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With a sudden burst of courage, they hummed in agreement. Amata’s threat had to be eliminated. Nothing would stand in their way now. It was up to them to put the world back into balance.
Maybe then the voices in their head would shut up.
Chapter Two
Pulling into the entrance of Pinewood Studios in Atlanta, Claude stopped his rental car at the guard gate.
“State your business.” The overweight, middle-aged security guy tapped twice on his pad without looking at him. There was a blob of mayonnaise at the side of his thin lips that matched the stain on his collar.
“I’m here to see Stan Jackson.” He named the head of the studio’s finance department. It always paid to do some research when trying to enter a private business. Watching the man continue to tap on the screen made him frown. Claude drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. It was understandable that being stuck in a small booth day in and day out, the guy had to do something to keep busy. Watching people drive in and out had to be boring. But my God, the guy didn’t even glance away from whatever hypnotized him on the pad.
“Do you gotta appointment?” Now the man swiped the screen as if to check some list.
“No, and I don’t need one, Coley.” He squinted at the name badge on the flabby chest of the man that declared his name as “J. F. Coley”. Reaching inside his jacket breast pocket, Claude pulled out one of the bogus IDs he’d kept from the CIA. Flapping it open, he let the FBI badge do the talking. Leaning back in his seat, he pushed his mirrored sunglasses up his nose as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Hurry, man.” Rolling one of his fingers, he motioned to the bar across the driveway. “Open the gate. I don’t have all day.”
At least the guy was smart enough to give his badge a cursory glance before the pad grabbed his attention again.
“Yeah, whatever.” Coley backed up and flipped a switch behind him. All without taking his eyes off the pad.
“Can you tell me how to get to his office?” Not that Claude had any intention of seeking the man out. He just to make it look good.
“Take the main road, turn left, turn right, go a ways, and then you’ll see the administration building. He’s in there.” J. F. Coley grabbed a half-eaten sandwich and shoved it into his mouth. The flickering screen of his handheld danced across his thick glasses.
Claude resisted the urge to shake his head. He sure hoped the studio wasn’t having any problems with people getting in who weren’t supposed to. Like him. Maybe he should look into doing consulting work for security now that he didn’t work for the CIA. Something to consider.
Driving the car far enough away to be out of the guard’s line of sight, he parked and pulled out his own pad from the seat next to him. Before he came to the studio, he downloaded a recent schematic of the property of over 600 acres. He might not know where the filming of Amata’s particular picture was, but this would at least give him a general idea.
Pushing the sunglasses to the top of his head, he drove away from the administration buildings to the five huge sound stages. With any luck, there’d be some sort of sign outside the building announcing what they filmed inside. Eureka! It was the second one he passed. Good, it looked like the production crew was still there, bustling in and out of the place. Spotting a place to park took some doing, but he finally found a spot a couple of blocks away. Getting out of the car, he straightened his jacket and put his glasses back over his eyes. The adrenaline rush of being where he wasn’t supposed to be was an old friend. Damn, he was going to miss this part of his old life. But the one thing the attempted alien invasion taught him was life was precious and shouldn’t be wasted. He wanted it all, dammit! And he’d start with wooing the beguiling Amata.
As he approached one of the open doorways, he stopped. Amata was walking away from him. Even with the large-brim hat over her bright alabaster hair, he knew it was her. Hmm, looked like she was heading to a line of RVs across the way. Sure enough, her first name was on a plaque across the doorway of one of them. She went inside and shut the door behind her.
Now was his chance. But movement out of the corner of his eye made him stop. Across the way was a character in a gray hoodie lurking in the shadows. Claude’s inner sense that saved his life more than once rang loud and clear. Why would anyone wear a hoodie in the sweltering heat of the Georgia sun? Moving to stand against the wall of one of the large buildings, he observed the guy hidden in the shadows against a fence and the back of another RV. He was smoking a cigarette, pinching the bud between his thumb and forefinger. On the surrounding ground were several flattened butts that told him the guy had been there a long time.
Claude got as close as he dared. What in the hell was he looking at? It didn’t take a genius to see the man had a clear view of a window in Amata’s trailer. Since the drapes were open, anyone could watch her going to the refrigerator and pulling out a water bottle.
Her smile added a warm touch to her gorgeous face as she made herself a sandwich. With delicate grace, she sat at the table and ate her light meal as she read an honest-to-God newspaper.
If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a Sunday edition. He smiled as she retrieved the brightly colored, two-page comics and began reading.
The guy in the shadows took one last drag of his cigarette before he threw it on the ground, stomping it out on the bottom of his Converse high-top sneaker. He pulled the hoodie farther down his face and looked as if he was going to head to the trailer. A group of laughing people made him stop as he backed up farther into the shadows.
“Are you sure she knows nothing about it?” A middle-aged woman snickered as if she were a teenager playing a prank. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face!”
“It’s all good,” answered a young African-American man with a stylus stuck behind his ear. His polka-dot bow tie was a perfect foil for his high-water khakis and scuffed loafers. “I swear I did everything around her schedule. No way could she have seen anything.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll knock on the door.” An Asian-American woman who had to be in her thirties held an old-fashioned clipboard. She transferred it to her other hand and rapped a tight fist on the metal door of Amata’s RV.
The door swung open. Amata stood there with a huge smile on her face. “What do you guys want?”
Her teasing tone made Claude grin.
“I thought we finished the last session this morning. Freedom beckons, my friends. You all should have scattered to the winds by now.”
“Well, boss.” This came from an elderly male with thin strands of scruffy white hair scattered around his balding dome. He tugged his ear with a sheepish smile. “See, it’s like this. That crazy director didn’t like that last scene and insists we do another rewrite.”
Amata frowned. “What do you mean, she didn’t like it? I just spoke with her…”
“See, I told you!” The tallest character in the group threw his scrawny shoulders back. Thin as a rail, he wore a threadbare T-shirt with an anime female character in a suggestive pose, long pink hair flowing around her. “I’ll just go back and tell that director…”
