Storm of the Century (15 page)

He sounds okay, but never takes his eyes from LINOGE. His pen never stops moving, either. Never even slows.

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195 INTERIOR: THE BACK OF THE FISHERIES FLYER.

Written there over and over again in jagged capital letters is this: “GIVE ME GIVE ME GIVE ME

GIVE ME WHAT I WANT GIVE ME WHAT I WANT GIVE ME WHAT I WANT.” Drawn around the words, like bizarre illuminations on a monk’s manuscript, is the same shape we saw over MARTHA’S living room door. Canes.

196 INTERIOR: LINOGE, CLOSE-UP.

Grinning. Black, beastlike eyes full of ROILING RED. We can just see the tips of his fanglike teeth.

197 EXTERIOR: THE WOODS ON THE LITTLE TALL HEADLAND--NIGHT.

The WIND SHRIEKS. The trees bend in the BLIZZARD, their branches CLATTERING.

198 EXTERIOR: LITTLE TALL, A HIGH SHOT--NIGHT.

The buildings are already snow-covered; the two streets are snow-choked. There are only a few lights. This is a town cut off from the entire outside world. We HOLD ON THIS, then:

FADE TO BLACK. THIS ENDS ACT 6.

Act 7

199 EXTERIOR: THE TOWN HALL--NIGHT.

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JACK CARVER was right--the islanders without woodstoves for heat, or those who live in the path of a possible storm surge at high tide, are already coming in for shelter. Some arrive in four-wheel drives, some come on snowmobiles or in Sno-Cats. Some are on snowshoes and skis. Even with the HOWL

OF THE WIND, we can hear the BULL-THROATED ROAR OF THE TOWN HALL GENNIE.

Approaching along the sidewalk are JONAS STANHOPE and his wife, JOANNA. They aren’t kids, but they’re healthy, even athletic-looking--like the actors in the Ensure commercials. They are on snowshoes, and each has a pull line. Behind them is a chair secured to a child’s sled, making it into a kind of one-person sleigh. Sitting in the chair, bundled up in robes and an ENORMOUS FUR HAT, is CORA STANHOPE, JONAS’S mother. She’s about eighty and looks as regal as Queen Victoria on her throne.

You okay, Mom?

Fine as the flowers in May.

What about you, Jo?

(rather grim)

I’ll make it.

They turn into the parking lot beside the town hall. This lot is rapidly filling up with a variety of snow-friendly vehicles. Pairs of skis and snowshoes have been left upright in the snowbank in front of the building. The building itself is--courtesy of its big generator--lit up like an ocean liner on a stormy sea, an island of safety and relative comfort on a wild night. Of course, the Titanic probably looked the same way before it hit the iceberg.

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Folks walk toward the steps, talking and chatting with nervous excitement. We’ve built up a relatively large cast of characters, and here we get some payoff, recognizing old friends from the cluster at MARTHA’S house and the shoppers at the market.

We spy JILL and ANDY ROBICHAUX getting out of a four-wheel drive. As JILL undoes the straps holding five-year-old HARRY in his car seat (HARRY’S one of MOLLY’S day-care kids), ANDY

slogs gamely over to the STANHOPE family.

How you doing, Stanhopes? Some wild night, huh?

It sure is. We’re fine, Andy.

But JOANNA, while far from death’s door, is also a long way from fine. She’s PANTING HARD and uses the break to bend over and clutch the legs of her snowpants.

Let me spell you there, Joanna-

(Her Imperial Majesty)

Joanna is fine, Mr. Robichaux. Just needs to get her breath. Don’t you, Joanna?

JOANNA gives her elderly mother-in-law a smile that says, “Thanks, right, and, oh, how I’d like to stuff a parking meter up your scrawny old butt.” ANDY sees it.

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Jilly could use some help with the baby, Jo. Would you? I got this. Really.

(very grateful)

You bet.

ANDY grabs JOANNA’S half of the harness. As JOANNA goes to JILL (CORA gives her daughter-in-law a look as icy as the storm, one that says “Quitter” loud and clear), DAVEY

HOPEWELL, his PARENTS, and MRS. KINGSBURY pile out of a big old Suburban.

Well, Andy, what do you say? Ready?

