by Alton Gansky
“I’m certainly no expert,” Nat said, “but isn’t that what Christians do? Don’t they share what they found?”
I dragged a dry finger beneath my eyes and pulled it away wet. “Yes.”
“Talk to Jerry, Maddy. I think you may find he’s more open than you think. He’s never ridiculed your faith, has he?”
“No, never.”
“Talk to him. Share what you know.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
She smiled. “Begin with the heart. That’s where you two communicate the best. Always start with the heart.”
I looked down at the table. Everything Nat had said was right. I didn’t like it. I wasn’t enjoying the conversation, and a huge part of me wished I had gone back to the office. Just the other day I had tried to express my faith to Catherine, but I felt I had failed. Maybe I was too vague, too inexperienced. Maybe I gave up too soon.
The conversation was forcing a sharper focus. I did love Jerry. West was attractive and I was drawn to him, but I was connected to Jerry. We had been through so much, and he was always there, always supportive, and always patient. Patience was a requirement for those who hung around me.
“You’re right. Thank you for being so honest. I just wish I knew how to begin.” I raised my eyes from the table and saw something I had never seen before: tears brimming in Nat’s eyes.
“You can start with me,” she whispered.
Chapter 32
I left Nat’s emotionally drained. At least I was drained for a more joyful reason. I did my best to explain a person’s need for Christ and for the forgiveness of sins. I was clumsy but I persisted, explaining what I knew, what I had learned from the Bible, and most of all, how it changed me. I confessed that I was not the ideal Christian, that I was a person in the act of becoming, and that becoming would take a lifetime. With Catherine I spoke in generalities but with Nat I just opened my heart like it was a steamer trunk and let her peek inside. When I was done, she asked questions. Some I had answers for, others I promised to get answers to. I made no pretense at being an expert, made no claims of being a theologian. I presented myself as I was, a new Christian who knew she had been changed and who knew that there were more changes on the way.
When all the talking was done, I waited for flashes of lightning, a heavenly beam to shine down from the sky, pierce the house, and fall upon Nat. It didn’t.
“I need to think,” Nat said, but there was something different in her tone and in the glow of her eyes. I understood. We were carved from the same granite slab. I wouldn’t press because I hated being pressed. It was taking time to learn, but I was realizing that sometimes the best thing to do is get out of God’s way. I did as I was led. The rest was out of my hands.
At the front door we hugged, and I walked to the car. Before starting the engine, I made two calls: One to Neena Lasko at the Curtain Call dinner theater and one to Jerry. In each phone call, I asked for a favor.
Neena had to do some rearranging, but she made it happen. Jerry and I would have the same balcony room we had last night. This time, however, it would be just the two of us. Although the room was designed to hold four or more, we would be alone. I offered to pay for the tickets that would normally have been purchased for the other table, but she declined and I let her.
Traffic back to the theater was lighter than I expected so I arrived early. I visited with Neena for a moment, checked in on Catherine, telling her in old theater tradition to “break a leg,” then went to the balcony room. I took the BODY COUNT screenplay that I had been carting around all afternoon with me. Jerry wouldn’t arrive for an hour, giving me time to glance through the script.
One of the servers, dressed in street clothes, brought me a cup of coffee compliments of Neena. I imagined he would don his tux when the theater opened for dinner. I slipped my feet out of the pumps I had been wearing all day, granting a short furlough to my toes. I set the screenplay in front of me.
BODY COUNT
An Original Screenplay by
Andy Buchanan
Unlike the other scripts I had seen this week, this one had no revision dates in the bottom right corner. It had never reached the stage where revisions were required. I started reading. Screenplays are different than books. Each page has more white space than text, so the reading was fast.
I had turned the last page when Jerry walked through the door. His hair was slightly mussed, his shirt a little wrinkled, and his face drawn with weariness. Boy, he looked good. I rose, kissed him, and wrapped my arms around him. He seemed stunned and stood motionless. Then I felt the tension pour from his body, and he slipped his arms around me.
“This day just got better,” he said and rested his chin on the top of my head. “This is good medicine.”
“You can say that again.” With reluctance, I let go and moved back to the table. “I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour.”
“My last two appointments canceled. Apparently, kids can get well all on their own. The nerve of the little curtain crawlers. Don’t they know I’m trying to make a living?”
“It’s a pain when health gets in the way of a good business plan.” We both laughed, and his laughter sounded better than any music I’ve ever heard. It isn’t falling in love that is so liberating; it’s realizing you’ve fallen in love.
“What’s this?” He pointed at the script.
“It’s a screenplay written by the young man killed at Catherine’s.”
“The second murder.”
“That’s right. Ed Lowe, the chauffeur, was first, then Andy Buchanan.”
“What are you doing with a dead man’s script?”
I told him that elements of the murder appeared in two scripts. “In Catherine’s first movie, a scene was cut that showed a man loading Glaser blue-tip rounds into a .38 revolver. In the script for her next movie, a stalker kills people associated with a famous model.”
“Okay, I can see the connections,” Jerry said. “Is this script connected to the murders too?”
