Anonymous Caller (Chapter 9)
The fighting raged around Tim. Occasionally, one of the women would break free of the melee and try to kiss him, forcing him to push her away—the slightest hint of his attention only drew the others to a common target.
Then, the sound of a key turning, and the door opened again. Who was left?
A face appeared in the doorway. Auburn hair. She was in an oversized hooded sweatshirt, and she rolled the sleeves back from her hands while her hazel eyes weighed the melee in the cellar. “What the—?”
“Amy!” Tim dashed for the door, nearly running her over as he spilled onto the steps. He slammed the door behind him, shutting out the screams and scuffles.
“Tim? What the hell’s going on?”
“Shh. Hold on.” He pulled out the key, dropped it on the stairs and crouched to peer through the keyhole. Inside, the women deflated, slumping to the floor, their eyes glued despondently to the door through which their beloved had just disappeared.
“They’re okay now,” he said, straightening. He turned to Amy. Her fresh face was a confusion of emotion. He’d almost forgotten how innocent and beautiful she looked. He smiled at her.
She slapped him hard. “You fucker,” she said. “What did you do to Bobby?”
He rubbed his cheek. “There’s no time to explain,” he said. “We have to get help. Where’s your car?”
Sheriff Brooks leaned back in his chair, rested his booted feet on his desk and pulled a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket. As he lit it with a disposable lighter, Tim realized he was seeing the exact opposite of an eager law enforcement officer about to save the day.
“You know, I always thought old Charles was up to something fishy out there,” he said finally, the smoke floating around his stubbled and weathered face. “Seemed like he was never wanting for anything, even while the rest of the county was suffering.”
Tim and Amy were seated in front of his desk. They exchanged glances, then looked hopefully at the sheriff’s deputy, a young, lanky man with a military bowl cut. The younger cop seemed no closer to springing into action; he’d come in at the middle of the story, and sat disinterested at his desk paging through a girly magazine.
“Um, Sheriff, shouldn’t we do something?” offered Tim.
“And then there was your mother,” Brooks continued, not so easily derailed from his train of thought. “My God, she was gorgeous. When Charles Forrester showed up with her, out of the blue, and they got married, the whole town was talking for a month.”
He took his feet down and leaned forward in his chair. “You know what they say she did, before she married old Charles? They say she was a fashion model from New York City. No telling if it’s true. But that’s what folks were saying.”
Amy stood up impatiently and put her hands on her hips. “Sheriff, this is an emergency. Tim’s not making this up.”
“You have to call in the state police,” Tim added. “Or the FBI. You’re going to need backup.”
“Now, hold on,” Brooks said in a lazy drawl. “Nobody’s calling anyone.”
“Why not?! Haven’t you been listening?”
“Because,” the sheriff continued, “that man out there, he called us about ten minutes ago. He said you might be coming by, and he gave me and my deputy very specific instructions. We’re supposed to bring you back. He wants to have a talk with you.”
A surge of adrenaline jolted Tim to his feet. “No! Don’t you get it?! He used the machine on you!”
The sheriff stood up slowly. “I figure he did. But knowing your mind has been pickled and canned doesn’t do anything to fix it, does it?” He looked meaningfully at Amy.
“No,” she whispered. “It doesn’t.”
Tim grabbed Amy’s hand and started for the door. The young deputy dropped his magazine, jumped up and blocked them. Tim turned back to the sheriff imploringly. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be, Tim,” Brooks said, unsnapping his holster. “I know you don’t want anybody to get hurt.”
The police lights flashed in the dusk, scattering blue into the fields buttressing the road. Handcuffed and locked in back of the cruiser with Amy, Tim silently prayed for a miracle: a traffic accident, a breakdown. But they were soon turning down his driveway.
The car pulled to the top of the drive, then kept going, right past the main house, tires tearing up grass and flinging dirt and mud behind them. The deputy in the passenger seat spotted the gatehouse first and pointed. The sheriff nodded and aimed the car at the door, like he was delivering a hot pizza and was angling for big tip. The silhouettes of three men and one hunting rifle were standing guard outside.
