High Fall (3 page)

“Much as I appreciate that, well, lass, ya can’t. The city’s responsible for these bluffs, and we’ve had more than one death off them.”

The wind rustled her hair. Briny whiffs of sea water below mixed with the smell of the sunscreen on her nose.

McCafferty held a hand to the side of Ezra’s eyes, protecting him from the gust. “Here, fifty feet back from the cliff face, the wind seems like a hard wall of warrior’s shields, pushed double time across the sandstone by a line of conquering troops.”

She restrained a smile. Melancholy poet, indeed.

“But over the edge, lass, it’s entirely different. It’s a rare year when no one dies on the Gliderport bluff. Scofflaws cut the metal chains and drive out to the edge of the bluff—where you were edging toward. Too late, they realize the sandstone’s crumbling under their weight. Hikers in sandals traipse down the cliffside trails, illegal trails. Some of them freeze in fear three hundred feet above the beach; others aren’t so lucky. And the hang gliders ... the up-drafts that they love so much, that sail them out over the green waters, turn without warning and smash them into the bluff.” He glanced back toward the main camera dolly. “They’re crazy to be doing a stunt up here.”

Lark shifted to the other foot. She hated this waiting. It was like being bound, gagged, like huge magnets held her feet to the ground and every step had to pull the whole earth up with it. It was like iron weights compressing her mind. A couple of minutes to go. But a couple of minutes seemed like a lifetime.

But there was no way around it. The last scene had been shot at five twenty yesterday. The lighting had to be the same for this one.

She glanced over at Mavis Herrera, the script supervisor, standing like an anorexic schoolmarm with her big hornrimmed glasses and ever-present notebook. Lark looked from her to the scene’s old Buick parked next to the
UNSTABLE CLIFFS
marker. The sun was moving down its side. She didn’t know when the magic moment would come, when the light would shine off the chrome exactly as it had in the last Polaroid that Mavis had snapped as yesterday’s shooting ended, but she’d be ready.

She didn’t look around to see which friends had come for her triumph. She couldn’t afford to get distracted now. She gave Cary Bleeker a quick nod. Cary didn’t notice; he kept glancing at the crowd as if they were about to charge over the cordon and steal the cameras. The city guy was fussing about the city’s liability on the bluff.

She glanced at the small food trailer next to the catering truck. It was closed now—closed for her gag. The gray-haired cook stood in front, his white apron tied loosely over jeans, the nets off his hair and beard. Lark lifted a hand in salute. He grinned, doffed his sunglasses, and gave her a thumbs-up. Like a flash of lightning, anxiety shook her so hard she couldn’t see—the Gaige Move! God, to capture that here, now, to make the Move live again! To stand before the press and tell them—

The assistant director was in place, ready to give her her cue.

The time for idle thought was over. Her vision squeezed in from the sides, tunneling forward. If there were noises out there—the crowd, the cameras, car engines, motorcycles—she didn’t hear them anymore. In her mind she saw only her path between the trenches to the end of the rise, and the camouflaged cement slab three yards from the edge onto which she’d “stagger” back to end the take. Bleeker had talked harness, but there was no way to do the Gaige Move in a harness!

She closed her eyes. Fear hollowed out her inner core now. It swirled cold in her empty chest and stomach. She took her place on the start mark.

“Quiet on the set!”

Kiernan watched as Lark Sondervoil stood at her mark and the city liaison ambled to the far side of the set.

“That was you in the red Jeep, wasn’t it?” There was a slight twang to the speaker’s muted voice. It took Kiernan a moment to pull her attention from the set and focus on him. His curly black hair fluttered in the wind and his dark blue eyes shone confidently, but his mouth was poised half open, waiting warily for her reaction. He was, she realized with a start, the guy on the motorcycle. “Sorry about the parking spot.”

“Sorry enough to move your cycle?”

He shrugged. “Got me. If I’d known it would be this long till the Move—”

“You wouldn’t have had to ace me out of the possibility of seeing it?”

“Yeah, well, I’m really not a lout. It’s just that—well, see, I knew Greg Gaige. I saw him do the Move,” he said, the hesitancy suddenly gone from his voice. His dark blue eyes had a faraway look. “I saw it the last time, right before he died.”

Her breath caught. She turned to eye him straight on, but she could hear the hesitancy in her own voice as she asked, “How exactly did Greg die?”

