Rough Cut Page 17

  He killed the engine. He killed the headlights.

  He swore a few more times, took a deep breath, and committed to silence. He forced himself out of the car.

  Through the trees, Harry could see the sprawling, twinkling lights of Los Angeles spread out before him, peaceful. He felt a million miles away.

  He circled to the rear of the Audi, holding his keys. Stopping at the trunk he looked around, turning a full 360. He saw nothing but dark brush in the stillness. Herb’s skeletal residence loomed behind him, unlit, deadened like a haunted house.

  Harry inserted the key into the trunk.

  His horror movie imagination played a terrifying clip for him then: the trunk lid flopped open and a crazed, bloody Wiggins jumped forward, not dead yet, shrieking and clawing for his life.

  “Stop it,” said Harry quietly.

  Harry counted to three, twisted the key, and heard a click. He pulled the key back out, gently lifted the trunk lid, and peered inside.

  The big brown package remained unmoving, the shovel resting diagonally on top.

  Let’s get this over with.

  Harry reached for the shovel...

  ...and heard a noise moving up the drive.

  Harry froze. His limbs locked up like a mannequin.

  A car!

  Harry’s hands fluttered wildly. His keys fell from his grasp as he snatched the lid of the trunk and slammed it down. Almost instantaneously he realized, Holy shit, I just locked my car keys in the trunk.

  Lights reflected in the Audi’s back window.

  Harry internalized an agonized cry. He crouched low and scrambled to the front of his car.

  The approaching headlights circled his way, threatening to pierce him out of the darkness.

  Harry hurried into the brush.

  The car pulled up and stopped on the grassy strip between the drive and the cliff, not far from Harry’s Audi. A Bon Jovi song rocked on the car’s stereo.

  Harry stepped back several more feet...and then found himself sliding down a steep incline. He frantically grabbed at some brush. Several branches snapped until he got ahold of a strong root that held firm, preventing Harry from tumbling all the way down the mountainside.

  Harry clung to the earth, swallowing back his panting. He couldn’t shake the painful image of his car keys resting on top of Wiggins’ wrapped corpse, just prior to the lid slamming down and locking.

  I am in Hell.

  The Bon Jovi song halted in mid-yelp and the car engine shut off.

  Harry listened. He heard voices. He strained to hear...

  Kids. Teenagers.

  A girl...and a guy.

  Of course, they had come here to enjoy an intimate encounter at a makeshift lover’s lane.

  Harry began pulling himself up the hillside. He hid behind heavy brush, stepping carefully to minimize the noise.

  He lifted himself to a better position to get a look...

  Two high school kids sat in the front seat, a skinny feminine shadow and a taller, broad-shouldered masculine shadow.

  Harry saw a red dot passing between them.

  “Killer weed,” said the male voice, deep and satisfied.

  “What about that car?” asked the girl, nervous.

  “There’s nobody in it. There’s nobody here.”

  “I thought you said this was your own secret place.”

  “Chill out. We’re alone.”

  Harry sat there and listened to several minutes of inane conversation as insects crawled on his hands and face. He remained still, fighting the urge to swat at the bugs. Eventually, the teenagers’ dialogue became more sporadic, then nearly vanished altogether; and it didn’t take a genius to interpret the scene. At one point, Harry heard an argument over whether or not the girl should pull down her leggings.

  “Baby, I’m going out of my mind.”

  “I can see that,” she giggled, little high-pitched hiccups, stoned.

  The debate over the leggings continued. Harry had no choice but to listen and wait. Every minute felt like an hour. He prayed for them to leave.

  Instead, another car arrived.

  Oh great, thought Harry. What could be worse?

  The teenage girl answered him, “Shit! It’s a cop!”

  “Hide the doob!” said the boy.

