Chapter 1: Collision Course

David Olsen, twenty-one and a junior at the University of Southern California, was changing out of the scrubs he had been wearing all afternoon. David was a pre-med at USC besides playing on the USC Trojans' varsity basketball team, and in the waning days of his junior year he was working at the Outpatient Clinic of USC University Hospital.

David's ambition was to become a doctor and playing basketball for the Trojans had been his chance to afford studying at USC instead of Montana State University. He had hoped to be picked up for two or three seasons by an NBA team after graduation to lay the financial foundation for his continued education, but that prospect was turning sour after the Trojans had to forfeit their entire 2007/2008 season wins when a player violated National Collegiate Athletic Association regulations. There was no telling what further sanctions NCAA would impose on the team.

He finished changing and picked up his helmet and jacket. Time to leave. Outside in the parking lot, he found his motorcycle. Riding the bike was ideal for him since parking was a bitch both on campus and at the hospital. The bike, an ancient BMW, was an heirloom from his father, Donald Olsen, and it was David's most prized possession.

Donald Olsen had been a Clearwater, MT, deputy sheriff. He died of third degree burns six years previously when he tried to rescue a family from their burning car. He could get the children out, but before he was able to pull the woman from the passenger seat, the gas tank blew up. They called Donald Olsen a hero and the governor came to the burial in person, but for David and his kid sister Danielle, Dani to family and friends, the loss was traumatic. Judy Olsen, David's mother, pulled them through. A deputy sheriff herself, she kept the family intact and her kids on track.

David left the hospital compound at low speed, letting his eyes get accustomed to the darkness. It was past eleven p.m. and traffic was light on this Friday night. David took the Hollywood Freeway, following Route 101 and planning to turn south on 110 for the four miles to the campus. There was a construction site ahead, and one lane of the westbound traffic had to switch over to the eastbound side. The construction crew had built up a low divider to separate the west- and eastbound lanes. David did not mind the narrow lane with his motorcycle. He kept to the 40 mph speed limit and enjoyed the feel of the night air.

He let his mind wander a bit. The weekend was coming up and he weighed calling his girlfriend Marsha. The relationship was drawing to its inevitable end. Marsha was on the cheerleading squad and she was serious about becoming a dancer. Being associated with a varsity player and possible NBA prospect gave her the standing she craved, but David felt increasingly that this was the extent of her feelings for him. She on the other hand felt stifled by David's tight schedule. Being a varsity player and earning the grades he would need for med school left little time for the activities Marsha loved, such as visiting theaters and art exhibitions.

David acknowledged ruefully that his idea of weekend activity comprised a movie and getting laid, or the other way around. Perhaps it was time to move on. Being on the varsity team, he could easily find a lower maintenance girlfriend for his needs but Marsha would also be able to find somebody sharing her interests.

Coasting along he was completely unprepared when an oncoming small convertible suddenly swerved to the left and broke through the divider. There was not even enough time for his right hand to reach the brake lever before he collided head-on with the convertible. Fortunately, he was thrown clear over the roadster in an awkward somersault, but he crash-landed hard on his back.

"Mel! Are you ready yet? The guests will be here any minute!"

"Damn it, it's not yet a quarter to eight, Mom!" Mel - Melanie Renault to the world - yelled back.

She wasn't very eager for the party anyway. It would be her mother's friends and colleagues attending. Her mother, Lana Hartwell, was an actress always hunting for the next bit part, be it as crime victim in a cop show or as a mother with the right laundry detergent in a commercial. This party was to make it known that she still existed and was looking for work, and Melanie was the bait to make the guests attend.

Once, Lana Hartwell had been an up and coming young actress, but that was over twenty years ago. Back then she was doing bit parts and even supporting roles in big productions and alongside A-list actors and actresses. She even had star billing in two small movies. Then she met Marc Renault, the great French actor/producer and quintessential bad boy of European film. For almost a year, longer than any of his other conquests, Lana was seen at his side.

Then, inevitably, he became bored with monogamous life. He had affairs on the side – sometimes quite openly – and Lana suffered for a while before she finally boarded a flight back to Los Angeles, leaving a curt farewell note to Marc. Renault's ego did not tolerate a woman leaving him and so he embarked on a mission to win Lana back. He romanced her, he wined and dined her, and finally he got back into her pants.

That accomplished he quickly lost his renewed interest in Lana and they had another break up. Two months later Lana informed him that she was pregnant, the result of their brief, unanticipated reunion.