“Yes. It’s not very subtle. The male protagonist is a rogue movie security guard who falls in love with a leading lady. Want to guess their names?”
“Not Andy and Catherine?”
“You got it. In one scene, a remote listening device is used to eavesdrop on people inside of a house. It’s one of those that supposedly picks up the vibration from windows. Everything is recorded, nothing is left behind. Lots of fighting and gunfire. The Catherine character becomes a female Rambo. Can you imagine Catherine running around with a machine gun? No wonder this hasn’t been produced.”
“Worse movies have been produced,” Jerry said.
“Maybe that’s what kept Andy going.”
“Didn’t Catherine see the words ‘Body Count’ in the added pages?” Jerry asked. “Wouldn’t she make the connection?”
“If she did, she didn’t say anything. I plan to ask her.”
“What are you thinking?”
I weighed my words. “I’m wondering if Andy killed Ed Lowe. I can’t be certain about motivation, but the mind that came up with this script might be capable of trying to get her attention by acting out a portion of the play.”
“You mean he killed Ed Lowe just to add some kind of reality to the script?”
“No, I don’t think he planned to actually kill anyone. No one was supposed to be there. Catherine was at rehearsal. She sent Lowe back to check on the house and to wait for some electricians. We know the electricians came because the power to the remote control shades was working, and Catherine said they weren’t when she first arrived.”
“So Lowe is at her house and catches sight of Andy Buchanan.”
“Maybe. Rockwood says he has met Lowe previously. The same may be true for Andy’s father, Chuck, who’s directing the movie, but would Andy and Lowe know each other? Probably not. Lowe sees someone lurking around the house. Goes out back to investigate. Maybe he thinks it’s one of the workers, only to find out it’s some guy with
electronic equipment. An argument breaks out. There’s a bit of a fight. Andy loses it and shoots Lowe in the head.”
“But why would Andy even have a gun?”
“Because he’s playing out the part of the male lead in his movie. His father told me his son had a drug problem. He had been hospitalized for his addiction.”
“Psychosis has been associated with certain addictions,” Jerry said. “How would you prove this?”
“Me? I can’t prove anything. Perhaps West can check on past mental problems Andy might have had. The coroner could screen for drugs, I suppose, but that would be up to them.”
“I don’t know, Maddy. That only solves one murder. If Andy killed Lowe, who killed Andy?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
I looked over the balcony railing. Early diners were making their way in. The noise level rose.
The door to our room opened, and Neena stepped in again. “Ah, I see that company has arrived.” She offered coffee and we accepted. “I have a special treat for you. Harold and I are so relieved to have Catherine back that we’d like to invite you backstage during the intermission. I’m afraid we can’t have you back there during the performance because our stage just isn’t big enough, but I think you’ll enjoy seeing all the activity.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said.
Neena left us to ourselves.
“I should have asked sooner,” I said, reaching for Jerry’s hand. “How’s the Slater boy?”
“I phoned the nurse’s station just before I left. He has stabilized. We’re starting to hope again.”
“That’s good. I’ve been praying for him.” My stomach started doing flips. “I’ve made arrangements. You and I are going to be the only ones in this room tonight.”
An eyebrow rose. “Really?”
“I want to talk to you about something.”
“Uh-oh.”
I grinned. “Nothing bad, silly. It’s just time that I share with you.”
“About your faith?”
“How did you know that?”
He gave my hand a squeeze. “I’ve known you for a very long time. I’ve loved you for years. I know you better than you might think. I’ve been watching you change and I like what I see. I’m not sure what to think about all this church stuff, but I’m willing to listen to anything you have to say.”
I took him at his word. We talked during the appetizers and the meal that followed. I tried to be as open with him as I had been with Nat.
Five minutes before the play began we prayed.
Chapter 33
The play moved forward effortlessly. Catherine took the stage as if last night had not happened. She seemed to float across the boards, and her lines were crisp and clear. The other actors rose to the occasion. I sat in my chair, my shoulder touching Jerry’s, my hand on his elbow. My tears of joy had dried, and I was lost in the play. For a few moments, everything seemed perfect in the world. The evil I had seen now seemed far away.
As we finished our meal, the server took our dessert order, and we told him we had been invited backstage for a few minutes and to leave the dessert on the table. We’d eat it during the second portion of the show.
The curtains closed to loud applause. Jerry and I slipped out of the balcony room, and like salmon swimming upstream, worked our way through the lines of people moving to the bathrooms or outside for fresh air. Most of the attendees stayed in the dining area and chatted in good-natured tones, punctuated with laughter.
Room on the floor was slim, the aisle filled with people standing or chairs pushed back so the users could stretch their legs. Nonetheless, we managed to make it to the stage and up the short flight of stairs.
As I hit the top tread a familiar form caught my eye. Franco Zambonelli was seated near the front. He looked lost and concerned. Earlier today we sat and had a heart-to-heart. He was irritating, brash, and not always aware of how others perceived him, but he had brought Catherine back to her senses. I owed him something. I motioned for him to join us.
We passed through the curtains stage left.
