Angel of the Abyss

by Ed Kurtz

  The gunman hadn’t forced his way in through the front door, wouldn’t have needed to; he had a key. Outside I found a late-model Saab parked at the curb. There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever that it was the same car I saw racing down Hollywood Boulevard after somebody took a couple of potshots at me in front of the Wilson Arms. I ran back inside and snatched the keys from the dead man’s pants pocket. I snagged his wallet while I was at it. For good measure, I shone the flashlight on his face.

  It was the piece of shit who cut Florence Sommer’s throat.

  From the office, Marky called out to me, so I went back in one last time.

  “They gone?” he said.

  I nodded somberly. “Duff is. I’m sorry. I—I don’t know what happened to Shawna. She’s not here.”

  “Why’d you bring this shit to us, man? You wasn’t supposed to be no trouble. You said you wouldn’t.”

  My chest felt too tight for what was in it and my neck burned at the back. I said I was sorry again and felt horrible for repeating something that didn’t help at all.

  “We was safe,” Marky said. “We was safe here.”

  I wanted to puke. I wanted to puke all over the floor until there was nothing left inside and I could just lie down and die. Everything was finally coming to a head but it was too much, more than I could handle. I couldn’t even stick out the movie business when I tried, how the hell was I supposed to deal with all of this?

  “I’m going to get help for you,” I said. “I never wanted any of this to happen. I hope you know that.”

  The last thing he ever said to me was “Go.”

  I went.

  * * *

  The Saab was his, the killer’s. Cora Parson’s man. Started up easy, the radio softly playing the classical station. Goddamn Bach. Real relaxing stuff to get in your head before you go murder a bunch of strangers. I slammed the button to turn it off.

  It took me a minute to regain what little composure I had left. Once I was calm enough to function, I saw the cell phone in the cup holder, with which I dialed 911 and said enough to get somebody out there before abruptly hanging up. Marky was going to be okay, or at least as okay as possible, considering. That accomplished, I dug into that dead bastard’s wallet to see what it could tell me. And the first thing it told me was that I’d just killed Jack Parson’s grandson.

  Gary Alan Parson, to be precise. Height, 5’9”. Eyes, brown. Hair, brown. Age, 44. He was never going to be 45. I could hardly wait to tell that to his mother’s face.

  The address listed on the dead man’s license was in El Centro, in Imperial Valley. Luck was with me insofar as there was a road map in the glove box that would get me there. The needle on the gas gauge indicated three-quarters of a tank in the Saab. I looked at my hands on the wheel in the dim green light of the dash and they looked like they were only dirty, rather than sticky with Marky’s blood. I felt my gorge rise a little. I didn’t want to see any more blood, mine or anybody else’s.

  But I was damn ready to end this. I jerked the stick into drive and hit the gas.

  40

  Hollywood, 1926

  Angel of the Abyss wrapped after four more shooting days. They were tense and largely quiet days. They were days without Grace.

  Saul and Jack scrambled to shoot around a double, hastily hired through an agency. The girl had a vague resemblance once her hair was cut to match Grace’s bob, but there wouldn’t be another close-up, another frame to capture Grace’s emotive face. She was gone.

  Saul kept a key to her bungalow, since he paid for it, and wasted no time letting himself in on the afternoon of her first missed day. Nothing was missing, nothing amiss. The watch he’d given her, her wardrobe, the telephone he installed for her. And not so much as a note to thank him for all he’d done, for his exhaustive efforts to make her more than merely Gracie Baronsky. More than just a girl. All those weeks it was Jack he worried about, but somehow along the way he’d managed to straighten up and fly right. In the end, it was Saul’s protégé who failed him.

  He ordered the bungalow cleaned out by the end of the week.

  The pressure of incumbent stardom deemed too much for the poor thing, went one of the hushed rumors blazing around the set and through somber speakeasy conversations at night. Hiding out back home—where was it? Iowa? Maybe under an assumed name.