It did not bring them back together, but at least Marc Renault offered generous support. He had lost his only child, a son, in a traffic accident four years earlier and he was insistent that the child would bear his last name and be his likely heir. That cinched the deal for Lana who found that being out of the loop in Hollywood for almost two years had cost her any standing she'd had before. Becoming a single mom did not brighten the prospects, and so Lana Hartwell named her little daughter Melanie Jeanne Renault.

Marc and his mother Jeanne Renault, France's grand dame de la cinema, attended the baptism amidst big media interest. As a home for his daughter, Marc Renault purchased a modest 4-bedroom house west of Hollywood Hills, but within easy commuting to Universal Studios. In this house Lana settled with her daughter and began to rebuild her acting career.

It was rough going for years. She mostly performed as guest star in various TV shows, increasingly type cast as the trophy wife of a murder victim which hampered her search for more solid work. The support payments from Renault provided for their livelihood, but Lana became frustrated over her stalled career.

Meanwhile, Melanie grew into a pretty girl. She was rather small and even after the onset of puberty there was never any gawkiness about her. She became the quintessential teen in Hollywood productions, mostly playing the cute daughter of the (divorced) action hero who gets abducted by his enemies. Daddy rescued her and won Mommy back – curtain. She also played quite a few bit parts in movies and TV shows, and often the producers picked Melanie first before they cast Lana as her mother. The happy years, as Melanie remembered them.

When she was fourteen, Marc Renault died from lung cancer. Melanie had visited him a few times in summer and she remembered him with his perennial cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Melanie and Lana flew to France for the burial and Lana told each and every reporter she could find how Marc had been the one and only love of her life. It got her some renewed recognition and three guest starring roles in crime shows.

Melanie walked away from the funeral as Marc Renault's sole heir, with a cash fortune of over nine million Euros and the ownership of a world famous vineyard. With a country home in the Roussillon and a Paris tenement house close to the Champs-Élysées, her trust fund ran to almost 30 million Dollars. Her uncle Josh Hartwell managed it and the proceeds allowed Melanie and her mother a carefree existence.

Around that time, Melanie acquired a reputation as being moody and difficult. Temper tantrums alternated with phases of withdrawal, and directors began to look for other girls who were easier to handle.

Then, two years ago, Melanie stumbled upon a book, Heart of Glass, written by a former drug addict and child prostitute and detailing a youth of horrible abuse. The girl's mother was an addict too and she had prostituted her daughter to earn money for her heroin habit.

The book was quite a success and when Melanie heard that director/producer Peter Demmick had purchased the movie rights and was planning to make it into a B-movie, she became obsessed with the project. For three months, she pestered Demmick. She spent hours talking to the young woman who had written the book, she spoke to her former high school class mates, she read up on heroin and on addictions. In the end, Demmick relented and cast Melanie as the child prostitute.

Once the project shaped up, Demmick was able to win Dame Margaret Timmons for the lead role of the teacher who became involved in the girl's rescue. Timmons was an A-list actress, a one-time Oscar winner and three-time nominee. Suddenly, the movie was getting A-rating support from the studio and a doubled budget.

The four months of shooting were grueling work for Melanie. Demmick was a perfectionist who accepted nothing but her best. Had it not been for Timmons' support and advice, Melanie would have never made it. She gave everything for the role, even dieting herself down to 90 pounds to portray the anorexic child whore.

Once, when the make-up people did not make a bloody gash convincing enough for Demmick, Melanie slashed her own shoulder to produce the bleeding wound. Demmick nearly threw her from the set for this calling her a nutcase, but after viewing the dailies he changed his mind. He talked to Timmons instead and the great actress took Melanie on a three-day weekend trip to London to weaken the young woman's obsession with the role.

The year-long post-production period until the release was torture for Melanie. She stayed in character and under 90 pounds the entire time, and her emaciated looks made the gossip papers. She did not care. She wanted to see the finished movie.

Her wait ended just three weeks before. The premiere was held at the Apollo Theatre on Rodeo Drive and it was a resounding success. The critics went gaga over the performances of the two actresses, even questioning whether the supporting billing for Melanie was justified.

Finally seeing herself as the miserable girl in the story and giving a voice to her desperation and fears was healing for Melanie. For the first time in many years she felt in balance again and the raving reviews were soothing to her ego. Somewhere deep inside of her, old wounds were still festering, but the public recognition and the warm praise covered the pains. She was a star now, and her agent, Ike Brownstein, was fielding offers too numerous for her to review herself.

