SLOW FADE TO BLACK:

a novel by

Gorman Bechard

Installment #12

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:

FIFTY-THREE

Friday's shoot began at seven A.M., Pacific Standard Time. It was a closed set, Max, Kristine Jacobson, Buck Milani, Karl Svenwall, Donald Bush, and a handful of only the most essential crew members. Anatole had no real need to be there, except that Heather and Max had both requested his presence.

The scene was between Leanna and Dr. Stephen Franklin. It was a love scene, taking place on Leanna's hospital bed -- extremely explicit and explicitly hot -- Anatole had written it that way, and he was proud. It began as a simple examination, but by the time the cold metal of the doctor's stethoscope was pressed against his patient's chest, it became much, much more.

CUT TO:

That morning, Jeffrey Theilgard visited the Healer set with the intentions of pulling his daughter aside and warning her of Mr. Maxwell's alleged infidelities. Utz's information -- delivered as Larry Moore took a hack saw to Randall Adams -- had opened the big man's eyes. It wasn't Heather's fault -- it was Mr. Maxwell who had corrupted her, violated her, fucked her over and then some. And if that defiling wasn't bad enough, the son-of-a-bitch was carrying on with other women. No, sir. Theilgard, as father and protector, as studio chief, would not have it. He wouldn't stand for it. He loved his daughter far too much to let her be made a fool of. He, well, he just wanted to talk to her, period. About anything. He just wanted to hear her voice. To erase the lines of dialogue from that blasted poolside video.

Theilgard walked passed the studio security guard assigned to keep people away, paying no mind to the sign on the huge steel door that, in proportionally huge red block letters, read: CLOSED SET. The guard failed to mention to the big man that on this day, the set was off limits to visitors. His thinking being that Jeffrey Theilgard owned it all, and if he wanted to visit a set, any set, he could. And besides, Theilgard could probably take his job away with the snap of a finger. No thank you. "How are you today, Mr. Theilgard. Have a good day."

Inside, the studio boss tiptoed to the edge of the sound stage, next to where Buck Milani stood. He nodded to the Production Manager, who likewise, silently nodded back.

Theilgard looked about the set. Kristine Jacobson was standing beside Max. Svenwall was seated on the crane besides Bush, whose right eye was pressed to the gray rubber eyepiece cup of the camera's viewfinder. They were all too concentrated to notice the arrival of the big man. They were all too concerned with what was being captured by the 85mm Zeiss Superspeed lens. They were all too captivated by the precision, power and passion of Heather's performance.

CUT TO:

INT. LEANNA'S HOSPITAL ROOM - NIGHT

Leanna is lying on her hospital bed. She is reading a copy of Time magazine, upon whose cover is a photograph of her face, along with the caption, "Miracle Worker." She seems annoyed by the article.

Dr. Franklin enters the room, and walks toward her bed.

FRANKLIN: Hello, Leanna. How are you feeling tonight?

LEANNA: (putting magazine aside) Okay. (shrugs) And you?

FRANKLIN: Just fine.

She sits up, moving her feet off the side of the bed. They dangle a foot from the floor. The doctor steps up close and begins the examination.

FRANKLIN: (holding her chin) Say ahh...

LEANNA (mouth open wide) Ahh...

He checks her eyes.

LEANNA: What do you see inside there?

FRANKLIN: Fear.

LEANNA: (nervous laugh) Anything else?

FRANKLIN: Loneliness.

LEANNA: You really know how to cheer a girl up.

FRANKLIN: (still checking eyes) But an otherwise healthy young lady on her way to a complete recovery.

Leanna nods. Franklin puts aside the eye examination apparatus and reaches for his stethoscope.

FRANKLIN: (pointing at her gown) Unbutton.

Never taking her eyes of the doctor's face, Leanna unbuttons the front of her hospital gown well beyond the point necessary for the doctor to listen to her heart beat.

FRANKLIN: This might be cold.

LEANNA: I can handle it.

As he presses the stethoscope to her chest, Leanna brings her left hand forward and places it over Franklin's hand which holds the stethoscope. She stares up into his face. Then, raising her right arm, she hooks it around his neck, and brings his face down close to her's.

They kiss, softly at first. He resists slightly, then gives in. The kisses becomes passionate.

Leanna pulls the stethoscope from around the doctor's neck and tosses it aside. She rips at his clothing, pulling off his jacket, tie, ripping open his shirt with one violent tug. Buttons fly everywhere.

