Hollywood Scream Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

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  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

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  FIFTY

  HOLLYWOOD SCREAM

  MZ Kelly

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

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  ONE

  THE ANGEL

  The man who called himself “the Angel” affixed the latex appliances to his face. Once the molded pieces were in place, he began applying the heavy layers of makeup. The transformation was arduous, but never tedious. It was a process that he called “creating the imperfection of perfection”. He contorted his face while applying the black and red paint, crafting cracks and crevices in all the right places. It was like a dance: a squint here, a crease of the forehead there, along with a deft stroke of his brush.

  He’d seen a documentary once about a Hollywood makeup artist at work, creating a mythical creature for a movie. The artist said he was in touch with a higher power, someone who controlled his hand, making each stroke a process of creation that was not of this world. That was exactly how the Angel felt during the transformation process. The only difference was that he knew exactly from where his power emanated. It came from a world where he controlled the demons that had haunted his childhood.

  When the makeup was finally finished, he donned a wig that was almost shoulder length, and silver, with a hint of gold. The final touch was a pair of gossamer wings adorned with feathers that he attached to his shoulder blades with flesh-colored elastic straps. He stood and moved back from the mirror, admiring his reflection. He not only had created his alter ego, this was a moment of spiritual transformation.

  The creature that stared back at him in the mirror was not of this earth. Its skin was pasty and sallow. A red smear of paint slashed across its lips, finding its way almost to the ears. The effect was to create a chilling smile that gave the appearance of being slashed open at the corners of the mouth, like something out of a Halloween house of horrors. It was terrifying, but it was the eyes that told the creature’s real story. Smeared with heavy black liner, they were dark and empty, like a cave that marked the entrance to a forbidden world.

  As he studied himself in the mirror, a thin smile moved over his lips. He was satisfied. He was no longer mortal, a mere man who walked the earth. He was the Angel of Death, the one chosen to protect the power of The Realm.

  The Angel turned out the light and left the room, remembering that years earlier a reporter had referred to him as “the fallen one”. He had laughed as he’d attacked the man and his wife in their home a few weeks later. Before they died, he explained that he was not fallen because he could not have been cast out of a heaven that doesn’t exist. He explained that he arose as a child, informed with a power and intelligence that is far superior to anything human. The assurance of that belief was given to him by his mother. As he left his house and made his way along the riverbank, he remembered a conversation he had had with her when he was a child.

  “Why was I chosen?” he had asked Mother, after receiving one of her many lectures.

  The beautiful blonde visage that he adored bent down to him and smiled. “Because you are special. You are superior to other beings; chosen to bring your power into this world.”

  The boy’s blue eyes grew wider. Thick lashes blinked as he pondered what she’d said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Mother was now on the rear step of their house, sitting next to him. “In time you will understand, my child. For now, you need to begin to learn how to access your power.”

  There was a field of corn growing beyond their yard. His gaze moved across the green stalks swaying in the breeze. “But how do I find my power?”

  Mother rested a hand on his knee. “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, just remember what we’ve talked about.”

  That conversation was something he recalled a few weeks later when Mother took him to the dark place in the woods, miles from their house. It was there that she explained about him finding the path to power.

  “Here,” she said, handing him a small vial of clear liquid. “I want you to
drink this.”

  He accepted the offering. “What is it?”

  “It is called The Light. Once you take it, all the colors of the world will instantly come to you, along with a special understanding. In time, you will learn to access your power and find your true calling.”

  He remembered dutifully doing as she instructed, drinking down the tasteless clear liquid, before his mother turned and began walking away.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  She’d turned back to him for a moment. “You must find your power alone. I’ll come back for you in the morning.”

  That night had marked the first of dozens of nights he’d spent alone in the woods. At first, he’d been terrified as the liquid mother had called The Light worked in his system. In time, he’d learned to overcome his terror and realize that he’d been reborn during those many sessions with The Light. It had helped him understand his true nature and what he must do. It was only years later that he learned Mother had given him something called DPT, a mind-altering hallucinogen.