  Others cast the blame on the Communist apprentice electrician. Privately, such was Saul Veritek’s assumption. Eloped…or worse. Who could say? They had a production to finish. The picture business didn’t wait around for anybody.

  Such were the vagaries of Hollywood.

  41

  El Centro, 2013

  Imperial Valley was about 220 miles from Culver City, which made for a four-hour drive. I drove south along the coast and the sun was just starting to come up over the horizon, burning down over the Pacific from mountains in the east, when I was north of San Diego. The water sparkled blue and orange and the air was so fresh I realized how bad it had been up in L.A. From there I went east on I-8 with the sun in my rearview mirror.

  I filled the tank back up west of La Mesa and used the sanitary wipes by the pump to finally get the blood off my hands. The knuckles on my left hand were red and raw from where I’d twice punched the late Gary Parson to death. I idly wondered how much trouble I was going to be looking at once this was all finished, for his death and the theft of his car. And for whatever I was going to have to do once I reached El Centro. I got a couple packs of Parliaments and a tall cup of crappy convenience store coffee for the road, and then I went to find out what that was.

  * * *

  In front of a midsized Spanish-style house a few blocks south of the town’s country club, I sat in the idling Saab and waited for someone to notice me. The curtains were all drawn and there weren’t any cars in the drive. The yard was impeccably manicured, the grass greener than any real grass, perfectly squared hedges bordering the small property. I smoked three cigarettes in a row while I watched the house, hoping Gary didn’t permit it in his ride, and even took the time to put one of them out on the upholstery, just for kicks.

  As I lit a fourth I started to worry I’d come all this way for nothing, though I’d known that was a risk. It was the only lead I had so I ran with it. And since nobody saw fit to come out to me—if in fact anyone was in the house at all—I killed the engine, left the key in the ignition, and limped out of the car so I could go to them.

  Rather than ring the bell, I went around the side of the house, edging up against the hedges, and came into the equally well-kempt backyard. A red and yellow plastic tricycle was turned over on its side on the grass. I didn’t like that, but I took the gun from my pocket anyway. I’d come all the way across the country to work with a stranger’s equipment, and it seemed like that was just what I was about to do. It was just a different kind of machine than I was used to. My machines back in Boston restored the dead to their former glory; the one in my hand now was purposed for quite the opposite effect.

  A box window in the kitchen jutted out with potted plants pressing against the glass. There was also a small patio extending away from a clean plate glass sliding door. I couldn’t see through the glass; the morning sun threw a glare that made it impenetrable. My left hand tightened around the grip of the gun and I wondered how well I’d be able to shoot with my southpaw. Trouble was, I’d never fired a gun with my right hand, either. And my right still wasn’t in the mood to make a proper fist, much less squeeze a trigger.

  I lingered at the corner, out of view of the windows, mulling this over. My aim was going to be shit, my visibility was nil, and I hadn’t the slightest idea who was inside or what they were going to do when they saw me. I was sweating beneath my bandage and my right foot was starting to tingle like it does when it falls asleep. A one man-army I was not.

  My solution was simple and, I guess, a bit on the dramatic side: I lurched into the backyard, took aim at the sliding glass door, and fired a shot that obliterated it in a noisy expl
osion of glass.

  Ta-da.

  I wanted to create confusion and panic, and judging by the frenzied shouts that came from within the house I decided I was successful. As fast as I could, I moved past the destroyed door and pushed up against the siding. I was waiting for someone to come out to investigate or, failing that, to kill me. I’d had enough time on the drive down to give some thought to my feelings about killing, and I came to the conclusion that I didn’t care for it. As worthless a human being that murdering bastard in the warehouse was, it still disturbed me that I was responsible for somebody’s death. For that reason my plan was clear in my otherwise foggy head—the second I saw someone come through that door, I was going to shoot them in the leg.

  Only nobody came through the door. And in the aftermath of the shot, the shattering glass, and the shouts from inside, all I could hear was a woman crying.

  Oh for Christ’s sake, Graham, I scolded myself. Don’t tell me you went to the wrong goddamn house.

