Rough Cut Page 13

  Dumbfounded, Harry exclaimed, “But Alfred Hitchcock doesn’t really kill Janet Leigh!” “That’s why our film is superior. Harry, you could spend millions of dollars on special effects and hire the best actress in the world; but you’d never get the same beautiful realism. The same fresh color in the blood. The same look in the eyes. The same sound in the scream.” He extended a hand towards his video collection. “All of these movies, Harry, are ultimately flawed because they’re phony. Our movie tops them all. It has the ultimate scare. It has real terror.” Harry stared into Stegman’s eyes. “Dear God, you’re insane.”

  “It’s an insane world.” Stegman again gestured to the DVDs. “Why else would so many people get so much gratification out of movies about killing? It’s no big deal. I’ve just taken the concept one step further. Years from now, I won’t be the only one. There will be others.”

  Harry’s stomach turned over, churning; and his head pounded. His entire body shook. He had to get out of this mad house. He turned away.

  “I’ve heard enough of this. I’m getting the police.”

  Stegman said, “I gave you popularity and respect and this is how you treat me.”

  Harry spun around. “I didn’t want it at the cost of a human life!”

  “No one ever promised that these things were cheap, Harry.”

  “What’s to stop me from putting you in jail?”

  “No,” said Stegman. “The question is...what’s to stop me from putting you in jail? After all, it’s not my movie. I had nothing to do with it, remember. It’s a Harry Tuttle movie. You better settle down, crazy man. Otherwise I might have to blow the whistle on you.”

  Harry took it all in. Then a monstrous tidal wave of panic hit him.

  “Jesus Christ, I’ve taken credit for a snuff film.”

  And in that moment, he saw only red. He charged Stegman, grabbing him by the T-shirt, screaming into his face, “You can’t do this to me, you lunatic! You’ve got to tell the people the truth —it wasn’t me —”

  Strong hands grabbed Harry and pulled him off Stegman. It was Terrance and the other creep, Stegman’s movie collaborators in this house of horror.

  Harry struggled to break free. Crimson faced, he continued to yell, “I could be locked up for the rest of my life for this!”

  Stegman addressed his two roommates, “Take him outside. His head’s a bit messed up right now. He needs to cool off.”

  They dragged Harry out of the room. Stegman disappeared from view. Harry screamed at him, “This wasn’t part of the deal. This-wasn’t-part-of-the-deal!”

  The two men pulled Harry through the living room, past the camera equipment. As Harry squirmed he knocked over a big light, and it came crashing down. The roommates kept going, without hesitation, toward the front door.

  They tossed Harry outside into the rain. He fell hard on his knees to the concrete, scrambled up, and spun back toward the door. It slammed in his face. The rain continued in sheets, and he became soaked.

  Harry pounded on the door, screaming, words replaced by pure anguish. He punched at the door as if it was Stegman himself, until his hands couldn’t take the pain; and then he howled into the sky like some kind of crazed monster from one of his films.

  Harry Tuttle’s life had just gone to hell.

  22

  On the television monitor, a young woman ran screaming for help in dark wilderness, stumbling through foliage, a sketchy silhouette under a full moon. Her scream was a traditional horror movie scream — big and full, but without much genuine fear behind it. In the next shot, closer, she tripped and fell. In an instant, a young man with a savage expression reached her and pounced. The footage became much tighter, the framing less controlled, dancing to keep up with the action. The woman, thrashing, became pinned under the man.

  The man held a dagger. With a strong thrust, he jammed the blade into her side; and the woman made an ugly, deep-throated groan. Her eyes bugged with surprise and shock. The blade returned, swiftly, practically to the same wound; and then she screamed full force —this time a harrowing cry —different than her earlier, theatrical scream.

  The woman exploded with a burst of desperate energy, catching the man with a slap that appeared full and unexpected, nearly toppling him. The camera fought to stay close. The blade returned to the flesh, striking her stomach, cutting through the white T-shirt, bringing a fast flood of redness.

