DARK THRILLERS-A Box Set of Suspense Novels (35 page)

In the darkened nursery, sitting at the console, typing, The Body used up the hours until dawn when it was time to nap for half an hour before rising again to dress for the day on Cam's set.

Blood on the walls, the carpets, the furniture.

What a masterful idea the scriptwriter had created. What else might be in the script The Body could imitate? So far it had been the most fun in all the world. One day The Body would get the scriptwriter alone and talk about the movie. Cam had co-authored the script, the way he usually did these days on his films, but it had to have been the scriptwriter's baby, this blood scene.

Bringing fiction to life was exhilarating in the extreme. Playing the scenes before a camera paled in comparison to actually committing the scenes in reality.

It was doubtful Karl LaRosa would agree with The Body. Being on the receiving end of revenge couldn't be the most thrilling episode in Karl's life, something he'd been waiting for. And revenge was a cliché, wasn't it? However, revenge was wholly a human trait, a real oddity. No other animal took the trouble. It gave such satisfaction, revenge. Cliché or not, revenge was the anchor that held the planet in place in the solar system. People practiced it in large and small measure in all their daily routines. It was second nature to carry out revenge when wronged.

The Body moved to the bedroom and stood staring at the queen-size comfortable bed. No sleep to be had there. Sleep escaped from that mattress like steam from a kettle. Normal beds had ceased to work for sleep many years ago.

The Body turned away, leaving the bedroom behind, and entered the nursery again. The closet door was closed and now The Body opened it. Hanging from miniature coat hangers was . . . nothing.

There had been no time to buy baby clothes and that was in a way a blessing.

The Body dropped to its knees and crawled inside the closet and onto the four-inch foam rubber mattress pad. Plumped the pillow. Straightened the sheet. Reached up, grasped the doorknob, and first closed the door, shutting out all light, then reached for the switch low on the wall that turned on the small ceiling fan specially installed to circulate the air.

With eyes closed, sleep immediately tugged. Safe. In a cradle place, protected from all harm, shielded from all memory of the past. Safe from the world and the tumultuous trouble it held in reserve.

The Body tossed during the thirty minutes of deep sleep, wakened to the alarm set just at the head of the foam mattress on the floor, and sat up smiling in the close darkness.

Today a new scene would be handed out to the actors and crew to study. It could almost cause a person to clap both hands together in enthusiasm like a child with a big, gaily-wrapped box to unwrap.

No time for flights of fancy. Had to hurry. Makeup could camouflage the half-moons beneath the eyes and cover up the lack of sleep. Hurry, hurry.

Making movies was such child's play. Everything always taken care of by someone else on the payroll. You just had to show up on time, a warm body.

Orange juice from the fridge, gulped down. Toast, no margarine. A cup of yogurt, unflavored. Eat, eat, eat, must always remember to eat.

Showering took exactly two minutes. Scrubbing the head with herbal shampoo, the body with pure glycerin liquid soap.

Blow dry the hair, thirty seconds of vigorous tooth brushing, a quick gargle, underarm deodorant applied liberally. Now to slip quickly into comfortable clothes easily removed to get into wardrobe on the set.

Keys to the house. Lock it up. Step lively to the car, retrieving the daily newspaper on the way. The Body was on. Another normal beginning of a normal day working in the Hollywood biz.

12

"The director is simply the audience. So the terrible burden of the director is to take the place of that yawning vacuum, to be the audience and to select from what happens during the day which movement shall be a disaster and which a gala night. His job is to preside over accidents."

Orson Welles

Cam started out the day yelling. Before he could get his loafers on, the phone rang with the production manager's bad news. He was having trouble getting the permits to reroute traffic for one of the shoots and the scene would have to be put off for a couple of days.

"Couple of days? What do you think this is, a film bankrolled by the Shah of Iran?"

"Is there still a shah in Iran?" the PM asked facetiously.

"I ought to fire you for that." Voice and blood pressure rising. Putting off a shoot was no joke. Not in anybody's book.

"All right, I'm sorry. Listen, I'm working on it. I thought it was set, but someone at the courthouse fucked up, okay? I'll straighten it out as fast as I can. It's all I can do, Cam, don't start on me."

