SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #11

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.

CUT TO:

FORTY-SEVEN

It was pushing six A.M., when the Boxster pulled into the half mile long private drive that led to the Malibu castle. The passenger kissed the driver softly on the lips.

"See you on Monday," he said.

"Good night," she said.

And as Heather walked to the main entrance, the Jeep slipped silently down the drive. It wasn't until he pulled onto Sunset, that Max popped a tape in the player -- John Coltrane's A Love Supreme. Yeah, he thought, aching everywhere but feeling no pain, the intravenous dose of Coltrane's sax rushing through his system. Just a long, drawn out, yeah.

CUT TO:

"Good morning," Jeffrey Theilgard said, as his daughter entered the castle.

"You're up late."

"You're up early."

"How was the party?"

"It was a party. Like most parties, except for the presence of my daughter."

"I'm in the middle of shooting a film."

"I know that."

"Surrounded by assholes at a party is not my idea on how to spend a night off."

"But spending it with Mr. Maxwell is?"

A moment of silence. "I'm going to bed."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Yes. I did."

CUT TO:

Vagabond Books, on Westwood Boulevard in Westwood, was a unique species for the greater Los Angeles area. First editions -- Vonnegut, Salinger, et al -- line one wall of the shop, new releases another, Sci-Fi and Mysteries yet another. It's a book shop where you can most likely find anything -- new or used.

Paige was thumbing through a first edition hard cover copy of Healer, complete with dust jacket. He spotted her the moment he entered the store, the little bell above the door jingling frantically, in time with his heart which raced in spite of itself. He took a deep breath. He could smell her presence in the room. The same sweet smell that saturated her pillow -- the pillow he now slept on most every night.

"How are you?" he said, standing only a foot or so behind her.

Turning, their eyes locked. His racing heart stopped dead in its tracks for what seemed like eternity -- nothing moved, nothing dared to.

She smiled. "Okay."

He let out a deep breath, his heart pumping again, slowly at first. "Me too."

Paige replaced the Laferriere first edition on the book shelf.

"How much they getting for that?"

"Four hundred and fifty dollars."

"Christ!"

She nodded. "So, what do you have?"

No beating around the bush, he thought. "Well, Theilgard's got a wine cellar, throw some quotation marks around that phrase. It's in the basement of the Bel Air house."

"A lot of people have wine cellars."

"Not with two inch thick solid steel doors and enough locks to make the folks guarding the Mona Lisa feel secure."

"No exaggeration?"

"I went to school in New York. I know a thing or two about locks." Max shook his head. "Supposedly he's got over three million dollars worth of rare wine in there."

"And you're not buying it?"

"He's got Medeco deadbolts -- a four of them, a criss-crossing police bar -- gotta be two inches thick, and it's wired as well."

"Maybe the guy's just paranoid about his wine."

"I'd say there something a lot more valuable than wine in there."

"Such as?"

He swallowed hard, then lowered his voice. "A small production studio."

"But you have no proof."

"Not yet."

They ambled over to another part of the shop, Max made like he was interested in some science fiction paperbacks.

"How about you?"

"Nothing much new, except that I'm pretty sure I've discovered the identity of our ski masked man."

Max could feel his blood pressure rise.

"Rewatch the Gina video," Paige explained. "Nine frames past the five minute, thirty-six second mark, freeze fame on the killer's left hand. It'll be holding on to her face."

Max could picture the image. He wished he couldn't.

She gently fingered the snuff box of her left hand with the index finger of her right. "Check out the snuff box."

"The what?"

"Snuff box." She pointed to the area on her left hand. "Ever do coke?"

He shook his head. "What's there?"

"A scar, about a half inch in length. Never stitched up."

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Take a guess?"

"James Utz."

"Wrong," she said. "But close. I'll give you a hint. You almost killed the son-of-a-bitch a few weeks ago."

The color drained from Max's face. He suddenly felt faint, almost weak kneed. To think that he might have saved Gina's life . . . to think that . . .

