The Athena Factor

  Sheela nodded. “I want to know what you’ve found out about the celeb hits. Everything. Lymon has been giving me reports, but I want it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Christal leaned back and started at the beginning, relating everything that she knew, then added, “I think it’s all coming together. And I don’t like where it’s going.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I think Sheik Abdulla, Genesis Athena, and the bizarre thefts are part of the same thing.” She winced slightly. “It’s as if I can feel it all moving in unison. Kind of like something breathing just out of sight. You can’t help but know it’s a monster of some kind. You see, the thing is, Lymon’s right. There are too many coincidences. Why Hank? Why did Sheik Abdulla cancel everything at the last minute to fly to New York just to see you? Why is Genesis Athena in Yemen, while he has his offices in Qatar? You, Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, Brad Pitt, Mel Gibson, Manny de Clerk—all the big stars. All high profile. It’s like a fan wish list from Us or People magazines.”

  “So, you think the Sheik is … what? Gaining leverage for pictures by stealing my tampon? Or just angling for magazine ink?”

  “No,” Christal clarified, “but I think he’s figuring to make a great deal of money somehow. That, and it’s an ego thing. Something to do with control and power.”

  “Ah, we’re back to witches again?”

  Christal cocked an eyebrow and nodded. “Yes … no. I’ve got a gut feeling that it’s similar to what my ancestors fretted about, but with a very different twenty-first-century twist. Power and greed—just like in ancient Southwestern witchcraft—lie at the bottom of this. It’s about feeding a craving hunger, and the hunger is called desire.”

  “It frightens me that I’ve been in this business long enough to think you’re right.” She rubbed her face, a dull pain behind her eyes.

  “You look terrible. You taking uppers?” Christal asked, and immediately regretted it. Damn it, her mouth had been getting her in trouble all of her life.

  “Some,” Sheela admitted, pointing to the scripts on the floor at her feet. “Rex is after me to make a decision. Hell, I can’t even remember what I read.” She picked up a pill bottle from the table, rolling it between her fingertips. The little pills inside rattled like Death’s whisper. “If he wasn’t pushing so damned hard I … God, there’s just not enough of me to go around.” Her eyes sharpened. “It goes against my principles—taking these things.”

  Christal studied her, seeing the fragility in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders. The woman was ready to fall into a thousand pieces. What the hell was the matter with these people? “I may be out of place asking, but why are you doing this? I mean, treating yourself this way?”

  “People depend on me.” She said it with all the sorrow of the saints. Then she asked, “What do you think about honor, Christal?”

  “That’s not a question I get asked every day.”

  “I guess today is your day.”

  Christal straightened, rubbing her hands together. “Very well, I think honor is the root of integrity. It comes with certain core principles that govern every waking moment of our lives. I’m a Catholic at heart—from the old church, the one that says you’re going to have to pay for every sin you commit.”

  “Do you have principles, Christal?”

  She smiled wryly. “Unfortunately. They keep getting in my way. The last time I violated them, I got slapped down pretty hard. I’m working overtime to keep from paying for any more mistakes.”

  Sheela nodded, then asked another curious question. “Do you depend on me?”

  “God, no! What kind of silly question is that? I have a great deal of respect for you. In fact, I wonder how in hell you can keep it together with all this shit coming down. Depend? No. Sorry. I have my own life, thank you.”

  Sheela stared into the distance, and Christal saw the brittleness, the cracks that were running through her psyche. This was a glimpse of what Sheela Marks would look like when she was old and worn through by life.

  Christal asked, “Doesn’t Rex see what’s happening to you? Doesn’t anyone care if they push you into the abyss?”

  A chilling smile lay on Sheela’s lips. “I’m property. A trademark. Like Rex says, I may only have ten years left.”

  “You’ll be charred carrion if you don’t do something for yourself.”

  “I can’t let everyone down. I did that once. Never again.”

