SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #1

Gorman Bechard

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, films, books, songs, TV programs, universities, cities, politicians and incidents, in other words EVERYTHING depicted in SLOW FADE TO BLACK: is fictitious, or use fictitiously. The events in this work of fiction are not real, nor are they intended to be so interpreted. For example, any quotes, speeches, thoughts, newspaper headlines, histories, anything and everything contained herein is completely a product of the author's imagination and there is no intention to imply that any of it is real.

if it's a mystery,

then it must be for Kathy

I've been looking for a savior

in these dirty streets,

looking for a savior

beneath these dirty sheets...

- Tori Amos

FADE IN:

ACT ONE

I'M READY FOR MY CLOSE UP, MR. DEVILLE

INT. MASTER BEDROOM SUITE - NIGHT

The room is lavishly decorated in mahogany and antiques.

CLOSE ON VARIOUS ITEMS: a turn-of-the-century brass clock, a small Rembrandt painting, a Ming vase filled with fresh cut flowers, and...

On the middle of a large perfectly made bed, a black leather-bound book, and on top of it a gleaming .45 caliber automatic pistol, and...

A video cassette case, bound in rich black leather, and embossed with a large "X" on the front cover, and nothing else. It sits on top of one of the many bureaus. It is open, and empty.

SOFT WHIMPERING can be heard.

CLOSE ON WILLIAM NEELY, mid-40's, tall, thin, with a head of thick but slightly graying hair, sits on the edge of his king-sized four-poster bed.

Neely is the source of the whimpering. He doesn't look well. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his clothing is disheveled, his face unshaved, his hair uncombed. Something is very wrong.

He holds a VCR remote control in his trembling hands. He stares straight ahead, as if in a drugged-out daze. He attempts to avert his eyes from a large color television and VCR that sits atop the antique dresser, but really, he cannot help himself. He has to no choice but to look.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. A freeze-frame of a WOMAN's face fills the screen. She is obviously beautiful, though her face is contorted in ecstasy...or, perhaps, agony.

CLOSE ON NEELY. Sniffling, wiping his nose with the back of his free hand, he takes aim with the remote control and...

CLOSE ON REMOTE as Neely's thumb presses the PLAY button.

MUSIC UP: Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, opus 47

The very loud music is coming from the TV.

WIDEN

Neely's eyes go wide as he stares at the TV with a mixture of revulsion and desire.

NEELY: (whispering) So beautiful...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the image pulls back from a close up of the woman to a wide shot that reveals that she is wearing a girl's blue-ish plaid catholic high school uniform, which looks as if it has been ripped partially off. Her arms are tied to a metal bar over her head, her legs are likewise tied to a similar bar. She struggles against her binds, but to little avail.

Suddenly, a hand enters the frame. It reaches out to stroke first her face, stopping to force a thumb into her mouth.

The woman tries to pull away, but cannot.

The hand moves down to her neck, and rips away more of the uniform, exposing one of her nipples. Pinching the nipple, the hand then moves to a bizarre pendent that dangles between her breasts.

MOVE IN to close up of pendent. It is an engraved gold elephant, with diamond tusks and three brilliant emerald eyes. The hand fondles the pendent, rubbing its thumb over the gold, the tusks, the three eyes, almost as if buffing it.

CLOSE ON NEELY, whose breathing becomes hard, static. He sucks in a long breath, then again aiming the remote, he hits the FORWARD SCAN button, the MUSIC becomes high-speed gibberish.

He hits PLAY, the MUSIC continues at normal speed.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the owner of the hand is revealed to be a SKI-MASKED MAN. He pulls something from the back pocket of his pants and gives it a sharp flip. A glint, a flash of sharpened steel...it is a switchblade knife.

CLOSE ON NEELY.

NEELY: Forgive us...

He runs his free hand over his mouth, and takes a few deep breaths.

NEELY: ...father...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the ski-masked man runs the tip of the switchblade down the woman's neck, and across her breasts. He circles her nipples with the point of the blade, suddenly a drop of blood appears, then another, and another...

It is now quite obvious that this is no ordinary x-rated film, and that these are not special effects, but that this is something dangerously real and thoroughly vile.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he turns and reaches back toward the middle of the bed. His hand hovers over the pistol and book...

Taking a quick glance back at the TV, Neely places the gun aside, and snaps up the black leather bound book. Turning back to face the TV, he opens it as if in a panic, and begins to read aloud. His voice is but a whisper at first.

NEELY: For at the window of my house, I looked through my lattice, And saw among the simple, I perceived among the youths, a young man devoid of understanding...

CLOSE ON BOOK. In golden script the words "Holy Bible" can be seen.

NEELY: (a little louder Passing along the street near her corner, And he took the path to her house, In the twilight, In the evening, In the black and dark night...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, the flash of sharpened steel making figure-eights and loop-de-loops in pinks and deep reds.

Neely continues to read from "Proverbs" as the action on the television continues.

