Scarlet Thunder

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Fine, fine,” Tim Becker said. “I’ll have the money for you this afternoon.”

  “Cash,” Brian Nelson insisted.

  “Are you absolutely sure the film is useless?”

  “I know my business.”

  “All right then,” Tim agreed. “Cash.”

  Brian Nelson? Getting money from Tim Becker? Getting money to mess up Uncle Mike’s deadline?

  I didn’t understand. I wondered what to do next.

  I heard the screen door open and close. I pushed back farther into the shadows. I wondered if I should follow Brian.

  Before I could decide, I heard a tiny bip, bip, bip. It came through the open window. I was so close to Tim Becker that I could actually hear him punching in numbers on his telephone.

  Bip, bip, bip. There was a pause. Then I clearly heard Tim speak. “Hello, Linda. Can you put me through? It’s Tim.”

  Another pause. I guessed Tim was waiting to be put through.

  “Yeah,” Tim said. “Just want you to know that the production crew is on the way out. They don’t have any useable footage. There’s no way Hiser can turn out an hour of prime time. You shouldn’t have any problem squeezing him now.”

  Squeezing him?

  There was another pause as I tried to figure that out.

  “Okay,” Tim said. “Just remember, I get to L.A. next week. You keep all that money warm and waiting for me.”

  There was silence as he listened. Then he laughed. “Yes, get me an office with a view. I’m looking forward to my new job.”

  He hung up.

  My mind went into instant knots. I had just heard a very valuable clue to figuring out why so many things had gone wrong with the shoot. But who had Tim Becker called? And how could I find out?

  Well, I answered myself, I could just march in there and ask him. And, of course, he would just tell me. Right.

  Hang on, I thought. Maybe his telephone could tell me.

  But I needed to get in there right away.

  I walked quickly back to the door. I knocked loudly.

  Tim came to the door and seemed surprised to see me again. “What’s up?” he asked pleasantly. Like he was actually a nice guy.

  That was a good question. One I wanted to ask him right back. The two-faced snake.

  Then I realized he was staring at me. He expected an answer to his question about what was up. And why I had come back to his trailer.

  “Well...,” I said. All right, I thought, if you’re lying to me, I’ll get you back by telling the truth. “Well...I need to borrow your phone again.”

  He gave me a crooked grin. “A person might think you had a girlfriend.”

  Again, he grabbed the newspaper from his desk.

  “I know, I know,” he said as he walked out the door. “Private call. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “That would be great,” I said. Very, very great. “I won’t be long.”

  He let the door bang behind him.

  I picked up the telephone, hoping I had guessed right.

  I saw the Redial button.

  I grinned. A real grin, not the kind that Tim Becker used on people.

  I hit Redial.

  I heard the tones of the numbers dialing at high speed. Bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip.

  So far, so good. I held my breath as I waited for the phone to connect.

  It began to ring.

  Even better than good. Would I find out who was on the other end?

  “Globewide Studios,” a woman said in a pleasant voice. “John Greeley’s office.”

  I was so stunned I did exactly nothing. Globewide Studios? John Greeley? As in John Greeley, president of one of the world’s largest entertainment companies? As in the John Greeley who was negotiating for Uncle Mike’s script?

  “Hello?” the woman’s voice said. “Hello?”

  I hung up the phone.

  chapter nineteen

  Uncle Mike had finished his phone calls. I found him back inside the motor home.

  He sat on the edge of a chair. His elbows were on his knees. His face in his hands. Not a picture of happiness.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Did someone make you watch an hour of Barney?”

  “Worse,” Uncle Mike said. “I called someone at Lone Coyote to ask for an extension on the documentary deadline and he just laughed. Then I tried to call Globewide Studios. Remember, the people who were so hot to buy the Viola Moses script? But all I got was a runaround. The president, John Greeley, used to talk to me any time. Now, his secretary won’t put me through, and I’m not even sure John is getting my messages. At this moment, things don’t look good.”

