High Fall Read online

  But she was. She envied her the lead-in run, feeling the air skim her skin as she cut through it; the thrust of ramming into the push-off, the utter joy of spinning in air by the shift of her muscles, whirling with the earth and sky mixing into each other, and herself wrapped in the intensity of her own body, every muscle taut, moving together into the solid, certain stick of the landing. God, she missed it!

  She looked back at Lark Sondervoil. If someone had to eclipse Greg Gaige, let it be a woman! And let her nail it! Maybe just one, tiny, noticed-by-no-one-but-herself misstep on the landing? No, dammit! Let her make it!

  The voices grew louder, sparked off each other. Kiernan jerked her head to the right; her eyes opened, and she stared.

  Back by the trailers, she could see the disputants. It was a scene that normally would have had her yelling “Bullies!” and racing at them. But now she smiled. Ahead, two burly guys in black had a smaller dark-haired man by the arms, half escorting, half pulling him toward the NO ADMITTANCE sign.

  “Grow up, Yarrow! You haven’t done a gag in years. You’re not a stunt man anymore!” one of the bouncers yelled, as he shoved the smaller man between sawhorses. “Go over there with the rest of the tourists!”

  The man squirming futilely, complaining in vain, was the motorcyclist who’d stolen her parking spot.

  Lark Sondervoil shook off the intrusion. The guy looked familiar. Security was flipping out over him. Why? Who was he? She couldn’t let that get to her—not now. She had to keep her concentration.

  She stepped over the chain and strode the fifty feet to the edge. Now that she was moving, she felt light again, normal, almost good. She glanced down at the beach. The people were like dots, the breaking waves looked flat. She’d done high fall gags into water. She knew how to flutter and stretch out flat, to land full out on her back and use the buoyancy of the water to cushion her fall. The last time she’d done that, she’d broken only two ribs and hadn’t spat up blood for more than a day. Well worth it for a $25,000 adjustment. And nothing compared with the adjustment they’d negotiated for this gag. But the water down there wouldn’t cushion her this time. It was way too far out and way too far down. Everyone in the business knew the story of A. J. Boukunas doing a 321-foot fall. When he hit, his air bag had exploded. And that was forty feet less than this fall would be if she missed the trap.

  But she wouldn’t. She shouldn’t even be thinking about the high fall yet; the high fall was scene 486. In scene 485 the Gaige Move finished three yards in from the edge of the bluff. She was just upping the ante with herself, she knew that. She loved it. If it hadn’t been the trickiest gag, set on the most spectacular spot this side of Big Sur, she wouldn’t have been caught by it. If she weren’t about to prove she could do it better than the best—than Greg Gaige—she wouldn’t bother.

  She had time. She could tease herself with the high fall.

  She stared down at the camera, set up for the high fall on the cliffside fifteen feet from the catcher, held up by steel ropes and pulleys, railings around the platform, girders propping it up, nets hanging under it in case the camera assistant dropped his lens or his teeth. He had so many ropes on him, he could have been a marionette.

  She looked back at her own catcher-trap, hidden beneath the camouflage of bushes now. Even she could see nothing more of it than the white fake ice plant flower that marked the middle, which would be her guide.

  Cary Bleeker had wanted to put a special effects man under the trap, ready to drop the dummy that would fall to the beach. She’d seen the effects guy sweat when Cary routined that plan. Cary was compulsive as hell, but the effects guy knew Bleeker’s reputation as a bad luck director. Poor guy could see himself as Bleeker’s bad luck in this picture.

  She wasn’t big time yet, but she had been big enough to shoot down that idea. No way, she’d told him. Too dangerous for the effects guy, with her slamming into the trap above him. The sandstone was too soft to run a beam into. Cary—give him credit—he’d seen sense quick. He’d had Special Effects rig the dummy with a spring release. Her landing would set that off. The camera on the crane would film her going over the edge of the bluff, and the platform camera would take a long shot of her and the dummy falling down the bluff wall. Editing would splice in a cover shot of the horrified crowd on the beach they’d taken yesterday to mask the switch. All illusion. She laughed. It was so easy when you saw beneath it.