  I felt like running away, or limping as the case would have been. Like getting back in the Saab and getting the hell out of Imperial Valley. Another four damn hours, sure, but I’d go directly to the Hollywood police, march right into Detective Shea’s office, and explain everything. And hope to God I wasn’t looking at some kind of serious charge.

  Then I heard the weeping woman say, “What’s happening, Cora? Why is this happening to us?” This was punctuated by the shrill wail of a small child.

  Cora.

  I went inside, gun first.

  * * *

  Though I saw the old woman, my attention was focused entirely on the other woman, who cowered on a suede love seat, shaking and clutching a weeping toddler in her arms. The woman was around thirty-five or so—my age—with curly brown hair and a plain but pleasant freckled face. She wore an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, casual clothes for relaxing at home, but she was anything but relaxed. Rather, her wide, ice-blue eyes stared me down with equal parts horror and hatred, leaking tears and shimmering in the light of the faux Tiffany lamp between her and the old woman.

  Gary Parson’s gun was more or less pointed at the lamp. I couldn’t aim it at any of the unarmed people in the room—two women and a child—but I wasn’t quite prepared to put it away, either. And despite the fact that I’d never laid eyes on Cora Parson, the still, scowling woman in the Queen Anne chair beside the love seat struck me as the very person I’d come looking for.

  “What do you want from us?” the younger woman cried. Her outburst set the little girl into a fresh bout of screaming and sobbing. “My husband is dead! Do you understand me? Dead!”

  David, I supposed. The thug Cora left to kill Jake and Barbara. The human monster who did kill Jake’s friend, or whatever she was. I narrowed my eyes and turned them on the old woman. She neither trembled nor cried. Her veiny hands curled like talons over the arms of the chair and her clear gray eyes regarded me with steely revulsion.

  “Cora Parson?” I asked her.

  “Mr. Woodard,” she answered me. It wasn’t a question.

  “Cora,” the woman said, “who is this? Is this the man who killed David?”

  Cora pursed her papery lips and said, “No, Sarah. This is not the man.”

  “Then who is he?” She pressed the child’s head tight against her breast and redirected the question at me: “Who are you? What do you want from us?”

  “My name is Graham Woodard,” I said. My voice was steady, but my heart was pounding out of my chest. This was not the scene I anticipated. “I was hired by a woman named Leslie Wheeler to help restore a motion picture—a very old motion picture that was thought lost for a very long time. That film was made by Mrs. Parson’s father-in-law, back in 1926.”

  Cora shot me a bemused, smug look. Sarah knitted her brow and snarled, “I know what my husband’s grandfather did for a living, damn you. What has that to do with anything?”

  “Then let me tell you something you don’t know. In fact, I can tell you a lot of things you probably don’t know, from the looks of it.”

  “Don’t listen to this man,” Cora cut in. “He is clearly a lunatic. He may not be the one who murdered our poor David, but he is most assuredly allied with the killer.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mrs. Parson,” I growled. “I’ve become a killer too, now. Your boy Gary paid a visit to me and some of my friends. This is his gun, as a matter of fact. I took it from him. I took his shiny car, too. He won’t be needing either of them anymore.”

  “Oh, God!” David’s widow wailed. “Oh, my God!”

  “But I’ve gotten ahead of myself,” I continued. I changed my mind about the gun and angled it to point directly at Cora. She didn’t change her expression one bit. “You see, Miss—it’s Sarah, right?”

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  “Right. You see, Sarah, Jack Parson—the elder Jack Parson—was apparently something of a sadist. I mean a real goddamned pyscho.”

  “You shut your lying mouth,” Cora snapped. “Don’t you dare come into my house and disparage my husband’s father.”

  I shook the gun at her. “Be quiet, Cora,” I said. “I’m nowhere near finished yet.”

  “Jack Parson died before you were born!” Sarah said. “This is goddamn crazy.”