"Herb, I wouldn't start on you if you weren't so goddamn incompetent, you skinny-assed motherfucker!"

"I'm hanging up now, Cam. I'll see you on the set."

"To do what? Watch the crew and cast twiddle their fucking thumbs? "

A big sigh hissed through the phone line. "You can shoot around it, c'mon, stop now, already. I'm hanging up."

"You hang up on me and I'll call Strickland, see if he wants you back!"

Then there was silence. No sighing. No pleading for reasonableness.

Cam took the receiver and threw it on the floor of his bedroom. It bounced on the lush gray carpet like a ball. Then he picked it up again and threw it hard against the wall, cracking the plaster. The princess receiver set leaped up from the bedside table as if an electrical jolt had given it a pop. The third time he picked up the mouthpiece, he felt only a little better.

"Did you hang up?" he asked quietly, everything under control.

"No, I'm here." Another sigh.

Cam rubbed at his eyes with long, slim fingers. Then he reached for the crumpled pack of Camels next to the phone, shook one out and lit it. He drew in a deep puff of smoke before saying, "You're right, we can shoot around it. Get the fucker at city hall on the phone now and set it up for tomorrow. Not the next day. Tomorrow."

"Okay, Boss."

"And don't fucking try to mollify me by calling me boss!" This time Cam slammed down the phone in the cradle hoping the crash would bust the PM's eardrum.

Cam forgot to eat anything, forgot to brush his teeth, and forgot to comb his wild, crazy, and windblown hair. He arrived at the studio looking like a man about to blow a valve. As soon as the people involved with Pure and Uncut saw him, their glances fell or wandered elsewhere. Even Olivia carefully avoided looking at Cam straight on.

Catherine Rivers, as Cam's second-in-command, knew it was up to her to find out the problem and help handle it, whatever it was. She approached Cam the way a snake-handler went after a rattler. The stick and noose she used were her best traits: a cool exterior and iron constitution. She knew how to take abuse without making it personal.

"What happened?" she asked.

"We can't go to location. Fucking Herb fucking fucked up."

When Cam used three "fucks" in one sentence, it meant bad times ahead. Catherine looked out at the crew and nodded slightly to let them know the problem was going to be ironed out, just take it easy.

"How long do we have to postpone the scene?"

"I told him to get it fixed by tomorrow. I threatened him with Strickland."

"Ah." Herb used to work for another studio headed by John Strickland, a real ball-busting, back-stabbing son of a bitch nobody liked and just about everyone tolerated unless offered work elsewhere. Herb never wanted to have to go back to him. "Well, today what do you want to do?"

Catherine hadn't seen the script. She got the next scene Cam wanted shot just like everyone else. This put her at a distinct disadvantage in helping Cam over the bumps and rough spots. If she didn't know what came next in the lineup, there was no way she could help him pick a substitute scene. No day could be wasted. Sets couldn't be shut down for a day under any circumstances barring a classic, devastating, natural disaster. Hundreds of thousands of dollars couldn't be thrown away like that.

"Let me think!" Cam ran fingers through his disheveled hair. "I'm going to my office to find something. Keep everybody quiet. Don't let them get their pants twisted."

"You got it." Catherine walked off to have a conference with the actors. Next the crew. She'd tell them to sample the fresh strawberries catering had brought for breakfast snacking. Or the cantaloupe. Cantaloupe was high in vitamins C and A. Soothing food usually worked wonders on frayed nerves. Cam, for instance, needed about a truckload of the stuff.

Less than fifteen minutes passed and Cam literally burst from his closed office door. The door slammed and hit the wall, getting everyone's attention. You never knew when Cam was going to explode from his office or walk out like a regular human being. The explosions were enough to put everyone on fresh alert. Conversation stalled and the fresh fruit platters were forgotten. Cam looked like a mad locomotive as he swung his arms and barreled toward them.

"We were supposed to shoot out in the hills today, but that's been canceled until tomorrow. Here's the new scene. Keep the other one you studied last night and we'll play catch-up tomorrow. You've got forty-five minutes to study this one. Ad-lib if you have to, improvise, do a riff on the dialogue. We're getting it done today or we don't leave the lot."

