B0092XNA2Q EBOK (5 page)

“She wasn’t so sure. Neither was I.

“The view from the top of the world is endless. Stretches forever. ’Course, the reverse is true, too. Those below you—which is everyone else—can see your every move. Life under the microscope. Loved by all, yet known by none?

“Then, about a decade ago, for reasons I do not understand, things changed—for the worse. She’s never revealed to me the reason, or reasons, but whatever it was, it is still painful to her. Maybe even the source of.

“She’s pretty tough so she held off for a while, but then her weight dropped, she retreated to the pills, and occasionally, me. Sold-out shows were canceled. Her team of publicists stepped in: ‘She needs rest. A performance schedule that was a little too aggressive.’

“She checked herself in. A desert oasis. The name on the gate said ‘Spa’ but those inside knew better. Her people kept it a secret. Weeks later, she was back on the stage, rejuvenated, clean, her voice, her presence, her command—stronger than ever.

“A smoke screen. It didn’t last.

“Several months ago, a few days into the filming of her next great movie, one of the producers found her confused, her speech slurred, in the back of her million-dollar bus. Her team moved in. Citing ‘mislabeled medication.’ A quick relapse. Another stint in therapy. This one longer, more expensive. More difficult to hide. As was the scar on her wrist. The producer empathized, even apologized, but found another star. An up-and-comer. Her people filed a lawsuit against the maker of the drug. Another press release: ‘She is unfortunately the victim of someone’s neglect. Her team of lawyers will handle that. Now, she is spending time recuperating. Reading scripts. Focusing on what’s important.’ A plastic surgeon was employed to mask the ‘accident’ on her arm.”

It didn’t take a genius to understand that Steady was telling a story he had lived. Had invested in. His tone told me he relished in the memory of some of the moments, but winced in the recollection of others. A retelling that was both satisfying and painful. He continued, “Home again. A much needed vacation. I helped her find an oceanfront villa in Miami—” Another point out the passenger’s side window. “With acreage, a twelve-foot-spiked coquina fence, and more security cameras than she could count. Months passed in freedom. Glimpses of normality. No spotlight. Few headlines. Moments of anonymity. She’d wrap a scarf around her face, don sunglasses, and come see me several times a week.

“Clean once again, her people stepped in. Her ‘handlers’ felt it was time. Play offense. Tell her side. ‘Control the news rather than
suffer it.’ They figured the way to do that was to publish her authorized biography. I disagreed, felt they were pushing her too soon, that she was still too fragile, but word was leaked to publishers. New York came frothing. An auction was held. A seven-figure advance. Writers were interviewed. She was introduced to a writer. Told she could trust him. I told her she could not but she is not the best judge of men. Anyway, he listened thoughtfully, convinced her he was different, compassionately poured more wine. So she agreed, and started at the beginning, telling him ‘her story.’ When he had enough, he transcribed his recordings, penned his tale, and skipped town. Took her story with him. An insider’s view. Sold it to the highest bidder. Millions. He made the rounds. All the late-night shows. The networks. His book is called
The Ice Queen
and is currently climbing the
New York Times
list.

“Because she is headstrong, fiercely determined, and—I think—because she is not about to be outdone by a liar with a pen, she accepted a role for the stage, saying, ‘The role I was born to play.’ Publicists worked the frenzy around the clock. The much-awaited triumphant return.” Steady shook his head in retrospect. “She can fool the faceless masses who throw flowers and praise and promise love untold, and she can pacify her handlers, but not me. That book did more damage than she let on. A crack in her dam. I told them so but they like the money she makes them and the power she gives them.

“With the audience seated, the orchestra tuned, the curtain string taut, the spotlight searching, she walked out on stage, a standing ovation. A triumphant return. But it was not enough. When they quieted, the music grew, rising, the audience on the edge of their seats.” His voice softened. “I know. I was there.

“She looked around, measured her life, and found herself wanting. She did not open her mouth. No sound. No lines.

“A knee buckled. Unsteadiness in her eyes. She glanced at me, then gathered herself, turned, and silently walked out of the spotlight. Moments later, a stranger appeared. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re terribly sorry. Our star has taken ill.’

“She was sick, all right.

