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."

"That's true. And that's why I need you rush in and save the day."

"But."

"Give me five minutes."

CUT TO:

Wesley Selden was tired of waiting, so he telephoned Max at Theilgard studios. He explained to Alice, a woman who claimed to be Mr. Maxwell's secretary, that he was calling from Alarm Central, regarding a break-in at Mr. Maxwell's Elm Drive house. She put him on hold.

While a Muzak version of Neil Young's "F*!#IN' UP" grated on his nerves, Selden glanced over at Ronald Reginald Meeker. This man was really grating on his nerves. He was grating on the sketch artist's nerves. He was grating on the nerves of the entire Los Angeles Police Department. Selden wanted Paige and Max, either or both, to get their asses downtown, so he could get Ronald out of his hair and out of his sight.

"Hello," an in-charge voice answered.

"May I please speak to Mr. Maxwell?" Selden asked.

"He's not here right now," the voice said. "May I help you."

"Who am I speaking with, please?"

"Kristine Jacobson. I'm his assistant director. And who's this?"

"Wesley Smith with Alarm Central. Out monitors are picking up a break-in at his Elm Drive address."

"I'm afraid Mr. Maxwell left the studio for the day," she explained. "But if he calls in, I'll see that he gets the message."

"Thank you."

Shit! Selden thought, hoping against all hope that Max hadn't decided to take the weekend off to frolic in some mud bath with Heather Theilgard. That would figure. The lucky son-of-a-bitch. He's off in paradise with a starlet, while I'm stuck in anything-but with Ronald Reginald Meeker.

CUT TO:

Max crept around the side of the Bel Air house, quietly, cautiously. Peering in windows, looking for a sign of life, or death. He found neither. Making his way around back, he came to the pool which Heather so loved. He walked to the sliding glass doors that led to the study, and vanished inside.

The room was still. The bookcase that completely hid the stereo was pushed aside. Little red and green lights twinkled on the Japanese gear, waiting impatiently for someone, something, anyone, anything, to press PLAY on the CD changer. But Max pressed open. There was one disc loaded and ready to go, Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5, opus 47.

He shook off the chills that seemed to have attacked his every nerve ending, and continued into the house . . . down a hall, toward the kitchen, by the pantry, down another hallway which he thought led to the dining room, into the kitchen, by the breakfast nook, and to the door that led downstairs. Using his left hand -- his right held the gun -- Max silently turned the handle, and pulled the door open. Taking a deep breath, he took one step forward, then another.

It was then that he felt the cold steel of the barrel pressed up against the back of his neck. An explosive yell of Christ! reverberated in his mind.

"Our guest of honor has arrived," James Utz said.

Max could feel every muscle in his body tense, every bone become brittle, every vital organ run for cover.

"Uh-uh," Utz said. "Nothing stupid. I'm a lot better with guns than I am with beer bottles. And my finger's real itchy."

Max slowly lowered his arms.

Utz reached forward and snatched the pistol from Max's relaxed grip. "Nice hardware," he said, glancing at the gun, then tucking it away into his belt.

He waited for a moment for Max to say something smart, anything. Some wise ass remark that would give the little man reason to hurt him. But Max knew better.

"Better get moving, Mr. Maxwell," Utz said, jamming his gun just a little too viciously into the small of Max's back. "A good friend of yours is just dying to see you."

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard watched as Moore played with Paige, his index finger poking and jabbing, as it traced her hills and valleys. The big man sat in a distant corner of the little basement studio. His giants hands folded over his giant lap. He stared silently ahead -- focusing on Paige's shapely buttocks and the way her jeans clung so sinfully. He imagined himself microscopic, falling the length of Paige's legs -- from the cheeks of her ass to the floor, and back again. Some sort of pseudo amusement part theme ride. Bungee jumping off her behind.

Moore was leaning close to Paige. Whispering as he continued to grab and poke, "This is going to be fun."

Paige was thinking the exact same thought -- watching this mother-fucker die a slow painful death was going to be the most enjoyable experience of her life.

CUT TO:

Anatole was watching the second hand on his watch tick away, four minutes, fifty-six seconds, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

Time.

He opened the passenger door and jumped out of the rusted old 4X4. He had taken three cautious steps toward the house, when Heather pulled up in her sliver Boxster.

"What are you doing here?" he frantically whispered, eyeing her in that light blue hospital gown.

She looked at the author, but said nothing. And getting out of her car, she headed off quickly in the direction of the house.

"Wait," Anatole said, stopping her dead in her tracks. "Where are you going?"

"Inside," she said, turning to face him.

"Do you know what's going down?"

She looked at him in a funny way, as if he were speaking a foreign language, or maybe telling a joke that no one could ever get. She shook her head, suddenly frightened, suddenly noticing the gun in Anatole's hands.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"They've kidnapped Paige," he explained. "And now I think they've got Max."