NEELY: (OS) (louder, as if preaching) And there a woman met him, With the attire of a harlot, and a crafty heart, She was loud and rebellious, Her feet would not stay at home...

On the TV: a flash of teeth, a rip of clothing, the hand, terrified eyes...quick cuts likes the snap-snap-snap of erratic fingers.

NEELY: (OS) (his breathing hard, as if he were having sex) I have spread my bed with tapestry, Colored coverings of Egyptian linens, I have perfumed my bed, with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he lowers the Bible onto his lap, and stares at the TV screen.

NEELY: Come, let us take our fill of... (the word sticks in his throat) ...love...until morning. Let us delight ourselves with love...with love...with love... with...

The words stick in Neely's throat, his voice reduced to nothing more than a guttural groan.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, the sharpened steel again, but not as shiny and new, but dulled almost...caked...

NEELY: (OS) With her enticing speech she caused him to yield, With her flattering lips she seduced him, Immediately he went after her, as an ox goes to slaughter...or... (exhaling loudly) ...as a fool...to the... (the words stick in his throat)...correction... of...the...stocks...

A close-up of a drop of blood, and its slow lingering trail down the women's leg, over her knee socks, across the top of her penny loafers, and onto the floor.

CLOSE ON NEELY as he averts his eyes from the TV screen, picks up the Bible from his lap, and delves back into the words, reading fast, furiously, as if the salvation of mankind lay upon his feeble shoulders.

NEELY: Till an arrow struck his liver, As a bird hastens to the snare, He did not know it would take his life... (takes a deep breath) Now therefore, listen to me, my children, Pay attention to the words of my mouth, Do not let your heart turn aside to her ways, Do not stray into her paths...

Neely looks up at the TV. His face blanches.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. The woman's face, her head bucking forward in slow motion.

NEELY: (OS) (loudly, trying to drown out the TV sounds) For she has cast down many wounded, And all who were slain by her were strong men...

CLOSE ON NEELY

NEELY: ...strong men...strong... (places Bible back on his lap, whispering) ...Her house is the way to hell... Descending to the chambers of death...

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. The woman's eyes glaze over.

CLOSE ON THE LEATHER VIDEO CASSETTE CASE.

CLOSE ON THE PISTOL.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he stares straight ahead. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead, and upper lip.

NEELY: (as if forcing himself to believe) ...Descending to the chambers of death...

Holding the Bible in his hands, Neely stands suddenly, walks over to an old desk in the corner of the room, picks up a pen, and scribbles something down on a notepad.

Ripping off the sheet, he returns to the bed, places the Bible back on the center of the bed, next to the pistol. He delicately places the note on top of the Bible.

NEELY: (with less emotion) ...Descending to the chambers of death...

He moves his hand over toward the pistol, hovering it only inches above the weapon. He pauses for a beat, and finally snatches it up off the bed, then returns to his original seat on the edge of the bed.

CLOSE ON NEELY'S FACE, as he turns to look back at the TV screen.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as a close up of the gold elephant pendent fills the screen. But it is different from before. Now instead of resting against the flushed pink of the woman's cleavage, it lies in a puddle of her blood.

CLOSE ON NEELY, as he raises the gun.

NEELY: (just saying the words) ...Descending to the chambers of death...

Neely forces the tip of the barrel into his mouth. It's as if he were acting out a scene, thrusting the gun past his clenched-tight lips, smashing it against his teeth.

CLOSE ON HIS LIPS, wrapped around the gun barrel.

CLOSE ON HIS FINGER, pressing against the trigger.

CLOSE ON HIS EYES, as they gaze at the television.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN, as the hand clutches the elephant pendent, and rips it from the now dead woman's neck, saving it from drowning in her blood.

CLOSE ON NEELY'S EYES, as the sweat pours from his brow, mixing and mingling with his tears.

CLOSE ON HIS FINGER, it squeezes the trigger.

A SHOT reverberates throughout the room.

CLOSE ON TV SCREEN. The woman lies crumpled and bloodied on the floor. The shot very slowly MOVES IN from a full shot to an extreme close up on her left eye, frozen forever in death.

CLOSE ON THE LEATHER VIDEO CASSETTE CASE.

CLOSE ON BIBLE AND NOTE. Though splattered with Neely's blood, the words on the note can very clearly be made out.

It reads: "We are all fucked."

CUT TO:

OPENING TITLE SEQUENCE

ONE

The beep caught her off guard.

Why here? Why now? After six or so very long months of working the audition circuit, she had finally been called back. Finally, and for an underarm deodorant commercial no less, one for a new and supposedly vastly improved version of the nation's best-selling brand. Just think of the residuals.

Sure, there was the call back for that B-movie. Assault of the Killer Kall Grrls from Outer Space, or some such nonsense. But it really didn't count. It did at first, but then . . .

She actually thought, she actually believed, the producer was impressed by her reading, when it was really her legs that got her the attention. Those never-ending legs up to here.