  Over the years, he’d learned that the true nature of an Angel had nothing to do with God, or following the teaching of a higher power. The key was learning to control the world. During those long, dark nights in the woods, a million demons had surfaced. At first, he’d lost his mind, consumed with fear. But, in time, he learned the only real choice he had was to confront the demons. That was the beginning of the process Mother called “Infusion”.

  “Your fear is the pathway to power, but you must first surrender to the fear,” Mother had said.

  “How do I do that?”

  She smiled. “Think of fear as your guiding star. It will lead you to worlds unknown, another realm of existence. It is your true calling.”

  He remembered crying and telling her, “I don’t think I can...”

  “STOP.” Mother had come over and slapped him. “Once your fears are confronted, they will be controlled and eventually become infused into your being. In time, fear will no longer control you, because you will learn to control it. That fear will be transformed into power that, when taken out into the world, will allow you to control others and change the world.”

  It had taken him years to understand the truth behind what Mother had told him about the Infusion process. In time, fear became his friend; a formidable ally in imposing his will on others.

  After walking several miles, the painted, winged creature stopped at a fence and knelt, his dark eyes fixing on the figure that moved through the house beyond the back yard. The young woman’s name was Audrey Rand. She’s was a third-grade school teacher by day. By night, she was a lonely, depressed young woman who sought solace with a bottle of vodka and TV shows about women who lived the kind of life she could only dream about.

  He knew all this because he had been inside her home several times while she was in school and her parents were at work. He’d hidden Internet cameras everywhere, sorted through their personal belongings, and even read from a journal Audrey had kept by her bed. She sometimes wrote about a young man named Michael. From what he’d pieced together, Michael was her high school sweetheart, who had left her for another girl during her senior year. She’d never recovered from the broken heart.

  “I’m not Michael,” the Angel whispered, as he moved through the yard and onto the back porch of the home. “But I’m coming for you, Audrey. I’ll make you forget all about your lost love.”

  What followed was almost too easy, and far too predictable, a process that had played out dozens of time before. There was the lifting of a window that had been left unlocked. The muted steps down the hallway to her bedroom. The flash of a light in Audrey’s face. The almost laughable look of horror on her face when her eyes came open and she saw the creature staring down at her. In time, acceptance followed; the realization that the Angel had come for her, just like he’d come for so many other victims.

  Before he killed her, the Angel would take his time. On some level, he knew it was foreplay: The tying of her hands and feet, the removal of her clothing, the whispered promise of what he intended to do to her, the bag of instruments he called “toys” that he used on her, and the abject terror that swept over her. It was all a power game, the demons of the girl’s own lost childhood surfacing. They caused her panicked pleas for him not to hurt her, the bargaining for her life.

  Late that night, as he lay next to her, running his fingers through her dark brown hair, he asked a question. “Tell me something, Audrey. What will you do for me if I let you live?”

  “Anything,” she cried. “Whatever you want.”

  “Anything,” he said, chuckling. “That covers a lot of ground.”

  “Tell me what you like,” she said, controlling the fear in her voice and trying to sound seductive.

  “Fear,” he said. “That’s what I like.”

  She went on to describe every manner of sexual favor she would grant him, some that he knew she was aware of only from watching Internet porn.

  When she was finished, he sighed, “I’m afraid that seals your fate, Audrey. You’re like all the rest, both the women and the men. You will sell your body to save your life. The only problem is, it’s not your body I want. I want your soul, so that you can never harm Mother.”

  He spent the next few minutes, using ropes and pulleys, trussing her up and posing her in a way that would make for the perfect display. When he was satisfied with his exhibition, he went over to the camera that he’d set up in the corner of the room.

  Before turning the camera on, he looked back at his victim. “Just so you know, you’re very special, Audrey. You’re going to die tonight. And the whole world will be watching.”

  TWO

  “There were over a hundred casualties, and a dozen buildings badly damaged.”