"Who?" she asked.

"Your father," Anatole said, turning away, not wanting to face the girl. "And his friends."

Without saying another word, Heather turned and ran toward the house.

"Wait for me," Anatole half whispered/half yelled in her direction, all the while thinking, I'm too old for this.

CUT TO:

Theilgard smiled contentedly when Max entered the basement studio. "Mr. Maxwell," he said, standing. "Welcome to my little party." He lurched forward, extending his hand. The ever-gracious host.

"Shake the man's hand," Utz said, jabbing the gun just under his right shoulder blade.

"I don't think so," Max said, starring up into the studio boss' face.

Paige gasped when she heard his voice. Moore, now standing behind her, wrapped a hand over her soft, beautiful mouth. "Ssshhh," he whispered into her ear, letting his tongue linger slowly behind, tracing ever-so-lightly the curve of the helix. She snapped her head back, catching Moore with a well-aimed backwards head butt to the forehead. He fell back a few feet, momentarily dazed, then outraged. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled hard. Through clenched teeth he warned, "I'm gonna rip you the fuck open with my bare hands."

Max heard the scuffling sounds, turned and saw her there, like that. "Paige," he said. Then he noticed the pendant.

"Shut up," Utz said.

Theilgard looked over at Moore and Paige. "Mr. Moore," he said. "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Please behave yourself. Our guest of honor has arrived."

Pulling the Smith & Wesson gun from his belt, Utz handed it to the big man. "Look what we got here."

Theilgard took the gun, then, with his other hand, pulled the black leather case that contained Paige I.D. and badge from his pants pocket. He flipped it open, and turned it for the hairless man to see.

Utz stared at the badge. The photo of Paige, not Thompson, but Turner. "Fuck!" he said, grinning broadly.

Theilgard nodded. His mind had begun to swirl like a LSD-induced carousel ride. He looked for a safe place to get off, but everywhere the ground was soft, muddy, or crawling with cockroaches. He swallowed back some bile. Then, fingering the badge with one hand, bouncing the pistol in the other, he turned on the little man. "How come you didn't know about this?"

Utz shrugged. "I fucked up. This is the F.B.I. we're talking about here. They're better at this than I am."

"I pay you to know about these things."

"What do you want me to say?" Utz pulled the gun from the small of Max's back. He spread his arms apart in a universal I-didn't-know gesture.

"That's all you have to say for yourself?" Theilgard asked.

Utz shrugged again, this time angrily.

"Very well then," Theilgard said, aiming Max's Smith and Wesson. "Good-bye, Mr. Utz." He unloaded three rounds into the center of the little man's chest before Utz could even blink.

Jesus fucking Christ! Moore thought, jumping at the rapid fire bang! bang! bang! of the gun, his mouth agape as he watched his friend stumble backwards, drop his gun, then fall over onto his side. Dead. No doubt about it. Utz was dead.

Max turned and eyed Theilgard cautiously. Both he and Paige were thinking the exact same thought, at that exact same moment -- one down, two to go.

"Let's get this party on the road," Moore said, nervously.

The big man turned to face him. "In a minute," he said, taking two steps forward, laying a massive foot on Utz's gun and sliding it across the basement floor to the porn star. "We're waiting for one additional guest."

Moore stopped the sliding gun with his foot, bent over to pick it up, and bouncing the piece in his hands, muttered, "Thanks."

"Who're we waiting for?" Max asked, watching Moore, never taking his eyes off the sonofabitch as he moved threateningly close to Paige, roughly outlining her nooks and crannies with the tip of the pistol.

Theilgard smiled. "Our cameraman, Mr. Maxwell. You can't make a movie without a cameraman."

CUT TO:

"Where the hell are we going?" Anatole called after Heather, still frantic, and still whispering.

She was a good thirty feet out in front of him, leading the way down the basement hallway. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, taking the opportunity to glance into one of the many doorways that littered their otherwise snow white sheet rock walls. A gym. Great, Anatole thought. We're going after bad guys who keep in shape. Why couldn't they be a bunch of old drunkards whose only form of exercise was lifting a gin bottle to their mouths? Well, he hoped, maybe they're steroid abusers. The big ones always fell first and hardest. You just had to know where to hit them. And Anatole did.

When he looked back down the hallway, Heather had disappeared. "Fuck!" the writer muttered, taking off in her general direction, the direction of a strangely ominous steel door.

CUT TO:

Jeffrey Theilgard did not see his daughter enter the basement studio. He was busy. He was listening to John Maxwell.

"We know about the movies," Max said.

"Of course you know about my movies, Mr. Maxwell," Theilgard said. "The whole world knows about them. They are among the top grossing movies in the history of cinema."