"You have such a great body . . ." he said, during that second meeting, after almost everything was said and done. She had done a reading from Mamet's Oleanna. That always got to them. Always gave her a little solid footing from which to work. No producer would ever suspect that an actress reading from Oleanna would be willing to go to bed for a part.

She wasn't quite sure how to respond. According to the casting notice, nudity was not required for the part, which, likewise according to the casting notice, called for "an attractive, independent, intelligent, 20-something female." Then again, the ad also suggested bringing a bathing suit to the audition. Casting notices almost always suggested bringing bathing suits, as if auditions always ended with fab pool parties. Not once in her six or so months of auditioning, in her six or so months of acting classes, in her six or so months of waiting tables to pay rent, had she even been so much as invited to a pool party . . . not even by a sleazebag B-movie producer. Hell, this certainly was nothing like the Hollywood she had always heard so much about.

Maybe the Killer Kall Grrls producer was just coming on to her. Maybe he was this close to inviting her to a pool party -- not that she'd have gone, but it would have been nice to be invited. Though deep down she'd have bet most anything that the production assistant with the tight jeans and the t-shirt that proclaimed him to be a "boy-toy" was more the producer's speed. They seemed, somehow, right together. Whatever . . .

Finally he got to the point. "If only your boobs were, um . . ."

She made a face, and though phrases like jerk were immediately traipsing through her mind -- actually jerk was the kindest of the phrases traipsing anywhere -- what she volunteered was, "Bigger?"

"Actually, yes," the producer said. "Bigger."

"I like my breasts," she said.

"They're fine," he said, though she was sure he added in his head, if you like such things. "But a couple of inches, a couple of cup sizes, y'know, could pay off in the long run. Really . . . look at Anna Nicole."

She nodded. A sack of leaking silicone was not exactly her idea of a pay off. "I'll keep my 34-B's, if you don't mind," she said.

"Suit yourself," the producer said. "But I know my audience. And my audience wants boobs."

"And I'm sure you're the sort of guy who'll deliver," she said, standing, making her way toward the exit.

"They don't call me the King of the B's for nothing," he said proudly, before turning toward his "boy-toy" assistant, who responded with a smile, then called out, "Next!"

CUT TO:

Now here she was, with a legitimate shot at getting a legitimate role -- commercials counted as legitimate roles, didn't they? -- and her Goddamn beeper was having conniptions.

And this was a casting agent who said nothing, not a word about cups sizes. Maybe boobs meant more to producers, gay, straight, or otherwise, she thought. Maybe boobs did give great box-office. Who knew?

"You're stunning," this casting director had said.

"Thank you," she answered, hesitantly.

"You look sort of like that model, Christy Turlington."

She nodded and swallowed hard once, knowing a little too well what was coming next. She had heard it enough over the past six months: you have the voice, the talent, the height, the mouth, the eyes, even the cheekbones. Everything . . . "Except for the nose, right?"

"Well, um, yes," she said. "Actually."

"Is it a problem?" she asked, thinking it's not really that big, then wondering if people really wouldn't be a tad more concerned with her arm pits.

"I don't think so," the casting director said. "You've got a great smile."

So smiles sold underarm products. Now she understood. "But if I should ever decide to get a nose job . . ."

"I could get you a commercial a week. Maybe two."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, knowing full well that she liked her nose, just as much as her breasts, or any other part, for that matter, and she'd be damned if she was about to change anything during this twenty-seventh year of life. I like me just the way I am, she thought, shuddering at the Billy Joelish implications.

She glanced down finally at the persistent beeper. It couldn't be a wrong number, not this once. Or something else altogether not so important. No, probably not. Make that definitely not. She pressed the scroll button and let out a long sigh. Sure enough, there was the drop-everything phrase, Zen Arcade, and the 800, toll-free number, which she unfortunately knew by heart.

She turned toward the only other person in the waiting room. The only other call back -- a fifty/fifty chance at getting the job. Christ! A pretty blonde with a crooked smile, but one of those picture perfect noses.

"It's all yours," she said, wondering if perhaps neither noses nor smiles sold underarm products.

The blonde turned wide-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"An emergency," she explained, patting the beeper lovingly, then standing, picking up her knapsack filled with headshots and books to read and tapes to listen to and other incidentals, and heading for the exit.

"Bye," the blonde said, a cautious little wave.

"Bye."

While waiting for the elevator, she popped four quarters into a nearby soda machine, and pressed the button for Coke. Sipping, side-stepping the ahh . . ., front-stepping into her mechanical ride, she pressed another button, this time the L for lobby, then pulled her Walkman out of the knapsack, donned the headphones, and pressed PLAY. L7 suddenly came alive in her head. She sang along, a slightly sexy, mostly off-key whisper, "Come on, come on, come on, come on," and walked out onto La Brea Avenue, where after only three attempts, she found a working pay phone, put aside the headphones momentarily, and dialed away.