  “Oh, it’s crazy all right. And I suspect Parson was pretty damn crazy, too. Christ, runs in the family, from what I can see. Maybe he was a genius, as well—I saw Angel of the Abyss, Cora. All of it, every reel. It’s a masterpiece. An honest-to-Christ work of art. It’s just such a crying shame a young woman had to die for it, which is why you’ve gone to such insane lengths to keep it buried, am I right?”

  She only glared.

  “Very few people ever saw it, but in Europe your father made a name for himself after Monumental folded—though that’s not why he left the country, is it? He’s well remembered, and that name still means something, doesn’t it? Your name. Parson. Your husband traded on it and so do you. It would be a hell of a blow should the world find out that the great Jack Parson murdered Grace Baronsky on film to satisfy whatever monkeyfuck crazy bloodlust he had eating away at his brain, don’t you think?”

  “My father-in-law was an artist!” Cora shouted suddenly, lurching forward in the chair, her face twisting with impotent rage. “And my husband revived Monumental from the ashes when nobody else gave a damn. My family does have a good name in this business, Mr. Woodard, in this state. And I intend to make absolutely certain it remains that way.”

  “Even if it means murdering anybody who threatens you with the bloody truth.”

  “M—murder?” Sarah screwed up her mouth and looked at me as though I’d just dropped my pants.

  “That’s right,” I said evenly. “Leslie Wheeler was the first. I took a bullet in the head that was supposed to kill me—I think that must have been your husband who pulled the trigger there. Then there was Florence Sommer, and a girl named Lou, and tonight two people who had nothing at all to do with any of it. Their names were Duff and Shawna, if you’re interested.”

  “You’re lying,” she muttered. “What an awful thing to say. You’re a goddamn liar.”

  “I didn’t leave the hospital with a fucking hole in my head and drive four hours to El Centro to tell you lies, lady. I came here to put an end to this nightmare, to stop your horrible mother-in-law from causing any more damage to me and my friends. I am a goddamned film restoration technician, for Christ’s sake. All I ever wanted out of this was to see Grace Baron’s only performance, and I sure as hell did. And by seeing it, I opened up Pandora ’s box and unleashed this piece of shit on half of Southern California.” I gestured at Cora with her dead son’s gun.

  The child continued to quietly whimper, but thankfully she did so in her sleep. The trauma and excitement had been too much for her and she crashed right out. Her mother kept looking at me with those huge wet eyes for another minute before turning them on Cora.

  She said, “Cora? What is he talking about?”<
br />
  “I’m sure I don’t know. But certainly someone has called the police by now. That shot couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Not here.”

  “I hope you’re right, you nasty old bag,” I said. “The Hollywood Police Department has been looking for you, Mrs. Parson. Showing up at Leslie and Barbara’s office was not a wise decision on your part.”

  “What is this, Cora?” Sarah repeated.

  Cora drew a breath in through flared nostrils and her right eye twitched. I guess she was imagining the tables turned, maybe one of her sons putting another bullet in my skull. It didn’t really matter. Not anymore.

  “I loved my father-in-law,” she said after a while. “I loved him better than my own father. He was a great man. Can you understand that, Mr. Woodard? Only one in a million men are truly great, and Jack Parson was one of them. He was a visionary artist. And had the world been in any intellectual position to comprehend it, he would have changed the face of cinema while it was still in its infant state.”

  “By sticking a knife in a girl’s heart? Is that what passes for genius in your family?”

  Her daughter-in-law’s eyes remained fixed on her, and for a brief moment Cora exchanged glances with her before coming back to me.

  “He was a passionate man, Jack Parson. Something of an enfant terrible, I suppose. In Europe he saw many dreadful things, as anyone there did in those days. I think that was what finally calmed him, brought him back down to solid earth. Only then did he fully see how far he’d taken things. Before, with that film.”

  “You mean with that murder.”

  “If that’s what you prefer. I believe he regretted deeply what he had done, for what it’s worth to you. But he could not very well bring her back, could he? And should the world be deprived of the many important films he made after, just because of some low, Midwestern vaudeville slut?”