Kevin O'Brien Bundle (100 page)

Whoever had dropped off the video at the store must have been a customer. But Hannah didn’t recognize the woman in the film, and despite her constant scrutiny, she couldn’t make out the killer. He must have edited himself out.

Hannah ejected the tape. She thought about calling the police. Instead, she called Tish, the store manager, at her home.

“Tish, it’s Hannah. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m up. What’s going on?”

“Well, I took home a video that’s been sitting in the limbo drawer for two weeks. I just looked at it, Tish. I think it’s some kind of snuff film.”

“You’re kidding,” Tish murmured.

“I wish I was,” Hannah said. “In it, this poor woman is stabbed over and over again. And it looks very real. Maybe you could take a look at it, Tish. I think it’s some kind of reenactment of Diane Keaton’s murder in
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
. Maybe it’s just a hoax and I’m too freaked out right now to see it. You might recognize the woman in the video; I didn’t.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, Hannah,” her boss said. “Take it from me, I’ve been working in video stores for over ten years. Snuff films are something you read or hear about, urban legend stuff.”

“Well, I wish you’d at least look at this.”

“Okay, I’ll take a gander,” Tish said. “Bring it in tomorrow. I bet it’s somebody’s project for a film class or something. Don’t let it scare you, Hannah. Mellow out. Pour yourself a glass of wine.”

She managed to chuckle. “I’m way ahead of you.”

After Hannah hung up the phone, she studied the unmarked cassette again. Perhaps she’d see it was fake if she looked at the tape just one more time. But she couldn’t. Hell, she didn’t even want the damn thing in her apartment overnight.

Hannah stuffed the cassette in a bag and set it on the kitchen counter. Then she topped off her glass of wine and opened the Melba toast.

Hannah flipped her pillow over, gave it a punch, and turned to look at the luminous digital clock on her nightstand: 2:53
A.M
. What had made her think she would fall asleep tonight?

Every time she closed her eyes, she kept seeing that dead woman lying amid the rumpled, bloodstained sheets. Hannah had been tossing and turning for the last two hours.

She finally flung back the covers and climbed out of bed. She wore a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Rubbing her forehead, she staggered toward the bathroom next door. She glanced down the hallway.

And gasped.

A shadowy figure moved at the end of the hallway. For a second, all she saw was a blur, like that faceless killer in the video. It darted away so quickly it might have been a ghost—maybe that young man who had killed himself in this apartment.

Hannah stood paralyzed for a moment. Goose bumps crept over her arms. Her feet grew cold, and she realized the front door must be open. Had someone broken into the apartment? Was he still there?

She stepped in front of Guy’s doorway, instinctively blocking anyone from getting in. The door was closed, but she heard Guy breathing as he slept. Hannah told herself that he was all right.

Another shadow swept across the hallway wall. She was dead certain someone was in her living room.

“I have a gun!” Hannah heard herself say in a loud, shrill voice. Her whole body tingled.

Not a sound. After a minute, Hannah caught her breath, then crept toward the living room. She switched on the light. No one.

The curtains on the window were open a few inches. She noticed the headlights of a car coming down the street, three stories below. Were those the shadows she’d seen?

Hannah checked the front closet. Then she peeked into Guy’s room.

He was sitting up in bed, looking utterly terrified. “Mommy?”

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, still trying to catch her breath. “Just stay there, sweetie. Everything’s all right.”

She poked her head in the bathroom, then returned to the living room. She checked the door. “Oh, shit,” she whispered.

It wasn’t locked. She could have sworn she’d double-locked it earlier in the evening.

But that had been at least three glasses of wine ago. Just last night, she’d resolved to cut back on the chardonnay consumption.

Her heart still racing, Hannah double-locked the door. She glanced around the apartment. Nothing was missing. Nothing had been disturbed. Was she drunk? Maybe she was just a little paranoid after watching that creepy video.

She checked her purse—just where she’d left it, on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. Inside, her wallet, cash, and credit cards were still there.

“Mom!” Guy cried out. “Mommy, where are you?”

Hannah hurried back to Guy’s room. He was still was sitting up in bed, clutching the bedsheets to his chin. “There was a scream,” he murmured.

Hannah smoothed his disheveled blond hair. Her hand was shaking. “I, um, I just had a nightmare, honey,” she whispered, trying to smile. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Guy squinted at her. “What did you dream?”

Hannah shrugged. “I can’t remember now. Isn’t that silly?”

