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  The lieutenant looked down. “Not sure.”

  “Well, according to the ME’s preliminary findings at the scene, the mortal blow was a single swipe of a sharp-edged instrument.” Derek pointed to the screen. “Maybe I missed where Mitchell brought in a Katana sword? One of the few weapons known to man to be able to perform such a feat?”

  Exactly. Oh, my gosh. Hadn’t Mitchell been trying to bring home that exact point for the last few hours? Did none of them ever watch The Bodyguard? Seriously.

  Boulder continued. “And even if we believe that Mitchell somehow snuck such a weapon into the editing suite, where is it now?” The lieutenant just shrugged, so the agent continued. “So, not only did Mitchell magically get this Katana sword into the editing bay, he also somehow killed his friend, and then stashed it in the whole ten seconds that are unaccounted for.”

  Oh, Mitchell was liking this agent more and more by the second.

  “And how exactly did this kid get the skill and the strength to perform such a feat?”

  Normally, Mitchell might have taken offense to such a meager description of his physique, but now he welcomed it. He pushed up the orange sleeve of his jumper and showed off his bicep. He made a fist and tried to pump up the muscle. Let’s just say that no bulge formed.

  Boulder pointed and raised his eyebrow. The lieutenant did not seem in the mood to argue with the agent, nor did he seem willing to just back down.

  “Then who did it?” the lieutenant asked.

  “No idea, but any defense attorney is going to get the kid out on his own recognizance.”

  The lieutenant’s cheeks bloomed burgundy. “Because you just handed them their strategy on a silver platter.”

  Exactly. Mitchell wished he had a pen to make sure to write down everything Derek had said. It sounded so L.A. Law.

  “But look,” Jill said, pointing to the screen. “That’s supposed to be blood on his hands again, right?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not red.” The lieutenant said as he stepped back to the screen. “It’s black like it should be.”

  They were right. How did Mitchell miss that? Shouldn’t that prove it wasn’t blood on his hands the first time? Mitchell opened his mouth to say just that, but Boulder turned off the TV.

  “All right. I think we have seen enough,” Derek said, turning to the lieutenant. “Let’s speak to Mr. Dixon alone.”

  “But—” the lieutenant stammered, but Derek overrode him.

  “Alone.”

  Once the door closed behind the lieutenant, Derek turned to Mitchell, his lips in a stern line. Uh oh. Mitchell liked the agent who put the lieutenant in his place, but not when that heated gaze was directed at him.

  The agent braced his palms on the table, leaning in toward Mitchell. His jacket fell open, revealing a Glock 27. Cool. Well, it would be cool as long as he didn’t point it at Mitchell.

  “You weren’t there just to see the film cut, were you?” Derek asked.

  Play it cool, Mitchell, play it cool. “I was working ...”

  Derek slammed his palms on the table. Mitchell jumped in his seat. Dang it. His bladder couldn’t take much more of this.

  “Cut the crap. My partner faxed me your file. You’re smart. Shit, half the stuff you wrote about I didn’t understand, but you were on to something. Weren’t you? That’s why you were at the studio this morning?”

  Mitchell cast his eyes down, running his hands back and forth over his legs. How could he tell the agent why he was really there? Look at how Derek had reacted when Mitchell suggested that the film had lashed out. Already, the agent thought he was a horror freak who had finally lost it. But Mitchell just wanted to go home. Well, pee first, and then go home. Back to his dorm room. Watching his movie marathon. He wanted to forget any of this had ever happened.

  “Isn’t it?” Derek pressed.

  Mitchell flinched. He kinda wished that the detective would come back and question him. He wasn’t as intimidating as this guy. But then again, the detective had been barking up the wrong tree. Now? Mitchell’s chest felt caught in a viselike grip.

  “Derek, what are you talking about?” Jill asked.

  But the agent didn’t even look at her. Instead, he smiled tightly, continuing in an almost playful tone. “Mitchell knows exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Mitchell kind of liked it better when Derek was being all mean. “You went there to get clips from the film.”

  Mitchell tried not to react, but how could he not? And of course, the agent did not miss those few extra blinks and inward gasp.

  “Yes, your roommates may have been as high as kites, actually higher than kites, according to the officer who interviewed them. However, they had excellent memories of you rambling on about an idea of yours, and how you needed some film clips to prove it.”

  “It was nothing,” Mitchell mumbled, cursing his roommates. Not only were they loser stoners, but snitches as well. “It was some stupid theory.”

  “Theories,” Derek said with a savage smile. “I like theories.”

  Mitchell squirmed in his seat. His hands shook as he threaded them through his hair. Rocking back and forth. “It’s stupid ... a long shot ...” But true. Mitchell was rarely wrong. God, how he wished he was wrong this time.

  “Look, kid, no matter how off the mark those cops were, they sensed you were lying. They think it has to do with the murder,” the agent said, looking toward the one-way glass. “I think it’s about something else altogether. However, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth. The whole truth.”

