Hollywood Scream Play (25 page)

“Her double won’t own up to it, so she must be telling the truth,” Addison smirks. “Who knew she had it in her? She squeals every time she breaks a nail. Go figure.”

“Addison, do you have any idea who forwarded the clip to 
Deadline
?”

He laughs. “Who do you think sent it?” He jabs a thumb at his chest.

I don’t get it. “But…why?”

“I needed something to counter all the bad publicity we were getting. Think about it. This was Rachel’s last role. Her fans would have been lining up around the block to see the film! And 
Bloomsbury
 fans would have come in droves, too—especially if I’d been able to convince Whitford to incorporate Sebastian’s death footage into the climax scene—you know, as an ‘homage,’ right?”

“Wrong,” I mutter. Some homage!

And what if someone recognized me?

The fact that I’m horrified at the thought doesn’t faze him. He shrugs. “I guess Whitford thought so, too. He threatened to walk off the picture. Said doing it would be ‘macabre.’ Damn artistic types! Can’t live with them, can’t live without ’em.” He rolls his eyes. “I thought releasing the clip to
Deadline
, then following up with an unsubstantiated rumor that Willow did all her own stunts—including that one—would create the kind of buzz we need to keep the investors happy. I guess I’m too smart for my own britches. I didn’t think it would cause the insurance company to back out.” He shrugs. “That’s okay. There may be a private investor willing to see it completed. Then I’ll round up the team, tell them we’re doing it in memory of our fallen comrades in arms.”

“And for investors,” Jack mutters under his breath.

Addison’s face falls. He’s wounded. “Hey, I have a heart. But I’ve also got to eat.”

From what I’ve seen, he’s wrong on both counts.

“Speaking of which,” Jack says, “the clause in our contract—you know, about fees for sequels—I presume this kills any chance to collect them.”

Addison laughs. “Don’t sweat it. The money is still yours.”

Jack looks as stunned as I feel.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but how is this possible?” I ask.

“Because GWI—” Addison’s voice trails off. “Let’s just say I drove a hard bargain with my investors on your behalf, and it paid off.” He looks up at the sky. Once again the sun has disappeared behind thick gray clouds. “I’m ready to get back to sunny California. Oh, and tell your son I expect that coverage before we’re wheels up, in two hours.”

He shuffles off.

We won’t be on the plane. From what he just let slip, I think he’s well aware of this.

Frankly, with no 
Bloomsbury
 script to give Ryan so that he can get back into MI6’s good graces, the immunity we were looking for here in England is out of our reach.

It’s truly a shame.

Next stop for us: Croatia. It’s one of the few countries that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the US.

I’ll download a Croatian Berlitz course for the kids. Seriously, I’ll do anything to get out of homeschooling them.

“Croatia?” The thought of going to yet another foreign land has finally shaken Mary out of her malaise. “I don’t get it! If the filming is done, why can’t we just go home?”

Jack sits on the bed beside her. “My company needs me there.”

“So go, send us a few postcards. But the rest of us want to go home—don’t we?” She looks around the room.

“I wouldn’t mind going home,” Jeff pipes up. “Addison has already offered me an internship at his production company.”

“I don’t think so,” I say firmly. “All that means is you’ll do a ton of work without getting paid.”

Jeff shrugs. “Hey, it’s show biz. Most players get their start in the mailroom. At least I’m already reading scripts.”

“See? So far, two of us are ready to go home!” Mary jumps out of the bed in order to kneel in front of her little sister and look her in the eye. “How about you, Trisha? Wouldn’t you like to go home and see Miss McGonagall, and all your friends?”

Trisha nods slowly. “Yes…but not if Mom and Dad can’t come with us. I don’t like it when they go away.”

Mary frowns. “They’ll come with us if we have the majority vote.”

“This isn’t a democracy. It’s a family, which means parents decide what is best for the family as a whole,” I warn her. “And right now, being somewhere other than Hilldale is best for all of us.”

Aunt Phyllis throws her knitting into the bag at her feet. “Donna, dear, I think it’s wonderful that the two of you want to give the family all these wonderful experiences. Truly, I do. But maybe it would be a better thing for them when they’re older and they can appreciate it. Here’s a thought! Why not consider making this a ‘me time’ getaway, just for the two of you? I’ll be more than happy to move in and stay with the children until you’re ready to come home again.”

Ah, if only she knew: I’m ready now.

From the disappointed glances Mary and Jeff exchange, I presume they aren’t too thrilled about the compromise Aunt Phyllis has just offered us. Still, they keep their mouths shut.

Trisha is sobbing now. “I want Mommy and Daddy to stay with us.”

Tears soften Mary’s eyes, too. She walks over to me. “Be honest with us, Mom. Why won’t you and Dad come home with us?”

She’s right. I should always be honest with them.

There’s only one way in which to learn how they’ll react:

Just tell them
.

And to do it quickly, like pulling a Band-Aid from a wound.

The fact we’re innocent doesn’t mitigate the fact that the adults they love and trust most are fugitives from the law.

On the upside, once the shock and awe wears off, they’ll be so mortified at the thought that their friends know, but they’ll accept a life incognito.

I take a deep breath. Okay here goes nothing.

And here goes everything—my children’s respect. And their trust. Maybe even their love.

Before I can get a word out, Jack walks over to her. He lays his arm on her shoulder. She looks up into his eyes, as if searching them for the answer she so desperately wants to hear.