"Zen Arcade," the pleasant sounding voice on the other end of the phone line answered.

"Wesley Selden, please," she said.

"May I tell him who's calling?"

"Tell him it's Turner," she said. "Special Agent, Paige Turner."

CUT TO:

TWO

He hated the cowboy hats and the cowboy boots -- badly counterfeited wranglers snapping their bullwhips, taming the wild Jaguars and savage Rolls Royce beasts. He couldn't tolerate the cold, the snow, the ski-racks and all the out-of-breath, meet-at-the-lodge, hot-tub sloppy sex promises they embraced. He despised the food, the bite-sized-nibble-nibble-diet-pill portions at fifty nine dollars and ninety-five cents a serving. He couldn't bear the phony smiles and compliments, the matching his and her silicone face lifts, hip nips, flab folds, and tummy tucks. He detested the gaudiness, the decorations, the Christmas spirit alive and well and cracking open the Humpty Dumpty egg of Mr. Claus three hundred and sixty-five fucking days a year. And Goddamnit, if he saw another fur coat he was sure he'd hurt someone.

So what the hell was he doing in Utah in late January, with his first feature-length film about to take home the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance United States Film Festival?

CUT TO:

That was a long story. One he had no desire to recall, at least at this moment. His first quiet time, down time, mind on PAUSE time, in what seemed like months, but in reality was only a week.

He took a long swig from the well-iced can of Tab he had brought with him from the mini-bar in his room at the Stein Ericksen Lodge, then glanced down Park City's quaint Main Street. What's a nice town like you doing playing host to assholes like this? he wondered, from his perch on the edge of the roof of the Grand DeVille Theater, the center of the film festival's activities. It was where the most promising movies were screened, where the most prominent stars were seen, and where awards to any combination of either of the aforementioned were presented, clutched and cherished.

It was where Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request was first screened only three days earlier.

Made for ninety-six thousand, three hundred, fifty-seven dollars and thirteen cents, the black comedy told, mostly through flashbacks, the rather off-beat story of a thirty-one-year-old woman's inability to leave a New York City hotel room, a room whose telephone never stopped ringing. It never stopped ringing.

It was a world premiere in every sense of the phrase. Even he hadn't had the time or opportunity to see the Goddamn thing up on the big screen, all the sounds and soundtrack in place. So he sat there, uncomfortably at first, then giving in, going along with the fourteen hundred, give or take -- probably give, because even standing-room-only had been sold out -- in attendance. Going along, and enjoying the ride.

And what a ride it was. Just long enough -- one hour and forty-one minutes -- and with some damn impressive scenery. Yes, even he had to admit it looked good. No! It looked fucking fantastic -- every penny of the film's budget was up there on the big screen. It was glorious. Glorious 16mm!

And it was funny, funny in all the right places. And that once, when the audience was supposed to cry, he could hear the sniffles. That's really when he knew it worked. Because, after seeing every second, every frame, of the movie countless times, too many times, over the past year -- a year he spent locked in a six foot by eight foot editing suite which he called home -- he too cried. He cried despite knowing every line, every phrase, every edit forwards, backwards, upside down, inside out, and sideways. He cried despite knowing that it would all work out in the end. He cried despite himself.

"Christ!" he mumbled, wiping away the tears.

CUT TO:

The voice was familiar.

"Gonna jump?" it asked.

It was Michelle Bialer, his agent, his friend, who came aboard after reading the Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request script, and who even invested a little of her own cash into the under-funded project. She was petite and striking, in her very late twenties -- she'd be thirty in a few months -- with jet black hair cut in a Louise Brooks' bob, and a strong chizzled chin, stronger cheekbones, and huge blue eyes.

He was still sitting on the edge of the roof, now rubbing at the bridge of his nose, attempting to eliminate something, maybe life itself. He scratched at the five days of stubble covering his chin, ran a bony hand through his shoulder-length hair -- the style was between-styles, it had been between styles for as long as he could remember -- then smiled.

"Y'know," he said, waving a hand down at the throngs on the street below. "In a parallel universe, all these people are in zoos, locked up in cages. to be gawked at, pointed at, laughed at."

"And where are you?" Michelle asked.

He laughed, just once, an audible exclamation point. "Inside as well, holding on to the bars, screaming, 'But I don't belong in here.' And that gets the biggest laugh of all."

He turned to face her. "I needed to breathe," he said, answering her original question.

She walked over to his side, and brushed some of that hair from his face. Michelle had always loved his hair. Though he did nothing but complain that it was too thick. Too thick, and much to wavy.

Grabbing his chin, she raised it, then bent forward, lowering her face so that they were eye-to-eye -- her baby blues versus his deep grays. She wanted to kiss him, but instead only said, "They're calling for you."

"I feel like they're calling for my head," he said.

"They love you."

He laughed. "Today."

She smiled warmly, wondering, as she had so many times in the past, why someone who despised the business so, would ever want to get involved, would ever work so damn hard only to be repulsed by the recognition he so deserved. "Today," she agreed, pulling away, straightening up.