  My former lieutenant, Olivia Quest, was referring to the destruction in Los Angeles caused by a terrorist group known as “the Swarm”. They had attacked the city a week earlier, using several drones strapped with explosives, including blowing up the Police Administration Building. Olivia and I had been in the building just before the bombs detonated, barely escaping with our lives.

  I looked out the window of the FBI chartered jet carrying us to Quantico. A few minutes earlier, the pilot had announced we were flying over the Mississippi River. “I can’t believe Sherry Miles was killed in the attack. I think our new police chief would have made a big difference in the department.”

  Olivia, an attractive African-American woman in her thirties, agreed with me. “I heard Bronson has already been given the blessings of the mayor and city council. Since the city is in chaos after the explosions, they wanted to act quickly in appointing a new chief.”

  David Bronson was a thirty-plus-year veteran of the police department, someone who had been instrumental in keeping the investigation into the murder of my adoptive father closed for years. It was now apparent that the man who had killed him, Harlan Ryland, along with his granddaughter, Harlee, were behind the attacks on the city. In recent months, the Swarm had partnered with the Tauists, a new age group founded by Ryland and his deceased partner as a front for importing drugs through the movie studios in Hollywood. I’d recently learned that, almost three decades earlier, my father had ties to Ryland. Even though I didn’t want to believe it, I knew it was possible that he’d also been involved in the illegal drug trade and his death had been orchestrated when he’d crossed Ryland.

  “With Bronson in charge, maybe our temporary reassignment with the feds isn’t such a bad thing,” I said, as my thoughts surfaced. “I’m just sorry about your demotion.”

  Olivia swept her shoulder length hair behind her ear. “It was to be expected, Kate. The Darby situation happened on my watch.”

  She was referring to a detective in Section One, our now defunct homicide unit, being involved in a series of murders, including the killing of a female detective out of jealousy over their failed relationship. After Darby Hall’s confession and subsequent suicide, Bronson h
ad disbanded the unit and sent us to work with the feds on a case that supposedly had some past ties to Los Angeles. Olivia and I both knew the real reason for the reassignment was to punish us; me for the Rylands’ personal vendetta against me, and Olivia for the failing of one of her subordinates, something that she couldn’t have prevented.

  “Any idea what the feds’ case is about?” I asked her.

  “Not the slightest. I imagine we’ll get the details in the morning.”

  We chatted about my past work with the feds for a few minutes, including my friendship with an agent named Joe Dawson. Joe and I had become close after working several cases together. He’d recently made it known that he wanted to become more than just friends, but I’d told him I wasn’t ready for that. From what I knew, he was working a case in the south and wouldn’t be working with us on our current assignment.

  After our discussion trailed away, I dozed off, thinking about leaving my life in Hollywood behind. I’d been an LAPD detective over four years, part of that time working with my canine partner, Bernie. I’d left Bernie behind with my best friends and roommates, Natalie Bump and Mo Simpson. My friends are private detectives and part-time actors, with a penchant for interfering in both my cases and my personal life. They are sometimes a royal pain, but I love them like sisters and was already missing them.

  After landing, Olivia and I were met by a driver who took us to the barracks at the FBI facility. From my past work with the feds, I knew that Quantico was located on a portion of the massive Marine Corps base in Virginia. The facility served as both a conference center for cases being actively worked, and a training grounds for agents, complete with firing ranges, driving courses, specialized classrooms, and even a mock town used for tactical drills.

  It was late in the day, and I was exhausted by the time we got to our assigned building. After Olivia and I got a bite to eat and were given adjoining rooms, I told her that I’d see her in the morning. After unpacking and taking a shower, my phone chimed. I threw on a robe and went over, seeing it was a FaceTime call from Natalie and Mo.

  “Did you find that dirty lump of gas you’re after?” Natalie asked me, as she and Mo fought for space on the screen. My British friend was in her twenties, blonde, beautiful, and with enough attitude to dispel any myths about English reserve.