  Bad luck might strike Cary Bleeker again, but it wasn’t going to strike on her gag!

  From the closest-to-the-bluff spot behind the outer line of the cordon, Kiernan stared across the five-foot no-man’s-land to the inner cordon. Inside that, on the set, flames spat from a trash can near the trailers. A man in coveralls grabbed an extinguisher and put it out. The walkie-talkie crew kept circling anxiously. Two men in jeans were pushing a mounted camera. Banks of lights worthy of a night game at Jack Murphy Stadium flashed on just long enough to make the bright afternoon look drab when they went off. Huge black tarps on tripods suggested a distant fleet of pirate ships. A tall paunchy man said something to Lark Sondervoil and patted her on the arm. Lark shook her head, and Kiernan could see that she had been startled out of her capsule of concentration. But the man was the city media liaison—or so his badge said—and Lark was doing her part for municipal relations. Behind them, a thirty-fiveish balding man with his remaining dark fringe caught in a ponytail braced a foot on the rung of a director’s chair. Kiernan found herself grinning at the thought that real movie sets really had directors’ chairs, and that directors—if that was what he was—really dressed all in black. He glanced at the mob of onlookers and back at a dumpy woman. She glared at the crowd, spat her words at him, and flapped her lapel, as if that would somehow transform her hot, brown office attire into beach clothes. They both looked ready to snap.

  The crowd of onlookers had shoved forward, and now Security men lifted the cordons five feet in toward the set. Taking advantage of that, Kiernan moved the five feet forward and shifted half a yard to her left, nearer the bluff. It was only eighteen inches, but it meant an instant longer before the Move would pass her by.

  “No no! Not even for a wolfhound, the guardian of kings, the companion of Brian Boru.” The city liaison scratched Ezra’s head as he motioned Kiernan back off the stolen eighteen inches and, she was sure, watched to see if she recognized the name of the tenth-century Irish king.

  The man—McCafferty—was probably little older than she. Ten years ago, he’d have been tall and dark and might have had a look more soulful than Ezra’s. But by now he brought to mind the bachelor uncle that every Irish family nurtures, the melancholy poet with the wee paunch he carries like a parcel of lost dreams. She looked from him to the dog. “I’m just giving him room.”

  “Much as I appreciate that, well, lass, ya can’t. The city’s responsible for these bluffs, and we’ve had more than one death off them.”

  The wind rustled her hair. Briny whiffs of sea water below mixed with the smell of the sunscreen on her nose.

  McCafferty held a hand to the side of Ezra’s eyes, protecting him from the gust. “Here, fifty feet back from the cliff face, the wind seems like a hard wall of warrior’s shields, pushed double time across the sandstone by a line of conquering troops.”

  She restrained a smile. Melancholy poet, indeed.

  “But over the edge, lass, it’s entirely different. It’s a rare year when no one dies on the Gliderport bluff. Scofflaws cut the metal chains and drive out to the edge of the bluff—where you were edging toward. Too late, they realize the sandstone’s crumbling under their weight. Hikers in sandals traipse down the cliffside trails, illegal trails. Some of them freeze in fear three hundred feet above the beach; others aren’t so lucky. And the hang gliders ... the up-drafts that they love so much, that sail them out over the green waters, turn without warning and smash them into the bluff.” He glanced back toward the main camera dolly. “They’re crazy to be doing a stunt up here.”

  Lark shifte
d to the other foot. She hated this waiting. It was like being bound, gagged, like huge magnets held her feet to the ground and every step had to pull the whole earth up with it. It was like iron weights compressing her mind. A couple of minutes to go. But a couple of minutes seemed like a lifetime.

  But there was no way around it. The last scene had been shot at five twenty yesterday. The lighting had to be the same for this one.

  She glanced over at Mavis Herrera, the script supervisor, standing like an anorexic schoolmarm with her big hornrimmed glasses and ever-present notebook. Lark looked from her to the scene’s old Buick parked next to the UNSTABLE CLIFFS marker. The sun was moving down its side. She didn’t know when the magic moment would come, when the light would shine off the chrome exactly as it had in the last Polaroid that Mavis had snapped as yesterday’s shooting ended, but she’d be ready.

