who’s got a brain tumor and only Dr. House’s quirky brilliance can save her. If I was the Girl Next Door, Madison was usually cast as the Drop Dead Gorgeous. Madison had incredible red hair, a killer body and this oozing kind of sexuality that usually left guys tripping all over themselves. And, if she’d been a better actress, she could have been a star. But to be honest, and she was the first to admit it, Madison was a little stiff. She always seemed to be “acting,” was never able to disappear into the role. But she worked it. She was in two different acting classes, and a cold reading workshop. Madison did book a lot of print work and enough commercials to keep her in a nice apartment, let her shop at Barney’s, and treat us to hundred-dollar lunches at the Ivy.
“Oh, thank God, Madison. You won’t believe the day I’m having. Jason dumped me and my agent fired me.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I never liked Jason, though. None of us did. But your agent is a different…” Madison tailed off. A beat later her voice was louder, angry. “What the hell are you doing here?” She was talking to someone else in her apartment.
“Madison, who’s there? Are you all right?”
“Get away from me.” She sounded scared now. Near panic.
“Madison!”
She screamed. Then I heard what sounded like a punch, followed by another scream, shattering glass, the thud of the phone hitting the floor, and then the line went dead.
Oh shit. I quickly called her back, but it just rang. And rang. Not good.
Madison only lived a couple of blocks away, so I thought about running over there and rescuing her, then got real. I’m an actress, not the Bionic Woman. I called 911. It was busy. Ten-fifteen on a Thursday morning and 911 is busy! I called again. Busy. Goddamn L.A. I grabbed my purse and bolted out the door.
I started running. If I cut through the alley and caught the light on Santa Monica Boulevard, I could be at Madison’s in a couple of minutes. And while I may not have been the Bionic Woman, Madison and I did take a self-defense class from Charlie Wang’s Women Empowerment Academy.
I reviewed Charlie’s Five and Five. The five target areas: Eyes, Nose, Throat, Jaw and Groin. The five attacks: Palm Strike, Throat Strike, Head Butt, Elbow Blow, Knee Kick. Charlie was also a huge proponent of mace. We drilled using it when attacked from the front and attacked from the rear. On graduation day, we each got a diploma and a four-ounce can of mace. I’d never fired it in anger, so to speak, but it was in my purse and ready to go.
I looked for help as I bolted out of the alley and raced down Kelton Avenue. No cops, anywhere. No hunky guys standing around who might want to help a lady in distress, either. The light blinked from yellow to red as I got to the intersection. Screw it, I thought, and I darted into the street. Screeching brakes and blaring horns greeted me, but I made it across Santa Monica unscathed and stopped in front of Madison’s building. There was an exterior staircase leading to the second floor landing and Madison’s apartment.
I pulled out my cell phone, tried 911 one final time and couldn’t get a signal. I had a copy of Madison’s key, part of Charlie Wang’s Buddy System. I grabbed it and started up the stairs. When I reached the apartment, I put my ear to the door, heard nothing. Tried to look in the window, but the drapes were drawn.
I thought about knocking. But if some evildoer was inside, I was afraid they would just shoot me through the door. So I unlocked the door, traded the key for my can of mace and slowly stepped inside.
The living room was empty, but a complete mess. Stuff was tossed everywhere. I inched forward, peeked into the kitchen. Madison was sprawled on the floor. I rushed to her, blood dripped from a gash on her forehead. She was either dead or unconscious.
“Madison!” I whispered urgently. I put two fingers to her carotid artery — I played a nurse on an episode of The Mentalist and the technical advisor had taught me how to do it. The pulse was strong, thank God. “Madison,” I whispered again. I looked for something to staunch the bleeding. There was a dishtowel on the counter. I grabbed it, but when I pulled it, I realized it was sitting under a nest of copper measuring cups. They went flying; with a loud clang, they hit the floor.
There was a thud from somewhere in the apartment, then the sound of running footsteps. Crap!
I whirled toward the kitchen door, the mace aimed in front of me. A man burst into the kitchen. Big, mean and ugly. Not him, the gun in his hand. He was short, but all muscle, with a pockmarked face and maniacal eyes.
As he raised the gun, I sprayed him full in the face. He screamed and dropped to his knees, his hands clawing at his eyes. I bent over Madison, tried to get her to her feet, but she was still out and dead weight. No way I could pick her up.
Then the thug, still frantically rubbing his eyes, got to his feet. He was recovering fast. I reached out to spray him again, but he knocked the can out of my hand.
Shit!
He dove at me but I darted to my left and he missed. Then I made a beeline for the door.
I half ran, half fell down the stairs. As I hit the ground, I looked back to see the thug flying out Madison’s apartment after me. I hurtled myself into the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard waving my arms, screaming, “Help! Somebody help me!”
And here’s one more excerpt from another James L. Conway noveclass="underline" Dead and Not So Buried.
Before you go, thanks to Camel Press, we’ve included an excerpt from another novel by James L. Conway — a Hollywood thriller full of mystery, murder, mayhem, and humor – Dead and Not So Buried:
EXCERPT FROM DEAD AND NOT SO BURIED
Prologue
Lightning ripped the sky like a knife through flesh.
Okay, that’s a little much. Fact is, there was no lightning. Hell, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But kidnapping is a heinous crime, heinous enough for a little atmosphere. So even if there was no lightning, there should have been.
The Kidnapper broke in through the rear gate. A crowbar snapped the rusted chain. His size eleven boots left a clear path across the dew-sodden grass, past the flowers, through the statues, to her chamber.
Having long since vacated her body, she couldn’t hear the scratching and scraping as he broke into her sanctuary. Couldn’t see him as he entered her cold, white room. Never felt him sweep her into his arms.
The Kidnapper shuddered. She looked terrible, much worse than expected. Her white gown was streaked with dirt and mildew. That shock of blond hair was reduced to just a few sparse, wispy patches. And her face was a mess. At least she didn’t smell.
She fit easily inside the oversized burlap bag. He pulled the cord. Outside once more, he scanned the grounds with his sharp green eyes. Nothing. He cocked an ear. Just a solitary siren destroying someone’s peace a few miles away.
He placed the ransom note in the doorway then tossed the bag over his shoulder and retraced his steps toward the rear gate. Except for stealing Marvel comic books from Harmon’s Drug Store when he was a kid and doing a little coke when he first got to Hollywood, this was the first time he’d ever broken the law. He’d expected the anxiety buzz, but the hard-on was a complete surprise.