Rough Cut Page 16

  Harry closed the bedroom curtains, but the darkness was absolute; so he turned on a small table lamp. It lit up Rachel with a film-like grain. She smiled at him. He wished he could go grab a camera and record this perfect moment. They joined in a kiss.

  Sometime during the kiss, she said his name. He realized the tone was an inquiry. “Harry...?”

  “Hmm?” he responded.

  “Why do you have a bottle of perfume?”

  He stepped back, and she broke out in a small giggle and pointed.

  On his dresser, mixed in with various masculine items like aftershave, an antiperspirant stick, and a men’s comb, she’d spotted a bottle of Petals Perfume.

  The design on the label had a funky 1970s look to it, with tall, rolling gold lettering.

  “Do you like to smell pretty?” she teased.

  “No...”

  For a moment she turned serious. “Is there another woman in your life?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then...”

  “I’ll tell you,” he said. “But you’ll just think I’m weird.”

  “I know you’re weird. I’ve seen your movies.”

  Harry picked up the squat, round bottle and put it in her hands. She examined it and said, “It looks old.”

  “It is old. They don’t sell this anymore. You’re lucky if you can find it on eBay.”

  “You collect perfume?”

  “No. Just this one. It’s a flashback in a bottle. Did you know —your sense of smell has the strongest memory of all your senses.”

  She nodded, looking at the clear liquid inside. “Sure. Sometimes a certain smell will remind me of a place —like my grandmother’s house when I was a kid. I’ll be able to picture everything, just from the smell.”

  “Exactly. Well, this perfume is my personal time machine,” said Harry. “When I was growing up in Boston, my parents went out every Saturday night. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters to play with. I had a babysitter, Karen. She was in high school. And she liked to talk on the phone with her boyfriend. She wasn’t much into playing with a nine-year-old boy. So she would stick me in front of the TV on Saturday nights and let me watch whatever I wanted. That’s how I got hooked on Creature Features.”

  “Creature Features?”

  “Every Saturday night in Boston they had a horror film hosted by this guy, Ghoularie, on the local network. He showed films my parents would never let me watch. My parents were really straight-laced, and these films were way out there. Some of them scared the hell out of me and gave me nightmares, but they also excited me. It was like riding a rollercoaster. That’s how I got my kicks. Horror movies were my adrenaline fix.”

  “Where does the perfume come in?”

  “Karen, the babysitter, wore Petals Perfume. Too much of it. She was just a kid herself, you know? But this perfume —all these years later —one whiff and I’m back to those days, the exhilaration, the feeling of being scared but being safe. I was young enough for the movies to frighten me, but old enough to recognize that it was all make believe and I was not in any real danger. I craved the buzz. I couldn’t wait until Saturday night when Karen would arrive, accompanied by this smell.”

  Her finger touched the opener on top of the bottle —a smooth, glass loop. “Can I...?”

  “Sure.”

  She removed the top and held the small bottle under her nose. “Not bad,” she said. “Has a rose scent. A bit heavy.” Her eyes lifted from the bottle to meet his gaze. “Was Karen good looking?”

  “Beautiful. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Was it?” Rachel smiled. “Think about it. Your young hormones are kicking in, and there’s this hot young babysitter in your house, in charge, putting you to bed at night. Heart going pitter-patter. Is it really the monsters? She’s still a kid, like you, but her body is blossoming into an adult.”

  “Well,” said Harry, “if you put it that way...”

  As Rachel spoke, with her eyes on Harry, she unbuttoned her blouse with her free hand. “She’s probably talking dirty to her boyfriend on the phone, and you’re eavesdropping.”

  “Only during commercials.”

  Rachel’s blouse split apart to reveal the straight lines of her collarbones and the rising softness of her breasts.

  Rachel dabbed perfume on two fingers. She traced the fingers between her breasts, just above the bra.

  Harry smiled.

  She placed the open bottle in his hand. He took it. She finished removing her blouse, dropped it to the floor, then unhooked her bra.

