Far Out

By Khaled Talib and Benjamin White

Screenwriter Blake Deco' s life is upended when his Hollywood movie-star wife, Goldie Saint Helen, comes out of a coma after a car accident with a makeshift identity. Her lawyers see her condition as an opportunity to swindle her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RIZE
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781955062930

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As she lay on the verge along the Pacific Coast Highway under a starless April sky, a faint bleat caught Goldie’s lips. Her heart pounded irregularly as her breath whizzed in and out of her mouth. Blurry faces swam in her vision, and obfuscated voices floated through and lingered in her distorted senses. She heard maybe six; maybe more, maybe less. Her fading bleariness made it hard to tell.

Out of the corner of her eye, Goldie noticed the coils of steam spewing from the hood of an overturned Lexus underneath the mountain incline on the other side of the road. The red car had smashed into a barrier.

How did it happen?

She sucked in the salty breeze, struggling to refocus despite her discombobulation. As she writhed in pain, she felt her eyelids flicker, pulled down by her mortality.

Is it time to go?

Too soon to die.

At least let me say goodbye to…who?

Why can’t I remember anyone?

A hand repeatedly patted Goldie’s cheek, pulling her out of her stupor.

Stay with me, okay? Don’t sleep. Help is on the way. The soothing feminine voice kept Goldie in a state of equanimity. Her gaze strayed toward its owner, a young woman with long, dark hair bracketing a set of angelic eyes within a pale, long face etched with concern and worry.

Angel Eyes leered down at Goldie. Do you feel pain anywhere? Blink once for yes, and twice for no.

Goldie blinked once.

Don’t move. Angel Eyes gleamed with emotion. An ambulance will be here shortly.

She sure looks like Goldie Saint Helen, the movie star, came from another, astonished voice, this one belonging to a plump curly-haired girl with ringlets across her forehead. Hey, wait a minute―it is her!

Movie star? Who? Me?

You sure? Goldie heard another voice ask, this one from a man. Moments later, he inched forward, revealing himself: A blond with a surfer haircut.

"Remember Gun Kiss? We watched the movie last year, said the curly-haired girl. Goldie Saint Helen. She was kidnapped by a Mexican drug lord. Her husband saved her, and he wrote the original screenplay inspired by the incident."

Mexican drug lord? Husband? What’s my husband’s name?

A chilly breeze carrying the salty air swept over Goldie’s warm body, and she shivered involuntarily.

Someone get her a blanket from the van, Angel Eyes demanded.

The curly-haired girl stood up and scampered away. She returned momentarily with a blanket.

Goldie felt the thick blanket spread over her right up to her neck, rendering immediate warmth.

A smile blossomed across Angel Eyes’s face. We’ll stay here with you until the ambulance arrives. You’ll be okay.

A sting suppressed Goldie’s attempt to raise her lips into a smile. So, she blinked once to acknowledge Angel Eyes’s statement.

Car doors banged shut, and Goldie looked up as she heard someone approach.

What happened here? asked a woman wearing a jumper.

Goldie looked up at the woman, but the throbbing headache behind her eyes, which had spread across her cheek and down her ears, restrained her from prolonging her focusing. She dropped her eyes, subsiding the tension.

The woman doubled over, hands on her knees, her eyes fixed on Goldie; the look in them was somewhat curious, somewhat empathetic.

We’re not sure, the blond man replied. We pulled her out of her car, he said, pointing to the burning car. Flames unfurled from the hood, but were being fought by men with handheld extinguishers containing the fire from spreading in the interior and trunk.

Did you kids hit her? a beefy man asked, to which he received a volley of antagonistic replies.

The blond man stood and cocked his head towards a white van parked up ahead, along the verge. That’s our van over there. Go see if there’s any damage, then come and apologize to us.

The beefy man raised both hands, palms up. Take it easy, man. Just making sure.

Why don’t we let the police handle it? said the curly-haired girl.

The beefy man balked, pulling along the woman in the jumper.

Goldie saw more cars blur by, some stopping. Onlookers approached and jostled for a good spot.

Hey, isn’t she Goldie Saint Helen? asked a man in a yellow polo T-shirt. He took his phone out of his pocket and took a few pictures of Goldie. The camera flashed repeatedly, briefly blinding her.