“I found her in the bathroom of her suite with an empty pill bottle. I dialed 911 and held her while her breathing grew shallow. I had just started CPR when the paramedics arrived. They rolled her out the hotel lobby. Naked beneath the sheet. An oxygen mask, IV, a medic charging the defibrillator. White paddles held in the air.” Steady’s face grew tense. No longer retelling, he was reliving. His voice cracked. “Between the double doors leading to the street and a throng of people, the paramedic shouted, ‘Clear!’ and her body jumped.”

Steady shook his head and oncoming headlights exposed the tears in his eyes. “No plastic surgeon would hide this.

“I sat with her that night. When I walked the hall for coffee around three a.m., stretched my legs, the paparazzi paid off one of the nurses. I don’t know how many pictures he took, but based on what I’ve seen, it was a lot.

“The next morning—I saw it in her eyes. She was empty. Sucked dry. Played out.” He recrossed his legs. “I walked downstairs for some antacids and one of the headlines at the checkout read
THE LAST GASPS OF A BROKEN, AND REBROKEN, HEART.
” A false chuckle. “For once, they’d gotten it right.” He waited while his words sank in. Then with a deliberateness I seldom saw, he said, “That was three weeks ago today.”

I waited, allowing the hurt to ease. “How do you know all this?”

“I met her when she was just a kid. Still undiscovered. I knew the owner of a theater on the mile so I got her an audition. That was some twenty years ago.”

I knew the answer but I asked anyway. “You feel responsible?”

A long pause. He whispered, “Yes, although—” A glance at me. “I am realistic about my ability to control another’s actions.”

“Does ‘she’ have a name?”

Steady waited, then said the name both with admiration and discomfort. “Katie Quinn.”

Steady fell silent. Sky Seven towered before us.

M
iami is something of a New York City of the South mixed with a Cuba of the North. That makes for an interesting blend of cultures. Along with some really good food. For the young, nightlife is hopping and there are enough clubs to frequent a new one every night of the month. For the wealthy, oceanfront parties in fifteen-thousand-square-foot villas are the norm. Yachts average seventy-five feet, and can stretch to a hundred and twenty plus. Once in, keeping up with the Joneses is a full-time occupation. For some, an occupational hazard.

In South Florida, much of life revolves around the water. Most everybody owns a boat or two and a couple of Jet Skis. Empty trailers are common yard art, and in many cases, a person’s boat costs more than their car. Weekends are not a question of what you’re doing, but where (on the water) you’re going.

Sky Seven is a waterfront high-rise where villas start in the “you can’t afford it” range extending into the “don’t even think about it” stratosphere. High-fenced, and gated, the property is patrolled by a
team of ex-military wearing suits and earpieces who’ve found their retirement gig babysitting the über-wealthy.

A block away, Steady took the wheel and told me to slide down between the rear seats. Out of view. I didn’t argue. We pulled up to the gate and a chiseled man with a flattop approached the driver’s side door. Through the trees, Key Biscayne shimmered. Down the street to our left, a crowd of paparazzi stood in a narrow stretch of public parking access. Tripod-mounted cameras pointed at the top floor. One reporter stood illuminated, talking into the camera, Sky Seven serving as the background. The thought that Katie Quinn might actually be in the building had them in a feeding frenzy.

The guard shined his light and nodded. “Merry Christmas, Father.” He punched a button on the wall, the gate lifted, and he waved us through in a reverse salute of sorts.

Steady extended his hand, touching the four imaginary corners of the cross, blessing the instantly penitent man, and returned to the wheel. We idled through and the lights of the gatehouse passed. I whispered, “They know you?”

He shrugged. “I make house calls sometimes.”

“You mean you come all the way out here to hear her confession?”

After we drove through the gate, he turned. Stern face. “I carry the stretcher to the wounded.”

“What about me?”

“You’re not crippled.”

“What am I?”

He glanced in the rearview, eyeing the restless crowd across the street. “Stubborn.”

A marina was stuffed full of oversize boats and empty of the people who owned them. Many of the sailboats had converted their masts into fifty-foot, twinkling trees. Single man-size stars clung to the satellite dishes of most of the yachts. Several had continual music playing and one gargantuan boat had twelve life-size reindeer pulling Santa and his sleigh atop the helicopter deck. I scratched my head. Strange to be so lit up and yet so devoid of people.