“Did you know stage left is to the right of the audience,” Jerry said.
“I didn’t know that.”
As we started backstage he pointed at a black curtain in the wings. It hid the working area from the sight of the audience. “That’s called a tormentor curtain.”
“Why do they call it that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I only took one theater class in college.”
“Decided that acting wasn’t for you, eh?”
He looked back at me. “Actually, the professor decided it wasn’t for me. ‘The theater has wide arms, young Mr. Thomas, but not that wide.’ I was crushed.”
“I’ll bet.”
Just beyond the tormentor curtain stood Harold Young. He was all smiles while calling out orders to the stagehands.
“Mayor! You came back to my world.”
“Thank you for the invitation.” Two men carried a sofa by. “There’s a lot of activity back here.”
“At times it’s bedlam,” Harold said. “Follow me; we need to get out of the way.” A few steps later we were deeper in the setup area. I could see the place where actors passed their time waiting for their next scenes. Two actors played handheld video games. One of the older thespians was reading a newspaper. It was surreal. I felt like someone had put the world on a coffee break.
Catherine skipped over to us, more animated than I had seen her all week. She threw her arms around my neck, did the same to a very surprised Jerry, and then to Franco. “Are you having fun?”
“Very much. You’re wonderful. The whole play is fabulous.”
“It is. Harold’s a genius, isn’t he? This play is going to outlive us all.”
“You seem lively,” I said.
“She was always that way,” Harold said. “A nervous wreck before the curtain goes up, then there’s no stopping her.”
“Yeah, well, wait until after the play. I’m useless.” Catherine took my hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the cast. These guys are great.”
“It’s your fault.” The voice was familiar and dark. It came from behind me.
I pivoted and found myself facing Chuck Buchanan. Judging by the reeking smell coming from his clothing, he had been in close contact with booze of some sort. He had told me that he was a recovered alcoholic. His glassy eyes, swagger, and demeanor told me he was no longer recovering. I couldn’t blame him. Just this morning he had to identify his dead son; a son with a hole in his forehead.
Without thinking I took a step back. He wore a large leather jacket, and he had both hands plunged deep into its pockets. His face was drawn, his mouth a deep frown.
“Chuck,” Catherine said. “I didn’t know you were—”
Chuck pulled a gun from his coat and held it in his right hand. Catherine inhaled noisily. I stopped breathing. His hand had a subtle, frightening shake.
“He loved you, Catherine,” Buchanan said. “I told him to take his time. To win you bit by bit, but he was impatient. I brought him onboard so you could see him work, see that he had licked his problems, found his center, but you rejected him.”
“Chuck,” Catherine began. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s too late for apologies. You’re on stage. Everyone loves you. Andy is lying on a metal slab in a cooler. Naked and locked in a coroner’s drawer. It’s all because of you.”
Jerry inched his way closer to me, standing a foot ahead. He was trying to put his body between me and the gun. “Listen . . . Buchanan is it? Mr. Buchanan. I’m Jerry Thomas. Dr. Jerry Thomas. I think I can help you.”
“Can you raise the dead, Doc? Can you? That’s the only way you can help me.” Tears began to run down his face.
“I think it’s the alcohol, Mr. Buchanan. It’s a depressant, you know. I think if you give yourself a couple of hours, you’ll see what a mistake this is.”
“I’ve lived most my life with booze, Doc. I know what it
is. It doesn’t matter any more.” His voice broke. “I failed my wife, then I failed my son. He followed in my footsteps. He copied me. Read the same books, went to the same college, chose the same career—chose to be an addict. Different drug, same effect.”
He returned his pitiful gaze to Catherine. “You have everything, girl. Everything. Looks, fame, money, people who love you. All I had was Andy; all he had was me. He loved you. You could have been good for him. He even wrote a script for you. You wouldn’t even read it with him.”
“I gave it to my agent,” Catherine said. “She said I had to pass.”
“He was stalking her,” I protested. “Maybe he was lovesick, maybe it was the drugs, but he was stalking her, just like the movie you’re making. He spied on her using equipment like that described in his screenplay.”
“How do you know what’s in his screenplay?”
“I’ve read it. My aide downloaded it from the Internet.”
Jerry took a step forward. “She’s right. She showed it to me. We have it up in the balcony room. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Take one more step, Doc, and you’ll die along with Catherine.” He raised the gun and his trembling hand settled. That made me more nervous. “An eye for an eye; a life for a life—a family member for a family member.”
The last part confused me. Until he aimed the gun at my forehead. The barrel was directed at the same spot where a nasty bullet took his son’s life. “You may not have killed him with your own hands, but you stripped his heart from him. You took someone from my family, now I’m going to return the favor.”
“I killed your son,” Franco said as if he were ordering a sandwich. “I pulled the trigger, pal. Not only that, he had it comin’.”
Buchanan shifted his gaze to Franco.
“That’s right, buddy boy. I figured it out.” Franco was taunting him and backing toward the stage, redirecting Buchanan’s attention from me and the others. “I killed your boy with his own gun.”
“Not possible,” Buchanan said.
