Thomas Cook - Peril

“No,” Sara answered.

Gillman looked at her with what seemed a deep regard, as if he were trying to get beneath her skin. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-eight,” Sara answered.

“That’s pretty old for the film business,” Gillman said. “It’s a younger group, I mean. But the way I see it, it’s the person that matters. People who see you, they wouldn’t take you for thirty-eight.” He looked her up and down. “Thirty tops. Well, maybe thirty-one, two.” He seemed to be talking to himself again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he concluded. “Thirty-two tops.” He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he said, “Have you ever been on a film set, Samantha?”

“No.”

“Think it would bother you, all that hustle-bustle?”

Sara shook her head.

“Well, even if it did, it wouldn’t matter, right?” Gillman said happily. “I mean, you can keep focused, I’m sure.” He sprang to his feet. “Okay, so why don’t I show you around.”

Sara followed him out of the office, then down the corridor to a set of padlocked double doors. “This is where the action is,” he told her as he fumbled for a key. “I keep everything locked up because we’ve had a couple things turn up missing over the years.”

He unbolted the lock and swung open the door into a pitch-black room. “This is where we do the shoot.” He stepped inside and turned on the lights. “It’s not the Waldorf, but in this business you gotta keep an eye on the budget.”

The room was a labyrinth of small cubicles, each with papered or painted walls, and set up to resemble offices, medical examination rooms, prison cells. To the right, a barn loft, complete with fake bales of hay, stood separated from a pool hall by a slender partition. There was an Arabian tent, its multicolored flaps hanging limply in the windless air, and an automobile showroom, complete with two convertibles. Toward the back a sandy beach, dotted with plastic palm trees, swept out from a large photograph of the ocean. “We can shoot just about any kind of story using these sets.” He motioned her to the left, where a mattress lay on the concrete floor, stark and unadorned, covered with a single white bedsheet. “It’s not up to me, you understand,” he said as he approached a still camera mounted on a tripod. “Other people have a say.” He stepped behind the camera and began fiddling with its dials. “Just have a seat there,” he told her, nodding toward the mattress.

Gillman continued to adjust the camera. When he’d finished, he seemed surprised that Sara remained in place, glancing about, her arms stiffly at her sides. “I have to have a look,” he said. “At you, Samantha.”

She stepped back again and felt the wall behind her. She could see the door ahead and wanted to rush toward it, but couldn’t. He would catch her, and she knew it. She drew her purse to her chest. “Stay away from me,” she said.

Gillman stared at her. “What’s the matter with you?” He stepped forward, his hands raised slightly. “Look… I have-”

“Get back,” Sara commanded.

Gillman stopped dead. “I wasn’t going to… do anything to you,” he told her earnestly.

“Get back,” she repeated sharply.

Gillman’s eyes sparked with a sudden stunning realization. “Wait a second, you came for the receptionist’s job.” He shook his head. “Oh, Jesus. Mildred’s job. You’re not an… actress.” He laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, Samantha. Believe me, I wasn’t going to…” He glanced about the room, the grim partitions, the hanging metal lights, the cheap furniture and the plastic palms. “This place. You’re scared. I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his hands now at his sides, and stood completely still. “Just go, okay? Just go, and we’ll end it right here.”

Sara didn’t move. If she moved, he would spring at her, she knew. If she turned her back, he would rush up behind her.

“I’ll stay right here,” Gillman assured her. “Or I’ll go all the way to the other side of the room if you want.”

Sara nodded stiffly.

“Okay,” Gillman said, walking backward one slow step at a time. “This far enough?” he said finally.

Sara gave no answer but turned and dashed toward the door, opened it, and rushed out, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, her feet thudding loudly against the concrete steps, until she burst into the lobby, then across it and out into the air, where, she saw to her relief, no one followed from behind.

He pulled into the driveway, but instead of moving down the walkway to his house, he turned and faced the cul-de-sac, his attention focused on the house across the way. He didn’t know Mike well, and he didn’t know Della at all. But he knew that Sara and Della were friends, and that Eddie had been right in thinking that Della might have some idea of where Sara was. He’d meant to ask her about it three days before, but embarrassment had frozen him, the terrible admission that Sara was gone, and he’d taken the chance that she might simply come back, make everything right again, so that no one would have to know that she’d actually left him.

But three days had gone by and now he had no choice but to act. Still, he didn’t look forward to revealing anything intimate to Della. She was Sara’s friend, after all, not his, and although he didn’t know the actual depth of their friendship, he suspected that Sara had told Della at least a few private things.

The thought that Sara might have had this kind of intimate conversation with Della filled him with apprehension. Suppose he asked Della straight out, What did Sara say? Did he really want to know? If he asked her about another guy and learned that there was one, what would he ask next? The guy’s name? Why would he want that? Would he ask how long it had been going on? What good would such information do him now? Or would he simply tell Della the truth, I don’t care about any of that. I just want the chance to get her back.

His father’s face suddenly thrust itself into his mind and he knew with what contempt the old man now regarded him, his pussy-whipped son. On the shoulders of that thought, he headed across the cul-de-sac and knocked at his neighbor’s door.

Della opened it. “Hey, Tony.”

“I was… I… You haven’t heard anything, right? About Sara?”

Della shook her head.

“She’s missing. I mean, she just sort of… left, I guess…. The thing is, I was wondering if she said anything to you. You and her being friends and all, I thought she might-”

“No, Tony,” Della said. “She didn’t say anything to me about-”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony said hastily. “I just thought maybe… You know.” He stepped away from the door. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No, that’s okay,” Della told him. “I mean, I wish I could help you.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Tony said. He turned to leave, faced the empty house across the cul-de-sac, its dark windows, and stopped. “I just-” He turned back. “I don’t know what to do.” He started to say more, stopped briefly, then said, “Would you mind if I came in for a minute, Della?”

She looked at him in a way he’d never seen before, as if she were afraid of him.

“Just to… talk,” he added.

She nodded but he could tell that it was hesitantly.

“Of course, if you’re busy…”

“No, that’s okay,” Della said, her voice still oddly strained. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

In the kitchen, Tony sat at the square wooden table, his hands folded around a brown mug, sipping it occasionally, trying to find the right words but always failing. “I think my father’s looking for her,” he said finally.

Della nodded stiffly and pressed her back firmly against the door of the refrigerator.