Treasure in the Woods Page 6

  “Fancy that,” Carrie said lightly. “Insurance fraud.”

  “But by someone other than the camera operators,” Chris said. “They’re angry about this. Like, really angry. Whoever wrecked the equipment only had a vague sense of what was useful and what wasn’t and they got a couple things wrong. It’s like I tried to wreck the cameras based entirely on the one tour I got last night.”

  “Maybe don’t tell anyone else that,” Maddison said. “We’re trying to be as unsuspicious as possible.”

  “Uh, right.” Chris looked automatically to Carrie, who was normally the person who yelled at him for that sort of thing, but Carrie was a little busy staring worriedly off into space. “Carrie?” Chris asked.

  “You said that they only hit the stuff that the insurance would cover?” Carrie said slowly. “Like, maybe, they knew the stuff the insurance would cover and the stuff it wouldn’t?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But they also didn’t know that much about cameras?”

  “Yeah,” Chris agreed.

  “Do any of the camera operators know what stuff the insurance will cover?” Carrie asked.

  “They know in general,” Chris said, “but Todd was really freaked out about the one handheld camera until Bethy told him it was covered in the new policy—they just updated their insurance a couple months ago. I don’t think anyone really knows except for Harry and maybe Redd, and Bethy’s going over the forms right now so she will after today—oh,” he said when something crashed in the bushes behind him. “So,” Chris said, “that would mean . . . um . . . aside from us, guess who didn’t share a tent with anyone?”

  “Redd?”

  Chris blinked and nodded. “Right,” he agreed. “But I actually meant Harry? Who knows exactly what the insurance will cover and what it won’t and what’s covered under the changed policy, and who doesn’t have the same scruples that Bethy does or the relaxed attitude that Redd does, and who would have a pretty good incentive for getting that insurance money. He’d probably put it right back into the show,” Chris added, warming to his subject. “He really seems to care about the show in a twisted sort of way.” He noticed Carrie looking at him in horror and a second later realized why. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Carrie said faintly. “And he’s got a gun, so don’t move, okay?”

  IT HAD HAPPENED TOO FAST TO WARN CHRIS, THAT was the problem: one moment there had been nobody in the clearing but the three of them and the next Harry Bradlaw had fought his way out of one of the bushes, eyes wild and gun in hand.

  The bushes, Maddison thought, I knew they weren’t supposed to be moving like that. And then, because her recent life experiences were weighing on her more than she had realized, Why did it have to be guns again?

  “Okay,” she said out loud, because Chris shouldn’t have to negotiate while that close to a crazed guy with a gun, and Carrie was maybe starting to hyperventilate a little bit. “Okay, Harry? Mister Bradlaw? I know you’re upset. Do you want to . . . talk about it?”

  Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, she told herself. And invest in hostage negotiation training if you survive this.

  But apparently the producer took that as an encouragement because he took a gasping breath and launched into a stream of hysterical babble while Maddison tried to figure out a good way to get help before the situation deteriorated. Deteriorated more than it already had, that was.

  “This is my life! Do you understand that?” Harry said. He was looming over Chris, and Maddison couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he was shaking too hard to hold the gun steady. The good thing was that he was only pointing the gun at Chris half the time, but the bad thing was that if he decided to start shooting he could hit any one of them. He could even hit himself. “This is my life,” Harry continued, “and it’s going down the toilet because of those stupid alligators!”

  “Yes, the alligators are terrible,” Maddison agreed frantically. Harry actually met her gaze for a second, before swinging the gun around and firing a shot into the woods behind him. Carrie and Maddison both flinched. Chris, admirably, did not. “Alligators!” Harry screamed. “Nobody actually wants to see a person grab an alligator! But they think they do, oh yes, they think they do, because that idiot Penderson likes them and he gives them all the funding! And I can’t get around them or prove them wrong because nobody on this flipping crew has ever heard of competition! I had to do something to get us back in the headlines and keep us from going bankrupt! I needed to do something or—”

  Maddison had been staring at Harry, trying to see if he would make a move to back off or if she could get Chris away from him. But she still jumped a mile when a dark form came tearing out of the woods and tackled Harry to the ground.

