Fun and Games

$40 million–dollar man in a downsized Hollywood where nobody—nobody—could command those kinds of numbers. He could open a flick. Open it big. Guaranteed.

His name was uttered at least once every few minutes all across America, usually in the form of a punch line like, “Well I’m no BLOND VIKING GOD, but…”

And for a brief while, he used to date a cute actress from a bunch of romantic comedies named Lane Madden.

Lane put her fingers to her temples and lowered her head.

“It’s not like I have proof to show you. But he swore to me they were real, because he met them once.”

“What happened?”

“He didn’t tell me much.”

“What happened?”

Lane sighed. “Four years ago—before we even met—he was at this party out in Malibu. Things got out of hand. Too much booze, too much coke. There was a stupid fight. Someone ended up dead. Another actor. Somebody who was kind of over, you know? But the party had a bunch of people who weren’t over, who were worth a lot of money to a certain studio. If word got out about what had happened at this party, it could ruin their careers, ruin the studio. So the studio called them in—the Accident People. They rolled into Malibu and cleaned everything up. Made it look like the guy fell while out for a run. Told everyone at the party what to say. The whole thing was scripted, like it was a movie. Nobody questioned it; the police never linked him to the party. Everyone was told that if they even breathed a word about what had happened, it wasn’t just their career on the line. It was their life. Because the Accident People will be back to you.”

“Did Blond Viking God kill the has-been?”

“No! God, no. He was just there and watched these people work. Totally freaked him out. Said it was like someone pried off the lid and showed him how Hollywood really works. From then on, he told me, he was always a little more respectful when it came to writers and directors and special-effects people because some of them—when their commercial careers were over—graduated to the ranks of the Accident People.”

“You make it sound like a promotion.”

“Ordinary directors only get to work with stuff that appears on a screen. When you work with the Accident People, you’re playing around with real life. You’re writing secret history. They take their work seriously. At least that’s what my ex told me.”

Secret history.

Secret closets, secret kills. Accidents.

The implications of this finally hit Hardie.

This explained their weird behavior, their methods, their tactics. Hardie realized now that barricading themselves in was exactly what They wanted. To keep them both contained until they could be “dealt” with according to script. They didn’t behave like other killers, because they wanted something besides death. They were trying to make the world conform to their little twisted vision, and they’d keep working at it until they got everything right. The longer they hid inside, the longer they’d have to nail down their big secret plans.

Well fuck that, Hardie thought.

16

All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality—

the story of an escape.

—A. C. Benson

ANDREW LOWENBRUCK kept a tiny charcoal grill on the side deck. A miniature kettle-shaped thing, big enough for four hamburgers and maybe a couple of hot dogs wedged in here and there. It was damn near useless as a food preparation tool, but to Hardie, it might be their ticket out of here.

There were only a few ways to light charcoal briquettes. Some already came soaked in lighter fluid—which to Hardie’s mind was cheating—but most came without. You either had to use a chimney starter and bunched-up newspaper, or some matches and lighter fluid. Hardie didn’t remember seeing a chimney starter outside. And frankly, Lowenbruck didn’t seem too much like a hard-core griller. So there were probably some lighter fluid and matches around.

Hardie crept upstairs and found both under the kitchen sink, along with an unopened container of cleanser with packaging straight from the 1980s. The lighter fluid was in a small metal box, squeezable. The matches were wooden and long enough to take an eye out.

Now all he needed was something flammable. Something that would go up quickly and send a lot of smoke into the air…

Hardie carried the fluid and matches into the living room and saw them instantly.

Sly.

Arnie.

Bruce.

Mel.

And yes, even Gene.

The cardboard standees.

“Sorry, boys,” Hardie muttered. “You can come find me and beat the shit out of me later.”

Hardie shoved the matches into one pocket, lighter fluid into the other, then walked down a few steps until he was eye level with the bottom of the standees. He fished out the lighter fluid, then soaked the bottoms with multiple squeezes from the tiny metal can. It was like trying to piss up a wall. The fumes were harsh and instantly put him in mind of summertime cook-outs. Something Hardie hadn’t done for years, didn’t think he’d ever have the chance to do again.

He made his way back down the stairs, opened the box of matches, shook one out, flicked the head along the lighting strip on the box. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. One more time—and the match snapped in half.

“What are you doing?” a voice whispered behind him. Lane.

“Getting us out of here, that’s what.”

“By doing what—setting the house on fire?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Hardie looked up and noticed the stream of fluid led right to Stallone. Made sense. If someone’s going to go first, let it be the Philly guy. The guy who embodied that kind of can-do-in-the-face-of-hopeless-odds kind of spirit. Strains of Bill Conti pumped through his head.

“You’re going to kill us,” she said. “Is that your big plan? Make it easy for them?”

“No. We’re going to get some towels wet and seal up the cracks under the door down there. Then we’re going to do the same to the other door, and we’re going to wait in the bedroom on the bottom level.”

“Where we’ll die of smoke inhalation! I’ve worked on action movies, Charlie. I know how this works.”

“No, we won’t. Fire travels up. This is an upside-down house. It’ll burn the roof, then start to come down slowly. Meanwhile, a whole lot of black smoke travels up. And the minute we hear a siren, we’ll be safe. You said these people work in secret, right? They arrange accidents and nobody’s the wiser? They skulk around and take out people on the sly? Well, let’s see them try to kill us in front of a bunch of firefighters. What are they going to do—wipe them out, too, along with the EMTs? No. Fuckers lose this round. They wanted to keep this quiet, so I’m going to make it as loud as possible.”

Lane stared at him for a moment, then turned to throw up.