“What’s he going to do to us?” Amy asked Tim.
“I don’t know.”
“Whatever happens,” she said, “whatever he makes me think or feel or do...” She trailed off. Tim didn’t press her. What could she say?
The cops pulled them out of the car just as Spickle emerged from the gatehouse to join Rob, Bobby and Phil. He smiled at the police thinly, the squad car’s lights strobing grotesquely off his pate. The sheriff handed him the handcuff key. “Thank you, gentlemen,” Spickle said. “Do you remember your instructions from here?”
The sheriff and his deputy nodded at each other. “Go back to the station,” said Brooks. “Don’t tell anybody. Call your cell phone number if anybody comes snooping around.”
“And be ready to come right back out if you call us,” the deputy added.
“Very good. You may go.”
The sheriff touched the rim of his hat, and they got back in the car. It pulled off in the direction it came from.
“Do you see where you went wrong, Tim? If you’d just left town, I’d have never found you. But you had to try and interfere with my plans.
“And now you’ve brought me a little treat,” he added, looking at Amy.
He sent Phil and Rob to the fuel shed for gasoline, watching over his captors with Bobby, who held the gun at his shoulder. Amy addressed the boy. “Bobby, fight this. You can fight him. I came out here to help you—”
“Fuck you,” he sneered. He nodded at Tim. “I can’t believe you dumped me for this asswipe.”
Spickle chuckled darkly. “You must be Amy. I’ve heard a lot about you. What was it like, tell me? Being brainwashed into falling in love with your best friend?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What’s it like being a skinny old man with the face of a cadaver?”
“I wish I could have been there when you found out. When you learned that you’d only spread those fine, smooth legs for Tim because he wound you up like a toy.”
“Shut up!” Tim yelled. Bobby took a menacing step towards him, but Spickle retrained him with a gentle touch on his arm. The two other men returned, each holding a five-gallon container. Phil walked into the gatehouse with one. Rob placed the other on the ground, and helped Spickle and Bobby herd Amy and Tim inside and force them into a sitting position on the floor, their hands still cuffed behind them.
“This is it,” Phil said, emptying his container into the machine’s gullet. “This, and about three gallons in the container outside.” He pressed the red button that started the machine rumbling.
“Do you happen to know where we can get more gasoline nearby?” Spickle asked.
“Yep. My dad’s gas station is just a couple miles up the road. That’s a 300 gallon fuel trailer in the shed. I can tow it on Tim’s truck and fill it up at the station.”
“Excellent. Please do so.” He sat behind the desk and turned the control dial on the machine; the beast’s turbines glowed and whined, then popped with the familiar electric sparks that Tim had seen for the first time with Amy an eternity ago. Spickle picked up the heavy phone handset. “We’ll be playing with Amy while we wait.”
Tim’s blood ran cold. He glanced at Amy; she was trembling on the floor next to him.
Spickle dialed slowly, painstakingly, dragging out the process, spinning each digit with his delicate index finger, then letting it rotate back to its resting position with relish. The low digits, the ones, the threes, went fast; the higher digits took forever.
Finally, a cell phone rang. Spickle pulled it from his pocket, along with a fancy-looking headset. He stretched across the table and passed the items to Bobby. “Bluetooth,” Spickle said. “A touch of big-city technology for you.”
Bobby squatted next to Amy. She turned her head away from him. “Stop it!” Tim shouted. He tried to get up, but Rob kicked him in the chest, sending him back down to the floor with a thud. Bobby flipped open the phone and chased Amy’s ear with the wireless headset as she shook her head back and forth violently.
Then, he caught her.
Tim watched as she stopped fighting. Her expression calmed and she tilted her head into the earpiece, almost gratefully, it seemed, her eyes focused on an invisible horizon. Bobby hooked the headset over her ear.
Spickle tossed Bobby the handcuff key, and he worked her wrists free.
“Amy, can you hear me?” Spickle asked into the phone.
“Yes.”
“Stand up, my dear.”