  She didn’t look around to see which friends had come for her triumph. She couldn’t afford to get distracted now. She gave Cary Bleeker a quick nod. Cary didn’t notice; he kept glancing at the crowd as if they were about to charge over the cordon and steal the cameras. The city guy was fussing about the city’s liability on the bluff.

  She glanced at the small food trailer next to the catering truck. It was closed now—closed for her gag. The gray-haired cook stood in front, his white apron tied loosely over jeans, the nets off his hair and beard. Lark lifted a hand in salute. He grinned, doffed his sunglasses, and gave her a thumbs-up. Like a flash of lightning, anxiety shook her so hard she couldn’t see—the Gaige Move! God, to capture that here, now, to make the Move live again! To stand before the press and tell them—

  The assistant director was in place, ready to give her her cue.

  The time for idle thought was over. Her vision squeezed in from the sides, tunneling forward. If there were noises out there—the crowd, the cameras, car engines, motorcycles—she didn’t hear them anymore. In her mind she saw only her path between the trenches to the end of the rise, and the camouflaged cement slab three yards from the edge onto which she’d “stagger” back to end the take. Bleeker had talked harness, but there was no way to do the Gaige Move in a harness!

  She closed her eyes. Fear hollowed out her inner core now. It swirled cold in her empty chest and stomach. She took her place on the start mark.

  “Quiet on the set!”

  Kiernan watched as Lark Sondervoil stood at her mark and the city liaison ambled to the far side of the set.

  “That was you in the red Jeep, wasn’t it?” There was a slight twang to the speaker’s muted voice. It took Kiernan a moment to pull her attention from the set and focus on him. His curly black hair fluttered in the wind and his dark blue eyes shone confidently, but his mouth was poised half open, waiting warily for her reaction. He was, she realized with a start, the guy on the motorcycle. “Sorry about the parking spot.”

  “Sorry enough to move your cycle?”

  He shrugged. “Got me. If I’d known it would be this long till the Move—”

  “You wouldn’t have had to ace me out of the possibility of seeing it?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m really not a lout. It’s just that—well, see, I knew Greg Gaige. I saw him do the Move,” he said, the hesitancy suddenly gone from his voice. His dark blue eyes had a faraway look. “I saw it the last time, right before he died.”

  Her breath caught. She turned to eye him straight on, but she could hear the hesitancy in her own voice as she asked, “How exactly did Greg die?”

  “How?” He was not looking at her but glaring at the black-clad man on the set. “He was doing another gag—one that Cary Bleeker coordinated.”

  “Lark. You ready?”

  “Ready.” It took all her breath to make that come out strong.

  “Camera. Action.”

  Lark Sondervoil took a breath, pushed off, and ran forward, her long tanned legs thrusting into the sandstone, blond hair billowing behind. She ran feeling everything, nothing, eyes on the cliff edge, each step free, flying—hers. She sailed over the warning chain and drove her feet against the ground. The explosives shot up sand and dust and rocks. She flew backward, legs straight, ankles tight to keep her feet from pointing, from looking too sleek. The ground gave minutely when her feet hit. Relief shot through her and was gone. The second explosion blew. She pushed off, corkscrewing her shoulders, pulling up with her pelvis, fighting the need to bend knees to chest, fighting to keep her legs straight, to nail the last half-twist and bring her feet down on the mark. And then they were there, marshmallowing into the ground. The ground, not the cement block, but that didn’t matter now. She’d nailed it! The Gaige Move! She’d done the Gaige Move on film! Relief rippled through her more fully, but slowly now. The wind seared her skin. Her heart pounded. She pressed her teeth together to keep from grinning ear to ear from the joy of it all. The shot wasn’t over—she still had the stagger-steps.

  She had to look terrified! Forcing her eyes open wide, she did the first of the three stagger-steps back toward the cliff. Then the ground gave under her feet! What was happening? She had to stop. But she’d blow the scene. The second step. The ground was—the ground was squeezing out from under her feet. The hell with the scene! She thrust her shoulders forward and grabbed. Her hands clutched air. She couldn’t stop! She flung herself forward, facedown to the dirt. Her elbows hit and bounced her backward. She was over the edge of the cliff. Falling in air! Panic squeezed her heart. She tried to stare through it. She grabbed for her knees. Flip, goddamn it—flip to grab for the rim of the catcher-trap. She yanked all out. The turn was taking, she was flipping over, her head toward the bluff, hands out. She’d be okay; she’d make it.