  Oh, how Mitchell wanted to tell Derek that “he couldn’t handle the truth,” but he was pretty sure that his Jack Nicholson impression was not going to go over too well in this room. Not with Elmore dead. Tears sprang to his eyes. Could he really have been so excited over this dumb idea just a few hours ago? Could Elmore really have died because of something Mitchell postulated?

  “Okay,” Mitchell finally sighed. If they locked him up on Shutter Island, then they locked him up on Shutter Island. “I downloaded a pirated version of the movie and—”

  “You what?” Jill asked. “Where? What’s the website? Why didn’t you report it?”

  Mitchell glanced from Jill to Derek. Well if his internship wasn’t already in the crapper, it was now.

  Derek backed Jill off with a glance. Clearly, this was his interrogation. “And this film clip showed …?”

  “For one thing, it took a freakin’ day to download, and then it ran funny. Scenes jumping. Mouths moving, but the dialogue didn’t match.

  “Funny ha-ha, or ...”

  “It blew up my computer, okay?” His parents had a fit when he told them that he needed a new one. He lied and said a virus came through the campus email. They wanted to give him their old desktop. “Mitchell, it’s perfectly fine. It runs DOS great. Why let it go to waste?” Thank God a laptop was required for class.

  “So why’d you go to Temple Studios this morning?” Derek pressed.

  “I thought if I could get some of the original film I might be able to test it.” Mitchell’s stomach twisted. The film lashing out at Elmore, his head on the floor. The blood.

  “For what?” Derek asked urgently. “What were you looking for?”

  Mitchell swallowed, the acid rising in his throat. “I think that there might be something layered in the film. Audio enhancement, maybe. That’s how the Baxters made their money. Audio software.”

  Mitchell glanced up at the agent to gauge his reaction. But the guy lived up to his name, his face as unreadable as a boulder.

  “Like I said,” Mitchell murmured, “stupid.”

  Derek grunted. “Or brilliant.” The agent turned to Jill. “Did you know anything about this?”

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “I haven’t even seen the film.”

  “But could the Baxters do what Mitchell is suggesting? Lay in some subliminal visual and audio cues like the soda companies used to do to get you to go buy some pop?”

&nb
sp; Mitchell’s eyebrow shot up. This agent knew a bit more about the film industry than he let on.

  “You mean intentionally insert pictures and sounds that would make people sick?” Jill asked.

  Derek nodded.

  Jill cocked her head. “I mean some of the most advanced studios are toying with advanced subliminal meta-messaging, but for a thirty-thousand-dollar film?”

  Still, Derek seemed resolved. “We’ll swing by the studio, pick up the reels, and then take the film by the FBI crime lab and have them run ...”

  He went to escort Jill out of the room when Mitchell jumped up. “Wait!” Mitchell had seen Oz. He did not want to experience it in real life. “You need to take me!”

  “And why exactly would that be?” Derek asked, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Be ... because I know the film inside and out. I’ve correlated the timing of the theater deaths with key scenes from the movie ... I can help!”

  Derek opened the door.

  “Please, please, please don’t leave me in here ...” Mitchell begged. “Pretty please.”

  A look passed over Derek’s face. A smile? A grimace?

  “Fine,” the agent finally said. “I'll get you some street clothes once you are released into my custody, but you had better produce.”

  “Oh, I will! I will!” Mitchell assured him. He almost jumped up and down, but then, you know, with his bladder and all, he thought better of it.

  * * *

  Howie made his way down the long row of shelves in the Temple Studios’ Film Vault.

  “Damn bitch. Can’t even do her own dirty work,” Howie muttered.

  He scanned each row, looking for the correct section. He was sick of being Amanda’s lackey. He was the VP, for Christ’s sake, not a damn intern! Howie crossed to the next aisle, rubbing his arms against the chill. How cold do they need to keep it in here? It was like a meat locker.

  Chanting whispers arose from the next aisle, increasing in tempo. The sound stopped Howie in his tracks. His blood was now as cold as the room.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, his voice unsteady as he spun around. He was going to kill whoever was sneaking around in here. Save the gossip for the bathroom.

  The lights flickered and buzzed. Then snapped off, flooding the room in darkness.

  “Wh ... who the hell’s there?” Howie stammered.

  If this was a prank, someone was getting fired. He knew how the rest of the staff felt about him. Conversations stopped whenever he walked by. He was Amanda’s eyes and ears. But if he wanted to be company president, he’d have to keep sucking up. This wasn’t a popularity contest. It was business.

  The voices crept up behind him. Howie backed into a shelf, rattling the reels. One fell to the floor. The lights turned on, cutting off the voices. Sweat trickled down Howie’s forehead. He wiped it with his sleeve. He rushed to the next aisle, peeking around the corner. He let out a sigh of relief, finding it empty.

  “Okay, okay ... I just need to grab one film ...” Howie tried to reassure himself. “One freakin’ scary film that kills people ... Just one film, and I’m promoted for sure ...”

  He spotted the title, Terror in the Trees. Finally.

  Now he could leave early. Go home and get ready for the premiere. Schmooze with some celebrities.

  “Damn it!” He slammed his fist on the shelf. There was only one reel. Where in the hell was the other one? This is no time for misfiling.