Have you no shame, Mister? She’s a human being, snapped the curly-haired girl, glowering at the opportunist.

The man in the yellow T-shirt retreated to his car.

Asshole. The curly-haired girl stood up and snapped at the other bystanders. Well, what are you people waiting for? Go ahead and take some more pictures!

Take it easy, I can help, said a bob-haired woman in a gray sweater and white athletic pants.

Nothing much to be done here, unless you’re a doctor, Angel Eyes replied to her.

I’m a nurse, the bob-haired woman said. I just thought―

We’ve already called an ambulance, said the blond man.

Good. The bob-haired woman knelt beside Angel Eyes and smiled at Goldie. It’s going to be alright, dear. Keeping Goldie’s left hand elevated, she took hold of the ring on her fourth finger and tried to twirl it off.

Halfway past her knuckle, Goldie squealed in protest. The stinging cuts had bitten into her skin.

What are you doing? Angel Eyes asked suspiciously.

The bob-haired woman paused, leaving the ring half off. Her fingers are swelling. I need to take the ring off. Might help if I had a hand cream or some lotion. Anyone?

I’ve got a bottle of hand moisturizer in the car, a female voice blurted out. I’ll go get it.

Goldie stared at the dark sky, thoughts scattering in the timeless borderlands between consciousness and dreaming. Shortly afterward, she felt a cold, slimy substance spread around her finger.

The off-duty nurse gently turned the ring, easing it painlessly over Goldie’s knuckles. She worked on two more fingers, then rose, and semi-circled to Goldie’s right side. She repeated the procedure, pulling off two more rings from the other hand, and handed the collection to Angel Eyes.

Give them to the emergency services staff. They’ll know what to do.

Can you check to see if she’s got broken bones? Angel Eyes asked.

I can’t be sure, but there is trauma, the woman said.

Flasher strobes and rumbling sirens suddenly filled the air.

The woman stood up and stepped back. Make room for the paramedics.

You’re going to be okay. Help is here, Angel Eyes assured Goldie, smiling with her eyes.

Words of gratitude remained bottlenecked in Goldie’s throat. How could she repay this kind soul, her friends, and the bob-haired nurse?

A paramedic hunkered down beside Goldie and felt her left eyelid, trying to determine her level of consciousness. He shined a light into each of her eyes, then checked her pulse at her wrist. His words became a blur as he spoke to another paramedic. All at once, she felt a tight band of pressure around her head as hands lifted her onto a stretcher. Her eyes narrowed at her initial rescuers, finally resting on Angel Eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

An intravenous line of sodium bicarbonate in Goldie’s left hand kept her hydrated as she lay in bed in the private hospital room, unaware of her surroundings.

Blake stood by the side of her bed, clenching tightly to the bed rails, distressed at the sight of her gaunt face. The bruises on her forehead bothered him. She had needed a few stitches. Hopefully, the skin glue wouldn’t leave a permanent scar. It would take months to fade, and if that failed, Goldie would have to consult a plastic surgeon. She couldn’t afford to look disfigured.

He had spent the night at the hospital, reading text messages from friends and relatives offering support and asking for updates and watching the news on his phone. One news channel had footage of Goldie swerving her red Lexus along the Pacific Coast Highway to avoid the oncoming sedan after it drove into her lane. Her car upended when it hit the base of a mountain incline. The other driver had lost control of his vehicle and veered off the cliffside road.

Investigations revealed he had been driving under the influence. Other footage showed an old white van pulling up. Seven young people were seen pulling Goldie out of the burning Lexus.

Goldie should’ve taken the 405, a shorter way to reach Orange County. But she chose the long, five-hour drive. If only she had acted nonchalant after Fufu, the cat, massacred the tray of fresh muffins she baked. Perhaps she could have avoided the accident.

Taking off like that was rash.

The wall clock in the private room indicated 8 a.m. Thursday morning, the first week of April. Blake stepped out momentarily and strode toward the vending machine at the end of the hallway. He returned to find a nurse drawing the window curtains open, bathing the hue walls with the colors of the sun. Goldie remained asleep.

The door opened. Dr. Rawlins, who had been attending to Goldie’s case, walked in.

How is she, Doc? Blake asked.