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said. "I just . . ." He took a few rapid deep breaths. "To know I had my hand around that fucker's throat."

He looked into Paige's eyes. "You sure it's Larry Moore?"

"I'm sure," she said.

"Be careful."

"You too."

CUT TO:

FORTY-EIGHT

The telephone in Larry Moore's Hollywood Hills home rang once. He was seated at a desk reviewing the returns on his numerous Mutual Fund accounts -- one was up seventeen percent, another down twenty-two, and yet a third had returned a grand total of point zero seven percent on his one million, two hundred, sixteen thousand, four hundred, eight dollar and fourteen cents investment. Whew! You just can't win, he thought, checking the Wall Street Journal's daily index of current CD rates -- going up. Maybe it was time to roll over some funds.

On the fourth ring Moore grabbed the receiver. "Hello," he said, wondering what the hell Utz wanted now.

"Hello," the non-Utzian voice on the other end answered. "Is this Larry Moore?"

"Sure is."

"This is Paige," the voice said. "Paige Thompson."

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard sat at the breakfast nook in the Bel Air estate. He sat alone, as he had all day, all that Sunday. As he had that morning, at breakfast, two places set, one place empty. He wouldn't call her. He just couldn't. She'd give some excuse about studying her lines. "I'm in the middle of shooting my first film, father," she'd most probably say. And he'd be the ever understanding parent. "Of course, dear. Of course."

What a fool, he thought, sipping at a glass of bourbon. The countless drink in an afternoon of endless drinking. "I'm such a fool." He chuckled to himself, and poured another, then staggered to his feet. And walking out onto the deck, where on so many countless Sunday mornings he had shared a meal with his only child, Jeffrey Theilgard began to dance. Alone, he cha-cha-chaed. To the accompaniment of his own voice, as he sang in the most adulterated of whispers, "Hush little baby, don't you cry . . ."

CUT TO:

Paige was comfortable at Small's. Comfortable and confident that it was the last place on Earth in which Larry Moore would hang. She sat at the bar, sipping a cranberry juice, taking with the bartender about the upcoming election. Buddy Guy was cranking on the juke box. The porn king was about twenty minutes late.

"Thought you were standing me up," Paige said.

"Couldn't find the place," he said, taking a seat. He pointed at Paige's drink, and said to the bartender, "I'll have whatever the lady's drinking."

"A cranberry juice?" the bartender asked.

"Cranberry juice?" He shot Paige a glance. "No. Better make it a beer. Bud'll be fine."

"No Bud," the bartender said.

Moore was caught off guard. "Whatever, then." He turned toward Paige. "You like this place?"

"Love it," she said.

"Kinda seedy, don't you think?"

"Coming from you, I think they'd take that as a compliment."

He cleared his throat. "So, why'd you call?"

"I was bored. Felt like going out for a drink."

"Only a drink?"

"Only a drink."

"Cranberry juice?"

"It's a drink."

"I guess."

"So, tell me more about the wonderful world of pornography."

"Why, you thinking about applying for a job?"

"A girl's gotta make a living."

He touched her arm. "If you come back to my house, I can do a lot more than just tell you."

Paige pulled away. On her lap, her free hand squeezed her purse. She could make out the form and function of the Pocketlite through the leather. Touch me again, she thought. Just give me a reason. But smiling, forcing a grin, she said, "Just tell me. That'll do fine for now."

"Yeah." He sucked in his breath.

"Hard to get, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I remember."

CUT TO:

Heather was feeling antsy. Lounging by the side of the pool in Malibu, she wanted Max beside her, she wanted him inside her. And she wanted him now. But he had made plans, he was going out to some jazz club with Anatole. He said he'd call her when he got home . . . if it wasn't too late.

Ring.

Heather lunged for the phone, picking up the receiver before it had time to ring again. "Hello."

"Hi. Is this Heather?"

"Yes," the disappointment evident.

"It's Seth. Seth Fusco."

"You don't give up, do you?" Heather asked, an annoyed smirk.

