Wombat Strategy

'I'm here to collect something. An envelope.'

'If you come back tomorrow, I'm sure someone can find it for you.'

He shoved me hard against the counter. 'Shut up.'

The physical confrontation with Randy Romaine had taught me the disadvantages of being without a weapon. I scanned the counter but saw nothing promising. I'd keep him talking, maybe get him off guard so I could make a run for it. 'I saw the Hummer after it was blown up. Perkins was totally spaz.'

'Was what?'

'He lost it completely. He was raving mad.' Rich's momentary look of satisfaction encouraged me to add, 'You planted the bomb, didn't you? Pyrotechnics from a film set?'

'Smart little bitch, aren't you?'

Shaking my head with fake admiration, I said, 'You were taking a hell of a chance.'

He shrugged. 'If you look like you know what you're doing, nobody pays any attention. Perkins never locked the Hummer. I just opened the door. I was fifty yards away before it blew.'

'Why bother?'

Rich laughed. 'To put the motherfucker on edge,' he said, 'so he'd roll over when I upped the ante.'

Julia Roberts came into the kitchen; it was her dinner time. It was quite unfair. I knew Rich abhorred cats, but she was totally minding her own business when Rich saw her. An expression of deep loathing crossed his face. He aimed a kick that connected with her ribs. Jules did a sort of somersault and landed on her feet, hissing.

'Get outta here!'

Julia got.

That was the final straw. Julia Roberts did not deserve this treatment. I fair dinkum looked for a weapon this time. Something substantial enough to wipe the smirk off this bastard's face. The TV set? Too heavy. There were knives in the drawer, if I could get to them. And cans in the cupboard. Kitchen cleaners under the sink…

'Bitch! Answer me!'

'What?'

'I'm asking you once more, and that's it. The recordings of the sessions Perkins had with that quack, Deer- where are they? Melodie said they were in an envelope at the front desk, waiting to be picked up by UPS. There's nothing there.'

I spread my hands. 'Can't help you.'

He reached into the pocket of his jeans. The flick knife made an obscene little click as it sprang open. 'Wrong answer.'

My gaze was drawn magnetically to the gleaming blade. Rich jabbed at my face. I recoiled. He laughed.

'Get the hell out of here!' I yelled, not having much hope that he would.

'The envelope.'

I shrugged. He moved like a striking snake. Blood sprang from my left breast where he'd pricked me, spreading a bright red stain on my white T-shirt. It wasn't deep, but it stung like hell.

'Fair crack of the whip,' I said. 'It was only last week I got a black eye and a bloody nose. Now you're stabbing me?' I heard the tremor in my voice.

So did he. 'Gee, Kylie,' he said mockingly, 'am I scaring you?'

I was backed up against the counter. Jammed against me was one of the kitchen stools. I slid my right hand behind me and tried to get a good grip on it. To distract him, I said, 'During his therapy, Jarrod Perkins said something about stealing your movie concept, didn't he? Probably discussed how you'd threatened him.'

'Smart little cunt, aren't you?' I shrank back as he took a step closer to me. 'Last chance,' he said. 'Where's the envelope?'

'Rich, think this through. If you stop now, it isn't too serious. If you really hurt me, you're in big trouble.'

Rich chuckled-not a nice sound. 'Sweetheart,' he said, 'I've done two. Three won't make any difference.'

'Randy Romaine's dead?'

'Romaine was a disaster from the get-go. I paid him to take disks of Perkins's sessions, but he got creative and took some of Bart Toller's too. Then the bastard thought he'd go into business for himself, so he swiped Lorelei Stevens's file. He was getting to be a real liability, and he knew far too much about me.' I ducked as Rich again jabbed at my face. 'Like you,' he said.

'And you killed Jarrod Perkins?'

'You want the details?' He showed his teeth in a smile that gave me the willies. This bloke was having fun.

I nodded.

'It wasn't difficult. I waited until his assistant left, then walked in on Perkins getting dressed. I gave him one last chance to cut me into the deal he had for Primitive Obsessions. I was more than generous, since it was my story and my script. The prick laughed at me. So I mentioned the disks and told him I was also asking for a substantial up-front payment. He told me to go to hell and lunged for the gun he kept in his bedside table. No trouble to take it from him.'

I tightened my grip on the stool. I'd only have one chance…

'It was fun,' said Rich, 'watching him beg for his life. He didn't think I had the guts to go through with it. Like you, he thought he'd play along and get away with it.'

'And afterward you swiped all the scripts that were on his desk.'

'Of course. If the cops didn't buy his death as suicide, then the missing scripts would throw suspicion on all the poor suckers he's recently stolen script ideas from.'

Rich made a wide, graceful arc with the knife, slashing across the top of my other breast. I gasped and looked down at the line of red, which widened as I stared. 'Such a pity,' he said. 'Some sexual deviant breaks in and hacks you to pieces. No one will be all that surprised. Bad things happen all the time in this town.'

I like to think Julia Roberts came back into the kitchen to help me, although I have to admit her primary purpose may have been her dinner. Whatever Julia's motive, her timing was excellent. I had a firm one-handed grip on the kitchen stool behind me. When Rich, seeing the cat, made a sound of disgust and went to deliver a second kick, two things happened: Julia Roberts skipped out of the way with great agility, clearly having learned from experience, and I swung the kitchen stool at Rich's head as hard as I could.

When it connected there was a satisfying thwack! Rich went down on one knee. Then he was up again, swearing, his knife flashing like a deadly extension of his hand. I took another swing, but he deflected it with an upraised arm then wrenched the stool from me.

Blood was pouring down his face. 'I'll kill you, you fucking bitch.'

He was staggering, dazed but still terribly dangerous. He slashed at me and I leapt backward to avoid the blade. If I could make the door and escape…but he was blocking the way.

I made a silent apology to Fran, picked up my prized pottery teapot with both hands, and brought it down on his head.

The teapot shattered. Rich fell with a crash to the floor at my feet, lying motionless in a pool of tea and tea leaves.

The police, sirens wailing, arrived the same time as the paramedics. Then Ariana. Then Bob Verritt. Then Harriet.

I'd been perfectly calm up until then, but this was like my family arriving to support me. This thought made me sniffle a bit, but fortunately no one knew why.

I blew my nose and answered the cops' questions as best I could, until I was drooping with the combination of shock and lack of food. That reminded me of poor Julia Roberts, who had never got her chicken dinner. Bob grinned at me and said he'd take care of it.

Rich had been carried out on a stretcher, alive and swearing and accompanied by a cop.

While Ariana and Bob dealt with the situation, Harriet took me to the nearest emergency hospital, where we waited for hours until a harried young doctor had time to dress my wounds.

It was daylight by the time Harriet drove me back. Ariana was the only one there. 'I'll look after her,' she said to Harriet. 'You go on home.'

'I'm fine,' I said, once we were inside. 'I'm starving, though. Lunch was the last meal I ate.'

'I'll scramble you some eggs. Can you face being in the kitchen?'