Sizzle

  “The best,” Jack answered, “but don’t let him know I said so. There’d be no living with him.”

  Three men who resembled Alec Buchanan were headed toward them. All, Sam noticed, wore guns. A distinguished older man followed them. He had his arm around the shoulder of a pretty young woman.

  Jack chuckled. “You’re about to meet some Buchanans. They have a way of making you feel like family. And I should warn you … once you’re in, there’s no getting out.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating.

  Over the next couple of weeks, Sam got to know the family very well, and Alec and Jack did become Sam’s good friends. And friends were supposed to help each other out when needed, right? Like today.

  Sam, still standing at the podium, spied the two agents sitting in the back row of the auditorium. He gave Alec and Jack the “get me out of here” look. They didn’t respond. Either they were oblivious to his distress, or they were so thoroughly enjoying his misery, they were pretending not to notice. He opted for the second choice and decided to get even.

  “I see Alec Buchanan is with us,” he announced to the crowd. “Perhaps we could get him up here to say a few words.”

  With that, the whole room erupted in wild applause and turned to face Alec.

  Alec looked shell-shocked, and Sam responded to his startled expression with a quick nod and a satisfied smile. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he whistled a cheerful tune as he left the podium and strolled out of the auditorium.

  TWO

  GRANDMOTHER WAS STEALING HOLY WATER AGAIN.

  Lyra Prescott didn’t have to guess why Father Henry was calling. As soon as she saw the caller ID, she knew it was about her beloved grandmother, the eccentric woman who had practically raised Lyra.

  Her cell phone sat in her hand. She had switched the ringer off, but when she looked down, she saw his name and number. Even if she wanted to talk to the priest—which she didn’t—she couldn’t answer the phone right now. She was in the back of a classroom trying to pay attention while Professor Mahler assigned subjects for the documentary films his students were about to do. He was also sharing his cynical opinions about the people of Los Angeles.

  Mahler, a handsome man in his forties, was a noted professor who had published several books about documentary filmmaking, and who had won an award for his exposé of a notorious crime family—a fact he liked to mention in almost every lecture he gave. He was also a left-wing activist who tended to go overboard with his projects and opinions. He had the reputation of being arrogant and difficult, and rumor had it that his wife had walked out on him.

  Lyra would have felt sorry for him if he weren’t so egotistical. She couldn’t agree with a word he was saying. The professor invariably made sweeping statements. “No one in this community takes care of what he has. When people get bored with something, they throw it away. Have you seen pictures of the landfills out here? Disgusting,” he muttered. “I hope one of you will choose that topic for your documentary.”

  A hand shot up. “I’ll take it.”

  Mahler nodded, poured water from his disposable plastic bottle—which Lyra thought was hypocritical—and took a drink before continuing his rant. “Instead of fixing a bicycle or a car, they buy a new one. And it’s not just possessions,” he added, wagging his finger at them. “They destroy homes and then abandon them.”

  “How often do you want us to check in with you while we’re working on our documentaries?” a student asked.

  “Not this time,” he answered. “There will be no coddling from me.”

  Several members of the class looked at one another. Some seemed ready to laugh. When had Mahler ever coddled them?

  “I don’t want to see what you have when you’re halfway done, and I don’t want to hear about any problems. I want to watch the films when they’re finished, and I want to be surprised, pleased, and—dare I imagine?—dazzled. Yes, you heard me. Dazzled. Now who wants to take on the corrupt mortgage industry?” he asked.

  Another hand shot up.

  “All right, Peter,” Mahler said. “Put the topic and your name on the sign-up sheet on my desk. You too, Phillip,” he said to the student who wanted landfills.

  The professor gestured behind him toward his office. It was connected to the classroom by a door he kept wide open whenever he was teaching.

  Without breaking his stride, he continued. “And the malls. Don’t get me started on those structures. They keep building more and more of them, letting the old ones sit empty until someone comes along and tears them down or burns them.”

  “I’ll take the malls,” another student called out.