He slapped the top of his knees, then stood slowly. He towered over her. Though at five-two most people towered over Michelle. He managed it by a foot, all lanky in ancient jeans and a Salvation Army brand sports jacket.

"Let's go," he said.

Together they crossed the tar-covered roof, toward the door that would lead them back into the old theater.

Halfway down the staircase, he heard the chanting Michelle was talking about. His name . . . over and over and over again.

"Can I throw up now?" he asked.

"Throw up later," she advised. "Now would be bad form."

He nodded, took a deep breath, and headed toward the break in the curtain through which he needed to walk through to get to the stage.

The fourteen hundred plus in attendance jumped to their collective feet the moment they recognized him. The cheering only got louder. "Max, Max, Max," they called.

The theater's announcer exhaled a sigh of relief, smiled graciously, then said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Director John Maxwell."

CUT TO:

THREE

Paige didn't arrive at the crime scene until close to seven AM the next morning. It was small town America, the Midwest -- as far away, worlds away, from the glamour, glitz, and pretense of Los Angeles as imaginable. It was Watertown, Wisconsin, home of the very prestigious, very conservative, very catholic, Saint Agnes University, of which the victim was the star of its English Department.

Professor William Neely, author of the best known, most wildly read biography of William Shakespeare, as well as tomes on the lives and times of Chaucer, Faulkner and Fitzgerald, not to mention over a dozen best-selling novels of the mystery genre, was rich, successful, and according to his gorgeous twenty-three year-old girlfriend, as happy as the day was long.

She was the one who found his body, his girlfriend. And she didn't understand, couldn't understand, why he'd have taken his life.

Paige pulled her rent-a-car up to the curb in front of Neely's yellow victorian mansion, located about five miles up the road from the university. She looked over at the meticulously landscaped grounds, at the new Lexus coupe parked in the driveway, and next to it a Range Rover. And behind the 4X4, a few blue and whites, a few more state police cruisers, and a even a couple bureau-mobiles, spilling out of the driveway and onto the street. She pulled her knapsack off the passenger seat, and hiked over to the front door.

A youngish cop and his overweight partner stood guard on the porch. "Sorry, honey," the young one said to Paige as she stepped onto the porch, "'Fraid Professor Neely isn't gonna be able to see you today."

She smiled sweetly -- sure, she hardly looked like a federal agent in her warmest L.A. clothes, jeans and a real bulky sweater, not Midwest winter attire by any stretch of one's Gap charge card -- then, anything but sweetly, she pulled the black leather case that contained her standard issue Federal Bureau of Investigation I.D. and badge from the back pocket of those jeans, flipped it open, and pressed it close, only a few inches away from the young one's nose. "Sorry, honey," she said, mimicking his Midwestern drawl, "F.B.I."

Snapping the case shut, she pressed by, into the house, leaving the young one and his fat partner blushing maroon and shrugging confounded I-didn't-knows to the wind.

She found Wesley Selden standing just outside the master bedroom suite. He looked like hell -- the grungy well-beyond-five-o'clock shadow look just didn't cut it on his stern forty-something face. His dark brown eyes seemed tired, sadder than usual. His hair was wet, slicked back, as if he had recently stuck his head under a faucet to help stay awake. His regulation dark blue suit seemed slept in, though in reality it had probably just been lived in beyond the twenty-four hour straight mark. He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and back again, as he always seemed to when tired. One of these days he'd get that left hip replaced, when there was time, when there was a little more urgency. For now, he could live with the limp, and the occasional two-step shuffle.

Selden's eyes brightened considerably when he spotted her. "From one intelligent lifeform to another," he said. "It's good to see you.

"I was this close to getting a deodorant commercial," she said, holding the thumb and index finger of her right hand a half inch apart.

"The world'll have to wait a little longer to get a gander at your pits," he said, adding, "Tsk, tsk, tsk."

She smiled, having always appreciated Selden's dry sense of humor. Someone had to.

"In here," he said, motioning with his head toward the bedroom, before leading her into the room.

She swallowed hard, always surprised at how much of a mess one little bullet -- not that a .45 caliber slug was all that minuscule -- could cause. Neely lay sprawled on the edge of the bed. A police photographer hovered over him, taking a shot of every conceivable angle.

"He left a note," Selden said.

Paige looked at him, then back toward the bed. She spotted the bible, and on it, the note. Taking a few steps closer, she glanced down at Neely's desperate, final scrawl. She wanted to laugh, and she probably would have, had it been some other case. Some easier case. Had she not been at her wits end. Had she not prayed that she'd never be called to one of these sort of scenes again. Had she not agreed with the good professor's last words.

"You can say that again, buddy," she whispered, turning her gaze toward Neely, only to be momentarily blinded by the flash from the photographer's camera.