  “Would you like to finish applying the perfume?” she asked. The bra joined the blouse at her feet.

  When he didn’t react she took the perfume, dabbed some on his fingertips, and brought his hand to the warmth of her breast.

  He came forward and kissed her. The smell invaded his mind and sent the blood racing through his veins.

  After a few minutes, with the perfume bottle returned to the dresser, and Harry and Rachel advanced to the bed. The bed was already unmade —with his pajamas tossed on top —but she didn’t seem to mind. Her bare arms wrapped behind his shoulders and pulled him into her. He alternated between kissing and disrobing, the scent of the perfume doing crazy things to his head; and for a moment, it became all too much...

  He straightened up. He needed a breather. I have not gone this far with anyone since Julie left.

  “Are you OK?” Rachel asked, laying flat on the bed, her bare back against his sheets.

  “Yes, it’s just been...you know...”

  “Going too fast?”

  “No,” he said.

  “I know.” She sat up then on her elbows. “Do you have any wine?”

  “Of course. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “I’d love it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You’re kind of tense.”

  “I know. It’s just been a crazy couple of weeks at —”

  “Forget about the office already!” she said. “God!”

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll get the wine.”

  “Better bring up the bottle.”

  “Yes.”

  “The moon is full, Harry,” she said with a Mae West-like purr in her voice. “I want to see you turn into a wolf.”

  He gave her a thumbs up —a queer gesture he immediately regretted.

  The wine would help everything: the awkwardness, the tension, the distraction. He would not let Marcus Stegman ruin this perfect evening. He would block the bastard from his mind.

  Harry hurried down the stairs.

  He circled through the living room, feeling his way through the shadows, and entered the darkened den. He made a straight line for the small bar against a far wall, near his entertainment system. He opened the lower cabinet and removed a bottle of pinot noir, then he reached onto the upper shelf and removed two wine glasses. He rarely used the bar, not being a heavy drinker or entertainer; and it took him several minutes to hunt down a corkscrew in the shadows.

  Now fully equipped to return upstairs, Harry turned away from the bar

  —and gasped out loud. He dropped everything to the floor with a crash.

  Harry’s heart thundered. His mouth went dry.

  He could see the dark outline of a man sitting on the couch.

  “Who—who’s there?” said Harry.

  There was no response. The shape did not move.

  “Who are you?”

  Continued silence. Who was this passive intruder? Or was the shape no one at all? Harry stepped quietly, cautiously, from the bar. His breathing tightened. He made it to the wall. His hand reached for the light switch.

  Harry flooded the room with light.

  Propped up on the couch, facing the television, sat Walter Wiggins. Wiggins’ glassy eyes did not blink. His hair was crusted with blood. A portion of his face was bloated and purple. His mouth hung open. A long, unbroken strand of red drool dangled from his lower lip.

  In his lap, somebody had placed a
great big bucket of buttered popcorn. Harry remained frozen, fear prickling his scalp as Wiggins watched him indifferently, nonjudgmental, dead. As the sight before him sunk in, Harry fought very hard not to scream.

  30

  Harry burst into the bedroom and threw on the lights. Rachel sat up, naked on the bed, face scrunched in the sudden brightness.

  “Harry?”

  He was already picking up her clothes. “Get dressed. We have to go.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s my mother,” he responded. Panic had pushed his voice an octave higher. He let the lie spill out, making it up as he went along. “She’s been taken to the hospital. She’s been in a car wreck. I —I just got a phone call.”

  “I didn’t hear the phone.”

  “The downstairs line — it has a soft ring. I’m sorry, I’m just freaked out. Let me take you home. I can drop you off on my way to the hospital.”

  She quickly met his pace, scrambling to put on her blouse and jeans.

  “Harry, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Is she going to be OK?”

  “They don’t know. It could be serious.”

  “Oh God, how awful.”

  Rachel got dressed. Then she reached out and took his hands. Her face filled with sympathy. “Harry. You don’t have to take me home. Let me come with you.”