Steady pointed and said she owned a boat. “One of those fast, cigarette things.” He snapped his fingers. “The name is something catchy.”

We drove into the garage and parked near the elevator. We found her black, tinted-window Range Rover parked in her spot. Unlocked and un-womanned. Steady touched the hood. “The engine’s still warm.”

We boarded the elevator and the doors shut. I asked, “Which floor?”

Steady inserted his key, turned it, and nodded. “The top.”

The directory listed five villas on the top floor. “Which one?”

“All of them.”

“She owns the whole floor?”

He nodded and watched the digital numbers climb on the wall display.

We rode to the top in silence. When the doors opened again, one enormous, dark wooden door stood opposite us. Think castle gate. The thing must have been twelve feet tall and the handle probably weighed twenty pounds.

We let ourselves in. Steady first, then me. A cross breeze sucked through the door as we entered, suggesting another door was open elsewhere. He stood listening, then muttered under his breath. “That’s bad.”

“What’s bad?”

“She likes to be…” He waved his hand in the air looking for the right word. “… Attended to. Normally, this place is crawling with people—waiting on her hand and foot. Cell phones growing out of their ears.”

The expanse was dark. Pin-drop quiet.

A light shone in the kitchen. On the table we found a “To Whoever Finds this Letter” letter. Steady picked it up, slid on his reading glasses, and read it. When finished, he set it down, folded his glasses, and stood thinking. Listening.

The interior space was huge. Ten thousand square feet or more.
The floor was hard and slick. Maybe marble or tile. I could make out furniture across the room and a piano set against the far wall, which was made entirely of glass, giving an unobstructed view of the western side of Miami and the unlit Everglades beyond. I’d never seen anything like it.

The sliding glass stood open. While the east side of Sky Seven shimmered white and brilliant due to paparazzi and media crew searchlights, the west side stood dark. Silent. Whatever happened on the east side would be instantly public and, thanks to the Internet, worldwide in seconds. But whatever happened on the west side would not be known until daylight. Or later.

A sheer curtain waved gently across an opened sliding-glass door leading out to a porch with a western view, now encased in shadow and blackness. Steady looked at me, then back at the door.

We weaved our way through the three rooms between us and the door, stepping around the furniture. We approached slowly. Someone was muttering on the other side. Her voice shook.

A naked woman stood on the railing. Teetering. A rope around her neck. It trailed down her neck and spine, wrapped around her left hand, and ended at a coil below her. A strand of beads in the fingers of her right hand. I had almost cleared the door, when the woman stopped muttering. Her hands stopped moving. The distance was too great. I couldn’t reach her in time. Without a word, without so much as a hiccup, she stepped forward. Then she was gone.

Feathers make more noise when they fall.

I seized the rope. It wrapped around me like an anaconda, tightened on my arm, and launched me into the railing, threatening to pull my arm out of its socket. In the same instant, Steady grabbed the end with both hands, giving me just enough slack to unwrap my hands. When he let go, the rope slid another ten feet, peeling most of the skin off the insides of my hands.

I lay flat on the slick floor and pushed up with my legs, bracing myself against the underside of the railing. Had I not, she’d have pulled me over. I could see a flash of movement, her fingers grasping
the rope. The blood in my hands made the rope slippery. Steady reached in, grabbed the rope, and we worked hand over hand to lift her back up.

The closer she got, the more I could feel her kicking and twitching. I felt like we could lift her to the railing, but I wasn’t sure how we’d get her over it. One of us would have to hold the rope while the other lifted her, or her body. I wasn’t sure Steady could do that.

I was wrong.

We got her within reach. I braced myself, nodded, and Steady stood. Between the columns, I could see her hands—both of which were gripping the rope above her, taking just enough of the weight of her body off her throat. Her expression was one of panic—of life slipping away. Or being taken. And her eyes were about to pop out of her head. She didn’t make a sound.

Steady leaned, grabbed her with his gnarled, arthritic hands, and pulled, drawing from a reservoir of strength I did not know he possessed. The rope fell slack, and she landed in a muted thud across his legs. He held her while I dug my fingers under the knot, and loosened the rope. I’ve never been married, never had children, and never witnessed one being born, but I am told that their first breath is an audible and unmistakable experience. The sound of her sucking in told me she was alive again.