"Never," he said. "Look, I was wondering if maybe you'd . . ."

"Like to go for a drink?"

"Well . . . ," there was some hesitation. "Yeah."

"No," she said. "Not really."

"No?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"Okay . . . , then . . ."

"But I've got an alternative suggestion," Heather said, the annoyance and disappointment suddenly succeeded by abject horniness.

"Which is?"

"Why don't you come on over and fuck me senseless?"

Silence.

"Seth?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Make it fifteen."

"I'll make it ten."

CUT TO:

FORTY-NINE

The second week of filming started slowly, with the cast and crew racking up their first overtime salary of the shoot on Monday night.

"We've got one more set-up, then we can wrap the scene," Kristine Jacobson said, "How do you want to handle this?"

Max thought for a moment. With every overtime hour eating and/or adding approximately ten thousand dollars of and/or to the budget, if wasn't a decision to be made hastily. "I say we do it," he said. "It's a heavy scene and Heather's got the tone down just right."

"You're the boss," Kristine said, turning and barking out orders to the awaiting cast and crew.

"Kristine," Max called.

"Yeah?" she said, turning back.

"What would you have done?"

"Honestly?"

Max nodded.

"Exactly the same thing."

The scene was the first in which the Leanna character realizes she has the power to heal. It's late, the middle of the night. Leanna's walking aimlessly down the hospital corridor. The staff is attending to an emergency, and fails to notice when she enters another patient's room.

CUT TO:

INT. PRIVATE HOSPITAL ROOM - NIGHT

Leanna enters the room, silently closing the door behind her.

ANGLE ON BED

LUCILLE FONTAINE, an attractive woman in her early forties, tries to sleep. She is suffering from advanced terminal cancer, and is obviously about to die. She MOANS.

Machines of every sort are connected to the stricken woman, oxygen, I.V.'s, etcetera.

ANGLE ON LEANNA

She walks slowly toward the bed. Her hand traces the outline of the wall as if she were walking in the dark, though the room is softly illuminated by the glowing monitor screens of the machines attempting to keep Lucille alive.

WIDEN

Leanna arrives at the foot of the bed. Her hand touches the clip board chart hanging there, but she does not read it.

She walks to the far side of the bed and leans over Lucille.

Lucille opens her eyes, and attempts to speak, though the breathing tubes attached to her nose make her words difficult to understand.

LUCILLE: Are you an angel?

Leanna smiles, just slightly. She takes her right hand, and presses her palm against Lucille's chest.

Lucille closes her eyes, and seems to sigh.

Leanna suddenly begins to shake, slightly at first, then violently. She grips the bed's side rails with her left hand for support. Her right palm remains pressed to Lucille's chest. Her body begins to convulse, her head is bucking back and forth.

Lucille remains silent and still. Her moaning has ceased.

Leanna begins to breath in short, spastic jabs of breath. She removes her right hand from Lucille's chest and clutches her own throat. She is having problems breathing. Taking her left hand from the side rail, she begins to beat at her own chest. Her face turns white, then light blue, from lack of oxygen. She collapses and falls unconscious to the floor.

The hospital room is silent for a moment.

ANGLE ON LUCILLE

She opens her eyes and cautiously looks around. Her breathing is regular. Raising her hands, she notices the I.V. needles sticking into each arm. Carefully, she frees herself from the needles, grimacing slightly as each of the I.V.'s are removed.

Moving her hands to her face, she pulls the oxygen tubes from her nostrils, and take a few long, deep breaths.

LUCILLE: (smiling) She was an angel.

Lucille sits up in her bed and looks around. She rubs at her eyes, then notices Leanna lying on the floor.

Lucille panics, jumps out of bed, and lumbers over toward Leanna.

LUCILLE: Now it's my turn to save you.

She reaches over and grabs the panic button that'll bring medical help.

CLOSE ON BUTTON

Her thumb holds the button down.

CLOSE ON LUCILLE

Tears stream from her eyes.

CLOSE ON LEANNA

She looks almost dead, as if she had inherited all of Lucille's disease.