  The professor nodded and gave suggestions on how to go about the project.

  Lyra wasn’t paying attention to his instructions. She was staring through the open door at a colorful poster hanging on the wall behind the professor’s desk in his office. The words on the poster said, “Paraiso Park. First Annual Festival.” It showed a lovely place that was clean and beautifully landscaped. Next to that poster was another one, a grim, black-and-white photo of industrial smokestacks. There were no words on this poster, and she couldn’t tell where the photo had been taken. What a contradiction in subjects, she thought. She much preferred to look at the bold colors of Paraiso Park.

  She raised her hand.

  “Yes, Lyra?” Professor Mahler said.

  “What about neighborhood parks? I’d like to take that subject.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. “Do you know that most parks have a ten-year lifespan?”

  She thought his remark ludicrous but didn’t want to antagonize him, so she didn’t argue. Everyone in his class had learned early in the semester never to disagree. Several students tried to dispute his comments in the beginning, and every time they explained their positions, the professor would rub his chin, pretend to be listening, and say, “Uh hum, uh hum,” and then declare that the students were completely wrong. He never forgot who had argued with him and usually repaid those students with horrid assignments. Lyra was too close to the finish line to get on his bad side.

  “No, Professor, I didn’t know that.” Because it isn’t true, she thought.

  “The equipment is broken by then. Even the chains holding the swings are gone or rusted out, and picnic tables are destroyed. Vandals and gangs move in and take over.”

  Lyra was determined to prove him wrong. She chose to do her documentary on beautiful Paraiso Park.

  Two weeks later she deeply regretted her choice.

  IT WAS AN UNUSUALLY hot and humid afternoon in Los Angeles, and Lyra was knee-deep in garbage that reeked to high heaven. She had just covered her nose and mouth with a scarf when her phone rang. She took one look at the display screen, saw Father Henry’s name, and let the call go to voice mail. Now wasn’t a good time to have yet another lengthy visit with the priest. It had been two weeks since their last conversation, and she had assumed the problem with her grandmother had been solved. If that were the case, however, why would he be calling now? She knew she’d have to talk to him eventually, but Father Henry’s complaints would have to wait. Once Lyra was back inside her air-conditioned apartment and had showered and changed into clean clothes, she would be in better shape to take on the priest.

  Lyra’s documentary project wasn’t turning out to be what she had expected. Her initial plan had been to do a film about a happy place, a place where families gathered for carefree afternoons. It had been inspired by the poster in Professor Mahler’s office.

  In her preliminary research, she ran across a photo of a killer slide that had been built into an extremely steep hill in the middle of a neighborhood park. The photo showed children lined up to climb the steps to the top. They looked so eager and happy, one could almost hear their laughter. The photo had been taken just six years ago.

  At first, Lyra didn’t have a firm idea on what the theme of her documentary was going to be, but she thought that, if she walked around the area, she would come up with some sort of
angle. A community coming together maybe? Or perhaps the joy in simple things? She did know she wanted the piece to be uplifting. Yes, light and uplifting. Maybe with a touch of humor.

  Even with her GPS, she had difficulty finding the right place. The park was more than an hour away from her apartment, and when she finally pulled onto a gravel road, she thought she’d taken a wrong turn. Then she spotted what was left of the slide and was heartsick. Weeds obscured most of it, but what she could see was rusty and broken. Trash was everywhere … piles of it. She saw as many used needles as old newspapers and disposable diapers. The park was so contaminated with filth, climbing the hill now would be hazardous. The transformation from beautiful to beastly in such a short time was devastating.

  What had happened here? Was Professor Mahler right? Were people destructive by nature? Lyra still refused to accept her professor’s negative philosophy. She had driven through many neighborhoods with pristine parks and public areas that were meticulously kept, so she knew they existed. This one was different. What had destroyed this park in only a few years? She was determined to get answers.