“How?” He was not looking at her but glaring at the black-clad man on the set. “He was doing another gag—one that Cary Bleeker coordinated.”

“Lark. You ready?”

“Ready.” It took all her breath to make that come out strong.

“Camera. Action.”

Lark Sondervoil took a breath, pushed off, and ran forward, her long tanned legs thrusting into the sandstone, blond hair billowing behind. She ran feeling everything, nothing, eyes on the cliff edge, each step free, flying—hers. She sailed over the warning chain and drove her feet against the ground. The explosives shot up sand and dust and rocks. She flew backward, legs straight, ankles tight to keep her feet from pointing, from looking too sleek. The ground gave minutely when her feet hit. Relief shot through her and was gone. The second explosion blew. She pushed off, corkscrewing her shoulders, pulling up with her pelvis, fighting the need to bend knees to chest, fighting to keep her legs straight, to nail the last half-twist and bring her feet down on the mark. And then they were there, marshmallowing into the ground. The
ground,
not the cement block, but that didn’t matter now. She’d nailed it! The Gaige Move! She’d done the Gaige Move on film! Relief rippled through her more fully, but slowly now. The wind seared her skin. Her heart pounded. She pressed her teeth together to keep from grinning ear to ear from the joy of it all. The shot wasn’t over—she still had the stagger-steps.

She had to look terrified! Forcing her eyes open wide, she did the first of the three stagger-steps back toward the cliff. Then the ground gave under her feet! What was happening? She had to stop. But she’d blow the scene. The second step. The ground was—the ground was squeezing out from under her feet. The hell with the scene! She thrust her shoulders forward and grabbed. Her hands clutched air. She couldn’t stop! She flung herself forward, facedown to the dirt. Her elbows hit and bounced her backward. She was over the edge of the cliff. Falling in air! Panic squeezed her heart. She tried to stare through it. She grabbed for her knees. Flip, goddamn it—flip to grab for the rim of the catcher-trap. She yanked all out. The turn was taking, she was flipping over, her head toward the bluff, hands out. She’d be okay; she’d make it.

The cliffside came in sight—no catcher.

She kept turning. She saw the beach exploding up at her.

C
ARY
B
LEEKER’S EYES WIDENED
in horror as he watched Lark Sondervoil flail over the cliff. That wasn’t in the scene. What the hell was Lark doing? He’d never have asked her to go right into the high fall—without a wire, yet. She could be killed. The camera crew hadn’t checked their focus for that yet; the whole high fall could be one big blur.

He took a step toward the bluff, would have
run
out there like an idiot, but the burst of applause from the tourists caught him. The camera on the crane was at the bluff edge; it’d be fine. Thank God he hadn’t called cut. Thank God they’d had the camera over the bluff rolling, on the off chance there’d be something to use. He was covered. Better than covered. A smile stretched his narrow-lipped mouth across his cheeks. Goddamn, Sondervoil was good. He couldn’t even complain about that press conference of hers, and the fucking crowd the size of Pasadena—not with the shot she’d just given him. No doubt about it, Sondervoil was the best.

It wasn’t until he turned to his production assistant and started to speak that he realized he’d been holding his breath. Sixty thousand dollars tied up in this scene, and the studio execs on the horn every day. If this gag had gone belly-up, his ass would have been hanging as if he were in a grocery window in Chinatown, looking more wizened than the smoked ducks on the next hooks. If some asshole in the crowd had …

But it had been okay. More than okay. The Gaige Move had been great, and better yet, the scene that followed it, the high fall,
looked
fine. If it was and they didn’t have to reshoot it, they wouldn’t have to hang around till five thirty tomorrow night. They could break set after the morning shoot tomorrow. It would save them a half day. With salaries, rentals, meals, hotels, what would it come to? Ten thousand dollars? He’d have to call the line producer. God, that was one call he’d enjoy making.
If
Buddy had gotten it on film.

“Super!” He grinned at Jessa Mann’s serious little face. The kid looked like an amalgam of every production assistant he’d ever had in his fifteen years directing. Always eager, always earnest, with enough reined-in drive to create a full-blown ulcer or a director’s slot of their own in five years.

“Perfecto. Lark added that great scream when she disappeared over the edge, didn’t she?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jessa flushed. He could have reassured her, told her that unlike her picture of “the director,” he didn’t have to have every subordinate pretend every idea and innovation had burst full-grown from his own genius. He could have told her he understood the Hollywood game as well as she thought she did. But he understood it well enough not to blow his own image. “What do you think?” she bubbled.