He handed out the new batch of scene scripts, shooting them from his hands like throwing hot rocks. He consulted the big-faced Rolex on his wrist, clocking the readings.

Robyn called him over while the scripts were being read. The actors wandered to their dressing rooms. The crew went into various empty conference rooms that boasted long tables and comfortable chairs. No one mouthed a word of protest.

"Herb fucked up?" Robyn asked. "That's what Catherine told me, Herb fucked up."

"Royally. He's had months to get permits and work out all the legal stuff and now he tells me it's not done. I ought to slap the motherfucker into Sunday."

"You want some cereal? How about a slice of watermelon or some grapes?"

"What? Do I look hungry to you?" Cam twisted his mouth and frowned. He wore anger like a necklace, something big and gaudy and unmistakably expensive that lay in full view on his black hairy chest, glimpsed through the opening of his blue chambray shirt.

"You look like someone hauled you out of an alleyway. I hate to tell you this, Cam, but your hair could use a comb." She gave a small innocent smile.

Cam scowled at her, ready to blow like a volcano, but she smiled more brightly now, a fluorescent shine gleaming from her dark eyes. Then she reached out and smoothed down his ruffled black hair. When she did that, he grinned crookedly and all his anxiety fled. She was a rainbow and the storm was over.

"I been meaning to talk to you about Landry. I went to the Universe the other night hunting for you." He searched his back pockets for a comb.

"Yeah, what night was that? I'm not there every night of the week, Cam. Just most every night. Pick up a phone. They tell me the connections work real good these days."

Cam found what he was searching for in his back jeans pocket and combed his hair into a semblance of order. "Fuck what night, I didn't find you so let's move on. How do you stand that place? It's a freak show, the whole place is full of freaks. Never mind." He waved away her coming defense of the club. "See, Landry's not coming through. You know his stuff even better than I do. It was your fucking bright idea I give him the lead. If I remember right, you almost got on your knees and begged." His eyes twinkled, enjoying teasing her. But the anger returned, swift as sudden cloud cover. "Now how about you telling me why he ought to be doing this part instead of his lookalike, the wooden Indian back in the Old West prop room."

Robyn laughed. "Aw, he's not that bad. I think he's nervous. You're intimidating him. You intimidate everybody. Except me. I think you're a pussycat."

"Shit, I'll show him intimidation if he doesn't break out of that daze he's in. You know what he looks like in dailies? Like Alec Guinness on tranqs. I should have hired Hoffman even if I do hate that fucking egomaniacal dwarf. Or, hell, maybe I could have done something with Powers Boothe, has-been or not. I loved that guy as Jim Jones. I watch it every two years. Jesus, I don't know why I haven't used him yet, I need to write a note to myself."

"Landry's the right one for the job, Cam, and you know it. The names bring the wrong expectation for this part. We're not switching in midstream. I'll talk to him."

"You do that, okay? I've taken comedians and made them into dramatic actors, surprising not only the public, but myself. But I'm not so sure I can take a pretty-baby leading man and make him into the kind of star material I need for this. He doesn't have some cute little starlet here to hug and smooch on all day. I want him on the edge. Can you do something about putting him against a sharp razor, try to draw some blood? It's like some fucking vampire's already drained him dry."

"I said I'd try."

"No time like the present. He can't fuck this scene today because he's not in it, but he's in tomorrow's scene. Go after him now. Do what you got to do."

Robyn raised one perfect brow. "I don't think offering him a quickie would work."

"Like I say, do whatever you have to, but make him ready. Break that deadwood exterior or we're in big trouble, Robyn, I'm not kidding you now, I'm serious. I don't have to tell you how important it is for everyone to pull out the best they've got in 'em."

Robyn patted Cam's arm, an unconscious motherly gesture, and headed for Jackie Landry's dressing room. It wouldn't take sex, that wasn't called for, not now, not for this. Not that she had any aversion to trying out one of the best-looking studs in Hollywood. But no, that's not what would turn the trick. She was going to appeal to his ego in other ways. Cam had to get him performing at top notch or Pure was going down the tubes. Robyn was prepared to lie or pray or get on her back for this movie, if it came to that, if she discovered that was what it took. That's how much it meant.