(cheerily, God love him)

Mush!

They resume pulling the old lady toward the town hall. CORA rides with her blade-thin New England nose regally lifted. JILL and JOANNA walk along behind, CHATTING; HARRY, so bundled up he looks like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man, trudges next to his mom, holding her hand.

200 INTERIOR: THE TOWN OFFICE--NIGHT.

URSULA, TESS MARCHANT, and TAVIA GODSOE are checking people in by handing them clipboards and getting them to sign the names of family members who plan to spend the night in the lower level of the town hall. Behind the WOMEN are FOUR MEN, looking important but not doing much. There’s ROBBIE BEALS, the town manager, plus the three town selectmen: GEORGE KIRBY, BURT

SOAMES, and HENRY BRIGHT. HENRY is the husband of CARLA BRIGHT, and is currently holding his son, another day-care pupil, in his arms. FRANK is fast asleep.

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Again, we see faces that we know coming in; an island is a small community. There are no kids older than day-care age; the big kids all got stranded on the mainland side of the reach.

(plenty harried)

Sign in, everybody! We have to know who’s here, so please sign in before you go downstairs!

She casts an impatient look at the men, who are basically standing around and gossiping.

201 INTERIOR: ANGLE ON ROBBIE AND THE SELECTMEN.

So what’d he say?

What could he say? Hell, everybody north of Casco Bay knows Peter Godsoe wholesales nine pounds of pot for every pound of lobster.

He casts an eye on URSULA and TAVIA--the latter is rummaging in a supply cupboard for pillows, work ROBBIE wouldn’t do unless you stuck a gun in his ear.

I don’t blame him--hell, ain’t he got a houseful of women to support?

BURT SOAMES CHORTLES. GEORGE KIRBY and HENRY BRIGHT exchange a more doubtful look. They’re not completely comfortable with the meanness of the gossip.

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Question is, Robbie, how’d that fella know?

ROBBIE rolls his eyes, as if to say, “What a dope.”

They’re likely in business together. Why would a fella kill a harmless old lady like Martha Clarendon in the first place, ‘less he was stoned? Tell me that, George Kirby!

That doesn’t explain how he could know Cat Withers ‘us up in Deny for n’abortion.

WOMAN’S VOICE

Ursula! Are there more blankets?

Robbie Beals! Henry Bright! You boys think you could go downstairs and bring some more blankets out of that back storeroom? Or aren’t you far enough along with your politician’ yet?

ROBBIE and HENRY walk over, ROBBIE with a contemptuous grin, HENRY looking ashamed that he hasn’t been more help already.

What’s the matter, Ursula--that time of the month, dear?

She gives him a look of utter contempt and brushes hair back from her face.

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Don’t you think it’s about time to blow the whistle and bring ‘em in, Robbie?

Looks like enough of ‘em are coming in on their own. As for the rest, they’ll ride it out just fine. All this is a bunch of foolishness, far’s I’m concerned. Do you think our grandmothers and grandfathers all got together in the town hall when it stormed, like a bunch of cave people scared of lightning?

No--they used the Methodist church. I’ve got a picture I could show you. Storm of ‘27. I can point out your granddad in it, if you want. He looks like he’s stirring a pot of soup. Nice to know there was at least one fellow in your family knew how to pitch in.

ROBBIE looks ready to come back on her, but before he can:

Come on, Robbie.

HENRY, still holding his sleeping child, heads downstairs. GEORGE KIRBY follows. ROBBIE’S

effectively shut up. GEORGE is easily twenty years older than he is, and if he’s not above getting blankets, ROBBIE will at least have to go along and look busy. URSULA, TAVIA, and TESS look at each other and kind of roll their eyes as the men leave. Meanwhile, people continue to come in by twos and threes, and the storm continues to ROAR outside.

Sign in before you go downstairs, folks! Please! There’s room for everybody, but we have to know who we have!

MOLLY ANDERSON comes in, brushing snow from her hair and holding RALPHIE by the hand.

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Ursula, have you seen Mike?

No, but I’ll be able to catch his car radio if he calls in, I think. (points at the CB)

It’s not good for much else tonight. Take off your coat, pitch in.

How’s it going?

