Hell and Gone

7

I genuinely feel these people are trying to kill us.

—Evi Quaid

IN HIS AIRPORT hotel room, Deke’s cell phone buzzed. It was his liaison at Wilshire, telling him to find a TV or laptop and check the news immediately.

The Jonathan Hunter story had exploded everywhere—Web/cable/TV/Facebook/Twitter—quickly eclipsing the Lane Madden murder. There was only so much attention you could give to a dead celebrity, except maybe run some clips of old movies or snatch a sound bite from industry people the dearly departed worked with. People expected celebrities to die, usually in threes, and unless you were administrator of the Official Lane Madden Fan Club website (of which there were three), the news probably shot through your eyeballs, tumbled through your brain, and quickly turned into synaptic compost. The “killer on the loose” angle was interesting, because that meant there would be a sequel to the story, but in this case it wasn’t all that shocking. Not Manson-worthy. There would not be books written about the Lane Madden murder; she’d be a chapter in a celebrity death roundup book.

The Hunters, though…

Oh, man, people would be puzzling this shit out for ages.

They turned up in Vancouver, at a small video studio. Hunter agreed to talk, but only to the news networks—which pissed off his own network, to be sure. If he was going to break some major news, why not throw his own people the bone?

The press conference was teased a full hour in advance—and speculation had run wild for hours before that. There had been Hunter family sightings up and down the California coast, out in the Southwest, as far south as Mexico, and as far east as Times Square in Manhattan.

Last America heard, there had been a hit attempt at the Hunter home in Studio City, California. On family movie night, no less! Many shots were fired, many pints of blood spilled. None of it matched that of the Hunter family, which was good. But the Hunters? Totally missing. Along with their beloved family minivan. Where had they gone? Why hadn’t they called anybody—not even their attorneys? Nobody knew! It was a proper mystery, and America loved its mysteries.

When Jonathan Hunter finally appeared on camera, the on-screen titles claimed he was broadcasting live from Vancouver, but he quickly shot that down. He announced that the press conference had been previously taped, and that he was no longer anywhere near the Vancouver area…and all America was, like, Ah, I see what you did there! and they loved it.

But they really went crazy for the next part.

“My family and I are being hunted by a group of elite assassins who specialize in murdering celebrities and their families. These individuals broke into my home and attempted to slaughter my wife and children. I will not be speaking about particulars at this time, because I believe that doing so will further endanger my family.”

No. No way—he did not just say that…

“But I will say that a man named Charles Hardie, who I understand is a security guard, helped us out. Again, I cannot go into details, but the same people who tried to murder my family also killed Lane Madden. It was these celebrity whackers, not Mr. Hardie. He is innocent and he is a hero.”

An hour later, Deke was in Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood, eating a loaded western omelet and sipping a Shiner Bock—his body clock was hopelessly off, so what the hell. Clever son of a bitch, that Jonathan Hunter.

Hunter had more or less confirmed what Hardie had told Deke over the phone…more or less. Sure, the man had added a little smidge of crazy to his speech, which was appropriate. Because Jonathan Hunter, creator of Truth Hunters, did not want to be believed. He wanted to be ridiculed.

Which was brilliant, because he had just created his own life-insurance policy.

If there were real “celebrity whackers” out there, then they wouldn’t dare kill Hunter and his family now. Because that would publicly prove their existence.

Brilliant, daring, insane fucking move.

And a boon to Hardie. Deke hoped, prayed, please, God, please, let him see this broadcast. Because if Hardie had any brains in his head, he’d realize that now he could come in from the cold, show his face, and everything would work itself out.

Come on, Hardie.

Walk in through that door.

Sit down and have a Shiner Bock with me.

We’ll have a beer, then we’ll all go home to Philadelphia and clear up the mess that is your life.