Amy gathered her legs beneath her and rose, pushing up from the floor with her hands. Bobby moved away and joined Rob standing guard over Tim.
Tim flashed to that first experiment they’d performed together: the first time he saw her face in this mesmerized, malleable cast, wisps of her auburn hair hanging over her smooth features. That Spickle—or Bobby, for that matter—should see her like this was obscene.
“Lovely. You’re lovely. Show us your breasts.”
She squinted, frowned.
Spickle reached out to the control dial and turned it up to half strength, eliciting another series of electric pops from the turbines, and a gasp from Amy’s parted lips.
Her hands rose to the zipper on her sweatshirt, and she slowly unzipped it all the way down. She worked her left arm free, then pulled her right arm through, turning the sleeve inside out and letting the sweatshirt fall to the floor at her side. A blue LED glowed on the side of the headset.
She pulled her tee shirt off next, then unhooked her bra in front, opening it up and exposing her pert breasts.
“Very nice. Play with them for us.”
She squeezed them gently with hands, pinching her nipples lightly in her fingertips.
Bobby and Phil leered at her openly. Tim strained at his handcuffs.
Spickle covered the telephone’s mouthpiece. “What do you think, Bobby? Would you like her back? She’ll be a much better girlfriend to you now. She can be whatever you want her to be.”
Bobby seemed to consider the offer, then he shook his head. “Nah. She’s damaged goods now that farmboy’s had her.”
“Hm. Pity. Then I guess she goes in the gladiator pit with the others.” He uncovered the mouthpiece. “Amy, you may stop that now. Go ahead and redress.”
She obeyed slowly, refastening her bra and bending her knees to pick up her clothes.
“Now, tell me how you feel about my friend Tim, here.”
She blinked and her eyes focused on Tim. “I love him. And I... hate him too.”
Spickle winked at Tim. “Women. It’s always so complicated with them, isn’t it? Let’s simplify.
“Amy,” he continued into the phone, “now you just love him. You love Tim so much, and lust after him so intensely, that you don’t care what he’s done to you or anyone else.”
Unexpectedly, she broke eye contact with Tim and glared directly at Spickle, gritting her teeth. “No. You can’t make me. All of this is his fault. I never want to see—aiighh!”
She squeezed her eyes shut as Spickle turned the dial up to three-quarter power. “God damn it!” Tim cried. “Leave her alone!”
“Again,” he said into the mouthpiece. “You don’t care what he’s done to you or anyone else. You adore him. You’re madly, obsessively, hopelessly in love with Tim.”
He chest heaved. “I... am... not.”
Spickle reached for the dial again. “No!” Tim yelled. “She doesn’t want this. You’re going to kill her!” The man twisted the dial all the way. A storm of lightning raged between the turbines, and a million relays and tubes clicked like an army of rats deep inside the machine. Amy’s mouth fell open wide.
The electricity and noise subsided. She opened her eyes. They were empty.
“Tell me, Amy. How do you feel about Tim?
“I... love him,” she said emotionlessly. “I’m madly, obsessively, hopelessly in love with him. I don’t care what he did to me. I don’t care what he did to anyone.”
Tim gaped at her as she said the words he’d longed to hear, and now wished for all the world he could take back.
“Very good. You can’t live without Tim.”
“I can’t live without Tim.”
“You’ll kill for him, if you have to. You’ll die for him.”
“I’ll kill for him. I’ll die for him.”
“And you won’t share him with anyone. You can’t stand the sight of him with anyone else. He belongs to you, and only to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
Bobby marched them at gunpoint back to the house, Tim’s hands still cuffed behind his back. Tim glanced at Amy walking at his side. She was staring at him in wonderment.
“Please. Stop that,” he said.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“I can’t help it.”
Bobby prodded Tim with the muzzle of the rifle. “Knock it off, lovebirds. You’ll have all the time in the world for sweet nothings when you’re downstairs.”
He moved them into the house and down the stairs to the cellar door. He pulled the key from his pocket and paused.
“I’m gonna let you in a secret, farmboy,” he said.