  The resignation in her voice set Christal off. She leapt to her feet. “Maybe I ought to go down, lift Rex up by his tie, and have a little talk with him. Shit, he’s treating you like you’re his own private little hunting dog! So what if runs you to death, he’s Rex fucking Gerber, he can always get another dog, huh?”

  Sheela laughed out loud, the sound of insanity barely hidden in the peals. And then, to Christal’s amazement, Sheela’s swollen eyes began to leak tears.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Christal knelt in front of her and took her hands. Mother trucker, what did she do now? Sheela’s tears left her oddly uncomfortable, embarrassed. She’d never been a good one for hand patting and consolation. “Sheela?”

  The woman sniffed, pulled her hands away, and wiped at the tears. Christal watched as Sheela Marks pulled herself together with Herculean effort.

  Sheela took a deep breath, then whispered, “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Sheela shook her head. “Isn’t it funny? Surrounded by all these people, and I have to call you to fall apart in front of.” A grin. “I could have a therapist, like all the rest. You can’t throw an apple core into the bushes here without hitting one.” A pause. “Somehow that just doesn’t suit my practical Saskatchewan upbringing.”

  “My New Mexican one either.”

  “Well, thanks for listening.” A pause. “Would you do something for me, Christal? Something personal?”

  “It would depend. Don’t forget that I come from a law enforcement background.”

  Sheela looked up, desperation in her eyes. “I need to get away for a couple of days. I need to go someplace where no one can find me. I just need time to myself. Can you help me with that?”

  “Sure. I mean, maybe. I’d have to know where you were going. My first concern would be for your safety.”

  “I’ll be very safe. I’ll have protection close at hand.”

  “I’d have to tell Lymon.”

  “Yes, but only him.”

  “Okay, so, just where is this safe place?”

  She sounded like a little girl when she asked, “Could I come and stay with you for a couple of days?”

  “What? Why me?”

  Sheela took a deep breath. “Because, Christal, I just want to be a real person for a while. They’re slowly draining me away. If I don’t get out, find something to grab ahold of, I’m going to lose myself.”

  Christal shook her head as if to throw the idea off. “You want to come stay with me … in a hotel?”

  Sheela nodded, her eyes down. “What if I told you that there was no one else I could depend on?”

  “What about Lymon?”

  “I’m asking this as one woman to another. I need to get away for a couple of days. Away from Rex, away from Tony, someplace where I can just sleep, watch TV, read a book, and be anybody but Sheela Marks.” She looked up, eyes glittering with desperation.

  “Yeah, I’m in. Let’s do it,” Christal declared hotly. “And if Rex or Tony show up blustering, I’ll eighty-six their asses right out of the place.”

  Sheela seemed to melt in relief. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

  Christal nodded, feeling the pieces of something falling into place deep in her mind. “One condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  Christal pointed. “You toss those pills into that toilet back there—and my place is yours.”

  Sheela stood, walked back to the dressing room toilet, and upended the bottle. Pills cascaded into the bowl b
efore she ceremonially pressed the lever to flush them. When she reentered she looked more alive, a faint sparkle in her eyes. Artfully, she tossed the empty plastic bottle to Christal. “It’s a deal.”

  Christal frowned. “Just one little problem: How are we going to do this? Sneaking you out of here is going to be like breaking you out of the federal pen.”

  Sheela hesitated before she said, “I’ve got a plan.”

  29

  “Boss, we’ve got a problem,” Christal announced as she burst into Lymon’s LBA office and closed the door meaningfully behind her.

  He had been at wit’s end, double-checking the figures his accountant had forwarded. The federal government wanted a bigger chunk than he had expected for the quarterly taxes. Bigger to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars. He’d been wondering how he was going to broach the question of a bigger bill to Rex.

  Thus it was that the last thing he needed was Anaya stomping in with “a problem.” He gave her what he hoped was an appropriate glare of reprimand as he tapped the fingers of one hand on the adding machine and shuffled the piles of paper stacked here and there with the other.