She received a nasty whiplash, resulting in pinched nerves, Dr. Rawlins, standing on the opposite side of the bed, reported. Blunt force trauma of the head, arms, and legs, with nerve compression. The middle-aged medical specialist, who wore casuals and sported short black hair blending into a widow’s peak, continued, X-rays indicate no broken bones and no internal bleeding, so we can all be thankful for that. The bruises on her face and body will eventually heal. But―

Blake’s brows rose instinctively. But what?

Your wife has―

Goldie groaned.

Hey, guess who’s awake? Blake leaned towards her and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

Goldie muttered a few unintelligible words.

Blake brought his ear closer to her mouth.

If you ever kiss me again, I’ll make cod soup out of your cock and balls, she said, sotto voce.

Blake straightened up, gazing at Dr. Rawlins, who gestured him towards the door. Blake stepped outside, standing in the hallway. The doctor joined him momentarily.

From the look on your face, I gathered she must’ve said something that caught you off guard, Dr. Rawlins said.

She did, Blake said. Seems like she hasn’t forgiven me for acting indifferent when she complained to me about my cat ruining her freshly baked muffins.

I don’t think that’s the reason for her reaction towards you, Dr. Rawlins said. We’ve done a CT scan and sequences of MRI. There are abnormalities in her brain.

A salty tang coated the back of Blake’s throat. What do you mean by ‘abnormalities?’

Your wife has what we refer to as dissociative amnesia, Dr Rawlins explained. The force of the whiplash knocked her brain slightly out of place. The concussion has caused her memory to conflict and collide with her reality. She is trying to cope with the trauma, a survival mechanism to subdue the memory of the accident.

What are you saying, Doc? Blake asked, his voice faltering.

Until her memory returns, she’s not going to recognize you, Dr. Rawlins said.

Is it permanent?

Generally, it’s not, but for now she’s going to cling on to what she thinks is real, Dr Rawlins said. Her brain is trying to reconnect the lost history before and after the accident. So, it’s vicariously relying on fragments of memories from elsewhere to fill in the void. In plain English, her reality and fantasy have overlapped, and she thinks she’s someone else.

My wife suffers from PTSD after being kidnapped by a Mexican drug lord, twice. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist. Would this impair her situation in any way?

Honestly, we don’t know at this stage, but it’s best to keep an eye on her and stay out of trouble’s way. There’s not much her psychiatrist can do at this stage until she recovers. Be patient with her, and play along, Dr. Rawlins said. Everyone needs to understand her condition. We’re planning a press briefing. Can’t hide these things. For now, we’ll continue to monitor her. Hopefully, her memory will come back to her after a day or two.

Blake locked his fingers behind his neck. How’s this even real?

Get some rest. You’re going to need it.

They were alerted by rushing footsteps along the hallway. Blake shot Maya a glance as she headed towards him.

How’s she? Maya’s harried voice paired with her attire: A creased white blouse over black slacks and short, dark hair uncombed, with little makeup. She would’ve been prettier if not for the permanent frigidness etched on her face.

Blake introduced Dr. Rawlins to her as Goldie’s sister.

Dr. Rawlins cleared his throat. She’s stable, but―

But what, what, what? Maya’s face colored with a brush of agitation.

Blake raised a palm in abatement. She’s well physically, but she has dissociative amnesia. Memory loss. She didn’t recognize me.

She’ll recognize me. I’m her sister, Maya said.

Blake saw the stiffness in her face, a reminder she didn’t tolerate his existence. He had always made strained attempts to be polite to Maya, but their relationship had worsened since he married Goldie. The preparatory schoolteacher was the opposite of her movie star sister. Straightlaced, she liked controlling everyone around her sister, who, she felt, had married the wrong guy.

The best way to handle Maya was to shut her out.

Another familiar face appeared: Drew Matthews, Goldie’s agent at Creative Artists Agency.

How is she? Drew asked as he approached, carrying a basket of flowers.

Blake repeated himself on Goldie’s condition.

Don’t we have special drugs for this kind of condition? Drew asked. Paramount wants her to star in a new movie, and I need her to sign the contract.

Only time can heal her, Dr. Rawlins replied.

Drew was Goldie’s second agent, having replaced Bryan Whitehall, who had been shot and killed by his secretary, Susan McNair. She had come under duress after Dai Lo, the Mexican drug lord obsessed with Goldie, threatened to hurt her mother if she didn’t comply with his demands.