Selden tapped her elbow. He had seen enough of this mess, he had spent enough time taking statements from the hysterical, though absolutely gorgeous, twenty-three year-old girlfriend, he was tired, and more than anything he wanted a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea, and after that a hot bath, and then, well, a good night's sleep -- if such a thing existed in this lifetime -- might be nice.

"Over here," he said, pointing at the dresser, upon which sat the television and the VCR and, more importantly, that video cassette case, bound in rich black leather, and embossed with a large "X" on the front cover, and nothing else. It was still there. It was still open. It was still empty.

The sight of it made Paige cringe. She took a long breath, then asked, "And the tape?"

"Still in the machine," Selden said, explaining that because the TV was on, the VCR was on, and a remote control was found on the bed not far from the suicide note, a local cop had surmised that the dead man had been watching something just prior to pulling the trigger. And when said police officer got a gander at what exactly the good professor had in his video cassette recorder, the bureau was dutifully notified. "Poor sonofabitch just kept asking me if it was real. If that poor girl was really dead." Selden shook his head, as if needing to dislodge its contents. He motioned toward Neely's body. "The tape bothered him more than that."

"I can understand," Paige said, as she pulled her knapsack from her shoulder, opened it, pushed aside the headshots and books to read and tapes to listen to and instead reached for the incidentals. Rubber gloves. She pulled them on, then leaned over and pressed the EJECT button on the VCR. The machine whirred and purred, and out popped the tape. She pulled it gingerly from the machine, placed it, just as gingerly, in the leather bound case, then snapping that case shut, she placed it in a large plastic bag she had also pulled from her knapsack for just that purpose.

She turned to Selden. "Any place we can view this?"

"All taken care of."

She took a last look about the room, the professor, the bible, the note, and said, "Then let's get out of here."

"My feelings exactly."

CUT TO:

En route to the motel room, where a dual VCR and a television monitor awaited the special agents, Selden said, "I assume you're aware of the latest news from Utah?"

"He took home the Grand Jury Prize," Paige said. She had picked up the late edition of the Los Angeles Times while waiting for her flight at LAX.

"There's no doubt about it now. The big man's going to go after Maxwell hook, line and sinker."

"What makes you think Maxwell will take the bait?" she asked. All of her research suggested otherwise. All of it said John Maxwell would want nothing to do with big studio business.

Selden smiled. It took him a little to long to answer, but he finally did. "I have faith in my best agent," he said, shooting Paige a quick glance.

She answered with a glance of her own, one accented by an exaggerated roll of her large green eyes.

CUT TO:

FOUR

The big man sat behind the massive marble slab he called a desk in the equally massive twelfth floor penthouse suite he called an office. He looked out at his empire and took a deep drag from the thick Cuban cigar he rolled lightly between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He was more than big, he was gigantic, six foot seven, two hundred, seventy-eight pounds of muscle, relatively solid muscle even at this age. A college football star who would have most definitely gone on to play professional ball if only it weren't for that little locker room scandal. That, well, he preferred not to think about. At least, not if he didn't have to.

And everything about the man was big -- his eyes, his ears, his nostrils, his hands, his forehead and even his hair. Yes, Jeffrey Theilgard had big hair, blonde just starting to grey. At fifty-two he wasn't handsome, but he was grand.

Randall Adams squirmed slightly in his seat. He hated when Theilgard spaced out -- especially these look-at-all-I-own extended cigar drags. But he mentally sighed and waited for his employer to rejoin him on planet Earth.

Randall had been Theilgard's right hand man for going on an even dozen years. Bitchy, possessive, but loyal, Randall was standing by Theilgard's side during the ground breaking ceremonies for Theilgard Studios -- the empire his boss was now scrutinizing. He was seated behind him during eleven consecutive Academy Award presentations, during countless film festivals, and even during those trivial awards -- The People's Choice, The Golden Globes, et al. He had cheered when Theilgard accepted the Best Picture statuette for "A Time To Die." And though he went unmentioned in the acceptance speech -- one that ran six minutes, twelve seconds in length and contained the name of everyone Theilgard ever knew or hoped to know, except, of course, Randall -- he never held the omission against his boss. Randall respected Jeffrey Theilgard more than anyone he ever met in the film business. Theilgard was a man of his word, a man of conviction -- in a business were dishonesty and bullshit walked hand in hand to the land of the multi-million dollar box office gross stomping over truth, integrity and aesthetic value. Theilgard was a genius who discovered a way to make quality films that turned a profit. And though at times he could be a bastard as well, Randall was proud to have been by his side for these many years.

He just wished Theilgard would give up those damn cigars.

"I want Mr. Maxwell?" Theilgard said finally, still facing the window. His voice was a low, booming even if it wanted to be a whisper -- a growl mixed with a burp, frightening, an FM nightmare. "And I want his film."

Randall cleared his throat -- he always cleared his throat after a prolonged silence -- and reluctantly said, "He hasn't returned any of our calls."