Sighing, she sat down on the edge of his bed. She kept having to tell herself that they were all right. Safe.

“Think you can go back to sleep now?” she asked.

Guy yawned, then tugged at the bedsheets. “Could you stay a little longer, and make the choo-choo sound?”

Hannah kissed his cheek. “Okay, just pretend the train is carrying you off to Dreamland.”

She swayed back and forth, rocking the bed ever so slightly. “Listen to the train,” she whispered. Softly she began lulling him to sleep with her rendition of a locomotive. “Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo…”

“Are you still scared?” he muttered sleepily.

“No, I’m okay, honey,” she said, with a nervous laugh.

“It was just a bad dream, Mom.”

“Sure it was,” she agreed, patting his shoulder. “Now get some sleep. It’ll be morning soon.”

For the last five minutes, they had been looking at static on the TV screen.

Hannah and the store manager, Tish, were in the cluttered closet that was the employee break room. There were a desk and chair, and several shelves crammed with old receipts, defective tapes, office supplies, and one tiny television with a built-in VCR. Tish screened allegedly flawed videos on this TV to make sure complaining customers weren’t just trying to score a free comp rental.

But this morning, Hannah and Tish were crammed in that little room, watching the
Goodbar
copycat video. It was a continual gray blizzard. Standing behind Tish in the chair, Hannah reached past her and tried the fast-forward button. Nothing. More static.

“Sure doesn’t look like Diane Keaton,” Tish cracked.

“I don’t know what happened,” Hannah murmured.

“Do you think you brought the wrong tape back?” Tish offered.

Hannah shook her head. “I couldn’t have. I remember last night taking it out of the VCR and putting it on the kitchen counter.”

“Well, maybe you taped over it by accident,” Tish said.

Bewildered, Hannah stared at the static on the TV screen. Had she erased the tape? She couldn’t have been that drunk last night, though she certainly had a hangover this morning.

“Well, fine,” Tish sighed, getting to her feet. “My one shot at seeing a snuff film, and you bring me fifteen minutes of snow.”

A buxom black woman in her mid-forties, Tish had a beautiful face and long, straight hair she always pulled back with a barrette. She wore a pair of jeans, boots, and an oversized purple V-neck sweater. Tish, along with her girlfriend, Sandra, had been the owner and manager of Emerald City Video for almost eleven years.

She squeezed past Hannah and started out of the break room. “C’mon, let’s get these returns checked in before the store opens.”

Hannah ejected the tape from the VCR, then wandered toward the front counter.

Tish was at the register, stacking up the returned videos and DVDs.

“You know, I woke up early, early this morning,” Hannah said. “And I thought someone was in the apartment. Maybe somebody switched the tapes.”

Tish stared at her. “You had a break-in? And you didn’t call the cops?”

“I said I
thought
someone was there.” She shrugged. “When I checked, I didn’t see anyone, and nothing was missing. I figured I was wrong. Only now, I don’t know.”

Tish looked at her as if she were crazy.

Hannah started filing away DVDs. She couldn’t explain it. Hell, she didn’t know what to believe. She’d had a run-in with a bitchy customer last night, gone home, skipped dinner, and downed a glass of wine. Then she’d started to look at a video, and it scared the hell out of her. Two and a half glasses of Chardonnay later, she had thought someone was in the apartment. She didn’t want to share any of this with Tish. She didn’t want her to know that she sometimes drank too much.

“I don’t get it.” One hand on the counter and the other on her hip, Tish frowned at her. “I mean, if you really think someone broke into your place last night to rip off what looked like a snuff film, maybe it really was a snuff film. You might want to contact the police.”

Hannah tried to keep busy with the DVDs. She sighed. “They’ll just say it was a hoax. It’s what you thought last night. You were trying to convince me it was someone’s project for a film class. You said so yourself; there’s no such thing as a genuine snuff film. They’re all fake.”

“Well, maybe you found a real McCoy. What’s the harm in putting in a call to the cops, huh? Let them know what happened—”

“No,” Hannah said. “It’s too late to call them now. There’s nothing to back up my story. The video’s just static now. I’ll come across as some nutcase. Please, let’s just drop it. No need to call the police, really. I don’t want you to.”

“You sure?” Tish asked.