CLOSE ON BUTTONS landing on the floor.

WIDEN

Her hands move to his belt buckle -- in a swift motion, she unclasps it and pulls down his zipper.

Franklin pushes her backwards, down on the bed. He leans over and begins kissing her breasts . . .

DISSOLVE TO:

Franklin and Leanna on her hospital bed -- they hump like there's no tomorrow. She claws at his back, leaving long scratch marks. He GROANS. She MOANS. It's an explosion of passion to equal the big bang.

DISSOLVE TO:

They lie in bed after -- the eternal after -- sweat dripping from their bodies, their hearts racing.

FRANKLIN: (suddenly uncomfortable) I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It wasn't professional.

LEANNA: (laughing) You seemed like a pro to me.

He eyes her suspiciously, then he too begins to laugh.

LEANNA: You know how long I've been wanting to do that?

FRANKLIN: How long?

LEANNA: Since I first woke up and saw you staring down at me. I wanted to grab you right then and there.

FRANKLIN: So, why didn't you?

LEANNA: I was scared.

FRANKLIN: And you're not scared anymore?

LEANNA: It's getting better.

CUT TO:

That was what Max, Anatole, Kristine, Svenwall, et al, witnessed: brilliant, sexually charged performances by Heather and her co-star, Daniel Mulligan -- award winning, career making, final cut-promising potential -- the stuff of hundred million dollars grosses and appealed NC-17 ratings, converted to the desirable R, but only after the confidential exchange of cash, threats, and/or future considerations.

CUT TO:

This is what Jeffrey Theilgard saw: an all-out violation of his little girl. The clothing ripped from her frame as a man in a doctor's suit pushed her to the brink of wanton sexuality -- uncontrolled animalistic behavior. She was defiled and sodomized, as others leered and cheered the defiler on. As others licked their chops, and stroked their groins. She screamed, she cried out for help. But Theilgard couldn't move -- his feet were frozen, nailed to the floor. Crucified, minus the cross. And they were watching him as well, ready to pounce if he so much as raised a finger to help his daughter. He was outnumbered. Overpowered. He was weak, forsaken.

As the doctor continued his barrage, the other men and women moved closer. Closer. They too became naked, and aroused. They became hard and wet. They circled the bed, cheering, beastly grunts and wails. Trumpeting sounds. Feeding time. They leaned forward the began to touch his daughter. One held her legs wide, another pulled at her breasts. One yanked at her hair. Heather did not struggle -- she had given in to the pleasure of being devoured, being eaten alive. One after another, they took turns mounting her. Riding, whipping, slamming, taming the wild beast. Heather met their movements, responding with some of her own. Pulling them to her, demanding more, and getting it.

And once they had all climaxed, they took her place on the bed -- bodies, dozens of bodies -- and it was her turn to ride. She clawed at their faces, at their privates. Blood mixed with semen and sweat and saliva. Yells of pleasure were indistinguishable for cries of pain. The carnage would not stop, could not stop. Mouths moved, flashes of teeth, tongues wagging. Hands, limbs, asses, genitalia, all blending is a swirl of pinks and hair -- an Edvard Munch Scream orgified.

Jeffrey Theilgard snapped open his eyes. He clutched his throat, and gasped for air. The scene was winding down, the dialogue and all that. The big man took a few backwards steps, turned, and headed for the exit. He was running by the times he passed the security guard -- "See you later, sir," the guard yelled, or something like that -- running toward the security of his building. Pushing his way through the atrium, through Jayne Mansfield's Labium Majus, Theilgard lunged for the first available elevator, barked orders for everyone to "Get out!" and pushed the button that would take him to the twelfth floor.

There he ran past Randall's vacant desk, and into his office, where, from behind the safety and security of the massive marble slab, he could sit and think and cool down. He could make plans, immediately plans, now plans. He could hold on to the seams, finger their tattered edges, and as they burst apart. He could grasp at and tickle reality with the bloodied tentacles of his mind.

CUT TO:

FIFTY-FOUR

Ronald Reginald Meeker was tired. Tired of the questions. Tired of the fear. Tired of the nagging possibility that he might spend a considerable amount of time behind bars, or worse that he might lose Dorothy. Tired of F.B.I. special agent, Wesley Selden. He was tired, period.