"I don't mean those," Max said. "I mean the videos. The snuff videos. The F.B.I. has been . . ."

"I don't make videos, Mr. Maxwell."

"Father." Heather's voice carried into the room. Theilgard turned. She was standing at the entrance way -- the steel door framing her light blue cloaked form. She took one step forward, then another, then another, closing the distance between her and her father.

"Heather," he said, rubbing his eyes as if to wonder why she wore the light blue hospital gown. He asked, "Why are you dressed like that?"

Moore turned his attention toward the big man's little girl. His gun remained aimed at Paige, jabbed into her neck and up. One shot would be all it'd take to blow her head clear off. Moore knew that. As did Paige, who remained very, very still.

Heather stepped up to her father, close, closer than Max. She glanced downwards at Utz, then up into her father's face.

He smiled, and was about to speak, when Anatole barged into the room, ready to play a grown-up game of cops n' robbers.

"Freeze, mother-fuckers!" the author screamed, thinking, I've always wanted to say that.

No one moved.

Anatole took a few steps into the room, and surveyed his predicament. Goddamnit! he thought. If I shoot Theilgard, Moore will shoot me. If I shoot Moore, then Theilgard shoots me. Or maybe Paige gets shot, or Max. It was a no win situation, at least in his head. He couldn't chance it. Glancing back and forth between the two armed men, for once at a loss, he yelled, "What should I do now, Max?"

"Pray," Max said.

"That won't work either," Theilgard whispered.

Anatole saw the big man's lips move, but he couldn't quite make out the words. "Beg your pardon," he snipped, "Asshole."

"Now, now, Mr. Laferriere," Theilgard said, the sides of his mouth curling upwards in a Beelzebubian grin. "No need to beg."

Then a single shot rang out.

Anatole grimaced and took one step backwards, then one to the side. He dropped the Smith and Wesson, and clutched his hand to the side of his chest. He gulped hard once, then coughed. A trickle of blood spit out of the side of his mouth. He coughed again, then pulled his hand away from his chest. It was sticky wet with blood, warm and closer in color to purple than red. He looked first at Paige, then at Max, and he sort of laughed. "It wasn't supposed to end like this."

CUT TO:

Paige cried out when Anatole hit the floor. "No," she shouted. Her pain-filled wail made Moore jump nervously. It forced Theilgard to turn in her direction. Only Max paid it no mind, seizing the moment, and landing a kick upwards into the ball of the big man's fist. A kick that sent the gun flying . . . and pissed Jeffrey Theilgard off.

"You mother-fucker," he shrieked. Not Mr. Mother-Fucker, as Max would have somehow suspected.

"Fuck you," Max yelled.

Theilgard charged.

Moore spun around quickly, raised and aimed his gun at the grappling men. What the fuck! he thought, his mind a blur of images, punches landing, kicks, jabs, movement too fast to take aim and, wait! Hold on there! What the hell is going on?!?!

CUT TO:

Using all of the strength her arms had left and then some, Paige raised herself up and high, and wrapped her legs around the Moore's neck. He dropped the gun as her thighs pressed together in a scissor lock cutting off his air, making his eyes water. He pulled at her legs, scratched, pried, wrapping his hands around her ankles, straining, anything to get them apart. But it was no use. Using his every ounce of strength, his every measure of will to live, Moore could not break free.

"How does it feel," Paige yelled, "to know you're gonna die?"

Can't breathe, he thought, her words, his memories, the Goddamn fucking F.B.I., and thirty thousand frightened faces, reverberating in his head like some trashy wind swept echo effect -- laughing, they were all laughing and pointing, thirty thousand smiling faces. I'll die if I can't get her to spread her legs for me, took on a whole new meaning for Moore as his face turned the deepest shade of red. The notion almost made him laugh -- would have, if only he could breath.

Then Paige loosened her grip, just the slightest bit. The air that had collected up in his lungs escaped in a blood-stained cough. Moore took the advantage to turn half way around, to move, toward her, to get his hands around her throat and chock the fucking life out of her. Air, air, air -- his desperate thinking. It was exactly the move she hoped for. Tightened her grip, jamming her right thigh against his adam's apple, she twisted her legs, the right one up, the left one down.

Crack.

And the porn legend stopped struggling. His hands loosened their grip on her thighs, then fell in mock slow motion grace down to his side. Paige released her grip completely, she just let go. Moore slithered to the floor, a heap of bone and flesh with little or no direction.

"Good-bye, Mr. Moore," she said. "And fuck you."

CUT TO:

"This one's for Sarah," Max said, laying an solid upper cut jab into the big man's chin. He heard a crack -- Moore's neck -- and thought for a moment that it was the bones in his hand, breaking under pressure.