  “Have you ever considered knocking politely and asking permission before barging in like one of Hannibal’s elephants?”

  Anaya didn’t register it as she plopped herself into the chair next to his desk. “It’s about Sheela.” She looked around. “Is this place safe? Can we talk?”

  “Yeah, provided your vocal cords work, which they seem to. You mind telling me what’s so important that you can interrupt my private self-flagellation at the IRS’s behest?”

  “Sheela’s on the verge of a breakdown.” She raised a hand. “Hear me out, huh? You remember when she asked me over this afternoon? The woman’s at wit’s end. She needed someone to talk to. I was it.”

  “Why you?” He sat back, slightly irritated.

  “Because I’m … I’m safe. A neutral party, if you will. She doesn’t have to worry about offending me, about biasing a preconception. I’m peripheral enough that if it doesn’t work, if I betray her confidence, the blow won’t kill her soul. You get it, boss? I’m an expendable nobody.”

  “Rex has been at her again?”

  “Yeah, he’s pushing really hard over some movie deal that Sheela has to make her mind up about yesterday.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “We’re on the same wavelength there, boss. No doubt about it.”

  Lymon closed his eyes and sighed before reaching for the phone. “Thanks, I’ll deal with it.”

  “No.” Christal surprised him by placing her hand on his atop the phone. “It’s taken care of.”

  “Would you mind explaining that?” Damn it, not only was Sheela his client, but he was in charge of LBA, not some two-week-old employee.

  “Here’s the deal, Sheela’s going to spend the weekend at my place.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s the problem.” Christal raised her hands. “Don’t get on your high horse. I’m here to find a solution that’s going to keep Sheela safe and still give her the privacy she needs right now.” Her dark gaze bored into his. “Lymon, you weren’t there. You didn’t see the expression on her face. One wrong knock and she’s going to shatter. Just the same as if you dropped a Swarovski crystal onto a slab of cement.”

  “I wish you’d talked to me before—”

  “Rex has her on uppers,” Christal continued. “He’s trying to squeeze everything he can out of her.”

  Lymon ground his teeth.

  “So, we have to make this happen. Sheela’s got a plan. I want to put a couple of wrinkles into it.”

  Lymon gave her a dead stare. “Christal, this isn’t just an exercise; you’re playing with dynamite. This is a very important woman’s life you’re talking about.”

  “I know,” she answered honestly. “She’s everyone’s golden goose, but they’re so busy gnawing on her drumsticks that she’s going to be bones on the plate before anyone notices. So, boss, this weekend she’s coming to my place to just be a regular person.”

  Lymon leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know whether to strangle you, or give you a raise.”

  Christal rose, bracing her hands on his desk as if she were about to leap over it. “Answer me something, boss. You care for the lady, don’t you?”

  “Look, Christal, this is the real world, not some movie, or novel, or something. I have professional responsibilities.”

  “What about your responsibilities as a man?”

  Lymon stared at her, fighting the desire to stand up and bust her across the mouth. “You’re treading on dangerous ground here.”

  “Yep.”

  He had butterflies in his stomach as he said, “All right, smart-ass, what have you got in mind?”

  For the Jagged Cat party, Bernard had rented Dan Tana’s, a small two-room Italian steak house in the nine thousand block of Santa Monica Boulevard. The Friday night gathering was intimate, the cast’s chance to share the final familial bonds they had forged during the short but intense shooting schedule.

  Red-and-white checked tablecloths, red leather booths, and hanging Chianti bottles decorated the rooms. Celebrity artwork, movie posters, and photos hung on the crimson walls. The fare was New York steak marinated in a special Italian tomato sauce; rolls, many of which were used as projectiles; and all the wine the cast could drink.

  Sheela had hooted and clapped as Bernard conducted the impromptu awards ceremony. For her gag gift, she had received a bent carving knife to commemorate the scene where she chased her father around the kitchen. Then she had turned to the familiar faces, told them what a pleasure it had been to work with them, and blown them all kisses before retaking her seat and listening appreciatively to the others as they took the floor and received their gag gifts.