He had spent the last few hours going through mug shots under a desk lamp in a darkened room in one of L.A.'s many precinct houses -- this one downtown, not in Compton.

"Anyone look familiar?" Selden asked, returning to the room with what must have been the agent's tenth cup of herbal tea. Pictures of ever possible principal player had been included in the hundreds of mug shots presented to Meeker. Shots of Theilgard, Utz, Moore, Svenwall, even Max and Anatole. But not a goddamn thing. Nothing.

Ronald shrugged.

Selden picked up a photo of James Utz. He held it inches from Ronald's face. "How about this man?" the special agent asked, controlling his anger, his frustration. "Could he, just possibly, be your Jimmy Bones?"

"I don't know," Ronald said, exasperated. "They're all beginning to look familiar." He really couldn't remember. He was so scared, and it had, after all, been nighttime . . . dark. He never looked the guy in the eyes. Never wanted to. How do you look into the eyes of someone like that?

"Yeah," Selden said, so irritated. "I know exactly what you mean. It's so hard to keep straight all the people I've given a half million dollars to."

Ronald began to speak, but thought better of it. He wanted to cry, but that seemed like even less of a possibility.

"We're gonna have you speak with a sketch artist," Selden explained. "See if maybe the two of you can come up with something resembling this Jimmy Bones."

Ronald nodded.

Selden showed the artist in, did the introductions, then sat back and watched. He had beeped Paige, and even left a message on Anatole's answering machine, and another on Max's, asking either of them to please call the Zen Arcade Corporation, and giving each a toll free eight hundred number to call. A number that, as both well knew, when dialed, would connect them directly with Selden, where ever he might be. Once the call was made, Selden would make arrangements for Paige and Max to meet with him and Meeker at the precinct station, and from there, well, hopefully all the pieces would fit.

CUT TO:

If Selden had only beeped Paige an hour earlier, she'd have called him back, immediately. She'd have most likely been at home.

But Paige had had a surprise visit from a man whose scar she knew a little too well. Larry Moore had stopped by, on Jeffrey Theilgard's request, to inform her that she was being invited to a party.

"When?" she asked, peeking through the partially opened door.

"Now."

"Now?"

"Now."

"I'm not dressed for a party."

"You look fine to me," Moore said, stealing an eyeful of the jeans and tank top that hugged her form so well.

Carrie was standing by her side, out of sight, shaking her head violently, no. "You're not going anywhere with him," she whispered.

Paige looked back and forth between Carrie and Moore, then finally turned toward the latter and said, "Okay. Let me get my purse." She needed her purse. She needed to make a phone call.

"Great," Moore said.

It was then that Carrie pried the door open. "Can I come, too," she said defiantly, smiling a sexy little grin Moore's way.

Paige's eyes went wide. She didn't want her friend coming along for this sort of ride. But she couldn't exactly warn her otherwise now.

"The more the merrier," he said, extra emphasis on the namesake word, stepping into the house.

"Is that a bad joke?" Carrie asked, smiling at Paige, who attempted to toss a smile back her way.

"Isn't everything?"

CUT TO:

Max was setting up the for final shot of the day -- the tenth day of filming on Healer. The scene was one in which Leanna, learning that her attackers have been acquitted, collapses and is rushed back to the hospital. She wakes up in her hospital bed -- alone and very, very angry, knowing that she must right the wrong, understanding the need for revenge.

It was a one shot scene -- a long slow motion zoom for which Svenwall was famous -- but this one beginning wider, a view of the entire room, and ending with an extreme close up of the resolve in her eyes. It was Max's suggestion -- instead of the usual cutaways, and what not -- let Heather's performance and the tension of the zoom carry the scene. He knew it would work. And he wanted to see how it was done. He wanted to see the famous zoom in action.

The dolly tracks were laid, the lens chosen, the focus pull set. Decisions divided evenly between Svenwall and Bush -- either could have probably done without the other. It was very obvious both were well versed in this sort of shot.

The first take was a keeper -- everything went as planned, no light stands fell, no microphones visible, no apparent screw-up on the focus pull -- and Heather was nothing short of spectacular in a dialogue-free scene where her expressions and body language had to say it all.

Between "Cut" and the next "Action," Buck Milani pulled Max aside. "There's a call for you."

"Can't it wait?" Max asked.

A shrug. "Said it was an emergency."

Max nodded, and walked over to a make-shift office at the other end of the sound stage, where, picking up the receiver, he said, "This is John Maxwell."