Theilgard grabbed the director by the throat, spun him around and slammed him up against the wall. Raising him with one mighty hand, an inch, then two, then three, off the floor.

"Stop!"

They ignored the yell at first. Max clawing at Theilgard's face, thumbs to his eyes.

The gun shot startled them both -- aimed high, into the sound-proof tiled ceiling. They swung around to see Heather, gun in hand -- Max's gun -- aimed in their direction.

"Stop," she said again, this time almost whispering the order.

Theilgard let go his grip on Max. The filmmaker fell to the floor, coughing, rubbing at his throat.

"Put down the gun, honey," Theilgard said, taking a step toward his daughter.

"Don't," she said, taking a step back.

"Ask him about your mother," Max yelled.

"Shut up, Mr. Maxwell," Theilgard said, turning to face Max, venom in his eyes, poison darts shooting him down, shooting him dead.

"Ask him, Heather," Max said. "Ask him about what really happened to your mother."

Heather softened a bit. She took another step backwards. Tears began to form in her eyes. "What happened to her?"

"Don't listen to him," Theilgard said, taking another step in her direction.

"Look at Paige," Max said. "Look what she's wearing around her neck."

Heather shot a glance over at Paige. Her eyes connecting with the three emerald eyes. Her eyes connecting . . .

"Don't listen to him," Theilgard said. "He just wants to turn you against me."

Max stood slowly, leaning back against the wall. "He killed her, Heather. He killed your mom."

Heather pointed her gun in Max's direction.

"He's lying to you, honey," Theilgard said.

"Ask him," Max said. "Ask him how he got that pendant."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Theilgard said, taking another step closer.

Heather aimed the gun back at her father. "Don't."

Theilgard froze in his tracks.

"Did you, father? Did you kill mother?"

"He's crazy," Theilgard said.

Heather shrieked, a blood curdling wail of syllables and fear, "I said, did you kill my mother?"

"It's not like that, honey," Theilgard said. "You'd never understand. She hurt me. She was going to hurt you as well. She lied to both of us."

"You're not answering my question," Heather screamed, not about to give her father another chance, her index finger tensing, and curling back.

Bang!

CUT TO:

The first bullet caught the big man in the throat. He tried to speak, but only gurgling sounds came out.

"You killed her, didn't you?" Heather cried.

The next hit him in the stomach, just inches above his navel. The third caught him in the arm. The fourth his left shoulder. The fifth and sixth mid-chest.

"You killed my mother," she wailed, emptying the next two rounds into the big man's crotch, then another two into his chest, and the last two into his face.

"You killed her," she muttered, falling forward to her knees, shooting off round after non-existent round from the now empty gun.

"You killed her," she babbled, sobbing uncontrollably, pulling herself into ball -- a tight fetal ball, rocking back and forth.

"You killed her," she said, a soft sobering whisper of acceptance, a sharp deadening acknowledgement of fact.

"You killed her."

Max stepped forward, away from the wall. Jeffrey Theilgard lay crumpled before him, bleeding from a dozen different mortal wounds. Blood spread out in every direction on the black tiled basement floor -- dripping, gushing, oozing. It ran down and around Heather, encircling her, making her lone survivor of a deadly shipwreck on the sea of paternal blood.

CUT TO:

"He should have a knife," Paige said, nodding toward the fallen porn legend.

Max checked Moore's back pockets and pulled out the notorious switchblade. He flipped it open -- wondering if he could release the pain trapped within, if he could set free the souls that had died at its whim -- and cut at the nylon ropes still holding Paige prisoner.

"Nice work," he said, tossing the knife down onto Moore's lifeless body.

"Thanks," she said, rubbing the blood back into her hands and wrists, taking one last look at her victim. "It was my pleasure."

They turned toward Anatole, dread flushing their hearts. lunging forward, but the closer they got, the worse it looked.

"Is he?" Paige asked.

Max kneeled down by his side.

Anatole's eye flittered open. "Did we win?" he asked, his voice but a ghost of its former self.

Max couldn't help but smile, even as tears began collecting in his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "We won."

"Good," Anatole said, taking hold of Max's hand, squeezing with all his strength -- not much strength at all. "Didn't wanna die for nothing."

"You're not going to die," Max said.

"Whatever you say, kid." He turned toward Paige. "Please tell Carrie I love her. I don't think I ever told her. You'll tell her for me, will you?"

"Of course," she said, biting her bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the tears.

"Don't let anything happen to her," Anatole said. "Promise me that."

"Of course," Max said, standing, pulling his hand away.

Anatole nodded and closed his eyes. He coughed loudly, a blood soaked choke.

"Hold on," Paige said. "I'll call an ambulance."

"I'll try," Anatole said. "And Max."

"Yes."

"While you're upstairs, get me a drink, will'ya? I don't wanna die sober."