  Harry quickly sunk deeper into the brush. He tossed branches over his head. His legs slid, then became snagged. He heard the police vehicle pull up near the teenagers’ car. A door opened, then slammed shut. “Hello,” said an older male voice, not friendly. “Hi Officer.” The teenage boy stifled a cough. “Would you like to tell me what you’re doing here?” “Just on a date, sir.” “This is a private drive. You cannot park here. Move along or I’ll have to issue a citation.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll leave right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  The car engine kicked in, joined by blaring rock and roll. Harry listened to the music fade as the car departed down the drive.

  Harry waited for the sound of the policeman’s departure.

  Instead he heard, “Hello? Who belongs to this Audi?”

  Up above, Harry could see the dance of a flashlight beam. He shifted to get lower, but his foot slid and twigs cracked.

  “Okay, who’s out there?” shouted the policeman.

  Harry grimaced.

  “Yo!” said the cop.

  Harry staggered up the grassy incline. He reached the top. A uniformed patrolman stared back at him, standing alongside the Audi. He had a square jaw and stern eyes.

  He placed the flashlight beam on Harry.

  “And what do you think you’re doing?” asked the policeman.

  “Taking a leak,” said Harry.

  “This is private property. It’s not your personal toilet.”

  Harry just nodded as the policeman continued to inspect him, suspicious.

  “Is there anyone else with you?”

  “No. I’m alone.”

  “Alone,” said the policeman, eyes narrowing. “Were you here so you could watch those kids?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Peeping Tom. Lover’s lane. Is that how you get your kicks?”

  “No,” said Harry, insulted, although it was better than the real reason he was here.

  “Then do you want to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “I like the view.”

  “Like the view.”

  “I meditate.”

  The policeman sighed. “Alright. I think I’ve heard enough.

  How about if you just get out of here. Because if I catch you here again, I’ll find a good cause to arrest you.”

  “Yes. Absolutely, sir.”

  “I want to see you leave. Right now.”

  The policeman stood there. Harry didn’t budge.

  “Are you hard of hearing?” asked the policeman. “Get in your car. Start the engine. Move out of here.”

  Harry nodded, but still didn’t budge.

  The policeman started to lose his temper. “Look — ”

  “I can’t,” said Harry.

  “Can’t what?”

  “I’d like to leave, but there’s a problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “I think I’ve lost my keys.”

  “Lost your keys?”

  “When I was taking my pit stop — I think I lost them out there somewhere in the dark.”

  “I’ve got a flashlight. Do you remember where you were?”

  Harry scratched at his bug bites. “I don’t — really. I’ve completely lost track of where I was. It’s really dark out here. Somewhere in that general vicinity...” He made a sweeping movement with his arm to indicate a large section of brush.

  “Are you sure you didn’t leave them in your car?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  The policeman poked his flashlight beam inside Harry’s car. He inspected the front and back. Harry held his breath. Finally, the officer said, “I guess you’re lucky I came along, fella.”

  “I�
�m such an idiot,” said Harry.

  “Don’t disagree with you there. Listen —you got a second set of keys somewhere?” “At home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Eagle Rock.”

  The policeman exhaled loudly. “Well, isn’t that grand.” Then he turned toward his patrol car and waved Harry to follow. “Come on.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is a major pain in my ass, but I don’t think you have any other choice. It looks like I’ll have to take you home to get your keys.”

  Harry said, “That would be fabulous. I’d really appreciate it.”

  The policeman simply grunted. He opened the passenger door of his patrol car and signaled Harry to get in. Harry thanked him several times.

  During the drive to Harry’s house, the policeman said very little and Harry had no conversation to offer, fearing that anything he said might trap him in a lie or confession. They listened to the crackle of voices on the police radio.

  As Harry sat, he happened to look down at his shirtsleeves and noticed they were stained with blood. Wiggins’ blood.

  He folded his arms.

  The police officer sat in his patrol car in Harry’s driveway while Harry woke up his next-door neighbor, Susan Tyra, to get his back-up set of house keys. Then Harry entered his home to retrieve the second set of car keys.