But no. Even before he opens his mouth, I see the half-mast lids that warn of a rock-hard stance, the twitch of regret on the right side of his mouth.

He cannot accommodate. He can only commiserate. “Mary, please don’t be mad at us because we can’t tell you what you want to hear. Our mutual goal is that we all stay together. But if you’d prefer to go back to Hilldale, we will understand, and respect your wishes.”

No, this isn’t what Mary wants to hear.

Her acceptance comes with little fanfare. Hope fades from her eyes. A dull sadness takes its place. Her body seems slighter, as if it has shrunk along with the hope she had of getting her family home in one piece.

I don’t blame her for freezing as Jack kisses her forehead, or for her hand going limp when I take it in mine.

Even when I squeeze it, it lays there, still and small.

When my hand drops away, her arm falls to her side. Like a sleepwalker, she turns and treads back to the couch. Since Rachel’s death, it’s become her cocoon.

When she flops onto it and crawls under the blanket, her foot touches something, and it tumbles to the floor.

It’s a 
Bloomsbury
 script.

I scoop it up. “Mary, where did you get this?”

She peeks out from under the cover, but shrugs when she sees the script in my hand. “Sometimes Rachel and I would come here to read the scripts. I guess we forgot to return this one to Sebastian. Why? What’s the big deal? I mean, now that they’re both…gone.” Her voice trails off.

“It’s a very big deal. It may mean we can stay here in England, as opposed to going to Croatia.”

The cover calls it out as Episode Two, from last season.

“Do you know if this is one of the scripts with the phrase that was changed?”

She takes it from my hand. After glancing at the first few pages, she says, “Yes, I think so.” Slowly, she flips the pages. Finally, she stops and points to a bit of dialogue:

Virginia Woolf

Vanessa, we may not be as high-minded as the Clapham Sect, still I shudder to think we’ll overlook the very same bourgeois habits we claim to abhor! All the more reason the group must address Duncan’s latest indiscretion head on. It’s a tangle, I know—but it cannot be ignored.

I pick up her iPad and log on to our Netflix account. 
Bloomsbury
 is prominent in our queue because Mary has viewed it so many times.

I fast-forward to this scene:

“…Vanessa, we may not be as high-minded as the Apostles, still I shudder—”

The website for 
Bloomsbury
 confirms that the episode aired exactly a week before an attempted suicide bombing in London.

It’s all the proof we need to make our case to MI6.

Mary’s eyes grow big. “I wouldn’t mind staying here with you in England. Dad, do you think you can talk your bosses into it?”

Jack smiles. “Something tells me they’ll approve it, yes.”

“If that’s the case, maybe another script will get us transferred back to the states.” She rummages under the covers and pulls out another script—for the third episode in the upcoming season, which is to start next week.

Jack and I exchange glances. The script still to be aired may hold the key to a future attack.

He reaches for his cell phone and dials Arnie. “Are you in your room at the inn? …Great! We may have stumbled onto open source intel, and we’ll need you to decode it for us, pronto…Arnie, are you there? …Is everything okay? …What? …Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be right over.”

We bury Mary in a hug between us.

This time, she doesn’t pull away.

If only we could stay in this clinch forever.

But we can’t. We’re out the door again.

Maybe this time we won’t have to run so far, or so fast.

I’ve never seen Arnie drunk.

It is not a pretty sight.

Jack holds up the two empty bottles of Guinness Stout. “How many ounces are in five hundred milliliters?
"

“He’s kind of busy here,” I yell at him. I’m making sure Arnie doesn’t fall into the toilet as he barfs into it.

“Approximately seventeen and a quarter ounces,” Arnie rasps.

I’ve held many a head over a commode, but none that were cognizant enough to attempt math conversions. I guess that’s what happens when you hang with frat boys from UCLA as opposed to MIT Comp Sci dropouts.

“Arnie, you’ve got to snap out of it! We need you, now more than ever.” Jack lifts him up from under his armpits.

Wrong move. Arnie throws up again, only this time it’s on Jack’s brand new John Lobb brogues.

As Jack lets loose with gusto on some choice swear words, I aim Arnie back over the toilet and hold his head there until he stops heaving.

Finally, he raises his head again. “You don’t understand. It’s Emma! She’s… she’s…” he chokes on his words.

Or on whatever bile is crawling up his throat.

As he bends down over the commode to rid himself of it, I murmur, “Arnie, I know.”

“What? You mean, she told you?” The puking stops, but hyperventilating takes its place.

Jack grabs a greasy, half-filled fish-and-chips bag, and empties its contents into a trash can. He hands it to Arnie, who takes deep breaths into it.

When Arnie pulls his face out of the bag, his cheeks and nose are covered in grease.

Now I think I’m going to barf. I swallow hard. “Emma felt she had to tell someone. She’s so ashamed of herself.” I pat his arm. “Arnie, she’s worried about losing you.”

He lifts his head, but he doesn’t say anything. It will take a while before the color returns to his cheeks.

Or a smile to his lips.

He points to the scripts on the table. “I better get started.”

Jack hesitates before picking them up. “Look, if you’re not up to the task, we certainly understand. We can wait until tomorrow.”

“No you can’t. Donna’s right. There’s still a chance that Carl will recognize her from the camera footage. The sooner I decipher this intel, the quicker Ryan can backchannel it to his contacts at MI6, and the sooner you’ll get your diplomatic immunity,” he says, as he sticks out his hands.