Jearl Rugh, Author: 3 Born to Make the Kill

Four Years Later

The nameless victim lay motionless. Blood had surged from the severed carotid artery and pooled on the linens. A thick moist scab formed dark red edges around the fatal laceration.

Detective Malcort stepped through the doorway where he had stopped and continued his scan of the modest hotel business suite. Investigators busied themselves snapping photographs, dusting for fingerprints and searching for DNA donations. It appeared no one had yet disturbed the body. The white rope that tied the hands to the headboard indicated the night may have started with a sex game, but the whisper of terror still etched into the smoky eyes staring deep into eternity showed that this partner didn’t know the sport required human sacrifice. Yet, in contrast to the carnage of the scene, with an unspoiled white sheet draped over one leg of the otherwise nude body, it appeared she had slipped undisturbed into a peaceful slumber.

Malcort sauntered across the room toward the remains as if strolling through the park on a fall day. He folded his arms across his chest and turned his attention to the woman who kneeled at the bedside examining one of several chest wounds.

“Poor thing, doesn’t look like she put up much of a struggle,” he said. “What can you tell me, Doc?”

Natalie Beaumont listened again to the dialog. She had it memorized. This was the fifth take this afternoon. Someone would miss a mark, forget a line or they just wanted another angle to show someone’s better side.

As she held her breath and continued a vacant stare into the hot lights a few feet away, a recurring question confronted her. Is the road to stardom really paved by girls playing dead?

Over the last few months she had been stymied over her floundering career. She had newspaper clippings proving her talent and she was a young, vibrant eighteen year-old—almost nineteen—but it frustrated her that while she still waited to be discovered, others showed up in town, appeared on the set and became an overnight success.

Since she hated every minute of the social economics of high school and the strict rules at home, she had enrolled in extra classes at the community college and took summer school so she could graduate a year early. Between school, studies and chores, to scrape enough money into savings for her emancipation, she took orders and bussed tables at McDonalds. Then, as she boarded the westbound Greyhound, her mom, with the same condemning tone she always used, said, “You’re just a kid.” Mom and Dad approved of very few of her decisions—but this is my life, she had thought. Her choices were hers and she knew just what she wanted.

“Cut!” shouted Salvador Sliman, the director. “Miss, don’t move, we need to reset the camera. It’ll only be a moment.” He turned toward a grip and yelled, “There’s a shadow over here. You, fix it!”

Natalie allowed herself to breathe once more. She heard someone move toward the lights and the squeak of rubber soled shoes scuff against the cement floor.

When her agent had called and she realized she would be doing a scene with Ansell Parker, the actor playing Detective Malcort, she hoped this would put her career on a more ‘aspiring-actress’ tack. One of the most influential actors in Hollywood, he had a reputation for discovering beautiful women and promoting their careers.

She caught his back as he walked off the set and felt her spirit wane disappointed he hadn’t spoken to her except in character. The day’s not over. Who knows, maybe his people will call my person. Amused at her silly joke, a smile dimpled her cheeks.

With the powerful lights in her eyes, she continued to watch the stage lamp as it seemed to move to the right position propelled only by a pair of dingy athletic shoes. Now, with the lighting set, the camera picked up a shiny spot on her forehead.

“Makeup,” Salvador shouted.

A young woman appeared out of the darkness from behind the bright lights with a brush and powder.

After she finished, Salvador said, “Places everyone.”

The actors moved back to the set and found their marks. Natalie took in a breath, held it and fixed her dead stare on an object just at the edge of her view.

“Action!”

She had been waiting for this scene—just her, face to face with Ansell. Her pulse began to escalate as he stepped into her peripheral vision. He was too old for her, at least that’s what her mother would say—probably mid to late twenties. When he first hit the screen as a teenager, his squared jawbone and rugged smile set girl’s hearts pattering all over the globe. Natalie’s was no exception. The difference now was that, while the other girls only saw him on the movie screen, Natalie was only a few feet away, and he was live in a vibrant color.

Ansell walked to where her head rested and knelt beside the bed.

“May I,” he said to the ME and looked toward the actress who now kneeled on the bed.

“You can have the body,” she said and slipped out of the camera shot.

Ansell turned his eyes to Natalie. She felt them run the full length of her exposed body and without humiliation submitted to their heat.

“It’s such a shame,” he said and brushed a lock of blond hair from her cheek. He took her face in his bare hand. “You’re such a beautiful girl, well, woman, obviously. Why’d you end up here? Who did this to you?”

With the warmth of his hand on her cheek, she had to fight to stop a shudder that threatened to skip down her spine.

“Tell me who did this,” he said and looked into her eyes, “so he doesn’t have a chance to take someone else as lovely as you away from us.”

Natalie continued her blank look, not blinking, not breathing. He tilted her head, leaned forward and brought his face toward hers. She sensed something not in the script about to happen, and then felt his soft lips press and linger on her mouth. Every instinct Natalie possessed demanded she return the kiss, but she held character and with great effort controlled every facial muscle.

“I promise you,” he said as he retreated from her oval lips, “I’ll find your killer and bring him to justice.”

“Cut!” Salvador shouted.

Natalie’s eyes flicked in the direction of the voice as Salvador leaned forward and shot himself out of his chair on a collision course with Ansell. His arms waved in front of him like two frantic tentacles grasping for the next meal.

“What the hell was that?”

“Inspiration,” Ansell replied. “It’s such an intimate moment, the victim and her … vindicator.”

“Inspiration? Why would a detective kiss a dead girl?”

Natalie’s head swirled. The tender kiss felt so personal and spontaneous. It was like the beginning of a long-desired romance that up to this point had been one-sided. His lips had remained on hers for several seconds. Even now she could feel the pressure of his mouth and longed for more. She dared hope they’d need another take and held her position.

“And why not, it’s a kiss of ... promise.”

“Promise?” Salvador shouted, and Natalie could see the veins in his neck begin to swell.

“Yes, promise,” Ansell continued in his familiar slow manner with a hint of Aussie slipping through. “I’m making a promise to her. I’ll find and punish the bastard who did this.”

Salvador’s glare had such intensity that had his eyes been able to fire targeted heat-seeking missiles, Ansell’s eye sockets would have been reduced to black smoldering craters. Rather, Ansell smiled while everyone on the crew, except Natalie, held their breath and waited the tempest of Salvador’s rage to subside.

After a minute of graveyard silence, Salvador said with a deep acquiescent sigh, “Okay, it stays.” As the enraged purple on his face faded to its usual pallor, he continued with sarcasm biting each word, “A promise kiss, huh? Okay, print! That’s it for today.”

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