  Harry was deeply grateful that the policeman chose not to follow him inside. The floors and sofa remained splattered with blood.

  During the ride back to the Hollywood Hills, the policeman opened up a little bit. He introduced himself as Officer Daniels, and they talked about the Lakers game that night.

  To Harry, the game felt like weeks ago; but it was still fresh in the officer’s mind.

  “What a finish!” Officer Daniels exclaimed. “I wish I could’ve been there, you lucky bastard.”

  They returned to the site of Harry’s Audi. Harry climbed out of the patrol car.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate this,” said Harry.

  “I wanna see you leaving right behind me,” said Daniels. “Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  Harry hurried to his car. He climbed in, started up the engine, and signaled thumbs up. He threw the Audi in reverse and backed off the grassy strip, feeling the corpse roll in the trunk. He left the property.

  The patrol car followed Harry on Mulholland Drive for several anxious minutes, before taking a sudden turn and disappearing.

  Once the police car had left his rear view mirror, Harry let out a massive sigh of relief.

  He checked his watch. Half past three in the morning.

  He still had to dump this damn body before sunrise...

  Harry followed Sunset Boulevard all the way to the Pacific Coast Highway, and then followed the coastline looking for a dark, secluded beach with quick access.

  He found what he was looking for between Santa Monica and Malibu. An area without a barrier between the public parking lot and the beach. While driving on the beach was illegal, slamming over a small curb made it entirely possible.

  The beach was unlit and unassuming. Harry drove onto a paved bicycle path. He turned off the headlights and rolled in the darkness to an isolated area out of view.

  Harry parked, jumped out, and circled to the trunk. He unlocked it — pocketed the key this time —and tossed the lid open.

  The big brown package awaited.

  Harry retrieved his original set of car keys. He moved the shovel aside. He had to act fast. He wasn’t going to bury the body. Just dump it.

  Harry grappled with the big, heavy corpse, yanking and pulling, trying to shift the blubber up and over the lip of the trunk.

  The duct tape began shrieking, tearing loose from the blanket, exposing sections of Wiggins. Harry saw part of his discolored face.

  Harry gathered every ounce of his remaining strength to move the body over the edge of the trunk. The blanket became stuck on the latch. Harry fought to free it, while keeping an eye out for witnesses.

  Then he saw something: a tiny light blinking far down the bike path.

  Someone bicycling? At this hour?

  Harry grew frantic, clawing madly at the body to bring the full mass out of the trunk.

  The flickering light grew nearer.

  Harry’s wristwatch got caught on something —Wiggins’ belt buckle —and he furiously yanked his arm free.

  The weight of the body shifted away from the trunk. Gravity brought it crashing down to the sand. It rested in an awkward position, looking like a huge sack of laundry.

  Harry slammed the trunk lid shut and jumped into his car.

  The bike came closer.

  Harry started up the engine, kept the lights off, and drove across the bike path. He rolled over the curb and bounced into the parking lot.

  Within a minute, the Audi was back on the Pacific Coast Highway, joining other traffic, leaving Walter Wiggins far behind.

  More than anything in the world, Harry wanted to grab a hot shower, scrub himself with soap, go to bed and sleep for a week.

  But he knew he couldn’t.

  His next destination was a 24-hour pharmacy to load up on cleaning supplies. He still had a lot of messy evidence to clean up back home. He had bloodstained sofa cushions. He had blood on his den rug. He had a bloody car trunk.

  He had a murder to erase.

  REEL FOUR

  32

  As dawn splashed pink across the sky, the 8-ton behemoth charged at breakneck speed through the Mojave Desert, challenging any and all obstacles in its path. The other vehicles on I-40 West swiftly moved out of the way of the rampaging beast, or risked becoming roadkill. A wandering coyote that did not leave the payment quickly enough, exploded into blood and shattered bone.