"Max," said Larry Moore, on the other end of the line. "So, good of you to take time from your busy day."

"Who are you?" Max said, not recognizing the voice, but feeling the adrenalin rush nonetheless.

"There's someone here who'd like to speak to you."

"What's going on here?" Max said.

"Talk to him, babe," Moore said, adding in a hoarse whisper, "This might be your last chance."

"Hello," Max said.

"Max?" a terrified voice said.

"Paige?" Max leaned back against the edge of the old wooden desk. He tried to swallow, but couldn't. The spit caught in his throat. He needed to cough, to gag, to throw the fuck up.

"Yes," she said.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"They've . . .," she began, cut off as Moore pulled the phone away.

"We're having a little party," he said.

Max recognized the voice now. "You sonofabitch!" he yelled.

"Us and special agent Turner," Moore said. "Now that was quite a nice surprise." Once inside the Bel Air mansion, Paige and Carrie had been given drinks. Paige refused even a sip, but watched as Carrie downed her, and moments later was out cold. It was then that Moore snatched away her purse, her identity, her weapon. "We're waiting for you, Max." Laughter. "Thought you might like to watch."

"Where are you?"

"Bel Air," Moore said. "I believe you know the house." More laughter. "Intimately."

Max held back his anger, the flashes of life before his eyes. Not his, Sarah', Cynthia's, Melissa's, and goddamnit, Paige's. Nothing could happen to her. Nothing better.

"Come alone, Mr. Maxwell. And come soon. Your little friend here is running out of time."

Click.

A dial tone.

CUT TO:

Kristine Jacobson knocked on the open door. She could sense that something was wrong, but she spoke anyway. It was her job to. "We're waiting for you."

Max stared blindly ahead, his breathing was hard, irregular, like his heartbeat, like the throbbing in his head. The receiver was still in his hand, the ominous siren-like sound that you've kept the receiver off the hook a little too long coming from the earpiece. The sound flipped the sanity switch in Max's head to the off position, and turning, he smashed the receiver against the edge of the desk. Once. Hard. But once was enough -- bits of plastic shot off like sparks in every direction, the siren wailed no more.

"Are you okay?" Kristine asked.

He shook his head. "I've got to get out of here." And he walked past without giving up any further information.

CUT TO:

Max stepped up onto the hospital room set, and sat on the edge of Heather's bed. "There's something I've got to do," he said. "I'll explain later."

It was Leanna who answered, not Heather. She stared not at him, but over his shoulder at something, maybe nothing. "Will you make everything right?"

"I'll try," he said, repeating his words softly, "I'll try."

Turning to leave, Max found himself face-to-face with Anatole. "Kristine said we were wrapping for the day. What's up?"

"I can't explain now," Max said, walking in the direction of the nearest exit. "I've got to go."

Anatole followed. "Take me with you."

"I can't," Max yelled over his shoulder.

Anatole lunged forward, grabbing the director by the arm, spinning him around. Then, taking hold of Max's shoulders, he shook him. Once. Hard. But once was enough. "Take me with you. I can help," he said, a voice so commanding, Max could only nod, exhale, and say, "C'mon."

Heather watched them leave. "No," she cried out, the word echoing about the sound stage. She panicked for a moment, her eyes darting about trying to make earthly contact with some recognizable life form -- any contact. Then she stood, and dressed in the light blue hospital gown and nothing else, she ran after them, as if in a drug-induced daze, as if hypnotized. She had no idea where she was going. She just knew that by following her director, she'd get where she needed to be.

CUT TO:

FIFTY-FIVE

"What the fuck is going on?"

They were in the Jeep, pulling out of the Theilgard lot.

"It's a long story, Anatole. You'd never believe it."

"Try me."

CUT TO:

"Fuck!" Moore said, tracing his index finger over Paige's lips, down over her chin, down her neck, down. "You're are a good looking thing." He laughed and licked his lips. "Except for that nose."

She spit in his face. The ball of saliva covered his left eye. He wiped it with his free hand, licking her spit off his fingers. Then he slapped her, hard, across the face.

"I'm gonna find that scar of yours. And when I do, I'm gonna give it some company."

She was nylon-rope tied, her arms high over her head, to a jungle gym-type contraption made of black steel criss-crossing bars. Her toes struggled and stretched to reach the floor. She was still dressed as before, jeans and a tank top.