Drew’s pupils dilated before he subdued them. I don’t want the director to replace Goldie. She was born for the role of Gypsy Star, a private detective in the 60s. I gave her the script weeks ago. She wanted to do it.

Blake slid his hands in his back pockets and gave Drew a cold stare. My wife is lying in bed with a concussion, and all you can think of is your commission?

Drew’s expression struggled to hide the feeling of shame. Sorry, I—uh—I’ve got lots on my plate.

Maya shifted her glance to Dr. Rawlins. Can I see her?

The medical specialist’s chin jerked in approval.

Brace yourself, Blake cautioned Maya. Remember, she may not recognize you.

Maya opened the hospital room door, strode in, and let it slowly swing shut.

You sure there’s no permanent damage to Goldie? Blake asked in a pleading voice, expecting Dr. Rawlins to assure him again, even if the words were simply a rehash of his previous sentences.

Dr. Rawlins offered an empathetic response to Blake’s unease. Nothing I’ve not seen before. She’ll be as good as new in no time.

Well, all I can say is that I’m happy Goldie doesn’t have to replace her set of teeth with veneers. She’s got a natural smile, Drew chimed in, his upper lip jiggling an undecided smile as to whether or not the humor was acceptable.

Sensing Drew’s discomfort, Blake gave him a weak smile. Don’t give her any ideas. I like her natural look.

They engaged in small talk for the next 10 minutes, then a loud scream pierced through the door.

Blake flung the door open and rushed into the room to Goldie’s hysterical cackling as she violently thrashed in bed. The nurse, who had remained inside, struggled to hold her down as blood stained her uniform and bedsheet when Goldie ripped the intravenous tube out of her arm.

What happened? Dr. Rawlins rushed to Goldie’s bedside, joining the nurse to hold Goldie down.

Maya had recoiled against the window, hands cupping her mouth.

The nurse stabbed her thumb at the emergency call button on the wall.

She’s a liar! You’re not my husband. All of you are liars, Goldie―noticeably out of character―snapped obstreperously with an edge to her voice that was not like Goldie at all. "Trying to shuck me into your secret CIA plan? Motherfuckers! Screw the CIA! Screw MKUltra! You’re not going to get me! You can’t stop me from finding Candace!"

Who the hell is Candace?

Goldie glared fixedly at Blake, her blue eyes spiraling like water running down the drain before she disappeared behind a code team who responded to the call.

Drew appeared and stood at the edge of the bed. What happened?

I told her we were siblings―and she was married to Blake, Maya said, tears welling up in her eyes.

Don’t pressure her, Dr. Rawlins said in frustration. She’ll find her way back eventually.

Drew approached Maya and hugged her as one of the nurses cleaned up Goldie’s bleeding arm before another one reinserted the cannula needle.

I’m giving her a sedative, Dr. Rawlins said, injecting a syringe into Goldie’s other arm. Relax, Goldie, The doctor coaxed.

They held Goldie down for several more minutes for the sedative to take effect.

My name is Gypsy! Goldie responded before she stopped struggling and relaxed, eventually closing her eyes.

How can she forget me? Maya said, trying to comport herself. She doesn’t even know who she is.

You’ll just have to accept the fact that she’s not who she is for now, Dr. Rawlins said. Leave her be. That’s my advice.

She said her name is Gypsy Star, Maya said. Who is Gypsy Star and Candace?

Blake’s gaze shifted absently to the window, overlooking a mountainous horizon. Gypsy Star is a movie character, Blake said.

Drew handed the basket of flowers to a nurse, who placed it on the bedside table. Gypsy Star is the leading role your sister’s been offered to play. She’s a hippie private eye in San Francisco who runs her office in the sixties in one of those painted ladies, he said, referring to one of those Victorian houses she inherited from her late parents. She is hired by a wealthy couple to find their missing eighteen-year-old daughter, Candace. The girl’s been missing for a year and has been hanging with a group of hippies in Haight Ashbury. Gypsy Star infiltrates the group and discovers the CIA is giving out free drugs as part of a mind control experiment. They want to study its effects. Star rescues the missing girl, and in the course she also exposes the CIA plot.