“Of course,” she replied. Hannah finished filing DVDs and started in on the tapes. She could feel Tish studying her. After a minute, Hannah glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the door. “Time to open up,” she said. “And Howard’s waiting. He’ll want to know
What’s new in new releases?
”

“Yeah, goddamn pain in the ass,” Tish muttered, sauntering toward the door. “Always wants me to recommend something, puts me through the wringer, and never rents a damn thing I tell him to.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Well, Howard, how’s my favorite customer?”

“What’s new in new releases?” the older man asked.

“Come on over here,” Hannah heard Tish say. “Let’s take a look….”

Hannah continued to file away the DVDs. She hoped she’d gotten through to Tish about not calling the police. If the video had still been intact, and they’d determined it was real, she would have asked Tish to handle everything. She’d have asked to be left out of it.

Only a week ago, she’d confirmed once again that it still wasn’t safe for her to become involved with the authorities in any way.

In the store, they’d been showing a new comedy called
Way Out There
. Hannah had recognized one of the actors as a fellow student from her days in Chicago’s Second City troupe. They used to hang out together.

Way Out There
was still playing when Hannah took her break. She dropped ten dollars in the change box, pulled out a roll of quarters, then went across the street to the mall. From a pay phone, she called an old friend in Chicago, Ann Gilmore. Ann had also been at Second City.

Hannah caught her at home.

“Hannah? Well, hi. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m doing all right. It’s so good to hear your voice, Ann. Makes me homesick.” She meant it, too. She wished she didn’t have to call her from some public pay phone with all these people around. She covered one ear to block out the music from Old Navy next door.

“Is Guy all right?” Ann asked, concern in her tone.

“Oh, yes, he’s fine, cute as ever. I just haven’t talked with you in so long, I wanted to catch up. You know, I thought I saw Rick Swanson in this movie, um,
Way Out There
.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s doing really well. We talked just about a month ago. Your ears were probably burning. Rick was going on and on about how you were the prettiest and most talented of our group.”

“Oh, please,” Hannah groaned.

“No, he’s right. I can’t help thinking, you might have gotten the same kind of break as Rick—if only things hadn’t turned out the way they had.” Ann paused. “I guess you don’t need to reminded of that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, really,” Hannah said with a pitiful laugh.

“Rick asked if I ever heard from you at all. I—um, I told him ‘no.’ I hope that’s okay.”

“You did the right thing,” Hannah murmured. “Thanks, Ann.”

“A few weeks ago, I had another visit from a private investigator, a new one this time. Apparently he talked to a bunch of people from our old group. Of course, none of us could tell him anything.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know, Ann.”

“Are you really doing okay, Hannah? I mean, are you settled wherever you are? Do you have friends and a decent place to live?”

“I’m all right,” Hannah replied. “I have friends, too, only none of them know me the way you do, Ann. None of them know.”

After she’d hung up, Hannah realized that Ann no longer really knew her either. She’d stood near the phone station in the crowded, noisy mall, and she’d felt so alone.

At the same time, she couldn’t let anybody get too close. And she was always looking over her shoulder, always wary of the police.

She couldn’t admit that to Tish. There would be too much to explain, too much at risk.

“Excuse me?”

Hannah put aside the DVDs, then turned to smile at the tall young man on the other side of the counter. “Where’s
Gandhi?
” he asked.

“He’s dead,” Hannah quipped. Then she quickly shook her head. “Sorry. Actually that’s in Ben Kingsley’s section. I’ll show you.”

Hannah tracked down the tape for the customer. He thanked her, then went off searching for a second movie. On the shelf above Ben Kingsley’s section were Diane Keaton movies. But Hannah didn’t see
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
among them. She went back to her register and looked up the movie on the computer. It was supposed to be in the store—just where she’d been looking. The video had last been checked out five months ago.

Someone must have lifted the video from the store. Perhaps they had needed to study the original for a while—in order to get everything right for the reenactment. But was it just an act?

She rang up
Gandhi
for the young man, probably a college student. He was also renting an adult movie called
Good Will Humping
, with a chesty blond bimbo by a blackboard on the cover.
Nice combination,
Gandhi
and porn,
Hannah thought as she rang up the sale.

The tall young man looked her up and down, then gave her a playful smile. Hannah pretended not to notice. She remained polite, professional, and distant. Yet, throughout the transaction, she wondered if he could have been the man in that video last night. After all, it could have been anyone.