Of course, Lana Hartwell knew that producers might be willing to give her roles to establish a connection with Melanie, and that was what the party was all about.

Melanie sighed heavily. It was deja-vu all over again. Time and again, her mother had tried to use her daughter's success for her own advancement. Melanie's mouth became narrow as she thought about one particular incident, but she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind. It was too hurtful and she was in a happier place now. After looking at herself in the mirror again, she left her room and walked downstairs.

The first guests arrived shortly after. Melanie did the usual chit-chat, was admonished that she was too thin, received some invitations to upcoming parties and more significantly, developed a slight buzz. Lana always had alcohol around and she did not mind if Melanie drank a glass of Zinfandel or a wine-spritzer. They were at home after all and the guests were all from the same set of people.

Then, it was already eleven, the doorbell rang again. Melanie looked up in time to see a burly, sixtyish man enter, to be greeted friendly by Lana. Melanie felt her blood run cold. Don Brentano! Her mother had the nerve to invite Don Brentano! Melanie's hands balled into fists and she felt her eyes starting to brim. Ten steps brought her over to where Lana was still greeting her latest guest.

"You fucking bitch!" she screamed at her mother whose careful, fake smile vanished in a second. "How could you invite this ... this monster? You..."

"Mel, keep it down!" Lana hissed.

"Get him out! Now!" Melanie snarled back.

"Behave! You are still..."

"Fuck you, you whore!" Melanie stormed.

With her right hand, she grabbed her car keys. Suddenly Brentano stood in front of her.

"Hey, Baby! You can't still be mad at me?"

There was a glass of wine in Lana's hand. Melanie gripped it and threw it into Brentano's face. Then she was through the door, running almost blindly down the driveway. To make room for the guests, she had parked her small roadster some twenty yards down the street. She was still in her evening dress and high heels and she was more than a little drunk, but her only thought was to get away from the house, from her mother and from Brentano. The tires squealed as Melanie tore away from the curb.

Melanie drove almost on autopilot, just trying to get as much distance between herself and her home.

This was it! She would move out. Hell, she was a student at USC, soon to be a junior. She could apply for a dorm room. Anything to be away from home. She would have to talk to Uncle Josh, but he would make the necessary funds available. She was of age after all. Melanie knew that her uncle disapproved of his sister, and while she still had five years until her father's money was hers, Melanie could ask for the proceeds. The trust fund was paying for her education anyway.

She needed a place to stay though. One of her few friends was living near USC. Therefore, Melanie took northbound 110 and then switched to 101, all the time trying to reach her friend on the cell phone. Now she fumbled the phone and it fell to the floor. Twisting her body, she tried to retrieve it when suddenly her left front wheel bumped hard against something. The left front of the car lifted and the single headlight of an oncoming motorcycle blinded her. Then a crash, something hitting her face, followed by merciful darkness.

Patrick Owojima was tired after his twelve-hour shift. He was a fifty-three year-old Paramedic working for Southern Cross Ambulance Services, and he and his partner, Donna Mills, had just delivered a 72 year-old male suffering from chest pain to the Emergency Room at USC University Hospital. Now he was driving the unit back to headquarters to end his shift. Route 101 was empty at this time – it was after eleven – and the construction site ahead did not cause any back-ups. Some 200 yards ahead, a lone motorcycle was cruising at the same speed. Patrick yawned heartily.

"Man, I'm getting too old for this shift work," he complained.

"You're getting too old for anything," Donna teased him. She was early thirties, White and a tad chubby, but she and Patrick were good friends.

"Yeah, maybe," Patrick conceded. "At least, my ... Oh shit!"

In front of them, a car had suddenly swerved into the opposing lane and the motorcycle rider had crashed into it. Patrick saw him flying through the air for a second, but then he slammed on the brakes. In front of them, he saw the mangled front of a small convertible, and beyond it, the motorcycle slammed into the guard rails.

"Dispatch, dispatch! This is unit 7-15. We have a head-on collision on Route 101, right at the construction site. Motorcycle and small convertible. Request additional units and please call the cops," Donna was already talking into the radio.

Patrick switched on the red lights and came to a stop in front of the convertible. In the headlights they saw a woman in the driver seat, slumped over the wheel.

"You take the woman, I'll look after the biker," Patrick commanded.

They both exited the ambulance and grabbed their emergency kits. Patrick found the motorcyclist almost fifty yards behind the crash site and lying still on his back. It was a kid, perhaps 20 or slightly older. Patrick knelt at his side. The young man was already in shock.