  Manny de Clerk sat in a booth in the back, surrounded by his agent and manager, a somber look on his face. He had just smiled and waved when Bernard gave him a framed photo.

  Poor Manny. Sheela had covered her sympathy with a smile. When the real world had broken through his fake self-image, he had cratered. What about yourself? she asked. If someone penetrated the walls you’ve built, could you do any better?

  She swallowed hard and rolled the cloth napkin between her fingers. Her heart was beating, anticipation sending tingles through her muscles. God, she felt like she was a girl again, stealing her father’s motorcycle.

  That’s silly! You’re a grown woman. Yeah, one who was sneaking away for a weekend of sin. Or so she hoped.

  She glanced across the room to the door, knowing that she was coming up on time to leave. She could still back out, call Christal and tell her that she’d changed her mind.

  “Anyone else got anything to say?” Bernard demanded. “No? Then I guess that does it for me. Again, thank you all. You’re the best, most professional cast I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. God bless you all.”

  They all applauded, whistled, and stomped.

  “If anyone’s interested,” Bernard answered, “I’ll be serving drinks up at my place. You’re all welcome.”

  More whistles and cheers.

  As they stood, Sheela made the rounds, kissing cheeks, hugging, making the pleasant chatter expected of her. She reached into her purse, thumbing the button on her cell. Plugging her other ear with a finger, she said, “Paul? I’m ready.”

  “I’ll be there soonest,” he said. “The door security will call for you when the limo is out front.”

  Sheela mingled in the knot at the door, smiling, feeling alive for the first time since she and Lymon had gone tootling around on the Indian. Sapping fatigue lay there, deep in her brain and body, but the adrenaline rush held it at bay.

  What’s happened to you? she wondered. When did your courage dissolve into water?

  Thank God for Christal. “You can depend on me.” The woman’s words repeated as if engraved on Sheela’s soul.

  What was Lymon’s reaction going to be? He’d be piss
ed at first. She smiled at that, both pleased and irritated that he was ever the professional. Just once, couldn’t he let himself see beyond his duty? Dimming the noise and bodies around her, she imagined the two of them, alone, intimate, just holding each other.

  “Manuel de Clerk?” the door security called.

  Manny’s agent acted like a battering ram, opening the way to the door. Sheela could see flashes as the paparazzi captured Manny, one hand raised, fleeing down the cordoned rope lines to the open door of his limo.

  Shit, they were like locusts. She frowned, looking down at her black leather pants and tall black boots. Would they guess? No. It was too far-out.

  “Sheela Marks!” came the call.

  She excused herself, smiling, as she stepped to the door—and out into the strobes and clatter of the cameras. Two of the security guys made sure that no one crossed the velvet ropes leading to curbside.

  “Sheela!” “Ms. Marks!” “Look this way!” “Sheela, over here!” She smiled, waving, trying to oblige them all, knowing full well that the wrong expression was captured forever.

  The limo door was open, and she slipped inside with one last wave. The door shut, and she held her posture as Paul pulled away from the curb. Only then did she collapse.

  “Thank you, Paul,” she called.

  “No trouble, ma’am.” He kept his head forward. “The bag is on the floor as you requested.”

  She experienced a flood of relief. She was only moments from freedom.

  Marc Delangelo slipped from the crowd blocking the sidewalk in front of Dan Tana’s. He raised his hand, waving; a bright red Porsche Boxster, the top down, swerved toward him.

  He vaulted into the seat, pointing. “There, that limo. That’s her.”

  Jennifer, his girlfriend, glanced at him in the illumination cast by Santa Monica Boulevard. “You’re sure it’s her?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “She’s up to something. I’ve watched her a lot of times. She doesn’t dress like this unless something’s up. I mean, leather pants? That’s not her style. And that denim long-sleeved shirt? This is Sheela Marks, not Gwyneth Paltrow.”