  Lenny Hurley gripped the wheel of his Gulf Stream Sun-stream RV, kept his foot pressed hard on the accelerator, his eyes locked ahead, roaring toward Los Angeles with a singular mission.

  He was going to kick Harry Tuttle’s ass.

  Shortly after he had seen his wife on the mall movie screen, made up like a whore, pretending like she was some kind of stupid actress, taunting and humiliating the husband she had abandoned, he knew he must find her, return her home, and deliver a severe beating to the man who’d stolen her away. The most unwise move of Harry Tuttle’s career was parading another man’s wife, half-dressed, in movie theaters from coast to coast for all to see.

  No doubt, he was doing her. He was probably taking her to sleazy Hollywood parties rampant with fags, drugs, and loose sex. Lenny knew how those L.A. freaks and weirdos behaved. He would not allow Nora to become sucked into that world. She belonged in Pottstown with him, serving as a good wife, living a proper life.

  Lenny had departed for Los Angeles the morning after discovering Nora’s new life. He told his boss that he needed to take a week or two off to take care of some business.

  “What kind of business?” asked Tex, owner of Berger’s Auto Repair.

  “None of your business,” Lenny replied.

  “You can’t just take an unscheduled vacation right now. We’re swamped. I don’t have anyone to back you up.”

  “I need to go to California. I’m leaving today.”

  “Fine. Don’t expect your job to be waiting for you when you get back,” growled Tex.

  A scuffled ensued and Lenny was fired. He didn’t care. He went home, packed the RV with clothes, canned goods, soda, and microwave dinners, fueled up, and headed for the highway.

  Approximately 2,700 miles separated Philadelphia from Los Angeles. He would reduce every mile to a blur. He loaded the passenger seat with maps, coffee and snacks, and tore through the states one by one, ripping them apart like tissue, stopping only for short catnaps at RV parks. Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, then New Mexico disappeared behind him. He came close to the Grand Canyon, but the landmark barely registered. He had bigger things on his mind.

  Most of the drive flew by without event, but there was one rather irksome loss of time nea
r Amarillo, where two leather-clad assholes on choppers wouldn’t get out of his way; and one of them flipped the bird. Big mistake. Lenny promptly ran them off the road, and then pulled over for a chat.

  Perhaps because there were two of them, they felt bold enough to challenge him, pounding on his RV door before he stepped out. When Lenny emerged, the bikers recognized their foolishness; but by then it was too late. The beatings had been ordered with no refunds available. The bikers got a full glimpse of his size, the fierce tattoos that curled up his neck, and his crazy hair. Lenny had stopped shaving his head, and the hair grew back unevenly, in patches like wild brush. It wasn’t handsome, but it did send a signal: Danger. Untamed.

  Lenny took care of business. One of the bikers received blows to his fat stomach until all the air had been punched out, and he lay gasping in the dirt. The other biker ate cactus.

  When it became apparent that neither biker would be back on the roadway anytime soon, Lenny returned the flipped bird, climbed into his RV, and gunned it for L.A.

  Total loss of time: eleven minutes.

  “Fuck!” he screamed.

  It continued to anger him from Texas to Arizona. When he reached Flagstaff, deep into the night, he pulled off the road for a short break to take a piss and stretch his legs.

  The damp chill of Philadelphia was long gone, replaced by a hot, dry wind. The stars were brighter than he had ever seen. In this dark, he could see forever.

  At that moment, he wished he could share the scenery with Nora. For once, his heart filled with sadness instead of anger.

  Surrounded by barren desert, he had a weird urge to cry.

  Must be the fatigue, he figured.

  Before long, he was back on the road. When he crossed the state line into California, the sun was rising in the rear-view mirror, appearing like an orange fireball, propelling him faster. The sky opened up with color and renewed his energy.

  He calculated another four hours to go until the ugliness of Los Angeles spilled across his windshield.

  “Nora,” he said. “The party’s over. I’m coming to take you home.”