CUT TO:

"Cut," Max yelled, then every-person-who's-ever-worked-on-a-film-set's favorite phrase, "It's a wrap."

A light round of applause for Heather Theilgard and the actress who played Lucille.

Max walked onto the set and stood by the two women. He was smiling. "You did great," he said. "Both of you."

"Thanks," said the actress who played Lucille. She smiled at the director and took a deep breath, the air rushing into her lungs ferocious and strong. It was the most wonderful breath she could ever remember taking -- not that she ever gave the slightest thought to her breathing. But that breath -- well, it was invigorating. Somehow. It was transcendent.

Max gazed at the woman. "You okay?" he asked.

"Marvelous," she said, suddenly smiling, turning to leave, "Simply marvelous."

Heather stood. She seemed dazed, still Leanna. She looked at Max for a moment, confused, as if she didn't know him.

Anatole walked onto the set. He lightly touched Heather's arm. "Good job, kid," he said.

Heather nodded and attempted to smile.

Max turned to face the author. "I'm heading home," he said. "I'm beat."

Anatole looked around at the tired faces, the sweat covered brows, the eyes filled with longing for a soft bed or a strong drink. He gazed at Heather -- the long lost look in her eyes. Leanna's look. "You're not alone."

CUT TO:

The next few days of filming were a breeze by comparison. And on the seventh day, production wrapped before four P.M., finally leaving Max time, some free time . . . though how he was about to spend it, well, it wouldn't have been his first choice.

Rewatch the Gina video, Paige had suggested -- and that's exactly what Max did. After washing down a cheese grinder with a couple of extra-large glasses of Tab, Max pulled out a note pad and a pen, then sat down to re-examine a young woman's death at the hands of a man he almost killed.

Max flipped through the video stills, then popped in the tape. He froze frames, any and every frame where some glimmer of Moore's personality shone though -- a twinkle of eye, a show of teeth, then finally the left hand and that snuff box scar. He examined frame by frame for any reflections that might somehow give away the identity of the cameraman or any others in the room. But nothing. The lighting was too precise, the death set too well thought out.

It wasn't until the very end of the film, some twenty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds, according to the VCR's counter, that something set off an alarm in Max's head. Gina was dead, she lay on a black tiled floor. Only her face was recognizable, only her head left unscathed -- her body, or what was left of it, resembled something of a zombie extra cut from George Romero's Night of the Living Dead because of make-up too grotesque. A zoom -- a slow motion zoom -- extreme slow motion -- two minutes, fifteen seconds in length, exactly, beginning with a long shot of Gina's mangled self, and ending on an extreme close up of her left eye, all glassy and so very far away . . . slow fade to black.

Where have I seen that shot before? Max wondered.

He hit REVERSE SCAN, and watched it again, then once more after that. He stood and began to pace. The cinematic library of his mind on SEARCH. His breathing became heavy. The room suddenly felt hot, the air heavy. The answer lay somewhere in the recess of his brain. But where? Where had he seen that shot before?

He ran to the kitchen, retrieved an ice cold Rolling Rock from the fridge and headed back to his living room where he rewatched the slow motion zoom again and again and again.

Why couldn't he breathe? He ripped off his shirt, flinging it to the floor, then pressed the cold bottle to his forehead. What the fuck!

He ran down to the basement, where unpacked boxed held a collection of video tapes, an odd assortment really -- a lot of bad dubs of his favorite films -- some rare, others popular -- copied from friends, classmates, and teachers during his film school years. They were in alphabetical order, he had packed them that way. He opened he first box of five, and let an index finger trace pass the titles, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, Animal Crackers, Annie Hall, Blue Velvet, Born Yesterday, The Cameraman, City Lights, Day For Night, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, Diva, Dumbo, The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur. His finger stop moving. It tapped the side of the VHS tape a few times. The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur, one of the films that most impacted Max's style. Beautiful, lyrical, every frame magic, every frame a work of art. Directed by Gunnar Thulin, the great master of Swedish cinema. And shot by a first time cinematographer, a then twenty-year-old Karl Svenwall.

