“We’ll do it just once more. I promise,” Peter added as Lee’s lip curled. “If it’s still there, I’ll let the guys in post deal with it.” He opened his mouth and closed it again, clearly deciding to leave the temperature question unanswered.

Green eyes glittered during a long pause. “One more.”

While another five hundred milliliters of blood were applied to the latex gash in the actress’ throat, Lee dropped back onto one knee.

Tony moved quietly around behind the video village and checked out the monitor showing the close-up of the actor’s face. The bar of shadow was still in place. He stepped hurriedly out of the DP’s way and winced as Sorge began to swear.

The shadow quivered.

And disappeared.

The torrent of French profanity stopped between one word and the next. “Go now.”

Peter dropped into his chair and jammed on his headphones. “Quiet!”

No need for anyone to repeat. The soundstage was so quiet, Tony reminded himself to breathe as he crossed his fingers.

“Roll cameras! Slate!”

“Scene 22B, take 18!”

Lee didn’t wait for action. Reaching down, he grabbed the corpse’s shoulder, flipped her over onto her back, and snarled, “Well, it looks like Raymond’s secret is safe.”

“Cut! Print.”

“It looked good,” Sorge murmured.

“It sounded like shit,” Peter snapped. “But we can fix that in post. Tina, I want the sound from take one.”

“Sound from one, got it.” As she noted it on her lined script, everyone else turned to watch Lee stomp off the set.

Peter pulled off his headphones as the corpse sat up and rubbed her shoulder. The crew moved about their usual post-print routine strangely subdued, as though they weren’t entirely certain how to react. “I don’t need a second prima donna around here,” the director sighed as the distant sound of a slamming door marked Lee’s passage from the soundstage.

“Maybe he’s still upset about the body. The real body,” Tony elaborated as everyone now turned to look at him. “You know . . .” He added a shrug to the explanation. “. . . Nikki.”

After a long moment, during which Tony mentally rewrote his résumé, Peter sighed again and gestured wearily in Lee’s wake. “Go make sure he’s all right.”

“I told CB we should have taken at least one day off,” he added as Tony hurried away.

Sorge snorted, the sound remarkably French. “And CB said the show must go on?”

“No, he told me to get the fuck out of his office.”

Lee’s dressing room door was open when Tony reached it. He paused, wiped sweaty hands against his thighs, and leaned forward just enough to see inside. Still in costume, Lee stood in the center of the room, slowly turning in place. It looked almost as though he was seeing the room for the first time.

“Uh, Lee?”

He continued turning until he faced the door, then stopped and frowned.

Tony had no idea why he was suddenly thinking of Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. “Are you okay?”