CUT TO:

Finding a telephone in the breakfast nook, Paige dialed Selden's 800 number. It took a few excruciating moments for the call to be transferred, then transferred again, then transferred one more time.

"Selden." The agent was on a caffeine high -- wired, tired and testy, and Ronald Reginald Meeker wasn't helping matters any.

"It's Paige."

"About fucking time you called back."

"What do you mean, called back?"

"I've been leaving messages all over town. We've got our hands on an asshole who purchased a tape and lived to talk about it."

"And we've got three dead bodies, going on four, in the basement of Jeffrey Theilgard's Bel Air home."

"The address?"

Paige reeled it off, then added, "And send a ambulance. Quick."

"Done."

CUT TO:

Her tears were on hold. Heather, sitting in a pool of her father's blood, looked about the basement room, wide-eyed and frightened. There were no sounds, no one was breathing. And then Anatole groaned.

She turned slowly, evenly. Standing, she moved slowly in his direction, step by step of suspended animation. Arriving by his side, she looked down upon the fallen writer. Her lower lip began to quiver, and the tears returned. She mouthed the word, "No," over and over again. "Not you, too," she said, kneeling down, not sure if she should touch him, then touching him anyway, first his face, then his shoulders, his arms, and hands. "Say something, please."

But Anatole didn't speak. There was nothing left for Anatole to say.

CUT TO:

The sound of people walking and talking and opening doors startled Carrie. She figured this was it, the end. That her time had come. She had seen her share of horror films and made-for-TV movies. Some faceless monster would come crashing through the door, hockey mask on, butcher knife raised high. She only hoped that it would be quick. Quick and as painless as possible.

The door slammed open.

She screamed.

"Thank God," Paige said, rushing in.

"Paige," Carrie said, not sure weather to burst out in laughter or tears.

"She's in here," Paige yelled, getting to work on the very familiar looking nylon ropes.

Max ran into the bedroom. "You okay?"

She nodded. "How did you find us?"

Max began to explain -- he wanted to explain -- but somehow the words wouldn't come. He stood there, mouth open, looking into her expectant eyes. He let out a deep breath, then turned, and started to walk away.

"Oh, my God," Carrie whispered, her breath becoming hard, forced. She tried her best not to cry. "Something's happened to Anatole."

CUT TO:

Heather took a deep breath, then placed the palm of her right hand against Anatole's wound.

He groaned loudly, his head twitching from right to left and back again. He legs jerked once, as if kicking out the last remnants of life -- time to say goodbye.

She pressed down hard against the wound, took a deep breath then unexpectedly began to shake, slightly at first, then violently. Reaching forward in a panic, she covered her right hand with her left, pressing with all her strength, so as not to fall completely over. Her body convulsed, her head bucked back and forth.

Anatole did not move, his moaning lessened, quieted down, then stopped altogether.

Heather began to hyperventilate -- short, violent jabs of breath. She removed her left hand from atop her right and clutched at her own throat. Anything to breathe -- she could no longer breathe, her face turned white, then the light blue of her hospital gown.

Heather glanced down at the author. A split-second vision of the blood -- his blood -- magically, or so it seemed, evaporating, as if into thin air. She moved her right hand. The bullet wound too had vanished, as had the bullet, as if they never existed, as if they never were. As if his skin had barely been scratched. Even his breathing seemed surprisingly calm.

Anatole opened his eyes. He stared at the young woman. He gazed into her, marveling at his creation. "Thanks," he said, the strength, his will, returning in leaps and veritable bounds. A smile.

Heather managed to smile back, a slight agonizing smile -- her mouth hurt, everything hurt, it really hurt to smile -- before collapsing unconscious across the author's chest.

CUT TO:

The last thing in the world Max, Paige and Carrie expected to see as they walked down the grand sweeping staircase leading from the second floor, was Anatole, an unconscious Heather cradled in his arms.

"She passed out," Anatole said, as he placed her carefully on one of the many living room sofas. He looked back and forth between his gawking friends.

Max walked over to him. "But . . . I thought . . . ," he began, not knowing where or how to proceed.

"Oh," Anatole said, gazing down at the a few specs of blood that remained on his shirt. "This?" His voice took on a Monty Python-esque flourish, "Only a flesh wound."

Carrie fainted, dead away. Paige would have liked to, but was too busy catching Carrie in mid-fall.

Max placed his hand on the author's shoulder.

"Don't ask," Anatole whispered. "I can't explain. I never want to."

Max nodded. "As long as you're okay."

"I'm like new," Anatole said, reaching behind and pulling the Smith and Wesson from where he had tucked it into his belt, after retrieving it from the basement floor. He handed the gun to Max. "I don't want to play with these anymore. They're dangerous."

"I know how you feel," Max said. "But don't give it to me."

"I'll take that," Paige said.