Grabbing the tape, Max leaped up the stairs, and ran back into the living room, where he popped the video into the VCR and hit FAST FORWARD. The Thulin film was approximately eighty-two minutes long. When the counter reached the seventy-nine minute mark, Max hit PLAY.

Svenwall's black and white cinematography filled the screen. Shots of faces, children's faces. They were in a circle, holding hands, looking down. They were curious at first, then frightened. One child began to cry. Then another. A few ran away. Others followed, until only one child was left. That child watched silently, bravely, then shrugged, turned and skipped away.

The next shot was from the children's point of view -- a long shot of a fallen angel. Her wings crushed beneath the weight of her broken body. An arrow piercing her chest. She did not move. She did not breath. Max glanced at the counter as the zoom began. It read seventy-nine minutes, thirty-six seconds.

Slowly, every so slowly, the image changed from a long shot of the angel to a medium shot to a close up, ending with the extreme close up of her left eye, glassy, lifeless, followed by the slow fade to black.

He checked the counter. Eighty-one minutes, fifty-one seconds.

Damn, he thought.

He replayed the Gina zoom. Except for the subject, it was identical. Framing, every aspect of the way she was positioned, every everything was just so.

He flipped back and forth between tapes, two, three times to check and double check -- Max could find no discrepancies. Time for another beer, and an idea.

Running to his bedroom, he fetched a second television set and VCR, and set them up side by side with his larger living room monitor.

Putting the Swedish classic in one machine and the Gina tape in the other, Max cued up each to the beginning of their respective zooms, and pressed PLAY on both machines. Stepping back a few feet, he watched intently.

"Christ!" he said aloud to no one in particular.

Indeed.

CUT TO:

Max beeped Paige, then waited. He figured it would be a while before she could manage a quick getaway. So, he had another beer, and a bag of salted-in-the-shell peanuts. Then came the knock, at the back door.

"Who came up with Zen Arcade," Max asked, "you or Selden?"

"Who do you think?" Paige asked.

He smiled. "Does Selden know where it came from?"

"He hasn't a clue," she said. "He just told me to pick out a phrase, a code word, one that I'd never forget."

"Great album."

"Yeah," she said, her voice falling away. She really missed having Max around to talk to. She really missed Max.

A short pause. "How are you?"

She shrugged. "I really don't have too much time. Carrie and Anatole found it rather odd that I suddenly wanted to go for a walk. Alone." She motioned toward his beer. "You gonna offer me one, or are you in the mood to drink alone?"

He retrieved a Rock from the fridge.

She took a long swig. "So, what do you have?"

"Follow me."

In the living room, he sat Paige down in front of the two TV's. "Is this some new fangled way to watch movies?" Paige asked. "Some sort of weird wide-screen effect?"

"Just watch," he said. Then, pressing PLAY on both VCR's, he sat down next to Paige and watched her reaction, the way her eyes seemed to light up as the similarities became obvious -- the slow zoom, the slow fade to black -- as her Federal Bureau of Investigation brain clicked into hyper-drive. Then, once two minutes, fifteen seconds had passed by on both video counters, once the automatic rewind features of both VCRs kicked in, he said, "Well?"

"What are you suggesting, that Karl Svenwall is the guy who shot these snuff films?"

"Maybe."

"But . . . it's too circumstantial," she said, playing devil's advocate. "The cameraman could be a Swedish film buff for all we know."

"Everything about this case is circumstantial. Even the girls, remember. No bodies."

She nodded, then counted off on her fingers. "Karl Svenwall, Larry Moore, Theilgard's wine cellar, Heather's mom." "You can probably add James Utz to that list."

"Agreed. Still," Paige turned to face him, "we need more."

"Like what? To catch them in the act?"

"That would be nice."

"And what's the likelihood of that?"

"Actually," Paige said. "I've been doing some thinking."

Max sipped his beer and listened. And though there were some very apparent risks involved