  The cliffside came in sight—no catcher.

  She kept turning. She saw the beach exploding up at her.

  CHAPTER 2

  CARY BLEEKER’S EYES WIDENED in horror as he watched Lark Sondervoil flail over the cliff. That wasn’t in the scene. What the hell was Lark doing? He’d never have asked her to go right into the high fall—without a wire, yet. She could be killed. The camera crew hadn’t checked their focus for that yet; the whole high fall could be one big blur.

  He took a step toward the bluff, would have run out there like an idiot, but the burst of applause from the tourists caught him. The camera on the crane was at the bluff edge; it’d be fine. Thank God he hadn’t called cut. Thank God they’d had the camera over the bluff rolling, on the off chance there’d be something to use. He was covered. Better than covered. A smile stretched his narrow-lipped mouth across his cheeks. Goddamn, Sondervoil was good. He couldn’t even complain about that press conference of hers, and the fucking crowd the size of Pasadena—not with the shot she’d just given him. No doubt about it, Sondervoil was the best.

  It wasn’t until he turned to his production assistant and started to speak that he realized he’d been holding his breath. Sixty thousand dollars tied up in this scene, and the studio execs on the horn every day. If this gag had gone belly-up, his ass would have been hanging as if he were in a grocery window in Chinatown, looking more wizened than the smoked ducks on the next hooks. If some asshole in the crowd had …

  But it had been okay. More than okay. The Gaige Move had been great, and better yet, the scene that followed it, the high fall, looked fine. If it was and they didn’t have to reshoot it, they wouldn’t have to hang around till five thirty tomorrow night. They could break set after the morning shoot tomorrow. It would save them a half day. With salaries, rentals, meals, hotels, what would it come to? Ten thousand dollars? He’d have to call the line producer. God, that was one call he’d enjoy making. If Buddy had gotten it on film.

  “Super!” He grinned at Jessa Mann’s serious little face. The kid looked like an amalgam of every production assistant he’d ever had in his fifteen years directing. Always eager, always earnest, with enough reined-in drive to create a full-blown ulcer or a director’s slot of their own in five years.

  “Perfecto. Lark added that great scream when she disapp
eared over the edge, didn’t she?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jessa flushed. He could have reassured her, told her that unlike her picture of “the director,” he didn’t have to have every subordinate pretend every idea and innovation had burst full-grown from his own genius. He could have told her he understood the Hollywood game as well as she thought she did. But he understood it well enough not to blow his own image. “What do you think?” she bubbled.

  “It’s a knockout.” He gave her back a little rub. The Move had been terrific. Sondervoil had insisted she could pull it off. He’d seen Greg Gaige do it, and Sondervoil was almost as good. He hadn’t believed her when she first broached the idea, or when she insisted. No man had ever copied Gaige. He’d never really believed a woman could pull it off, much less a novice like Lark Sondervoil. But he’d go to his grave with that secret. To Jessa, Sondervoil, and the studio, he’d known it all along, he was a prescient director who could spot a talent and squeeze the most from her.

  “You want me to get on to Publicity, Cary, and get a mention in the trades?”

  Bleeker nodded. All of Hollywood would be reading about this major gag in tomorrow’s Variety and Hollywood Reporter. He hoped it wasn’t too late to make their deadlines. By tomorrow, the words “Cary Bleeker” would be as prevalent at dinners as “More wine?” Nobody would be calling him Bad Luck Bleeker anymore. “Daring.” “Innovative.” That was what they’d be saying. By Wednesday, his agent would be piling up scripts, juggling lunch invites, and slotting in meetings. He glanced out over the set, his last set as second unit director. By this time next week, he’d be choosing his first film as director. “Write up the gag, and let ’em know if we break set a day early. Tomorrow do a follow-up on how much under budget that puts us.” He’d taken a big chance on Lark Sondervoil; now she could share the credit for the early finish.