Anatole shook his head and stared at her in astonishment. "F.B.I."

"And proud of it," she said.

"You had me fooled," he said, as he walked over to Carrie. She was starting to come to, and when she opened her eyes and saw him leaning close, she lunged up and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm never going to let you go," she whispered, kissing his ears and the side of his face. "I was so worried something had happened to you."

Anatole nodded, then holding her face with both hands, he stared right into her eyes and whispered softly. "I love you, Carrie. I love you so very much."

CUT TO:

Heather awoke with something of a start, as if from a bad dream. She began to scream and paw at some non-existent monster. She sat up -- shot up -- and gazed about, wide-eyed and terrified, then suddenly turned toward the front entrance. Donald Bush was backing in, with two extra large cases of video equipment. "Sorry, I'm so late," he nonchalantly yelled back over his shoulder, not bothering with so much as a peek into the room. He stepped in and placed the cases down. But something was wrong -- or more likely, something was not right. He looked up. No Jeffrey Theilgard. No Larry Moore. And no James Utz. Not even close.

Paige held the Smith and Wesson at chest level, its barrel aimed squarely at the cameraman, who by instinct raised both hands high and gulped hard.

Sirens could be heard off in the distance, growing in volume, coming closer, ever closer -- an ambulance, the police and special agent Wesley Selden.

"No," Paige said, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "I'd say you were right on time."

CUT TO:

EPILOGUE

After appointing KRISTINE JACOBSON the studio's new Vice President in Charge of Production, HEATHER THEILGARD, herself studio president, married her Healer co-star Seth Fusco in a small and very private civil ceremony. After six weeks of honeymooning in the South Pacific, the happy couple returned to Los Angeles and quickly had their marriage annulled.

CUT TO:

Producer BILL WENDENSTEIN, who successfully attended ninety AA meetings in ninety days, and had remained stone cold sober for going on six months, began work on his directorial debut. The film, Ford Pickup, which co-starred his now long time (seven months was a long time in Hollywood) girlfriend, TORI LYNN, was being billed as "a different sort of love story." And though budgeted at over forty million dollars, movie marketers were expecting the feature to clean up in the non-metropolitan areas of the United States -- "It's got rural appeal," or so they claimed.

CUT TO:

Cinematographer KARL SVENWALL (working with Wendenstein on Ford Pickup) paid up after losing his bet to Anatole. "Just tell me one thing," the cinematographer said, "How could you tell?"

The author smiled. "The grass," he explained. "Central Park's got grass like no place else in the world. It looks worried, frightened. Its blades cower, recoil from any touch. It seems to be well aware that time is running out. It seems to have some sort of first hand knowledge that we're all fucking doomed."

CUT TO:

Actor TED TAYLOR was still dating the left-handed rhythm guitarist of Tampex Brand. Once their debut CD, "Pull the String," was released (Sire Records, in case you're looking to check it out), he planned on taking an extended leave from acting to follow the love of his life on the road. He was going to film their entire tour in 16mm with the hopes that one day he could release it as a feature film. "All I really want to do is direct," he told his left-handed girlfriend. She knew exactly where he was coming from.

CUT TO:

Screenwriter BUCKY GOLD -- fresh from completing the week long seminar, "When Your Life is a Bad Hair Day" (hosted by Michael Bolton) and winning an Emmy Award for best original teleplay for his work on the HBO date rape film -- was in the middle of heated negotiations with Heather Theilgard about an adaption of Anatole Laferriere's StapleHead for the studio. The novel was the author's take-off on Kafka's Metamorphosis. Its opening line read: "As Sheldon Berkowitz awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found his head transformed into a gigantic Swingline model #767 desk stapler." Heather, enjoying her role as studio head, promised to greenlight the project, but only if John Maxwell was attached as director.

CUT TO:

Agent MICHELLE BIALER eventually left Manhattan and the William Morris Agency for Beverly Hills and the Creative Artist Agency. She took most of her clients along with her, including Max. And if one were to believe everything one heard on the L.A. rumor mill, one would then believe that Michelle was currently carrying Seth Fusco's child, an item which neither party has admitted or denied.

CUT TO:

Octogenarian BILL MAXWELL was enjoying the twilight years of his life. Not only did he adore his new forty inch Mitsubishi television, but so, apparently, did many of the widows that lived in his building, including a forty-six year old woman named Harriet. "She doesn't look a day over thirty-five," his uncle proudly proclaimed over the phone, "And she doesn't act a day over twenty-five. He-he-he. If you know what I mean." The episode made Max wonder if maybe he shouldn't hook him up with Anatole, so this way they could compare notes.