  Chris threw himself out of the way and toward Carrie and Maddison, and the gun Harry had been waving went flying in a low arc and Carrie scooped it up. It sounded like she ejected the magazine and cleared the bullet out of the chamber, but Maddison was too busy stumbling backward, shocked, to notice. And then they were standing in a scared huddle, staring at Robin Redd and the man he’d just effortlessly tackled.

  That’s the problem with the woods, Maddison thought distantly, rather than deal with the problem in front of her. Wayyy too easy to hide in them.

  “He’s out cold,” the B-list television star in question said. Redd’s aim had been perfect and his voice was steady but the hands that pushed his hair out of his eyes were shaking. “Must have tackled him a little too hard, but I needed to make sure he stayed down. Are you all right?”

  He looked smaller, sitting on the ground practically on top of Harry with his hair falling over his face and his shirt half untucked. He also looked somehow more solid and more like someone you could rely on. And stricken, because it was obvious that Redd liked Harry and it was equally obvious that he liked him for much more than just the show. Or for show business.

  “I was afraid something like this would happen,” Redd said sadly while Maddison just stared at him and Chris and Carrie chose to clutch each other in shock instead of telling him that they were both all right. “He’s been acting erratic and irritable since Gator Grabbers started getting popular and I knew the bolt cutters were a warning sign, but I just . . . ” Redd sighed. “Nobody ever expects it to be your own producer,” he explained sadly, just as Bethy came skidding to a stop next to Chris with the rest of the crew a half step behind her.

  “We heard a gunshot!” one of the camera crew said breathlessly. “What hap—no!”

  “Harry!” Bethy cried, dropping to her knees next to the prone form of her brother. She was white as a sheet.

  “Hey, no, it’s okay,” Redd told her. “He’s not dead. He’s just unconscious.”

  “I’m—I’m not sure that’s any better,” Bethy said faintly. Redd put an arm around her and she leaned into him, shaking, for a single second. Then she shook herself and looked up at Chris, Carrie, and Maddison. “And you—are you three all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “Oh!” Maddison said. “Um.”

  “He was just . . . ” Carrie tried. Truth be told, Maddison was stuck between panicking about the fact that Harry had just tried to shoot them and desperately assuring everyone that they were totally and completely fine, so that nobody called the police over what was looking more and more like a nervous breakdown. She got the feeling Carrie was stuck in the same dilemma, and turned to Chris. She felt that as the person almost shot, he should have the biggest say.

  “Oh,” Chris said nervously, looking like he wanted to hide from all the staring, “I’m fine.”

  Since he had narrowly avoided death-by-gunman just minutes before, and none of the crew knew that this was becoming a regular occurrence for Chris, nobody believed him. Maddison was too worried to let Chris shrug this off. With her folded arms and scowl, Carrie felt similarly. Chris looked hopefully to them, realized he wasn’t getting any help, and turned back to Bethy. “But it was
much better than the last time I was menaced by an angry, gun-wielding person?” he tried.

  This was clearly not as reassuring as he had hoped. Bethy made a small whimpering sound and sat back against a convenient tree trunk and one of the camera operators made a lunge in the direction of his tent, muttering about “open container laws be damned,” and had to be grabbed by his friend. Redd, who was either more perceptive than previously suspected, or graced with a much darker sense of humor, genuinely smiled at them from his uncomfortable position next to the prone Harry. Carrie pinched the bridge of her nose and punched Chris very gently on the arm.

  “Chris, remember how we had that talk about not throwing curveballs into the conversation?” Carrie asked.

  “No?” Chris said.

  “Aaargh.”