  The woman started sobbing, losing strength. The man panted, real panting, wheezing. One side of his face was red from the slap. With steady chops, the blade kept coming, catching her in the chest, the stomach again, and the neck. Her spastic movements fell limp and the killer took complete control.

  The image abruptly froze.

  Walter Wiggins had jabbed the “pause” button on the DVD player in his office. He leaned forward in his chair to get a better look.

  The frame was an unnerving close-up of the wound to the woman’s neck —a shot that lasted less than a second on screen, not enough to truly register —yet contained a chilling, clinical authenticity in freeze frame. Wiggins thought, Why go to all that trouble for such a realistic special effect and then not let the shot linger so the audience can see it? Very unusual for such a low-budget film, where every penny gets showcased.

  He unfroze the image and continued watching.

  The woman collapsed in a puddle of her own blood. The killer’s hands dripped red. He straightened up and looked around, as if waiting for a cue. He nearly glanced into the camera lens.

  The camera zoomed in on the dead woman.

  Her eyes remained open, yet empty, and did not blink.

  There was something about the image that chilled Walter Wiggins to the bone. He had seen thousands of movie death scenes over the years, but none like this.

  Walter stopped the playback. He wondered if he was bonkers, or truly onto something big. While PJ Productions had provided him with a DVD transfer stamped “Reviewer’s Copy,” the movie had not yet been released on DVD to the consumer market. The movie was still in its successful theatrical run. At this time, few people had the opportunity to freeze frames or rewatch scenes to get a better look.

  Wiggins watched the death scene one more time, reducing portions to super slo-mo, frame-by-frame playback.

  It only strengthened his growing suspicions.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  Wiggins dug through a mess of mail and fast food wrappers on his desk, until he found his digital tape dub of the rough edit of the Harry Tuttle interview.

  He slammed it into the player, connected to the same television, and switched the viewing mode from the DVD player to the tape. He fast-forwarded until he found the section he was looking for.

  “— who stand out in particular, Sandra Ross,” said Wiggins on the TV monitor. “Boy, she’s good. Where did you find her?”

  The question was met with an awkward silence. Harry struggled for words. The shot on him was close. The camera captured his discomfort.

  “Where did I find her?” said Harry, blinking several times. “Well, word of mouth. Friends. I know her mother’s cousin.”

  “I thought she was splendid,” said Wiggins.

  “Me too.”

  “What else has she done?”

  Another long, awkward pause. Tuttle clearly did not want to talk about this actress. “You know...this must have been her first role. I really don’t know.”

  A few questions later, Wiggins asked, “So you keep in touch with her?”

  Tuttle looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He did not look at ease with this line of questioning. He had handled the earlier portions of the interview like a pro, chatting about the low-budget movie industry and his earlier pictures with relaxed charm.

  But Sandra Ross made him nervous.

  Wiggins punched buttons on the remote and returned to the DVD, back to the Sandra Ross death scene.

  For the seventh time he watched her lying on the bare earth in the darkness, getting stabbed
repeatedly while a handheld camera fought to keep up with the frantic struggle of life and death.

  23

  “A sabbatical?” said Paul Jacobs, repeating the word with a look of astonishment.

  Harry nodded while tossing items from his desktop into a briefcase. “I’m taking some time off. I need a break. I won’t be coming into the office for a while. I’m sure you can carry on without me.”

  Paul raised his voice. “But why now? You’re finally getting what you’ve always wanted. Fame, recognition, respect. People are lining up to talk with you. Your movie is a hit, Harry.”

  “I don’t like giving interviews.”

  “Don’t like giving interviews?” Paul made a face. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I want a vacation. You took your vacation. Now I’m taking mine.”

  Paul’s response hung for a moment. He stammered uncharacteristically before finding the words, “This makes no sense. You understand how the industry works. Now is the time for the publicity blitz. This opportunity won’t wait. The train has left the station, Harry. Take your vacation another time. I’ll pay for it. I’ll send you anywhere in the world you want to go, just not right now.”