Theilgard turned and faced Randall, his eyebrows collapsing under the weight of his imposing forehead. "And why not?" he asked. Theilgard hadn't ventured out to Sundance, but he had been sneaked a viewing copy of Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request by one of his spies on the festival selection committee. It was a brilliant work, by any stretch of the imagination. And he recognized that brilliance immediately, just as he immediately recognized that he'd have to move fast if he wanted to purchase the lucrative distribution rights, faster still if he wanted to control Mr. Maxwell.

"His agent said he'd get back to us."

"When?" Theilgard snapped.

"She couldn't say, for sure."

"Look." Theilgard pressed his fingertips into the top of the marble slab and leaned forward. "I want John Maxwell making movies for me. I want to distribute his film. I don't care what it costs. I don't care what it takes. Get him out here. Get him in this office. Get him alone with me." He sat back in his chair. "Understand?"

Randall nodded. He had been through this so many times before.

CUT TO:

Another agent awaited them at the motel. Without saying a word, he handed Selden a cup of very hot Earl Grey tea, then asked Paige if she'd like anything.

"Coffee'd be great," she said. "Black."

The agent poured a cup from a steaming pot, and handed it to her.

Both she and Selden took a long sip, letting the heat of the liquid do its work against the Wisconsin cold that had taken root in their bones. Then they turned their attention toward the equipment.

Paige pulled the plastic bag-protected video tape from her knapsack, donned another pair of rubber gloves, then carefully removed the leather bound case from the bag, then the video cassette from the leather bound case. Slipping the tape into the play slot of the machine, then a blank tape into the record slot, she turned the television monitor on, pressed PLAY, then RECORD.

As the machine whirred and purred, the monitor came blazing to life, first with sound, Symphony No. 5 from dear old dead Dmitri Shostakovich. Then came the picture, exactly the image both she and Selden expected. An extreme close-up of that Goddamn elephant pendent, always the same with its diamond tusks and three emerald eyes.

Seeing it made her turn away. It made her angry and frightened. It made her want to kill. It made her want to cry. Paige knew what would be coming next -- the music, the elephant pendent, they were only the persistent epilogue -- some twisted variation on an already twisted theme.

This was the fourth tape since she moved to L.A., some six months back, since she began work on the case full time. Before that only three had been discovered over a period of two years. Only three. She shook her head sadly at that thought. Only three lives, then four more, and only one of those so far had a name. The last discovered prior to Selden bringing her onto the case. She had spent her first three weeks going over missing person reports from every crevice of the continent, before, finally, turning up a face . . . a very familiar face. And a name to go along with it. Cynthia Gwinn. Goddamnit, that made the horror even worse. It was beyond real, beyond misery, when she had to tell a sickly New England father that his only daughter, missing for three years, was most likely dead. That was something Paige never wanted to suffer through again. Though she knew she'd probably have to . . . sooner or later.

And who, aside from the killers, knew how many others existed. Other tapes in the hands of individuals not wise enough to do the world a favor, as Professor Neely had, and blow their own fucking brains out.

"Neely's right," she said, as the close-up of the pendent dissolved into a wide-shot of fear.

"About what?" Selden asked.

"The human race."

"What about it?"

"We're all fucked," she said. "Each and every one of us."

CUT TO:

FIVE

"It is a real job," Max said, trying to explain that a person could actually make a living making movies.

He had had the conversation so many times before. Ever since film school, though then it was more along the skewed lines of, why don't you go to school to be a doctor or a lawyer? The argument was that doctors and lawyers made a good living, and that the world would never have enough of either. And though Max couldn't argue with the former, he strongly disagreed with the latter. The world had more than enough doctors, and a way too many lawyers. But did he argue? Not really. He had learned not to argue a long time back.

"Baloney," the elderly gentleman said, stretching out the three syllables into a sing-songy pea-souped dance upon his tongue. "Me. I had a real job. I worked in a factory. I was a foreman in a brass factory for Christ's sake. You! You wouldn't know a real job if it bit you on your skinny ass." And suddenly the topic of conversation was miraculously switched. "You don't eat enough, y'know. That's why you're so skinny. You never ate right. Ever since you were little. Even your mother. She couldn't get you to eat."

Max nodded. He smiled. He sipped at his cup of coffee -- extra cream, two Sweet n' Lows. This was his first stop after escaping the pomposity of Sundance. It was always his first stop.

After a long flight back home, he rented a car at the airport and drove directly to the seventy-six apartment complex in the east end of Waterbury, Connecticut, a crumbling old brass mill town that had seen much better days. It was where Max had lived as a teen, before escaping to the anonymity of Greenwich Village and New York University's film department. And it was where he returned, when he had no where else to go.

The visit was typical. His eighty-one year-old great uncle did most of the talking, the lecturing. The subjects were almost always the same: Max's job, how the Democrats were ruining the country, Max's weight or the length of his hair, how the mob controlled professional sports, why no one made movies like they used to, and when was he going to finally get married?

