“No, Jose. This is what would have been normal for you if Archie Stallings didn’t lie at your trial. You would have been a successful engineer who would have stayed in places just like this when you went on vacation. Life dealt you a very bad hand, but you have it in your power to start over, if you can look forward instead of looking back.”
PART FIVEThe Black Oaks Curse
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The windshield wipers in the rental car were losing their battle with a torrential rain that was making it almost impossible to see the narrow, treacherous road. Another hairpin turn appeared out of nowhere, and Corey Rockwell’s gut clenched again. He slowed down, made the turn, and caught his breath, thankful that he hadn’t plunged over the edge of the cliff that was oh so close.
This was complete bullshit, Rockwell thought. He could not believe that he’d had to rent a car. In his heyday, a chauffeured limousine would have been waiting for him at the airport. Maybe his films weren’t grossing what they used to, but he was still a star. At least two people had stared at him when he got off the plane, and he was certain that more had whispered about him when he was waiting at baggage claim.
That was another thing that had put him in a foul mood. He wasn’t used to flying commercial, and certainly not in economy. And he was used to having an assistant collect his luggage. But hecouldn’t afford an assistant just now, although he was certain that was a temporary inconvenience.
Frank Melville had paid for Rockwell’s airfare and the rental car, but Rockwell was still pissed off because Melville hadn’t come to Hollywood to negotiate the terms of the film deal. Melville’s assistant had told him that Melville was partially paralyzed, but lots of cripples flew on planes. Melville wanted to do a film about Corey’s life, so he should have come to Corey, instead of making him navigate the most terrifying terrain he’d ever driven outside of one of his movies. Although, to be honest, he hadn’t really driven the cars in the chase scenes. When there was a car chase on roads like this in one of his movies, a stuntman had risked his life while Corey stayed in his trailer screwing some starlet.
Rockwell had been reluctant to do the film at first. Let sleeping dogs lie, he’d thought. Why dig up all the rumors about his wife’s murder? But he hadn’t made a film in a while, and his savings were dwindling. Necessity was the mother of something or other. Once Frank Melville financed his film and paid him what he deserved for starring in it, the universe would right itself, and he’d be back on top, riding in limousines once again, instead of this shitty Ford. And he really had nothing to worry about. The jury had convicted that guy. What was his name? Who cared? There was no new evidence, so no one was going to reopen the case. That asshole was on death row, and Corey Rockwell was free as a bird.
Melville had assured him that the film was going to focus on his grief and loss, so he’d be a sympathetic character, not a suspect. And the film would be serious, not like his action thrillers. Maybe the movie would breathe new life into his career and showcase his talents as a dramatic actor.
Rockwell made one last turn, saw a stone wall and a metal gate, and thanked God that he’d made it up the mountain in one piece. Rockwell pressed the button on the intercom. Moments later, a gravelly voice asked for his name. He gave it, the gate opened, and Rockwell drove along a winding driveway to a house that looked like every spooky mansion in every horror movie.
Rockwell parked, grabbed his overnight bag, hunched his shoulders, and raced through the rain to the shelter provided by the portico. Just as he was about to use the metal knocker, the front door opened, and he found himself staring at Beauty and the Beast.
“Come in, Mr. Rockwell,” said a honey-haired blonde who was the equal of any of the actresses who had played opposite him in one of his action thrillers. Behind her lurked a scarred giant who could have played the villain’s henchman in those same films.
“I’m Sheila Monroe, Mr. Melville’s assistant. We talked on the phone.”
“Of course,” Rockwell said as he mentally undressed Monroe.
“I apologize for the weather and the awful road you had to navigate.”
Rockwell flashed his famous smile. “I can hardly hold you responsible for the elements. They’re God’s doing. I’m sure there would have been blue skies and smooth going if you were in charge.”
Sheila laughed. Then she turned to the giant.
“This is Luther, our houseman. He’ll show you to your room. Are you hungry?”
“Famished. Any chance I can get a very stiff drink? A really good single-malt scotch if you’ve got one. After the ride up the mountain, I need something to steady my nerves.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have Luther bring you something I think you’ll enjoy.”
“I will be eternally grateful,” Rockwell said as he looked into Monroe’s blue eyes. Monroe responded with a warm smile, and Rockwell was certain that she was sending signals. A woman like Monroe living in a creepy place like this with a guy in a wheelchair and a movie monster was probably aching to hop into the sack with a real man.
“Mr. Melville is anxious to meet you,” Sheila said. “I’ll have lunch brought up while you change out of your travel clothes. Then I’ll take you to meet him.”
Sheila turned and walked down the gloomy corridor that led away from the entry hall. Rockwell handed Luther his bag and admired Monroe’s backside as he followed the houseman. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad couple of days, after all, he thought.
A tray with a hot meal and a glass of excellent scotch was waiting for Rockwell by the time he finished showering and changing into a black turtleneck, black slacks, and a black leather jacket, which were the clothes Rocky Slate, the hero of the Hard to Kill movies, always wore. He was just finishing his meal when Sheila Monroe knocked on his door.
“Come in,” Rockwell said.
“Are you ready to meet your host?” Sheila asked.
“Take me to him.”
Sheila turned, and the actor followed her down the hall to the far end of the other third-floor wing. Sheila opened a door and stepped back to let Rockwell into Frank Melville’s office. Melville was seated in his wheelchair behind his desk. He was wearing anavy-blue pinstriped jacket over a white shirt and blue-and-red-striped tie.
“Please come in, Mr. Rockwell. And thank you for coming to Black Oaks. I appreciate the sacrifice, and I hope I can reward you for it by financing a movie that will rekindle your career.”
Rockwell didn’t like the fact that Melville thought his career needed rekindling, but he wasn’t going to correct the man who might be financing his next film. Rockwell took a seat across from his host, and Sheila sat next to him.