Chapter Five
Sunday, January 14, 11:55
P.M.
The ringing of his cell woke him from a sound sleep. With a growl he grabbed it and squinted at the caller ID. Harrington. Self-righteous little has-been prick. “What?”
“It’s Harrington.”
He sat up. “I know. Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“It’s not even midnight. You usually work all night, Lewis.”
That was normally true, but he wasn’t about to let Harrington have the point. He had nothing but contempt for the man and his rainbow-and-Ziggy view of the world. He wanted to strangle the sonofabitch, just like he’d strangled Claire Reynolds. He still did, every time he heard Harrington’s whiny voice.
Harrington had tried to block his art every step of the way, starting with his animation of Claire Dies, a year ago. Too dark, too violent. Too real. But Van Zandt understood business and what sells. The strangulation of “Clothilde” stayed in Behind Enemy Lines even though Harrington bitched and moaned about it. But Harrington wouldn’t bitch and moan much longer.
Van Zandt was systematically shoving Harrington out the door and the idiot didn’t even have a clue. “Goddamn it, Harrington, I was dreaming.” Of Gregory Sanders. His next victim. “Just tell me what’s so important so I can get back to it.”
There was a long pause.
“Hello. You there, man? I swear to God, if you woke me up for nothing-”
“I’m here,” Harrington said. “Jager wants you to speed delivery on the fight scenes.”
So Van Zandt had finally told Harrington he was out. It was about time.
“He wants them by Tuesday,” Harrington added. “Nine
A.M.
”
The sweet pleasure vanished like mist. “Tuesday? What the fuck’s he smoking?”
“Jager’s very serious.” And so was Harrington. It sounded like every word was being dragged from his mouth. “He says you’re a month late.”
“You can’t rush genius.”
There was another pause, and he thought he could hear Harrington’s teeth grind. It was always such fun to yank the man’s chain. “He wants a fight scene and a cut scene from Inquisitor to show at Pinnacle.” Another, harder pause. “We have a booth.”
“Pinnacle?” A booth at Pinnacle meant prestige among gamers. Respect. Pragmatically it meant national distribution, which meant his audience had just become millions. Abruptly his eyes narrowed. This changed things. Pinnacle wouldn’t wait. It was a real deadline. “If you’re shittin’ me, Harrington-”
“It’s true.” Harrington sounded almost upset. “Jager got the invitation tonight. He wanted me to tell you to get those scenes completed by Tuesday.”
He’d make it happen, even though he’d barely started on the fight scenes. He’d been busy creating the dungeon scenes. “You’ve told me. Now let me go back to sleep.”
“Will you have the fight scenes for Jager?” Harrington pressed.
“That’s between me and Van Zandt. But you can tell him I’ll be in on Tuesday,” he added in as condescending a voice as he could muster, then hung up. Harrington deserved to be booted out on his ass. He was stagnant and way past passé.
Putting Harrington from his mind, he swung his leg over the side of the bed. Spreading lubricant over his residual, he grabbed his leg and pulled it in place with the unconscious motion brought on by years of practice. Meeting VZ would throw a hitch in his schedule. He’d have to move Greg Sanders from Tuesday morning to late afternoon, but he’d still have his next scream by Tuesday at midnight. He sat down at his computer and composed an e-mail to Gregory Sanders, changing the time and signing it “Kind regards, E. Munch.”
He knew he couldn’t test Van Zandt’s patience when it came to fight scenes for Pinnacle. Van Zandt recognized his genius, but even VZ would sacrifice art for an animated clip completed in time for Pinnacle. He needed something to show VZ on Tuesday, even if it was half-done. VZ would be satisfied, because even half-done creations by “Frasier Lewis” were worlds better than anything Harrington could do.
He considered the video he’d taken of Warren Keyes wielding a sword and that of Bill Melville brandishing the flail. For all his claimed expertise in martial arts, Bill had never really achieved the rhythm of the flail, and in the end he’d had to demonstrate it himself. He’d found that bringing the flail into contact with Bill’s human head felt a good deal different from the pigs’ heads he’d practiced on. The pigs had been long dead, but Bill… He pulled the video from the neatly shelved collection with a smile. The top of Bill’s head had sheared right off. It would make for a great “entertainment venture.”
He’d grab something to eat, turn off his phone and Internet connection to eliminate all distractions, then he’d get to work on a fight sequence that would make VZ happy and would make Harrington look like the two-bit hack he was.
Monday, January 15, 12:35
A.M.
Bone tired, starving, and still utterly confused by Sophie’s reaction in the parking lot, Vito walked through his front door and into a war zone. For a moment he simply stood and watched as a barrage of wadded paper balls sailed across his living room. A rather expensive vase was perched precariously close to the edge of an end table, knocked askew by the sofa relocation. He needed no other clues to know he’d been invaded.
Then one of the paper balls hit him squarely in the temple and he blinked, stunned. He picked up the offending wad, frowning when he found one of his fishing sinkers inside. The boys had obviously improved their munitions recently. “Guys.” The balls continued to be hurled across the room. “Connor! Dante! Cease and desist. Now.”
“Oh, man.” The words came from the kitchen, quickly followed by his eleven-year-old nephew Connor, who looked both annoyed and mildly alarmed. “You came home.”
“I do that most every night,” Vito returned dryly, then winced as a blur of blue flannel hurled itself at his legs. “Careful.” He leaned over and pried five-year-old Pierce’s arms from around his knees, lifting him with a puzzled squint. “What’s on your face, Pierce?”
“Chocolate frosting,” Pierce said proudly and Vito laughed, a good deal of his weariness dissipated. He swung Pierce to his hip and hugged him hard.
Connor shook his head. “I tried to tell him not to eat it, but you know how kids are.”
Vito nodded. “Yeah, I know how kids are. You have frosting on your chin, Connor.”
Connor’s cheeks darkened. “We made a cake.”
“Did you save any for me?”
Pierce made a face. “Not much.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m so hungry I could eat a cow.” Vito eyed Pierce. “Or maybe a little boy. You look like you’d be pretty tasty.”
Pierce giggled, familiar with the game. “I’m all gristle, but Dante’s got lots of meat.”
Dante popped up from behind the sofa, flexing his biceps. “It’s muscle. Not meat.”
“I think he’s all ham,” Vito whispered loudly, making Pierce giggle again. “Dante, the battle’s over for the night. You guys have to go to bed.”
“Why?” he whined. “We were just having fun.” At nine he was a big boy, nearly bigger than Connor. He rolled over the back of the sofa, and Vito cringed as the movement sent the vase teetering. Dante rolled off the sofa and caught the vase like it was a football. “Ciccotelli makes the touchdown,” he crowed. “And the crowd goes wild.”