CUT TO:

Special agent WESLEY SELDEN, leaving 99.98% of the snuff film paperwork in the very capable hands of special agent Turner, moved temporarily to New York City to devote his full-time attention to a case of historic proportions. Always a big sports fan, particularly baseball, Selden would be working hand-in-hand with the owner of the National League's newest expansion team. His assignment, to keep the team's star firstbaseperson alive. It seemed that sports fans everywhere were up in arms that a woman had finally made it to the big leagues.

CUT TO:

Author ANATOLE LAFERRIERE -- after hiring Japanese gardening superstar AKIHIKO TAKEI to create something called Ida Lupino's Hymen on the front lawn of his Elevado Avenue mansion -- returned to his beloved Key West with his new wife (his first wife!) CARRIE LAFERRIERE, where he began work on a new novel, tentatively titled, A Funky 24 f.p.s. Kind of Thing. The book, a Hollywood murder mystery, of sorts, was a fictionalized account of most of what had happened on and around the Healer set. Though the author promised that the names would be changed to protect the reprehensible.

CUT TO:

Filmmaker JOHN MAXWELL's low budget first feature, Defeated at the Paradise Hotel with One Last Request, was released months ahead of schedule to capitalize on the notoriety brought upon its director, once the details of the JEFFREY THEILGARD investigation came to light. The film broke single day attendance records in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, and went on to gross eighty-seven million dollars in it domestic theatrical release, a figure which would have greatly pleased the big man, had he still been alive.

CUT TO:

And, as for special agent PAIGE TURNER, well . . .

"That's the last of it," Paige said.

She had lugged her every belonging from the basement of the Elm Drive house, from its closets, from anywhere something might have been placed, hidden or stored. It was all packed in her bright yellow Volkswagen Bug convertible. Leaving as it came.

Max had helped her move everything out to the car. Too many thought, emotions, whatnots, were flooding every available sense. Cross-currents of feelings, doubts, desires . . . he really didn't want her to go . . . he didn't want her to move on. He wanted her to stay, if not in his house, then, well, around. In town. They could start again, not that they ever really had a beginning. But, dinner, a couple of beers at Small's . . . take it from there.

But Paige was headed back to Maryland, or maybe she'd spend some time at Quantico. She wasn't sure. She just knew she needed to get out of Los Angeles. She had taken up enough of John Maxwell's time. He had a movie to finish. He had a life to live. And, if she stayed here . . . with the case over . . . something might happen. Something, well, that she's wasn't ready for yet. At least she didn't think she was . . . ready. And she didn't want to find out that she wasn't ready . . . with Max.

"Well," Max said. He felt so infinitely sad. "Ah . . . I guess this is . . ." He couldn't bring himself to say the word. Instead he just held out his hand to shake hers. She looked down at it, then up into his face. She couldn't shake hands goodbye. She just couldn't. Shaking her head, Paige raised her arms and put them around his neck.

It was slow motion this time . . . the look in her eyes, her arms moving up, around his neck, the feel of her body as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. They held each other like that -- an eternal hug. She felt so good against him, so warm, so small, so right. He buried his face against her neck and inhaled. He wanted to be able to remember that smell forever, to remember the feel of her skin against his face, her hair against his lips. He wanted to always remember.

When they finally separated, their faces were flushed, teary eyed. And thought they both knew that maybe this was it, that this other human being might just be the one, it wasn't to be. They stared for a moment, they were still close. So close, and yet . . .

"So," Paige said, sniffling once, then forcing a smile. "God," she whispered. "Is this how it ends in the parallel universe?"

"No," Max said, his voice so quiet, hardly there at all. He rubbed at his eyes, and exhaled a long breath. "In the parallel universe . . . this would never end."

Paige nodded. She reached out and squeezed his hand once, then walked off toward her VW Bug. She got in and started the engine. Turning, she watched him for a moment, then put the car in gear, cranked up the stereo, and drove away.

Max stood there for a long time, long after the bright yellow convertible had faded from view. Then he sat, there on one of the steps that led to his big empty house. Then finally he said the words, they choked up in his throat, but he got them out, and with them came the tears, the loneliness, the love that was burning a hole in his heart.

"Goodbye, Paige."

CUT TO:

FADE OUT

slowly

ROLL CREDITS

PLEASE PROPERLY DISPOSE

OF POPCORN CONTAINERS,

SODA CUPS, AND CANDY WRAPPINGS

IN THE TRASH CANS CONVENIENTLY

LOCATED NEAR EVERY EXIT

THANK YOU

AND PLEASE DRIVE SAFELY

POST SCRIPT

(Please Note: The following segment was seen only in the foreign theatrical and "director's cut" video release of Slow Fade to Black:. It takes places the day after the Academy Award presentations when John Maxwell's cinematic vision of Anatole Laferriere's beloved novel copped nine awards, and was cut from the American theatrical version due to time constraints placed upon the director who was contractually obliged to deliver a film of one hundred, thirty minutes or less.)