“Bobby, listen. What I did was horrible, okay? But you’re no better off now, under Spickle’s control. And you know what will happen if you put us in there. Tiffany is in that room.”
“Fuck Tiffany,” he said. “Don’t you want to hear the secret?”
Tim sighed. “Okay.”
Bobby leaned in close, his foul breath washing over Tim. “When these bitches are done killing each other, he’s going to let me be the one to waste you. I’m going to personally walk you outside and put a bullet in your fucking head.”
“Bobby—”
“What? Something you want to say? Do you have an order for me? Want me to clean something? Maybe you want to fuck my girlfriend in front of me?”
He sneered and opened the door. The five women inside jumped to their feet and ran to the entrance, calling his name. “Tim! Tim!” Margot, Paige, Tiffany, Karen, and Jenny, their rapturous, hungry expressions hiding cluster bombs of programmed violence.
“Nothing, huh?” said Bobby. “Nothing to say, farmboy?”
“Just one thing.” He cleared his throat. “You’re kind of cute.”
Tim leaned forward and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on Bobby’s rough lips.
A collective cry of rage swelled from inside the room. Karen and Jenny were nearest, and they clawed at Bobby’s clothes, dragging him past the threshold. He raised the gun, but the other girls were on his legs and arms in a split second, wrenching the weapon from his hands and pulling him to the floor and deeper into the room. He screamed.
Tim pushed in front of Amy to keep her from leaping in after Bobby. He grappled for the doorknob behind him with his cuffed hands, found it and pulled the door closed. He turned the key the wrong way, then the right. He felt the lock engage.
Amy tried to get past him, a determined look of jealous hate etched on her face. “Amy!” He caught her with his gaze. She stared at him mutely for a moment, then grabbed his head and kissed him hard, a desperate, passionate kiss. He closed his eyes and surrendered to it.
They climbed the stairs to the kitchen. “There should be some bolt cutters in that closet—if Spickle didn’t take them while he was stealing my gun. Maybe we can get off these handcuffs.”
They were in luck; the bolt cutters were still there, along with a consolation prize occupying the space where the hunting rifle had been. Amy picked it up, a small metal case housing what looked like a high-tech dart gun and some wires.
“Is that a stun gun?” Amy asked.
Spickle hit the red button that powered down the machine. There was no point in wasting fuel while he waited for his target. The busy signal he’d reached on his last call was encouraging. An hour earlier, he’d hung up on the answering machine, finding the newlyweds’ happy recorded voices as sickening as an overdose of saccharine. Now, at least, there was a chance she was at home and within his reach.
He eased back into the chair, anticipation quickening his pulse. He thought back to the afternoon he took her, jolting her into submission with the Taser, gassing her when she started to regain control of her muscles. He’d soon have control of so much more than just Lindsey Dunninger’s body.
A noise from outside interrupted his reverie. A shout—Rob’s voice—followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the ground. The door shook as someone tried to open it from the outside. He checked his pocket to confirm that he still had the keys.
A knock.
He got up and walked to the door. “Who is it?” he sang.
“It’s Rob. There’s a problem out here.”
“That’s funny. You sound about 10 years too young to be Rob. How did you get out, Tim?”
A pause. “Open the door, Spickle. It’s over.”
He laughed and returned to the desk, pulling out his cell phone as he sat. “It’s over when I say it’s over,” he murmured to himself, dialing the sheriff’s office.
“What now?” Amy asked.
Tim tried the door again, then threw his weight at it pointlessly. All those years the gatehouse had defied him; what made him think he could just force his way in now? He bent over Rob’s prone body, still convulsing from the shock, and patted him down. No keys.
Then a rumble came from inside. Spickle had started up the machine again.
“What about those wires from the telephone pole?” Amy asked. “We can go back and get the bolt cutters. At least he won’t have a phone line.”
“The phone line runs underground. That’s just the electricity up there. Cutting it would only turn off the lights inside, and there’s a flashlight and plenty of spare batteries right at the desk.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Phil’s going to be back eventually, and I’m sure the cops are already on their way.” He slammed his fist into the door in frustration, then kicked at the gas can sitting on the ground.