  “I’m done doing PR for this movie,” was all Harry could say.

  “That’s not going to fly, Harry. Because I just hired a public relations agency. We are lining up a week of media in New York. Print, radio, TV. The Today Show. Stern. Letterman. The movie’s big, and we can make it so much bigger. We have to keep feeding this beast. Do you know how many screens we have this week? Have you seen the grosses?”

  “I’ve seen the grosses,” said Harry, trying to block out the irony.

  “This baby is going global. We’re going international in a big way.”

  “Great.”

  “I have big-time investors lined up to finance the next one —real money. We can get a major star. Do you want Matt Damon? Colin Farrell?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “You can’t go home!” thundered Paul. “We have work to do. We have Maxim magazine coming tomorrow morning at nine. We have Entertainment Tonight next week. We have to start on the DVD extras. There’s the Toronto Film Festival. For God’s sake, Harry!”

  Harry snapped his briefcase shut and headed for the door. Paul followed.

  “Just tell me what’s wrong,” said Paul. “Are you mad at me for some reason?”

  “I’m not mad at you, Paul. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Is it anxiety? The pressure of success? If so, I can get you pills. I know a doctor in Bel Air.”

  “I don’t take pills.”

  “Harry, I don’t understand. Six months ago you said you’d kill for a hit movie.”

  Harry spun around and nearly leapt out of his shoes. “I did not say that! I never said that!” He grabbed Paul’s shirt. “Take it back.”

  Paul removed Harry’s hands. “OK, OK. Settle down. Why are you being so hyper?”

  Harry tried to regain his composure. Long, deep breaths. He wanted his meditation rug. He wanted out of the building.

  Harry headed for the elevator. He stepped inside, turned around and told Paul, “I’m sorry. I know the timing is bad, but I have to take time off. I’m dealing with some personal issues. I can’t explain them right now. I’ll be back. I just don’t know when.”

  And then the elevator doors closed, separating them.

  Harry walked across the parking lot toward his car, relieved that he was done dealing with Paul. But Paul was nothing compared to the conversation that awaited.

  “Harry Tuttle!”

  Harry spun around to see Walter Wiggins squeezing from between two SUVs. He wore a mammoth Hawaiian shirt and green shorts.

  “I was just on my way in to see you,” said Wiggins. “I’m sorry, but I’m late for an appointment,” said Harry, turning away, heading for his car.

  Wiggins followed as quickly as his stubby pink legs would take him. “You aren’t returning my calls. I was in the area; I thought I’d drop by. I’m still looking for Sandra Ross.”

  The name struck Harry like a blow.

  “Well, I can’t help you,” he shouted back. He reached his car and fumbled in a pocket for the key.

  Wiggins reached him, panting.

  Harry faced Wiggins. “Listen. You might as well skip it. She’s not available. She’s on vacation. She’s on some island in the Bahamas. I don’t have any contact information. I think she’s in drug rehab. She’s not allowed to do press at this time.”

  Wiggins said, “She’s in drug rehab or on vacation, which is it?”

  Harry realized that his lies were getting hurried, sloppy. The conversation needed a quick finish.

  “Do me a favor,” said Harry. “Just skip my whole segment, okay? I don’t want to be on your show. Leave me out of it, or —or I’ll have to sue you.”

  Wiggins looked him over. “Why so defensive, Tuttle? Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think there is.” Wiggins moved closer to Harry. He lowered his tone and the words had bite. “I’ve been watching the DVD screener you gave me. I’ve been watching it a lot lately. The more I watch Sandra Ross’s big scene, the more I think it might also have been her last scene. Do you catch my drift?”

  Harry felt his bowels nearly release themselves. His skin went cold. Somehow, he managed to speak. “No. I —I don’t catch your drift.”

  Wiggins smiled, smarmy and knowing. “Your movies were better when they had phony rubber monsters in them. What I think I see now scares the living hell out of me. Tuttle, I’m going to give you one week to bring me Sandra Ross. And if you fail...well, then you can tune in to Channel Five for the most shocking expose on a Hollywood director that the world has ever known. Care to comment?”