  I wasn’t sure this was the time to tell him exactly how bad everything looked.

  “You can sell the option to someone else, can’t you?” I asked. “If that script was worth so much to Globewide...”

  “Timing,” he said with a heavy sigh, “is everything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It will take less than a day for word to get out about how badly this shoot has gone. And it will look like I don’t have any control over my crew when people read that newspaper report. You think anyone will hire me as a director of a major film when I can’t even pull a simple one-hour documentary together? As for the option, yeah, maybe I’ll find a buyer. But again, it’s all about timing.”

  He got up and started pacing. “If Sandy fires us, I’ll have to pay Lone Coyote the penalty for not delivering the documentary. If I miss that payment, they can file proceedings against me to force me into bankruptcy. That means I’ll have to unload the option fast. That means everyone will know I’m desperate to sell. And that means I’ll have to take a lower price. That’s why I wanted to reach John Greeley to make a deal. Today. Before he discovers how much trouble I’m in.”

  “Um,” I said. I didn’t want to do it, but sooner or later I’d have to tell Uncle Mike what I knew. “I was over at Tim Becker’s trailer and—”

  His cell phone rang and interrupted me.

  “Hiser here,” he said as he answered.

  His face lit up with a smile. “John Greeley! I’m glad you got my message. Thanks for calling back.”

  Uncle Mike stopped pacing. He gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Yes,” Uncle Mike said into the telephone. “I’ve been thinking about your offer on the Viola Moses script. I just want you to know that I’d be interested in closing the deal on the amount we discussed.”

  Seconds later, he frowned. “I see. Yes, thank you. Good-bye.”

  He snapped his cell phone shut. For a moment he just stood there, saying nothing. He looked like a fish gasping for air.

  “He’s changed his mind,” Uncle Mike said. “Globewide doesn’t want anything to do with my script. My best buyer is no longer willing to give me even a dollar for it. How can that be?”

  “Um,” I said again. “I was over at Tim Becker’s trailer and—”

  Again, his ringing cell phone interrupted me.

  “Hiser here,” Uncle Mike said. This time, no smile as he listened.

  “A deal?” Uncle Mike said. “What kind of deal?”

  He listened more. His face got darker and darker. Like the face of a fish about to stop gasping for air.

  Finally, Uncle Mike spoke. “I’ll think about it.”

  That was the end of the conversation.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said. “That was someone from Lone Coyote. He offered to buy my production company. For the million dollars I will owe them if I miss my deadline. It’s almost like he knew that Globewide had just said no.”

  “I think he did,” I said quietly.

  Finally, I told Uncle Mike everything I had overheard at Tim Becker’s trailer.

  His jaw dropped as he listened.

  “In other words,” he said when I finished, “Globewide and Lone Coyote were both working against me?”

  “That’s my guess,” I said. “Lone Coyote suckered you with a contract they made sure you
couldn’t handle. Who knows? Maybe Globewide will come back with some super-low offer for the Viola Moses script, and Lone Coyote will get the chance to work with Globewide on it. And from what I heard, it sounds like Tim Becker has just gotten himself a great new job in Hollywood.”

  “No,” Uncle Mike said. “Somehow, we’re going to use what we have and patch it together. Once Sandy Peterson knows about Tim Becker, I believe she’ll give us the chance to finish.”

  I shook my head no. I had saved the worst for last.

  “I think that all the filmwork is gone,” I said. “Brian Nelson said he’d trashed it. He was trying to collect his money so he could get out of here.”

  “What?!”

  Uncle Mike left me behind as he ran out of the motor home.

  I followed.

  In the other motor home, we discovered Brian Nelson had spoken the truth to Tim Becker.

  Someone had poured vinegar on all the film and video footage.