Oh, we’re having a ball. Hi, Ralphie.

Hi.

MOLLY kneels on the wet floor and begins the job of peeling RALPHIE out of his snowsuit. People continue to come in as she does so. Outside, the SNOW SWIRLS and the WIND HOWLS.

202 EXTERIOR: THE VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPARTMENT--NIGHT.

The pumper we saw being washed at the top of the show has long since been put away, but now the fire station’s side door opens and FERD ANDREWS struggles out, pulling up the hood of his coat. He looks downhill at:

203 EXTERIOR: GODSOE FISH & LOBSTER--NIGHT.

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The tide is almost high. The mainland has disappeared in a curtain of gray and black. The reach is running with waves so big they’re nightmarish. These slosh rhythmically over the end of the dock, pelting the long shed with spray.

204 INTERIOR: GODSOE FISH & LOBSTER--NIGHT.

We’re in a long, high storage area stacked with lobster traps, crates, and fishing gear. One entire wall is hung with slickers, waterproofs, high boots. The SOUND OF THE STORM is MUTED, but only a little. SPRAY PELTS THE WINDOWS.

THE CAMERA MOVES down an aisle of traps, then past a LONG TANK full of lobsters. THE

CAMERA SWINGS around the end of the tank, and a few RATS scutter out of sight. Here, in a dusty little passage between the tank and the wall, is stored a LONG OBJECT covered with blankets.

THE WIND SHRIEKS. THE BUILDING CREAKS. A huge SPLASH OF SPRAY hits one of the windows and SHATTERS IT. Wind, water, and snow SWIRL IN. The wind strips the blanket back from the end of the long object, and we see STACKED BALES OF POT, all neatly wrapped in sheets of plastic.

The traps hung overhead CLACK BACK AND FORTH. SOUND of another window BREAKING.

205 EXTERIOR: THE LITTLE TALL MARKET.

We can hear the FAINT CHUG OF THE GENERATOR, and a few lights shine bravely. The only vehicles still parked in front are MOLLY’S little car and a snow-caked pickup with GODSOE FISH & LOBSTER on the side.

206 INTERIOR: CROSSWORD PUZZLE ON POWERBOOK SCREEN, CLOSE-UP.

It’s mostly filled in. HATCH adds a word.

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207 INTERIOR: THE CONSTABLE’S OFFICE NIGHT.

HATCH stretches, then stands. In the cell, LINOGE sits as before, back to the wall and looking out from between his knees.

Got to use the can. You want a coffee or a cold drink, Pete?

PETE doesn’t respond at first. The sheet of paper he pulled from the bulletin board is in his lap, but turned over so the print side, with its red-tide warning, is faceup. PETER’S eyes are wide and blank.

Peter--Earth to Peter.

HATCH waves a hand in front of PETER’S face. PETER blinks, and awareness--or a semblance of it--seeps back into his eyes. He looks up at HATCH.

What?

Just asked if you wanted a soda or a coffee.

No. Thanks, though.

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(starts toward the door, then turns)

You all right?

(after a beat)

Yeah. Spent all day battening down for the storm, and now I guess I’m almost asleep with my eyes open. Sorry.

Well, hang in there. Jack Carver and Kirk Freeman should be along in twenty minutes or so.

HATCH grabs a magazine to read in the can and leaves.

208 INTERIOR: LINOGE, CLOSE-UP.

His eyes DARKEN. He looks at PETER. His lips move soundlessly.

209 INTERIOR: PETER, CLOSE-UP.

He’s totally blank again. Hypnotized. Suddenly THE SHADOW OF LINOGE’S CANE appears on his face. PETER looks up at:

210 INTERIOR: AN OVERHEAD BEAM, FROM PETER’S POINT OF VIEW.

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The cane is hooked over it. The bloody WOLF’S HEAD SNARLS.

211 INTERIOR: THE CONSTABLE’S OFFICE--NIGHT.

PETER gets up and slowly crosses the room, the notice he was writing on trailing from one hand. He walks directly beneath the cane. LINOGE sits on the cell’s cot, watching him, only his weird eyes moving. PETER stops at a wall-mounted cabinet and opens it. There are all sorts of tools inside. There’s also a COIL OF ROPE. He takes it.