Free Scarlet Thunder by Sigmund Brouwer Page B

trailer, where I had just borrowed the phone.
    More strange. From the beginning of this shoot, I’d never seen Brian talking with Tim, not even at the barbecue. They weren’t friends. So why would Brian be going there now, when he was supposed to be helping Uncle Mike? And why did Brian look so nervous? What was going on?
    I moved to the edge of another motor home, keeping out of sight. I was still halfthe length of a football field away, with maybe half a dozen other trailers lining the pavement between us. It was close enough, though, to clearly see Tim Becker’s face when he answered the knock on his door.
    Tim looked angry.
    He looked around, then pulled Brian Nelson inside. Quickly. Like he didn’t want anyone to see them together.
    Enough weird things had happened that I decided I wasn’t imagining things. Brian was someplace I hadn’t expected him to be. And he’d looked guilty getting there. Tim didn’t want him there. Yet Tim had quickly pulled Brian into the trailer anyway.
    I made a decision. At the back of Tim’s trailer, next to his desk, was a window. While I was on the phone, I had noticed it was open.
    I told myself that if they talked loud enough for me to overhear, it wasn’t really like spying. And that if they didn’t have anything to hide, they wouldn’t be mad that I had listened.
    So I moved quietly around the side of the trailer and stood beneath the window.

chapter eighteen
    â€œTo me, it’s simple,” I heard Brian Nelson say. “I did my job. The shoot is over. All the film in the can is trashed. I want to get paid.”
    Film? Trashed? What did he mean, trashed?
    â€œAnd I told you,” Tim Becker said. “Not until Hiser misses the deadline completely. Once I am guaranteed he can’t produce the show, you will get paid.”
    â€œNo chance he’s going to make it now,” Brian said. “I just told you. Whatever filming was done is useless. I want my money soI can quit and get out of here before they can blame me.”
    â€œTomorrow,” Tim said. “But don’t come here to get it. Call me. Last thing I want is for someone to see us together.”
    â€œNot tomorrow,” Brian Nelson said. “This afternoon. And I want an extra five thousand dollars.”
    â€œYou’re nuts. You’re already getting ten thousand.”
    â€œLook,” Brian said. “I’m not stupid. I watched you all through that barbecue. You brought us our fruit salads. It wasn’t until I heard what the doctor said that I realized what you had done. You could have at least warned me.”
    â€œAnd if you were the only one not sick,” Tim said, “it would have looked strange.”
    â€œFair enough,” Brian said. “But it’s worth an extra five grand. Or maybe you’d like me to go back to the same reporter you sent me to with the other story.”
    â€œFine, fine,” Tim Becker said. “I’ll have the money for you this afternoon.”
    â€œCash,” Brian Nelson insisted.
    â€œAre you absolutely sure the film is useless?”
    â€œI know my business.”
    â€œAll right then,” Tim agreed. “Cash.”
    Brian Nelson? Getting money from Tim Becker? Getting money to mess up Uncle Mike’s deadline?
    I didn’t understand. I wondered what to do next.
    I heard the screen door open and close. I pushed back farther into the shadows. I wondered if I should follow Brian.
    Before I could decide, I heard a tiny bip, bip, bip. It came through the open window. I was so close to Tim Becker that I could actually hear him punching in numbers on his telephone.
    Bip, bip, bip. There was a pause. Then I clearly heard Tim speak. “Hello, Linda. Can you put me through? It’s Tim.”
    Another pause. I guessed Tim was waiting to be put through.
    â€œYeah,” Tim said. “Just want you to know that the production crew is on the wayout. They