  There was no chance of rescuing it. Or of rescuing the documentary.

  chapter twenty

  “This is the end of life as I know it,” Uncle Mike groaned. “I might as well buy a broom and learn to sweep. That’s the only work I’ll be able to get in Hollywood.”

  Me too, I thought. Where else was I going to be able to get the inside track? No more summers with Uncle Mike. No chance of working with him on a feature film. Was life even worth living?

  I got more depressed.

  But Uncle Mike got angry.

  “Come on,” he said. “Tim Becker is going to pay. We’re going to hear the truth from him. And we’re going to use that.”

  I was so depressed I didn’t even care about revenge.

  “What good will that do?” I said. “We can’t prove any of this. Not in court. Probably not even to Sandy Peterson.”

  “You overheard Tim Becker talking to Brian Nelson and to Globewide,” Uncle Mike said.

  “I did,” I said. “But it would be my word against his. I’m only seventeen. He’s a professional public relations man. Who’s going to believe me over him?”

  Uncle Mike slammed his right fist into his left palm. “There’s got to be some way. I mean, you heard him admit that he poisoned a bunch of us.”

  Poisoned a bunch of us. I knew that too well, because I’d been there. I remembered the feeling vividly.

  Then it hit me. I’d been there. And I’d had my handheld camera.

  “Uncle Mike,” I said, “there’s a slight, slight chance we might have something.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  I explained.

  It took us two hours. We spent the first hour going through my film at high speed, just to find the sections that I had filmed during the barbecue. Then we ran the barbecue portion at normal speed.

  Because I had spent so much time with the camera on my shoulder, by then everyone had even forgotten I was filming.

  I had caught the crew laughing. I had caught some people stuffing their faces with watermelon, the juice dribbling down their chins. I had caught bits and pieces of racing conversations. And, buried deep in that footage, there was a shot of Tim Becker in the background, just after everyone had eaten the main course.

  The footage was dark and a little shaky. We had to slow it down and use the computer to enhance the image. But we saw it. I had footage of Tim Becker pouring berries from a small plastic bag into a serving of fruit salad.

  “Got him!” Uncle Mike crowed. He slapped me on the back. “Man, oh man. You were a filming machine. You’ve got everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. I can’t wait to show our evidence to Sandy Peterson!”

  chapter twenty-one

  Twenty minutes later, I was back in Tim Becker’s trailer. But I wasn’t by myself this time. Uncle Mike stood on one side of me. Sandy Peterson stood on the other. I had my camera on my shoulder, ready to record what would happen next.

  “What’s going on?” Tim asked. He waved at my camera. He started to rise from his chair. “A new segment for the documentary?”

  “Don’t bother getting up,” Sandy told him.

  “Huh?”

  Her tone was angry. He, of course, didn’t know why. He was about to, though.

  “I’ve been confused and bothered by all the little things that have made it tough for the racing team lately,” Sandy said. “I’m not confused anymore.”

  I swung my camera from her to Tim to catch his reply.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. My camera caught every expression on his face.

  “Oh, but I do,” she said. “Nice little scam you had going. You paid Brian Nelson to mess things up for the film crew. And since you have a pass to go wherever you want in the pit, you found ways to mess up my team too. You might have gotten me killed, messing with my car. Just so the film crew misses the dead-line, and you get a great new job with Globewide Studios.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “None of that is true.”

  “Don’t even think you can fool me,” she said. “Trenton and Mike might not know John Greeley is your uncle, but I do. You used him as a reference when you applied for this job. Remember? You said it wouldn’t hurt for my racing team to have a connection right to the top in Hollywood.”

  “You can’t prove anything,” Tim Becker said. He looked straight into my camera. “She is telling lies. If she tries to accuse me publicly, I will sue her for it.”

  “I’ve got something on video that proves at least part of it,” she said. She placed the plastic cassette on his desk. “Trenton here filmed you putting the poisonous elderberries in the fruit salad. I think that’s a good start. And you can bet we’ll work hard to prove the rest of it.”