  “You’re crazy,” said Harry.

  “I don’t think I’m the crazy one.”

  “Drop dead!” uttered Harry. He climbed into his car and shut the door on Wiggins. He started up the engine.

  “I’ll take that as a threat, Tuttle!” said Wiggins. As Harry backed out of the parking space, Wiggins cried out, “I’m onto you!”

  Harry drove on Wilshire Boulevard with one hand on the wheel and one hand on his cell phone. He had to call Stegman. The maniac had created this mess, he had to get them out. He had to come forward.

  As Harry fumbled with the cell phone, his brain everywhere but on the road, he ran a red light, causing a flurry of horns and a screech. He continued dialing, then realized —

  — shit, I can’t have a phone record of calling Stegman! He promptly disconnected, threw the phone down, and began looking for a pay phone.

  He pulled up into a parking space in front of Tom and Roxanne’s, a modest diner that promised “Good coffee!” in the window.

  Inside, scattered patrons sat on vinyl stools at the eating bar or in booths under local artwork. Pancake breakfasts mingled with hamburger lunches. Harry found a pay phone near a cabinet displaying pies.

  He kept his voice lowered and his eyes alert for eavesdroppers.

  “Marcus!” he hissed into the receiver. “It’s Harry.”

  “Hi Harry.”

  “Shut up and listen. Wiggins suspects something. He’s been examining the scene where Sandra Ross is killed. He thinks I did something to her. If I don’t find her in the next seven days, he’s going to break loose with some kind of investigative piece — about me!”

  There was a pause on the other end. Then Stegman said, “Interesting.”

  Harry could barely contain himself from shouting. His face turned red as he squeezed out his response in a taut but restrained tone. “Interesting? No, it’s not interesting, you maniac. Can’t you see that I’m a dead man? You got me into this, God damn it; and you better help get me out.”

  “Wiggins can’t prove anything,” said Stegman. “He’s bluffing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me. Wiggins won’t be able to pin anything on you. He has ze
ro credibility. He’s a fat little fool. Everything will be all right. So relax.”

  “Relax?”

  “Take a Valium, Harry,” said Stegman, followed by a click.

  Harry stared at the receiver in his hand. He wanted to smash it against the wall. He felt like he was losing his mind.

  “Hey, are you Harry Tuttle?” A chubby, grinning middle-aged woman came up to him, hair in a bun. “The Harry Tuttle?”

  “Um...” Harry had to think it over. His mind was elsewhere. “Yeah...sure...”

  “I love your movie!” she said loudly. She turned and waved to her three companions in a nearby booth. “It is him! It’s Harry Tuttle! This guy’s famous!”

  Other patrons looked up from their meals, excited by the prospect of a celebrity in their midst.

  “I’m not famous...” said Harry faintly.

  “But you are! You are!”

  A small circle of people gathered around him. Someone held out a pen and napkin for his signature.

  The manager, a burly man, came out from behind the counter with a digital camera. “Do you mind if we take your picture for our wall? The meal’s on us.”

  “I loved Deadly Desires...”

  “Are you working on anything new?”

  “I saw you on E!”

  “Where do you get your ideas?”

  “Is there going to be a sequel?”

  “Do you think you’ll win an Oscar?”

  They continued to bombard him with questions, hands thrust out for handshakes, pens waving for autographs. But Harry just stood there, motionless, helpless, with nothing to say.

  REEL THREE

  24

  Lenny stared, out of focus, at the dinner bill for about ten minutes, attempting math in his foggy skull, until he finally concluded screw the tip, the service wasn’t that hot anyhow.

  To help wash down the steak and fries, Lenny had consumed seven bottles of beer, draining each one in a short number of long swallows. He now blamed those beers for his troubles with math. He was decent at math. At least it wasn’t one of the classes he had flunked back in high school.