  “No, no. I appreciate it. Someday I want you to meet my mother, Rachel. But not under these circumstances.”

  “I can wait in the waiting room.”

  “That’s very kind, but it’s getting late. I should take you home.”

  “Please, Harry. It’s not a problem. I want to be there to support you.”

  “Thank you.” He kissed her. “But no.”

  He stayed close to her as they descended downstairs. He guided her to the front door, keeping the lights off.

  In the entry hall, she stopped. She turned to him.

  “Do you smell popcorn?”

  “Popcorn?” said Harry. “Oh, popcorn. Yes, I had popcorn for lunch.”

  “Popcorn for lunch?”

  He opened the door and nudged her forward. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Harry drove her from Eagle Rock to West Hollywood, barely saying a word. At one point, his mind firmly centered on Stegman, he muttered, “That sick fuck.”

  “What?” said Rachel. Her voice startled Harry out of his thoughts.

  “The guy —whoever hit my mom —must be some kind of sick fuck,” said Harry.

  She gave him a concerned look.

  He dropped her off at the curb in front of her apartment building. “I’d walk you in, but...” he said.

  “No, it’s okay. I understand,” she said.

  He really wanted her out of the car pronto, but she sat there for a moment, studying his face. She put a hand on his knee.

  “Call me from the hospital,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “Promise.”

  “Promise.”

  “I want to know how your mother’s doing. Even though I never met her...I just want to know...I just...I really...” Then she said, “I love you, Harry.”

  The words rang in his ears like a sublime melody, yet he could not enjoy the moment. Too many emotions overwhelmed him at once, all crashing into one another. But he did manage to respond, “I love you, too,” and he meant it.

  Harry and Rachel kissed, and she climbed out of the car. She looked back at him and appeared genuinely sad.

  He managed to smile, and it lifted a smile out of her. She gave a small wave and turned toward the walkway to her building.

  Harry gunned the Audi back into traffic.

  Harry moved through the house shutting curtains, snapping blinds.

  Once he felt confident that no one could see in, he turned on the den light.

  Wiggins remained motionless on the couch, a badly dressed, beached whale. His swollen face seemed to exaggerate and parody his chubby features. He looked like a grotesque cartoon.

  Harry studied Wiggins for a moment, repulsed. He gingerly removed the popcorn bucket from his lap. Some blood had dripped into the bucket, creating a crimson topping.

  I don’t believe this.

  Harry went up into his attic and found a couple of musty old blankets. One was gold, one was brown. He brought the blankets into the den, cleared a big space, and spread them out on top of one another at the foot of the sofa.

  Then came the ugly part.

  Harry had to move Wiggins onto the blankets. He grimaced, stretched out his arms, and placed his hands on Wig-gins’ fleshy shoulders.

  In the back of Harry’s mind, a horrible image erupted: Wiggins suddenly grabbing him, awakened into a zombie state, hungry for brains.

  But Wiggins remained dead. Harry got a firm grasp on Wiggins’ shirt. He pulled tentatively, without effect, and then yanked harder. Wiggins shifted, teetered, and toppled forward.

  Wiggins hit the floor with a crashing thud, probably breaking bones.

  The critic lay sprawled, face first, on the blankets. Harry moved to the floor. He adjusted Wiggins’ position —moving his limbs closer to his body, handling the short, flabby arms and legs with revulsion. The head continued to leak blood. Blood stained the sofa, and now it was leaving a dribbly trail on the floor. Harry went into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of plastic grocery bags. He covered Wiggins’ head with three bags, one after the other, and then tightly wound duct tape around them.

  Shit, he’s going to suffocate, thought Harry, followed by, You moron, he’s already dead, concluding with, THIS IS INSANE.

  Harry took a moment to compose himself, fighting back the urge to run from the house screaming. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the sides of the blankets and brought them into the center, covering Wiggins like a gift wrapped present. Walter Wiggins disappeared, becoming a lumpy brown mountain.