“It’s a knockout.” He gave her back a little rub. The Move had been terrific. Sondervoil had insisted she could pull it off. He’d seen Greg Gaige do it, and Sondervoil was almost as good. He hadn’t believed her when she first broached the idea, or when she insisted. No man had ever copied Gaige. He’d never really believed a woman could pull it off, much less a novice like Lark Sondervoil. But he’d go to his grave with that secret. To Jessa, Sondervoil, and the studio, he’d known it all along, he was a prescient director who could spot a talent and squeeze the most from her.

“You want me to get on to Publicity, Cary, and get a mention in the trades?”

Bleeker nodded. All of Hollywood would be reading about this major gag in tomorrow’s
Variety
and
Hollywood Reporter.
He hoped it wasn’t too late to make their deadlines. By tomorrow, the words “Cary Bleeker” would be as prevalent at dinners as “More wine?” Nobody would be calling him Bad Luck Bleeker anymore. “Daring.” “Innovative.” That was what they’d be saying. By Wednesday, his agent would be piling up scripts, juggling lunch invites, and slotting in meetings. He glanced out over the set, his last set as second unit director. By this time next week, he’d be choosing his first film as director. “Write up the gag, and let ’em know if we break set a day early. Tomorrow do a follow-up on how much under budget that puts us.” He’d taken a big chance on Lark Sondervoil; now she could share the credit for the early finish.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cary, he reminded himself. Don’t let the gods know your dream. “Jessa, wait till I’ve checked with Buddy on the camera platform.” He lifted the two-way radio. “Buddy, you were rolling, right? You got the whole thing all the way to the beach?”

He could hear Buddy breathing into the phone. Dammit, the man wasn’t answering! Why couldn’t cameramen behave like craftsmen instead of goddamned
artistes
? A stab of fear punctured Bleeker’s chest. Maybe Buddy hadn’t been ready. Maybe he had figured he could space out while Lark did the Gaige Move and tune back in when the PA called for the high fall gag. Dammit, he
should
have been ready! He wasn’t paid just to sun himself down there on the platform. “Buddy, Lark was spectacular. Did you get the whole fall?”

“Yeah.” The syllable was barely audible through the phone’s static. This was taciturn even for Buddy.

The cold knife in his chest twisted. What could have gone wrong? Once Buddy got himself lowered down and tied onto the platform, all he had to do was follow the action from top to bottom. A guy with a camcorder could do that.

“You get the dummy?”

“Unh-unh.”

“No?” Cary was yelling. “You didn’t get the damned dummy? How could you miss it? Didn’t the spring work?” Dammit, he should have gone over that spring with Special Effects, made sure that that dummy would fly out twenty feet so it didn’t bounce down the cliff and get hung up somewhere on the scrub. Calm yourself, Cary. Buddy’s still on the platform. He can reshoot the dummy. There’s time to shoot it today and still break set tonight. Calm. “What happened with the dummy?”

“Nothing.” Silence. “Can’t you see over the edge of the bluff?”

“No. We’re all too far back. Why?” The icy knife cut back and forth through his chest, his heart.

“Cary, the dummy never ejected. Lark never hit the cocoon, Cary… She went … off to the side. She … crashed all the way to the ground. Cary, she’s dead.”

Dead! Cary couldn’t breathe. The glaring sunlight that had danced around him pressed in from all sides, squeezing his ribs. He forced himself to inhale slowly and speak carefully. “Tell me exactly what happened, and what you got on film.”

“Like I said, she just missed her mark and went over too far north. Just a few feet, it looked like from here. I mean, you can’t tell distance from this angle. But that’s what it looked like. She never even touched the cocoon—”

“And it never ejected the dummy at all, then?”

“No. Dummy’s still safe and sound underneath.”

Bleeker was barely breathing at all. He could hardly force himself to ask the key question. “How did she fall? Did she hit the cliff side and bounce, or did she fall straight down?”

“What difference …” The cameraman’s voice trailed off, and when he resumed speaking, his words were speared by anger. “She bounced off the cliff two or three times. Big bounces, Cary. Big, splashy, goddamned bounces, like you’d never get with a dummy. I got it all on film. It’s the best action shot you’ve ever done, Cary. It’ll make you a hero.”