Jeffrey Theilgard walked toward her. The slightest of grins played on the corners of his mouth. In his hand he carried the pendant, Eleanor's original elephant pendant. He displayed it to Paige. "Pretty, isn't it?"

She stared at the pendent of death. That's what it had become to her. Find the elephant, and she'd have her killers, she'd have the fuckers who put Cynthia and Melissa and all those others away. Well, here it was, its emerald eyes twinkling. The small golden creature seeming to smile.

Lifting the gold chain high, Theilgard draped it around Paige's neck, and lovingly placed the elephant between her breasts -- stopping only to brush the back of his hand against her breast. The pendant seemed to dance freely -- an LSD-induced sway -- as Paige struggled against her restraints. The more she pulled against the ropes, the more the elephant danced. Dance, little elephant, dance.

"What have you done with Carrie?" she screamed.

"Don't worry about her, Miss," Theilgard smiled, "Turner . . . She's fine." He gently caressed her face. "Worry about yourself right now."

CUT TO:

Heather watched as the director and author sped away. She walked through the wide open doors of the sound stage, toward the parking lot. Finding her Boxster, she stepped into it, got behind the wheel, then just stared blankly straight ahead.

"Are you okay, Miss Theilgard," a best boy asked. He happened to be passing by on his way to the unreserved parking lot.

She looked up at him. She nodded slowly. Then reaching under the seat, as if her hand was drawn there, as if it knew exactly where to go, she found a set of keys. Slipping the Porsche's key into the ignition, she started the engine, then looked back up at the young man. She smiled at him, then put the car in gear and drove away.

She was in a stupor -- lost, but not really. Following some script in her head. Conscious, but only to follow. Conscious, but only to drive. Conscious, but only as Leanna.

CUT TO:

Anatole listened.

It was hardly what he expected to hear. Not in a million years. Snuff films! Elephant pendants! The Dying Angels of Arvidsjaur! Jeffrey Theilgard a murderer! And Paige . . . an undercover agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation! He rummaged through Max's inventory. Holy fuck! Never in a billion years.

"So, you and Paige were never lovers."

"Never."

"Man, it looked to me like you were head over heels."

"Yeah, well, we were . . . acting."

"Right," Anatole said, a knowing little smile creeping into the corner of his mouth. "And you set up that fight at Spago."

Max nodded. "She needed to be available."

"As bait?"

"Something like that."

"So, what do we do now?" the author asked.

"Save Paige, capture Theilgard, and live happily ever after."

"You forgot about solving the world hunger problem and repairing the hole in the ozone."

"Those too," Max said, with no trace of levity. "But only if we have time."

They drove in silence for a few moments, from West Hollywood into Beverly Hills en route to Bel Air.

"I sure as hell hope your armed," Anatole said, as they drove past the infamous Beverly Hills Police Station.

"I hate guns."

Anatole shot Max a look that made the filmmaker squirm in his seat. "You're not armed?"

"I could be."

"Are you, or aren't you?"

"Paige left a couple of handguns at the house."

"Then let's make a pit stop."

"But, I don't know how to use the goddamn things."

"That's okay," Anatole said. "I do."

CUT TO:

Carrie was upstairs on Theilgard's double king-sized four poster bed. She was tied down, spread eagle. Not nude. No. Not in the least. The big man was saving that experience. He wanted to watch the expression in her face as he stripped her naked, as he stripped her clean, as he stripped her inside-out -- ten million and one times.

But that would come later. Much later. There was work to do. The main event. The main course. To Theilgard, Carrie would be nothing more than a piece of desert -- cream pie, minus the calories.

Another slice, Mr. Moore . . . if you please.

CUT TO:

The Jeep pulled into the most private of dead end streets Bel Air had to offer, and up the driveway, to the sixteen room stucco and field stone mansion on that five acre parcel of land.

They had made their pit stop. Anatole held the wooden box in his lap. He opened it now and grabbed hold of one of the two standard issue Smith and Wesson model six-six-nine 9mm automatic pistols with twelve-round capacity. He checked to see if it was loaded. It was.

"You really know how to use one of those things?" Max asked.

Anatole answered by flipping off the safety, then cocking the pistol. Picking up the other Smith & Wesson, Max did likewise, precisely mirroring the author's movements.

"Stay here," Max said.

"But I'm the one who knows how to shoot."