Liquid sloshed inside.
“Hello?”
Her voice was less carefree than on the answering machine greeting. That was his work, he thought with pride. He cranked the dial to the maximum, and waited for the artificial lightning storm to subside.
“Lindsey?”
“Yes,” came her colorless monotone.
“It’s Edward Spickle. You remember me, don’t you?”
There was a pause, a whimpering. “Y—yes,” she said tremulously.
“Is your husband at home? Or anyone else?”
“No.”
“We’re alone together, then. Just like old times.”
She didn’t answer.
“You’re glad to hear from me. You’ve missed me terribly.”
“I—I’ve missed you. Yes. I’m glad to hear from you.”
He laughed coldly.
“How have you been?” she added.
“Very well, thank you. Lindsey, I’m quite upset that my plans with you were thwarted so abruptly. You are too.”
“Yes. I’m upset.”
“To make up for it, I’m going to have you do certain things to yourself. Acts that you would normally find quite unpleasant, but which you will now be happy to perform for me.”
“Okay.”
“When I say so, I want you to put down the phone and go into the kitchen. Pick out a very sharp knife—something small and maneuverable, ideally. A paring knife if you have one. Otherwise, a steak knife is fine. Then bring it back to the phone, and return to this call. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Go now.”
There was a clunk in the earpiece as she put down the telephone. Spickle sighed...
Then he coughed. His eyes were suddenly stinging him. He drew a breath through his nose. It was full of the unmistakable odor of something burning.
He put down the phone and stood. He peered into the machine for evidence of an overheated component somewhere in its Byzantine workings. Then he saw the smoke was billowing in from under the front door.
He walked over and put his hand on the door. It was hot.
“No,” he whispered.
The smoke intensified, seeping in through the walls on all sides. It was the thick, black smoke produced by a car in flames at the side of a highway. Gasoline. He doubled over as an agonizing spasm of coughing gripped his body.
He twisted the deadbolt, gripped the doorknob and pushed at the door. It didn’t open. He pushed harder; it still didn’t budge
Tim and Amy watched the flames licking he walls of the gatehouse. The door shook as Spickle pounded from the inside, and the loose padlock jiggled in the clasp.
“I guess that’s it,” Amy said. “I’m going to feel this way about you forever. I’m going to be in love with you for the rest of my life.”
Tim thought of the women in the cellar. What would he do with them?
A scream came from the inside of the burning structure. “Tim,” said Amy, “you have to let him out.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Not for him. For you. You can’t live with this.”
He thought about it, then finally picked up the Taser. He disconnected the wires still running to his last target: the side of the building, next to the now-empty gas can. The sparks had proven sufficient to ignite the fire. He drew a new cartridge from the case and reloaded.
“Okay. Stand back.” He moved closer to the flames and aimed a kick at the padlock. It jumped in the clasp. Another kick, and it came free and fell to the ground.
The door burst open, and Spickle fell through it and collapsed onto the dirt, his clothes engulfed in flames. He rolled around. His bloodcurdling screams filled the night.
When his clothes were finally out, he laid there, sobbing and quaking, staring up at the stars.
Tim kept the stun gun pointed at the ruined man, but sensed no pressing urgency to use it.
Lindsey returned to the phone, a small knife gleaming in her right hand. She picked up the handset with the other, and pressed it to her ear. “I’m back. I have the knife.”
There was no answer. The only sound was a dim background noise, deep and complex, like a TV tuned to static with faint layers of buzzes and whistles. It nestled in her ear, seizing her, commanding her. But where was the voice telling her what to think?
“Hello?” An icy panic gripped her.
She grimaced as a hideous screech came over the line, like a needle dragging over a record. There was a pop, and a fog seemed to be drawn from her brain, out her ear and into the vacuum of the phone.
She gasped, and the knife slipped from her fingers. She heard the deep, satisfying click of the line going dead with funereal finality.
“Well,” a voice boomed from behind Tim. “I didn’t you think you had that in you.”