Max had once been asked if he were "light in the shoes." And after the uncle explained the phrase with a limp flip of his wrist, Max, though tempted to ask "And what if I were?" instead persuaded him that he was indeed straight, that he did indeed adore women.

On another occasion, the uncle had proclaimed Ronald Reagan to be the greatest President of all time. Oh, how the words caught in Max's throat on that day. Oh, how he wanted to, needed to, scream bloody murder the moment he reached the lobby of that seventy-six apartment complex. But still, no matter how much he disagreed, he could never bring himself to argue, to say "You're wrong."

The great uncle's name was Bill Maxwell. He was Max's father's father's brother, the man who took the fifteen-year-old in when his parents and kid sister were killed in a car crash. He was Max's only living relative. And as much as he stubbornly contested every aspect of Max's life, he adored his nephew, and was proud of him. When Max would depart, he'd display the newspaper clippings and reviews of his film -- which he called Defeat the Hotel when speaking to Max, but by its complete and correct title when speaking to anyone else -- to his bridge partners, his fellow retirees. He would beam, as if he never had any doubt that his nephew was the most talented film director of all time.

And though Max never saw the pride up close -- on occasion a neighbor in Bill's building would meet Max and comment on how proud Bill was of him -- he didn't have to. Bill had always been there for him, at fifteen, and later, at darker, more depressed times. It was one of the reasons Max never argued during those visits. Instead, he just listened, to lectures and old stories, and occasionally he'd even get to put a few words in edgewise. The other reason was a lot simpler. He knew Bill wouldn't be around forever, and that life was just too Goddamn short.

CUT TO:

The homely little man with no detectable hair swallowed twice, then let out a long satisfactory sigh of blessed release and uncomplicated relief. It was good. He knew it would be. It always was.

Why else would he spend so much time mastering the technique? He forgot now where he read about it, read that it was possible. He even forgot the name of the video he watched. But there, on blazing betacam-quality video, was proof beyond a reasonable doubt that a normally endowed make could self-fellate.

There were breathing exercises involved, and a lot of stretching. He would lie on his back on the floor next to his bed, and prop his legs up against the edge of the mattress. And he would crunch, as if working on the goddamn tightest stomach this side of Mr. Universe. He would crunch, but instead of staring up, staring straight ahead, his eyes were aimed at his intended target -- one head heading for another.

He worked at it for thirty minutes at a time, twice a day, every day. It took him the better part of seven weeks before he could even touch the tip of his penis with the tip of his tongue, and another nine days before he could get the head into his mouth. But at least then it was worth it, at least then there was an orgasmic reward.

But he wanted more. Desperate, he upped the practice to three, sometimes four or even five times a day. His ability improved by a millimeter or two at a time, sometimes less. Then finally . . . nirvana. Fourteen weeks, two days after that first crunch -- when he wasn't even close -- he achieved deep throat.

That was six years back, and he was proud to say he hadn't penetrated a woman since. Quite proud. And though his friends would ask him he'd "penetrated" men instead, the hairless man would just grumble. "You don't get it," he'd say. "I don't need women, and I sure as fuck don't need men. Nobody can suck my dick better than me. Nobody! Wanna see?"

And while, on occasion, someone would argue that a partner might make the act more gratifying, no one ever took him up on his offer to demonstrate. It's not that there were some things better left to the imagination, but that there were just some things better left unimagined altogether.

He really didn't need partners. Partners talked. Partners desired satisfaction. Partners liked to be wined and dined. Partners rarely wanted to hump and be over with it. Though sure, there were hookers available who'd cut right to the chase. But in his mind hookers were the worst of the lot, dirty with filth spewing from their mouths, drek leaking from their every pore. He'd be damned if he'd so much as touch one.

And though touching had become a personal faux pas, he still liked to watch, video cassettes especially, of blondes with augmented breasts, engaging perhaps in a little B&D, perhaps something more. He'd pop in a tape, hit FORWARD SCAN, find a particularly engaging scene, get into position, and imagine he was part of the action.

Ahh . . . now that was satisfaction.

The hairless man toweled off what spilled onto the sides of his face, then went over to his answering machine. The phone had rung once during his act of self-preservation, but he didn't care. He rarely allowed himself to be interrupted. And why should he? Besides, that's what answering machines were for.

Pressing the PLAY button, he heard a loud beep then the big man's distinctive growl. "Utz!" Theilgard said. "Stop blowing yourself, and pick up the fucking phone. We need to talk."

James Utz laughed loudly. He snatched up the receiver in his hand, pressed the number one, then the pound symbol on the keypad of his telephone, and listen for the ring.

"Yeah," the voice on the other end of the line barked.

"It's Utz."

"About fucking time."

"What do you want?"

"I want John Maxwell. What the fuck do you think I want?"

CUT TO:

END OF INSTALLMENT ONE

MAKE SURE TO COME BACK JANUARY 1st, 2000 TO CONTINUE.

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Gorman Bechard