  She began with city officials. One city councilman she asked told her that gangs had moved into the neighborhood, and the park had become their battleground. It was a war over turf, he explained, and families had moved away. Another politician told her that a new highway cut through two neighborhoods, and families moved out, which was why the park was abandoned. Both politicians stopped talking to her when she asked if they knew the park was now a toxic wasteland. Apparently that wasn’t their problem.

  Lyra went to public records and newspaper archives to research the park further. She found photos of happy families strolling along a flower-bordered path with their picnic baskets. Children playing tag on the side of a hill. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought these pictures were of an entirely different place.

  She decided that her documentary would not only show the ravaged park, but it would also expose the people whose disregard had caused such devastation. She would intersperse these old photos with new ones of the men and women who frequented the wasteland now to dump their trash and, in some instances, their toxic waste.

  Because these polluting people were breaking the law, she felt no compunction to shield their faces. Lyra’s SUV had been a deterrent to anyone throwing trash on the site, so she decided to take secret photos of the perpetrators. A digital time-lapse camera with an intervalometer would give her continuous shots. She set it to take a picture every five seconds and connected a backup battery to ensure she’d get up to twenty-four hours of images. She hid the camera in a weatherproof box and anchored it down with rocks. Placed high up on the hill and surrounded by so much disgusting garbage, she knew no one would find it.

  Every afternoon after class she drove back to the dump site, checked the memory card, and reprogrammed the camera to begin taking pictures for another day. She wished there was a way for the public to see what the litterers were doing, the young man dressed in a crisp blue shirt and striped tie and a sparkling white lab coat dumping plastic containers filled with used hypodermic needles that he removed from the trunk of his Saab, or the teenagers in tattered jeans and dirty T-shirts throwing old car batteries from the back of their pickup truck, but the reality was that no one but her professor and a few of the students in her film class would see her documentary.

  After two weeks, she had enough images. She drove to the dumpsite with the intention of getting her camera and never ever going back. She looked forward to a full twenty-four hours of not inhaling the god-awful stench of rotting fruit.

  But plans have a way of changing. She had just dismantled the camera and put it inside its case to take home when she spotted a dark sedan speeding down the narrow road that wound around the hill and through the park. Whoever was driving the car was in a hurry. Gravel dust sprayed up behind it as it took a sharp curve.

  The car disappeared from view at the bottom of the hill. Lyra looked back in the direction the car had come from, and her curiosity was piqued. The road narrowed to little more than an overgrown path and disappeared as it wound upward. Thinking there had been little to see, she’d never really explored the other side of the hill. She decided to hike the rest of the way up now to take a look.

  Good thing she wore her boots. The climb was difficult. It was made even more miserable by the heat and the stench wafting up from the dump sites. Finally, at the high point, she tramped through some dead shrubs and maneuvered around an uprooted tree to get a clear view. What she saw stunned her.

  Down below lay a flat area about the size of a baseball diamond. It, too, had been the victim of vandals. Trash was scattered everywhere. But something even stranger captured Lyra’s attention. It was so out of place. In the middle of all the rubble and litter was a beautiful little garden. A tiny patch of grass, looking like it had been freshly cut, was lush and green and edged with thriving flower beds. None of the trash touched the grass, as though it knew that doing so would defile this exquisite and most unexpected beauty.

  Lyra stared at the amazing sight. How did this happen? Such a lovely spot in the middle of this cesspool.

  Someone was obviously caring for the garden and cutting the grass, and she wanted to know why. She hiked back down the hill to her car to fetch her camera. A half hour later she found a suitable spot well-hidden by the dead shrubs and anchored the camera in the weatherproof box. She made sure the eye of the camera was focused on the road and the garden beyond to capture images of anyone coming or going. After inserting a new memory card, she set the timer.

  This meant a couple more weeks of hiking back and forth. It probably wouldn’t amount to anything, but then again maybe it would. She imagined all sorts of possibilities. Maybe an elderly gentleman had planted the flowers in memory of his dead wife. Perhaps this was the spot where he’d met her, or perhaps this was where he had taken her on their first date. Her mind then turned to a darker scenario. Maybe this was the spot where he’d killed his wife and buried her. Wracked with guilt, he had planted the flowers. The possibilities were endless.