He spun to face the voice—certain he’d find the sheriff and his deputy pointing their revolvers at him, squeezing the triggers. Instead, it was the hairy face of the hillbilly, Reggie. Coming up behind him were the other men who’d confronted him at the gatehouse on that rainy night. Several of them were toting shotguns and rifles now.
The younger man who’d once pointed his double barrels at Tim’s chest—Daniel was his name, Tim remembered—walked over and gently pried the stun gun from Tim’s hands. “You won’t be needing that Tim,” he said, not unkindly.
“Alright boys!” Reggie yelled. “Let’s get away from that fire before it hits the fuel tank.”
Two of the men carried Rob by his legs and arms, while two others grabbed Spickle by his feet and dragged him a safe distance from the flames, setting off a new round of screaming as his scorched back raked the earth. Amy and Tim followed the men away from the gatehouse, just as a small explosion boomed in the building. They all watched in silence as the roof collapsed in slow motion, and the conflagration flared to consume the fresh fuel.
Reggie nodded in approval, and put his aged hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You did the right thing, Timothy. And you saved me some trouble.”
“Yeah,” he said, not so certain. “But what about Amy? And the others?”
“We have one hell of a mess to clean up, that’s for sure.” He looked past Tim. “And, what do you know, here’s the rest of my cleanup crew now.”
Tim turned to see four more men running towards them from the direction of the main house. They stopped in front of Reggie, slightly out of breath. “Five women and one man in the cellar,” reported one of them, a squat, narrow-eyed man with a fire hydrant’s body and an ambiguous accent. “The man’s been roughed up a little, but nobody’s seriously hurt.”
“Good enough,” said Reggie. “Use the Arcola, Cochise and Troutville nodes. They’re all standing by. Take this one with you.” He gestured at Rob, who’d just begun struggling to his feet.
Two of them helped Rob up, and propped him up on their shoulders to carry him to the house.
“Daniel, you take the girl into the house. Bakersfield node. Use my phone.” He tossed him a cell phone.
“What?” Tim and Amy both cried.
“Everybody gets a clean-up, Timothy. We’re calling those nice police officers right now. We saw them leave. And we have someone waiting for the gas station boy. Anyone we missed?”
“What are you planning on doing to Amy?”
“She’s no different from the others. She’s going back to normal, just like none of this ever happened. If we do it right—and we always do—she won’t remember anything.”
“I don’t want to go back! I want to remember.” Amy turned to Tim, tears in her eyes. “Tim, I don’t want to go back.” Her face glowed in the firelight. “Tell them. I’m happier like this than with Bobby.”
He swallowed; looked away. “Does she... Does she have to go back with Bobby?”
“Tim! No. I love you!”
“I’m not taking any requests tonight,” Reggie said. “You had your second chance.” He nodded at Daniel.
Daniel took Amy’s elbow. She shook him off and threw her arms around Tim and kissed him deeply. He felt her tears on his face. Then Daniel pulled her away.
“This is the right thing,” Tim said, his voice thick with sadness. “I love you.”
She flinched, like he’d betrayed her. Then she let Daniel lead her away towards the house, taking a final look back at him before vanishing into the shadows.
Tim heard Spickle moan on the ground as Reggie and his three remaining men watched the fire consume the last of the gatehouse and its contents. “One more bit of business,” Reggie said to the others. “Take the human pot roast out to the cornfield. You can probably find a shovel in the house somewhere.”
Two of the men sat down their guns, shuffled over to Spickle and hefted him into the air by his hands and feet. They carried him away, cutting a wide circle past the fire.
The third man—the tall, cadaverous one who never spoke—wiped his nose with his sleeve, then propped his shotgun on his shoulder and followed.
“What—?” Tim protested. “Why don’t you just erase his memory like the others?”
“Do you have any idea what gasoline costs these days,” said Reggie. “He’s not worth it.”
Tim stared dumbly at the bearded man. The deep lines in Reggie’s face glowed a volcanic red in the light of dying flames.
“Who the fuck are you people?”
“Did you really think,” Reggie said gruffly, “that this was going to end without someone dying?”
