Read Online Final Scream by David Brookover - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Brookover
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entrance. The afternoon sun reflected off the four stories of tinted mirrored glass, but his awe was short-lived. His focus reverted to Noah and Natalie’s plights. Somehow, he thought, the sudden Terror Island communications breakdown and Natalie’s transformation into the murderous Wicker person were connected, and he believed Margaret Wentworth could clear up some or all of that mystery.
Nick clenched his teeth after kissing Gabriella and exiting the SUV. He straightened his suitcoat. Oh yes, there was one other thing he wanted to clear up. What in hell was Oracle hiding by refusing to release the Final Scream—Terror Island video?
Nick watched Gabriella drive off, and his lips tightened to a taut line. If Geronimo discovered the Mercedes driver who picked up Natalie behind the hospital was an Oracle employee, Maggie Wentworth would wish she had never been born when he finished with her. Sending the two cops to Alaska had been child’s play compared to what he could do to the Oracle president.
The expansive open lobby was comfortably cool and well-appointed with expensive paintings, replicas of ancient statues, leather furniture, and grass green carpeting that projected the feel of walking in a meadow. Nick approached the guard station, introduced himself and the purpose of his visit, and signed the guest register. One of the two guards phoned Wentworth’s secretary to announce Nick’s arrival, while the other insisted Nick empty his pockets before walking through the metal detector.
When he checked out fine, the man gave him a stick-on name badge and pointed toward the mirrored elevator doors fifty feet behind the guard station. One of the elevator doors slid aside, and Nick walked inside and pressed the fourth floor button. Wentworth’s aloof secretary escorted him into her boss’ office without uttering a single word. She shut the door behind him, and Nick glanced around the over-the-top extravagant interior before acknowledging the president’s presence. Who was she trying to impress with such gaudy furnishings? Certainly not anyone with genuine taste.
Margaret “Maggie” Wentworth stood, stepped forward, and firmly pumped his hand. Nick immediately pegged her as one of those corn-cob-up-the-ass administrators with an ego the size of Los Angeles.
“Maggie Wentworth,” she offered coolly. She wore a black pant suit, frilly white blouse, and high-heeled pumps.
“Nick Bellamy,” he replied and eased himself into one of the two plush burgundy chairs fronting her whitewashed wood desk. He noted an array of switches, speakers, and security monitors built in the desk’s surface. One of them displayed a full view of the parking lot, and he was glad that Gabriella drove away. The last thing he wanted was to arouse her suspicion.
The fortyish Oracle CEO had a tall, graceful frame with wide, rounded shoulders. Her lips were firm and thin, her cheeks high and pink, and her round hazel eyes sharp and assessing. Wentworth’s tapered jaw, oblong face, and stony expression reminded him of Cruella de Vil from the movie 101 Dalmatians . A wealth of auburn hair streaked with ruby highlights tumbled over her shoulders as she returned to her high-backed leather desk chair.
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Bellamy?” she demanded, coming straight to the point.
“First of all, call me Nick. And to answer your question, I believe my secretary spelled out why I’m here. I need to gather as much information as possible for the president’s inquiry concerning your doomed reality show, Final Scream—Terror Island .”
It took several tries before she cleared an obstinate frog from her throat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than I’ve already told the press, except we finally established contact with our Terror Island crew an hour ago, and they’ve repaired the technical issues,” she said evenly.
Nick leaned forward and swept a few stray hairs from his crinkled forehead. “Nice try, Ms.
Nick clenched his teeth after kissing Gabriella and exiting the SUV. He straightened his suitcoat. Oh yes, there was one other thing he wanted to clear up. What in hell was Oracle hiding by refusing to release the Final Scream—Terror Island video?
Nick watched Gabriella drive off, and his lips tightened to a taut line. If Geronimo discovered the Mercedes driver who picked up Natalie behind the hospital was an Oracle employee, Maggie Wentworth would wish she had never been born when he finished with her. Sending the two cops to Alaska had been child’s play compared to what he could do to the Oracle president.
The expansive open lobby was comfortably cool and well-appointed with expensive paintings, replicas of ancient statues, leather furniture, and grass green carpeting that projected the feel of walking in a meadow. Nick approached the guard station, introduced himself and the purpose of his visit, and signed the guest register. One of the two guards phoned Wentworth’s secretary to announce Nick’s arrival, while the other insisted Nick empty his pockets before walking through the metal detector.
When he checked out fine, the man gave him a stick-on name badge and pointed toward the mirrored elevator doors fifty feet behind the guard station. One of the elevator doors slid aside, and Nick walked inside and pressed the fourth floor button. Wentworth’s aloof secretary escorted him into her boss’ office without uttering a single word. She shut the door behind him, and Nick glanced around the over-the-top extravagant interior before acknowledging the president’s presence. Who was she trying to impress with such gaudy furnishings? Certainly not anyone with genuine taste.
Margaret “Maggie” Wentworth stood, stepped forward, and firmly pumped his hand. Nick immediately pegged her as one of those corn-cob-up-the-ass administrators with an ego the size of Los Angeles.
“Maggie Wentworth,” she offered coolly. She wore a black pant suit, frilly white blouse, and high-heeled pumps.
“Nick Bellamy,” he replied and eased himself into one of the two plush burgundy chairs fronting her whitewashed wood desk. He noted an array of switches, speakers, and security monitors built in the desk’s surface. One of them displayed a full view of the parking lot, and he was glad that Gabriella drove away. The last thing he wanted was to arouse her suspicion.
The fortyish Oracle CEO had a tall, graceful frame with wide, rounded shoulders. Her lips were firm and thin, her cheeks high and pink, and her round hazel eyes sharp and assessing. Wentworth’s tapered jaw, oblong face, and stony expression reminded him of Cruella de Vil from the movie 101 Dalmatians . A wealth of auburn hair streaked with ruby highlights tumbled over her shoulders as she returned to her high-backed leather desk chair.
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Bellamy?” she demanded, coming straight to the point.
“First of all, call me Nick. And to answer your question, I believe my secretary spelled out why I’m here. I need to gather as much information as possible for the president’s inquiry concerning your doomed reality show, Final Scream—Terror Island .”
It took several tries before she cleared an obstinate frog from her throat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than I’ve already told the press, except we finally established contact with our Terror Island crew an hour ago, and they’ve repaired the technical issues,” she said evenly.
Nick leaned forward and swept a few stray hairs from his crinkled forehead. “Nice try, Ms.
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