  Harry used the duct tape to seal the blankets around the body, wrapping it continuously until he ran out.

  Next came the hard part. Getting the body into the trunk of his car.

  Harry pushed, shoved, and rolled the big brown lump across his den. He made slow but steady progress. His muscles ached and his back killed, but fear kept the energy fueled past quitting time.

  Harry moved Wiggins out of the den, through the living room, into a corridor, across the kitchen, and through a side door that connected with his garage.

  In the garage, Harry slid the body across the cement floor to the rear of his Audi. He gathered all of his remaining strength to get the chubby torso of Wiggins into the car trunk. With anguished exertion, he managed to get the corpse into a standing position, its weight leaning on him like a staggering drunk. He shoved Wiggins against the car. The top half of the corpse flopped forward, bending over the lip of the trunk. Harry adjusted his position and locked down his feet. He took hold of the lower half of Wiggins, clutching handfuls of thigh under the blanket. He lifted the lower half of Wiggins off the ground and fought for balance as his shoes slid on the cement. He sank under the torso, grappling with the ass, elevating it, grunting and wheezing, until something slapped his face.

  Wiggins’ arm had slipped out of the blanket, and it dangled near Harry’s cheek.

  The shock was disgusting enough to give Harry the extra shot of adrenaline he needed to shove the remainder of Wiggins off his back and inside the car. The rear of the Audi groaned and sank from the weight.

  Harry panted for about five minutes, sweating, staring at the big brown package filling the trunk like a massive turd.

  He wished his work was done, but this reality horror show was far from over. Harry said a silent prayer to any god that would listen to his pathetic, desperate dilemma. Please let me get through this night.

  He tossed a shovel into the trunk with the body. Then he slammed the lid shut.

  31

  Harry Tuttle drove through Los Angeles swearing his head off with a dead, fat film critic in his trunk. Every time he hit a pothole, the body thumped in the trunk. Every time he ap
plied the brakes at a red light, the corpse nearly crashed through the back seat.

  Harry swore at Stegman, the lunatic, for snuffing Wig-gins. He swore at himself, the idiot, for getting caught up in this disaster. He had known Stegman was a wacko from the start —but greed got the better of him. Why did he have to broker a secret deal that would bond the two of them forever?

  Now he had no choice but to get his hands dirty and dispose of this body. Stegman knew what he was doing. It was his way of delivering a message, You will not betray me, partner, because we are in this together.

  As the middle of the night dragged on and fatigue settled in, Harry imagined for a moment —just a moment —that this was all a dream sequence and a slow dissolve would take him back to bed, safe and sound, with Rachel’s arms wrapped around him, her precious, soft face nestled close, eyes shut, mouth corners turned up in a thin, satisfied smile...

  Then he hit another pothole, and the load in his trunk jumped; and he began swearing all over again.

  Harry drove into the Santa Monica Mountains, climbed a path through monstrous sycamore trees, and reached the winding snake known as Mulholland Drive. Mulholland offered linkage to numerous branches of residential streets leading to luxury homes, buried deep in the hillside brush. Harry was looking for one home in particular, out of the way, hanging on the end of a skinny, private lane. The home of Herb Hunter, a famed music producer, known for his work with such stars as Elton John, Eric Clapton, and Phil Collins.

  Harry didn’t know Herb and had never been to his house before, but two important factors lured him:

  1. Herb lived near a couple of Harry’s old filmmaking friends, deep in the hills, so Harry knew the location.

  2. Herb’s house had recently burned down, and it was unoccupied, out of sight, and located on a large and rugged estate.

  Thus, an ideal place to dump a body without witnesses.

  Harry found the homes of his filmmaker friends, and a few minutes later, he arrived at Herb’s private drive. Headlights punching through the dark, Harry followed the curving incline that took him out of view of the main road. Up ahead, he could see the silent, charred house —a blackened assembly of angular shapes. Harry pulled over to a grassy strip between the private drive and a cliff.