  “But Carrie and Maddison and I are all fine,” Chris continued brightly while Carrie kicked a tree branch in irritation. “So we can all just go our separate ways and no harm done, right?”

  The camera operator who’d been holding his friend back gave Chris a long, considering look, and released his death grip.

  “Finally! Anyone else want something—ow!”

  Karen the makeup artist and camera operator had amazing aim.

  “We should get contact information from at least one of you,” Redd said thoughtfully. “And I wouldn’t mind if Flo took a quick look at Chris to make sure he isn’t about to drop dead of delayed-onset heart attack or something, but if we don’t press charges—”

  “We aren’t pressing charges?” Bethy asked.

  “The main victim here is Harry,” Redd said as if it was obvious. “And Chris, of course, but Chris doesn’t seem that bothered, so as long as we pay for the damages without hitting up the insurance company and get the show done on time I don’t see why we’d need to.” He looked up and around at the gathered crowd, and Maddison was unexpectedly relieved to find everyone nodding. Some of them a little reluctantly, true, but everyone was nodding.

  “I . . . there are gaping holes in that plan,” Bethy said, but she looked determined instead of defeated. There was a little color creeping back into her cheeks. “And I think Harry needs to take a decent vacation—a nice long vacation, and how are we going to get the entire shoot done with only two cameras, oh heavens . . . ” Now she looked faintly overwhelmed, but that, Maddison was learning, was Bethy’s default setting.

  “Ooh,” Chris said, “I know, you should—”

  “No!” Carrie yelped.

  “Do it all handheld!” Chris finished innocently.

  Redd, at least, got the joke, if the way he doubled over laughing was anything to go by.

  In the end, they went with the zipped-into-a-sleeping-bag option for Harry—he regained consciousness long enough for Redd to give him one of his sleeping pills, tell him everything was going to be fine, and jam the zipper of the sleeping bag after zipping it securely all the way up on Harry. Why Redd thought giving a previously unconscious person a sleeping pill was a good idea was then the subject of brief and furious debate before Flo reassured everyone that Harry had not had a concussion, that Harry would be fine, and that Redd was an idiot.

  “We already knew that!” Bethy said, throwing up her arms, but then she’d gone off to worry over cameras and to file contact information.

  They had actually given Bethy their contact information just that morning, since she had been the one to dig out a sheaf of waivers left over from the last attempt to let a contest-winning fan meet the cast and crew, and had found a working pen for Chris, Carrie, and Maddison to sign them with.

  “What happened last time?” Carrie had asked, when Bethy didn’t snatch the sticky note with “never again” scribbled on it off the folder fast enough.

  “Terrible things,” Bethy had said, “like dive-bombing owls. Just don’t ask.”

  Because Carrie and Maddison had packed their things up before the little incident with Harry and the gun, they really could have accepted a granola bar and an apple and booked it in about five minutes. But Redd had been serious when he said he wanted Flo to give Chris a quick once-over, so Maddison and Carrie ended up sitting at the picnic table next to the television star, waiting for the caterer who was also the certified nurse to give them the okay.

  They were joined only by Redd, since everyone else was arguing over the cameras and the best way to use the remaining cameras to film an entire show.

  “Do you usually have everyone pulling double duty like this?” Carrie asked Redd, and he laughed and shook his head.

  “Yes, and this is one of the things that was driving Harry crazy,” he explained. “We can’t afford half the crew we really need, and we can’t attract them anyway because nobody wants to work for us, so the people who haven’t left keep having to take on more roles. It’s because of the economy,” Redd added solemnly, and Carrie snorted.

  But then they fell into silence, Maddison nibbling on a granola bar and swinging her legs just for something to do, and Redd was now sneaking glances, carefully as possible, at Carrie. Maddison would maybe have chalked it up to the rampant paranoia that started with Chris and was catching, except Carrie was fidgeting under the attention. And Redd was trying extremely hard not to let on he was trying to sneak glances, and really this was getting ridiculous.