  Howie felt sweat soak into his two-thousand-dollar Armani shirt. If he didn’t find this film, he would be in the unemployment line with Jill. He wondered if the offer from Sony was still open.

  Howie snatched the one reel off the shelf and walked down the rows, eyeing the rest of the shelves—the light not quite reaching the corners.

  Where in the hell did that intern put the damn thing? Howie spotted the refile cart to his right. One film rested on it. Please let it be the one. Leaning over he read the label. Terror in the Trees.

  “Thank God ...” he sighed in relief, picking up the reel.

  Howie heard footsteps behind him. He spun around, but no one was there.

  The lights went out again. Howie yelped. Watching those damn promo pieces over and over had messed with his head. This shit wasn’t funny. Howie stumbled in the darkness, slamming into the cart. The reels clattered to the floor. He bent to pick them up when he heard a scraping sound.

  “Screw this,” Howie panted, leaving the films. Amanda can keep her damn promotion.

  Howie ran blindly toward the front of the vault his arms outstretched in front of him.

  The lights flashed on. A clatter sounded behind him. He spun around. The reels he dropped now tipped onto their sides. The covers fell open. Two red eyes glowed inside. Howie took a step backward. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. It was all a publicity stunt.

  Turning, Howie ran toward the door. The chanting rose again. Following him up the aisle.

  “No!” Howie screamed. His legs felt heavy, like he was running through tar.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  “Oh, God ... Oh, God ...”

  The blood thundered in Howie’s ears. Afraid to look over his shoulder, he made for the door. Dear God, what was following him?

  The shelves that lined the aisle creaked and wobbled, finally tilting over as the reels they contained clattered to the floor.

  “Help!” Howie screamed. “Help me!”

  Howie turned the corner, running into a huge spiderweb. Only it wasn’t made of silk—it was made of film. He flailed his arms and legs, trying to break loose. The film, slow and sinuous, wound its way around his wrists and ankles. Then it jerked him off his feet, suspending him off the floor.

  Screaming, Howie realized no one would hear him. The vault was airtight. The walls made of lead.

  Terror in the Trees had claimed its next victim.

  * * *

  Derek stood on the steps of the police station and took a cleansing breath. Well, if you could call LA smog cleansing. Anything was better than the stale stench of old urine and vomit back in the station. One of the many reasons why he didn’t become a cop.

  Jogging down the steps, Derek pulled open the limo door to find Jill already seated. Looking surprised that he had gotten through all the red tape so quickly, Jill wiped away a tear.

  Derek climbed in, taking the seat next to her. “Something wrong?”

  She just shook her head, shifting in her seat, putting her back to Derek.

  “How long until Mitchell’s out?” she asked, clearly trying to suppress the ache in her voice.

  “Any second,” he answered.

  This was the second time that Jill cried this morning. Something inside of him wanted to wipe the past years away and reach out to her, wrapping his arms around her like he used to. Until she left him, that was. Still, he could give her some solace, couldn’t he?

  “Jill, I can secure another car. You don’t have to come with us.”

  “I might as well,” she said, shrugging. “ I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Don’t you have to break the bad news about the canceled premiere to a bunch of pampered stars?” he asked.

  Smile and spin a story that will top the current publicity. Especially if the deaths were all part of an elaborate plan by the Baxter brothers? Isn’t that what she was good at?

  “Not after I was fired ...” she sniffed, straightening her back. She smoothed her hands down her skirt.

  Oh, no.

  Open mouth, insert foot.

  When he talked Greer into yanking the film premiere, Derek never dreamed that Jill would get fired. It wasn’t Jill’s fault that the movie was a ticking time bomb.

  “What? They can’t—”

  “Don’t,” Jill retorted. “It’s bad enough.”

  “I'll call my supervisor—”

  Jill spun toward him. “You can’t fix everything, Derek.” Her face flushed. “So don’t even try.”

&nb
sp; Damn it, Derek wished her words didn’t sting as much as they did. Worse, she was right. He couldn’t fix everything. If he could, they would have been married. That girl would have ended up on a playground rather than the morgue, and he wouldn’t still be carrying around three slugs in his chest.

  Jill turned back to the window, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  He wanted to say something, anything, to make it better. But he was the one who had screwed up. Again. He was pretty sure Jill was tired of him telling her how sorry he was.

  “Wait for me!” Mitchell yelled as he rushed down the station steps toward the limo.

  Jill turned back, seeming more composed. “You are that sure he didn’t kill Elmore?”

  “Yep.”

  “But I still don’t get why we are taking him with us.”

  Derek watched Mitchell bound toward them. Letting him change clothes and take a leak had brought back some of the kid’s youthful exuberance.

  “Mitchell doesn’t do me a whole lot of good sitting in there.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  He turned to Jill.

  “What I do need is some bait.”

  * * *

  “Damn it, Howie,” Amanda cursed at the voice mail. “The premiere is in six hours. The Secret Service is already securing the theater.”

  She ended the call as she stalked toward the door of the vault. She had been trying to reach Howie for over an hour. That was the tenth message she’d left. He had better have the reels, along with some caviar and one of the men from Thunder Down Under to sate her wrath.