A frown tugged the corners of Blake’s lips before his eyes gravitated from Drew and Maya to Goldie. He watched Goldie’s chest heave as she slept. How is she, Doc?

She needs rest, Dr. Rawlins said.

I can stay with her, if it helps, Maya said, wiping the tears off her face.

Blake transfixed his eyes back at her. I think we need to give Goldie some space.

Hey, I’m still her sister, Maya said, giving Blake a side glance of displeasure.

Blake pulled back slightly, seeking reassurance from Dr. Rawlins that Maya was not being unreasonable.

She may be your sister, but she’s our patient, Dr. Rawlins glanced at Maya. You can stay, but remember, she doesn’t recognize you, so whoever she thinks you are, you’ll have to play along. She needs time, not aggravation.

Well, that settles everything, Blake said. You take this shift, and I’ll see you in the morning.

Fine, Maya said.

Hopefully, you won’t end up here as a patient, too.

The words didn’t escape his mouth.

The wise know when to zip it.

CHAPTER THREE

Blake had a quick lunch at the hospital’s cafeteria before taking the 405. About half an hour into the drive, he stopped at a road shoulder to take a short nap. Half an hour seemed like a long time, enough to rejuvenate him to start the engine and continue down the road again.

Nearing the end of the lunch hour, he arrived at Mama Tacos, a three-floor restaurant with a net-like façade he owned along Sunset Boulevard. A din of chatter and soft music piping ceiling speakers greeted him inside the brick and steel interior.

He strode to the bar counter and eased onto the swivel stool. Resting his elbows on the countertop, he watched Slim Sam jiggle a shaker and pour a concoction into a tall glass for a customer a few stools away. Standing at the same height as a commercial kitchen fridge, the slick-haired, scrawny-faced bartender acknowledged his presence with a small lift of the hand and slinked across the counter towards him.

How’s she doing? Slim Sam said, leaning forward, both arms folded on the countertop. Cheeks flattening his grin, the bartender’s deep-set eyes were ready to connect and listen to his employer and friend.

No serious damage, but she’s got a case of amnesia, Blake said. She doesn’t know who she is. As far as she’s concerned, I’m a CIA agent. Good for the cat, not good for me.

Slim Sam flinched. "Jesus."

Don’t count on her remembering him either, Blake said. She threw a tantrum at the hospital. I’m afraid she’ll do it again if provoked. Her sister, Maya, tried to convince her they were siblings and I was married to her. It backfired like a soldier mishandling a grenade, Blake said, creasing his forehead.

Want a drink?

Coffee—no sugar, Blake said. I didn’t sleep too well last night.

Slim Sam stepped away and came back later with a brewed cup.

Blake took a sip, wincing a bit when the hot liquid caught his tongue. I need to plan a short vacay for her, keep her away from the public eye, especially from those paparazzi fuckers. Seeing Goldie’s violent reaction freaked me out. I swear, I thought she was going to turn her head three-sixty. Since she doesn’t remember we’re married, guess I won’t be getting any for who knows how long. How do I even convince her to leave the hospital with me?

Hey, if you can sell a movie script to Hollywood, you can convince her with a story, Slim Sam said.

You just gave me an idea, Blake said, his eyes expressing approval over the rim of the coffee cup.

Slim Sam smiled. Where would the world be without us?

Blake stepped off the stool and gave Slim Sam a finger gun as he sauntered towards the kitchen door.

Amidst the clanking, chopping, and sizzling grill, the kitchen staff on both sides of the stainless counter greeted Blake verbally and with hand gestures as he walked past them. He paused in front of an integrated fridge with a password lock and keyed in the code. The door opened outward, revealing a hidden two-passenger elevator. He stepped inside, swallowed by its metal walls, and pulled the door shut. Almost immediately, he felt the descent.

Blake stepped out into a large, windowless white room. A pink-felt pool table stood in one corner, the most striking furniture in a white-walled room designed minimally. His friend Jack Rowan hid behind a slim desktop monitor. Jack ran a one-man aerial filming company from the rent-free basement. Courtesy of Blake.

Jack peered up behind the screen. Hey, how is she?

Physically, she’s doing well; mentally, she thinks she’s the female Mike Hammer…

Blake walked around Jack’s desk and pulled out a chair