Silence. Then Tim felt the thunderclap from the field. It echoed twice off the distant mountains, and then there was silence again.
“Well,” said Reggie. “I’m hungry. You got any food in the house?”
Tim woke up on the sofa, his muscles sore, his eyes aching. He blinked at the room, fighting a sense of disorientation. Muddy footprints were splattered across the carpet.
He forced himself to his feet and pushed open the kitchen door. There was more mud on the tile floor, and still more dripping from the shovel leaning against the closet. He left the kitchen and walked to the foot of the stairs. He called up—“Hello?” There was no answer. He was alone.
Alone. He knew what he’d find when he worked up the stomach to go upstairs. The big empty bed, sheets tousled on the mattress. The stupid outfits he’d made the girls wear would be scattered about. There’d be no people. No women answering to his whims. No girlfriend. Nobody to clean up his mess but him.
His stomach growled, and he returned to the kitchen and poured himself some cereal. He ate at the table in silence.
The doorbell rang; Tim jumped in his seat.
He sat still, not daring to move. Then there was a firm knocking from the front door. He stood unsteadily and fought the urge to vomit as he passed through the living room. What new horror was waiting for him?
He opened the door and squinted into the sunlight.
For a delirious moment, he thought he was looking at Amy, so familiar was the face and body waiting for him. Then he realized who she was. It was his final call from the gatehouse, made the night before, and nearly forgotten in the violence that followed.
“Tim?” said the girl from a million fantasies.
“Jessica,” he breathed. “Jessica Turner.”
She couldn’t have looked more out of place if she was dressed as the green-skinned alien from her first movie. She wore designer sunglasses, tight jeans and a tank top that bared her midriff. Her shining, dark hair spilled in loose waves around her shoulders. Her face was flawless. Delicate hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Her hands were on her butt, and she was tilting her head quizzically at him.
Six degrees of separation: a gossip columnist at the New York Tribune, to a publicist in Los Angeles, to a Hollywood talent agent, to Jessica Turner’s manager, to her personal assistant. Then he’d been on the phone with her, controlling the girl he’d spent so many nights dreaming about.
She took off her shades and gave him an excited, Hollywood smile that reached her large eyes. “Well,” she asked. “Aren’t you going to invite a girl in?”
One Week Later
Jenny sipped her coffee and flipped idly through the morning paper. The shower was still running in her bathroom; Rob wouldn’t leave it until he’d depleted all but two ounces of her hot water. It was his one flaw.
She hugged her robe closer and leafed through the sports and weather. Then a photo on the gossip page caught her eye. It was an item about a Hollywood starlet and her new boyfriend. It wasn’t fair to judge from the grainy black-and-white newsprint picture, but the boy didn’t look like a likely match for a movie star. She read the short article, and, reading between the lines, concluded the writer shared her opinion.
“I give it six months,” she murmured.
“What? Us?”
“Rob!” She turned her head; he was standing behind her, dripping water from his hair. “Don’t sneak!”
He smiled handsomely and slipped his hands under the collar of her robe to give her a shoulder massage. She relaxed into the chair and let her eyes close.
“I was thinking, we both have some time before work,” he said. “And we’re not dressed yet...”
“Mmmm. But nothing could feel as good as this.”
“Want to bet? Unless you’re too busy reading the gossip columns?”
“There’s more to life than the business section—oh!” He squatted and scooped her from the chair. She laughed as he carried her back to the bedroom, the newspaper falling to the floor.
Farmer Gets a Wife? Jessica Turner Corralled by Hayseed Hunk
In a tale so fantastic it could be the plot to one of her films, Silver Spirit star Jessica Turner has fallen for an Indiana farm boy and whisked him away to the big city, sources say. Turner reportedly met dirt farmer Tim Forrester on a location shoot, and the couple, spotted here outside PJ Hudson’s, are now blissfully happy and living together on the Upper West Side. Wedding bells are in the air, but friends worry about the farm boy’s rural eccentricities. For starters, he’s apparently forbidden the love-struck Turner from ever again using a telephone.