  “Carrie,” Maddison whispered, because whispering seemed appropriate. “Do you have something invisible on your face? It’s distracting Redd.”

  Not her best line, true, but it did the trick. Carrie laughed and Redd jumped guiltily.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Forgive me my woolgathering. You look frighteningly like someone I used to know.”

  “Really,” Carrie asked. “Who?”

  “Oh,” Redd laughed. “It’s a long story and not a fun one. Not something you burden the youth of America with at any rate. You just . . . ”

  “I just what?” Carrie was doing her best to be gentle. Redd just looked at her. Really looked at her, like he was trying to memorize her face or compare it to some mental image, and it was edging back into awkward territory when Chris fought his way free of Flo and Redd shook his head and the spell broke.

  “He’s disgustingly healthy!” Flo yelled from inside the tent. “Now get out and let me make sandwiches in peace!”

  “You just look like someone I used to know,” Redd said lightly to Carrie, hopping to his feet. He flourished an arm. “And the setting, the summer sun, and the trees are all adding to the illusion. You three are a strange and charming sight, and I wish you all the best,” he added. “Just be careful out there in the woods. You never know what’s going to happen.”

  AFTER THE EXCITEMENT OF THE MORNING IT WAS almost a relief to get back on the trail, and return to forging down a partially overgrown hiking trail while listening to the peaceful buzzing of bugs in the woods. Chris was almost able to pretend that he wasn’t shaky with adrenaline from his second near-brush with death, but Carrie knew him too well, and Maddison was scarily perceptive. Or just a very lucky guesser. She linked an arm in his in a disappointingly platonic manner and refused to let him slump to the floor of the state park and become one with the ferns and passing snakes, and instead insisted on talking about, of all things, ice cream. Ice-cream cones, to be exact.

  “I’m just saying,” Maddison said, helping Chris over a short trunk blocking the path, “there is no reason anyone should ever eat cake cones.”

  “But you can set them down on a flat surface,” Chris protested. Carrie was humming a waltz behind them. “You can’t do that with a waffle cone.”

  “You can’t usually do it with a cake cone, either,” Maddison pointed out. “They get soggy, or they tilt, or they have some little defect in the seam—and what kind of ice cream accessory has a seam? And then you’re stuck holding a soggy, cardboard-flavored ice-cream holder, but it’s technically edible so you feel guilty if you don’t eat it.”

  “I’d never thought about it like that,” Chris said. He actually liked the way cake ice-cream cones tasted. />
  “Oh, and that’s another thing,” added Maddison, now on a roll. “Who sets their ice cream down and leaves it for later?”

  “What if someone wants to have melted ice-cream soup?” Chris offered.

  “Then they should put it in a bowl, Chris.”

  Chris opened his mouth to point out the convenience of not having any dishes to wash when you had an ice-cream cone, but was interrupted by Carrie, who stopped, grabbed them both by the collars of their shirts, and declared that if she had to listen to two people argue about ice cream she was going to do so while eating some.

  “And do either of you see any ice cream?” Carrie demanded. Chris decided that forging ahead of Carrie so she would go slower because of her foot was less fun than following behind her at a meandering pace. Hiking with Carrie was always going to be slightly unnerving.

  “I think we’re giving Carrie cravings,” he told Maddison. “New topic?”

  “Yep. So how do you feel about salads?”

  “Guys,” Carrie groaned.

  “How about this,” Maddison said, sobering. “Chris, did you hear the conversation between Carrie and Redd while you were trying to convince a medical professional that you were perfectly fine just minutes after almost getting shot?”

  “I did, actually,” Chris said. “Did he give us a cryptic warning right there at the end or am I just imagining things again?”

  “I’m not sure,” Carrie said. They were picking their way through a soggy patch and for a moment they were too busy watching out for snakes to talk, but when they hit drier land Carrie picked the conversation back up. “I’d almost call it a friendly warning.”