  Tim picked up the cassette and turned it over a few times in his hands. He did not seem too upset.

  He stood up, keeping the cassette in his hands.

  I saw him through my viewfinder as he walked closer to me.

  “I feel confident about my original statement,” he said casually, as if we were discussing the weather.

  He tucked the cassette under his belt as he walked closer, still talking. “You can’t prove anything.”

  In a quick movement, he filled my view-finder completely. Before I could figure out what had happened, he had grabbed me by the shoulders. He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket and stuck the sharp end of it against my throat.

  It hurt. Bad. I wondered if I was bleeding. If he pushed any harder, the pen could bust through my windpipe.

  He continued, still sounding oddly casual, “Like I said. When I take this kid’s camera and walk out of here with the videocassette, there is definitely nothing you can prove. Like you can’t prove I poisoned the film crew and lied about being sick myself when the doctor called. Like you can’t prove that I paid Brian Nelson to create problems as often as possible. And he did a good job too. Messing up the elephant shoot with mice was a stroke of genius. And making sure your camera equipment ended up in the wrong place was exactly the kind of thing I’d have done in his place...”

  I gasped at the pain as he pushed the pen harder against my neck.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Uncle Mike said. “It’s not worth it. To you or to us.”

  “Then don’t make a move toward me,” Tim answered. He was breathing heavily. This close to him, I could feel the fabric of his shirt against my cheek. I smelled after-shave and a trace of sweat.

  “We won’t do anything,” Sandy said. “Let the kid go.”

  “Back up,” Tim said. “Get behind my desk.”

  Neither of them moved.

  Tim jabbed the pen deeper in my neck. I gasped again.

  The others quickly walked around the desk.

  “Stay there,” he told them.

  “Why?” Sandy said. “Why would you do this?”

  “Get a life,” Tim said. “Anyone would do it for what I’m getting paid—and for the new job I’ll start next week.”

  “No,” Uncle Mike said. “What you’re doing
is wrong.”

  Tim kept the pen pressed against my windpipe.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” he said. “I’ve been watching you and your nephew. You don’t let anything get in the way of your ambition either.”

  “We don’t try to destroy another’s live-lihood for our own gain, and we don’t threaten kids,” Uncle Mike said.

  “But you wrecked your marriage,” Tim said. “I heard all about that from the camera crew. How you ignored your wife and kids so long that they became strangers. And Trenton here, he’s a kid, but he’s got no life. He’s going to end up just like you.”

  “He focuses totally, with that camera glued to his body. He has no life but filming. I’ve listened to him talk about what he wants to do. I haven’t heard him once say anything about his family. Neither of you has time for anything or anyone beyond your ambitions. Don’t call me selfish when the only difference between you and me is that I don’t try to fool myself about my ambition.”

  He jerked me toward the door.

  “Sandy, Mike, get down on your stomachs behind the desk.”

  They did. I was glad. I didn’t want the pen stuck any deeper than it was.

  Tim opened the door with his free hand. He made some movements with his fingers that I could not see, only hear.

  He laughed in my ear. “Hey, I work for my uncle. You work for yours. And we’re both using family connections to get ahead.”

  Without warning, he kicked my feet out from under me. I hit the floor.

  He grabbed the camera as I was falling. He ran out, slamming the door behind him.

  I began to get up as Uncle Mike and Sandy ran toward me, and we bumped into one another.

  “He’s getting away!” Uncle Mike shouted. He pushed me out of the way and grabbed for the door.

  It wouldn’t open.

  That’s what Tim had been doing. Locking the door.

  It took another few seconds of rattling the handle for Uncle Mike to unlock the door.

  By the time we got outside, there was no sign of Tim Becker. Or of my handheld camera. Or of the cassette with the film that could prove what he had been doing.

  chapter twenty-two

  “There’s only one way he can get out of here,” Sandy said. “And that’s by car. Let’s head to the parking lot.”