Her very next customer was Ned Reemar, a slightly strange man of forty who came in the store every day. He always wore the same clothes: a brown shirt with a Snoopy emblem sewn over the pocket, jeans, and sneakers. He had ugly haircuts, but he wasn’t a bad-looking man. In fact, Scott once admitted he’d sleep with Ned if someone gave him a makeover. Now he regretted making the statement, and Hannah still teased him about it. Ned always talked their ears off, mostly about the technical aspects of every film ever made. That wasn’t so bad. What was unsettling was Ned’s way of picking up personal information about each one of the employees. “Is Hannah married?” he’d asked Scott months ago. “Is Scott gay? Does he have a boyfriend?” he’d asked Hannah.

“I think Nutty Ned wants to be your main man,” Hannah had later told Scott. “Maybe he’ll get a makeover—just for you.”

“Not even with a blindfold and a case of Stoli’s would I let him touch me,” Scott had replied.

Hannah had always thought Ned was a bit peculiar, but harmless. Yet as she waited on him now, and he complained about the sound on their DVD version of
A Clockwork Orange
, Hannah studied him with a sudden wariness.

For the rest of the day, she regarded practically every male customer with the same apprehension: the strangers, the regulars, the ones she knew and liked, and the few who were jerks. With each man, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something more behind the simplest smile, the off-hand polite comment, or even a blank stare. Any one of those men could have been the killer in that video.

Any one of them.

“Do you know what the movie is tonight?”

The man sitting next to Hannah in film class was ruggedly handsome in a Gary Cooper kind of way. He had wavy blond hair, and blue eyes that matched his pale denim shirt. Hannah guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He’d just joined the class a couple of weeks ago. She’d noticed him looking at her several times during the last two sessions. Tonight he’d sat down next to her.

Ordinarily, she might have been flattered. But not tonight.

Slouched in his chair-desk, he grinned sheepishly at her. “Hope it’s something good,” he said. “I’m really bushed. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep.”

Hannah gave him a cool smile. “It’s
All Fall Down
, with Warren Beatty and Eva Marie Saint. I’ve seen it before. It’s very good.”

He planted his elbow on the desk panel. His sleeves were rolled up. Hannah noticed his muscular arms, covered with blond hair. “By the way, my name’s Ben,” he said, reaching out his hand.

“Hannah.” She quickly shook his hand. Then she opened her spiral notebook and tried to look interested in it.

“If I start snoring during the movie, promise you’ll give me a nudge.”

She didn’t look up from her notebook. “If you’re so tired, maybe you should have sat in the back, where no one would notice you sleeping.”

“But I wanted to sit next to you.”

Hannah glanced up at him.

He smiled. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way of introducing myself to you for a couple of weeks now.”

“Well, that’s very flattering,” Hannah replied. Then she went back to her notebook. “Thanks anyway.”

“Ouch,” he whispered. “Shot through the heart.”

Hannah looked at him again. “Pardon?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

The instructor stepped up to the front of the room. “Tonight we’ll be checking out an overlooked classic from John Frankenheimer,” he announced.

Hannah tried to concentrate on what he was saying. But all the while, she felt this Ben character in the next chair looking at her. She finally turned to glare at him, but he was staring at their instructor. He actually seemed interested in the lecture.

“Frankenheimer assembled a terrific cast here,” the instructor was saying. Perched on the edge of his desk, he was the embodiment of a relaxed, confident authority figure. “They’re all at the top of their form: Beatty, Eva Marie Saint, Angela Lansbury, Karl Malden….”

His name was Paul Gulletti. He had a swarthy complexion, dark eyes, and receding black hair. He was a nice dresser, too: expensive sweaters, silk shirts, Italian footwear.

In addition to teaching a film class at the community college, Paul reviewed movies for a popular Seattle weekly newspaper. He also rented at Emerald City Video. Hannah used to think he was kind of a cocky, womanizing creep. His wife was on his account at the video store, but that didn’t stop Paul Gulletti from coming on to Hannah, her coworker Britt, and even Tish.

Hannah had been immune to his charm—until he asked her about her mini-reviews. She typed the critiques on index cards, then posted them alongside her Employee Picks for the month. Paul liked Hannah’s writing style—and her taste in movies.

“Ever think about reviewing films for a newspaper?” he asked one afternoon in the store. “The money isn’t bad….”

Paul said he received 130 dollars for every review. But he wouldn’t be reviewing movies much longer. He was preparing to direct his own independent film—as soon as the financing came through. They’d need someone to replace him at the newspaper. He said there was even more money if her reviews got syndicated in other newspapers. Was she interested?