Wesley Selden was tired. He was pissed off at the world in general, at himself, if he was going to be specific. He was growing tired of his job, his life, everything. He needed a vacation, a couple of years on a tropical island with someone like Dorothy Meeker. He needed something.

Then, one day, a particularly crime-free late March, Tuesday afternoon, he told his assistant he was heading home early, that he had a splitting headache -- which he had. But, somewhere along the way, after stopping off at a local CVS for some extra-strength Excederin, he got distracted. Driving past, and noticing that John Maxwell's Healer was playing at the local multiplex -- a banner draped over the poster proclaimed, "Winner of nine Academy Awards including Best Picture!" -- he muttered, "Oh, what the hell," and he bought a ticket, and went inside.

The special agent was enjoying the film well enough, especially considering it wasn't his usual fare -- a shoot 'em up of some sort, or something more along those lines. Heather Theilgard was a natural, as far as acting was concerned, she made those healings seem real. And she was certainly fine to look at, though deep down she only made him long for the nerve to give Dorothy Meeker a call.

It was during the court room scenes though, that Selden began to feel uneasy. The camera was lingering on the court stenographer. A pretty young woman with remarkably familiar features. "Where have I seen you before," echoed his mind. Echoed. Something was wrong, or maybe . . . he wasn't sure. Then it hit him, hard, like a low blow from the world heavy weight champ, and the bottom of his stomach gave way.

"Maggie," he said out loud.

"Ssshhh," a man in front of him said.

But Selden paid him no mind. He sat up, forward, and waited for another glimpse. She'd be typing away. A nod. A knowing smile. She was so beautiful -- just like the teenager he remembered. She was so . . . alive. Up there on the screen in John Maxwell's movie. Selden felt like hooting and hollering. Like screaming out her name. Go Maggie! But instead he just sat patiently in his seat, sniffling back a few lost tears.

When the end credits rolled, he watched carefully for her name. So many names. So long. A song played, rock n' roll of some sort by a guy who could barely sing. Then finally, the cast in order of appearance. There it was: Court Stenographer . . . Margaret Wesley.

And though Wesley was not her last name -- it was Peterson, Margaret Estelle Peterson -- Wesley would do quite well. Selden smiled proudly. He wished he could go up into the projectionist's booth and say, "Rewind the credits. Play them again. Please."

He walked away from the theater smiling, thinking Healer was the best Goddamn movie he had ever seen. And when he got home, he sat around for a while, beaming, that headache long gone -- and he never even took the pills -- even that world heavy weight champ couldn't have knocked the smile off his face. Then he got up the nerve. The nerve he usually lacked, but only in regards to matters of the heart. He picked up the receiver, and dialed John Maxwell's home number.

"Hello," the director said, answering on the third ring, one of two black lab puppies -- he wasn't quite sure if it was Elvis or Costello -- snoozing contentedly in his lap.

"Max. Wesley Selden."

"Ah, hi," Max said, surprised -- he barely knew Selden, and had really only spent a few days in his company after the shoot out in Bel Air -- then worried. "How've you've been?" he asked cautiously.

"Good. Very good," he said, then, "I wanted to congratulate you." A slight pause. "I just saw Healer. I was very impressed."

"Thank you."

"Very impressed."

"It's been . . . doing well."

"Yeah," Selden said, thinking were are the words. Where are the fucking words. "So, ah . . . well, I called to ask you about one of the actresses in your movie."

"Which one?"

"The court stenographer, Margaret Wesley." The name was such a pleasure to say.

"Wasn't she great?" Max said. "Those eyes. They said it all. Especially when the verdict came down."

"Yeah," Selden said, his voice trailing off.

"What would you like to know?"

"Well, ah . . . has she been in anything else?"

"This was her first film. But I'll definitely be using her the next time around. And I think she just landed a co-starring role in the new Bill Wendenstein picture."

"Good. Good," Selden said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Suddenly wanting to get the hell off the phone. "Can't wait to see it."

"Um . . ., I, ah . . ."

"Yes."

Ask, he ordered himself. Just ask. "How's . . . how's Paige?"

"She's good," Selden said. "She's working undercover again."

"Really."

"Yeah."

"Could, ah . . . if you talk to her, could you tell her I said hello."

"Of course," Selden said, thinking that Max sounded more nervous than he felt. "Would you like me to have her call you when she wraps this case?"

"If she'd like to," Max said. "I'd . . . I'd love to hear from her."

"I'll give her the message."

"Yeah."

"Well, um, I better get going."

"Sure. It was good hearing from you. Glad you liked the movie."

"Yeah. And, Max, thanks again for the help."

"I'm glad I could help. Really."

"Bye."

"Goodbye."

The End

Gorman Bechard