  Walking back to her car with the sun beating down, her face as sweaty and wet as the back of her neck and her soaked blouse sticking to her, she found herself smiling in spite of her discomfort. What would her parents think if they could see their daughter now, wearing old jeans and heavy hiking boots to protect her feet from used needles on the ground? They would be properly appalled, Lyra knew. Then again her mother and father were properly appalled at just about everything she did.

  She finally reached her SUV, started the engine, quickly turned on the air conditioner, then pulled her boots off and slipped on flip-flops.

  Once she had cooled down, she decided to call Father Henry. Better to get it over with than have it hanging over her, she thought.

  She was given a reprieve. The priest wasn’t home. The secretary informed her that Father wouldn’t be back until the following evening. Lyra tried not to sound jubilant when she left a message on his voice mail, telling him that she was so sorry she had missed his call and that she very much looked forward to talking to him at his convenience.

  Lying to a priest might well get her some extra time in purgatory. She couldn’t worry about it now, though. She had a lot of work to get done before tomorrow, and she was anxious to get started on the latest batch of pictures.

  Traffic was heavy, and it took her an excruciating hour and forty-five minutes to get back home. She pulled up to the gate of her apartment parking lot, and once she punched in the code, the wrought-iron gates swung open, and she drove through to her assigned parking space. Grabbing her backpack from the seat next to her, she got out of the car and locked it. She climbed the stairs to her apartment and fumbled through her bag, looking for her key. Not finding it, she pushed the buzzer at her door.

  A woman’s voice immediately came through the door. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Sidney,” Lyra said. “My key’s somewhere in my bag and I’m too
tired to look for it. Could you let me in?”

  The lock on the door clicked.

  Lyra’s roommate, Sidney Buchanan, swung the door wide. Wearing faded gray sweatpants rolled at the waist, a white tank top, and fuzzy pink slippers, Sidney had one pencil between her lips and another one sticking out of the haphazard bun on the top of her head.

  She reached out to relieve Lyra of her backpack before taking the pencil out of her mouth to talk. “You look like you’ve just been through a car wash without a car,” she said sympathetically.

  Lyra slumped into their only easy chair and exhaled loudly. “I’ve had an exhausting day. How about you?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Sidney chirped. “I had brunch with Leonardo DiCaprio. He tried to talk me into flying to Cabo with him this afternoon, but I had already set up a meeting with Spielberg and Lucas. They’re just relentless about the movie they want me to direct, but I said I needed more time to think about it. Then I had drinks with Robert Pattinson and dinner with Chace Crawford. Oh, and Zac Efron has been calling nonstop. I’m telling you, if they don’t stop fighting over me, I’m just not going to see any of them ever again.”

  As Lyra was laughing, Sidney sat down on the floor inside a semicircle of scattered film reels and a stack of papers. “Actually,” she said, “I haven’t left the apartment all day. In fact, I don’t think I’ve left it all week.” She glanced up at the window. “Is it night already?” she groaned. “If I don’t have this project ready to hand in tomorrow, I’m in deep trouble.” She picked up a couple of loose pages and stacked them on the pile. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I can do this. I can do this.”

  Lyra lifted her tired body out of the chair. “I’ll take a shower, and then if you need my help, I’m yours.”

  Sidney gave her an appreciative smile. “Thanks, but I think I’ve got it under control. It’s just going to take time.”

  Lyra and Sidney were more like sisters than roommates. They met the summer before their second year at the university at a film festival where they had both volunteered to act as assistants to the presenters. Lyra’s roommate had just graduated and moved back to Fargo, and Sidney’s lease was up. Her apartment was three times the size of Lyra’s, but it was an hour away and didn’t have security. She asked Lyra if she could move in with her. The apartment was tiny, but both of them could walk to class if they wanted to.