by Rick Copp
“It’s just interesting to me that Nova Scotia is one of the few places you can find that particular poison, and that’s exactly what Austin Teboe died from.”
“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know him!” He was clutching his camera so tight, I thought he was going to crush it.
“Okay, then what aren’t you telling me, Rudy?”
He opened his mouth to speak. Despite the night chill, he was sweating. And then another man, much bigger than Rudy, stepped out from behind the tree a few feet from where Rudy stood.
“Charlie?” I said.
It wasn’t Charlie. It was Elmer Fudd. Or Eddie, the big lug playing the killer in the movie in costume.
I smiled. “You gave us quite a start, Eddie. You too lazy to walk to the port-a-johns too?”
Elmer Fudd nodded, and then pulled a long sharp knife out of the sheath attached to his wide, thick brown leather belt.
Rudy froze, unable to move as Elmer Fudd stepped slowly toward him.
“Eddie?” I said.
Rudy shivered as Elmer hovered over him. And as I watched in horrifying slow motion, Elmer grabbed Rudy from behind, hooking one arm around his neck and raising the knife up over his head with the other. And then, in one fast, sweeping motion, he brought it down, plunging the blade into Rudy’s chest.
Blood spurted everywhere.
Rudy’s eyes bulged, his body convulsed, and as Elmer released his grip, Rudy’s body sank to the ground in a crumpled heap.
“Omigod!” I screamed. “Omigod!”
The man removed his Elmer Fudd mask. It wasn’t Eddie. It was Wendell Butterworth.
Chapter 26
As Wendell stepped over the dead body of Rudy Pearson toward me, I whipped around and ran as fast as I could through the woods, yelling for help at the top of my lungs. My voice echoed through the night breeze as I kept my arms in front of my face while barreling through an endless barrage of swaying tree branches. I became disoriented from the darkness, unsure if I was even heading back in the direction of the movie set. I ran until my legs ached and I was out of breath, and then I crouched down behind a bush and looked back. There was an uneasy stillness. No sign of Wendell. After a moment’s rest, I stood back up and turned around to keep running when I collided with a big man who grabbed me by the arms.
“No!” I screamed. I pummeled his chest and face with my fists, momentarily stunning him. But then, he pushed me away, and raised his hands up to deflect my vicious assault.
“Whoa! Jarrod, stop! It’s me!”
Charlie. Thank God. It was Charlie.
“Wendell . . .” I managed to get out between heavy breaths. “Back there . . . he killed a man . . . with a knife!”
Charlie just stood there for a moment, making sure he heard right, and then with a fierce resolve, he turned to head back, looking deep into the woods in the direction where I pointed. I lunged forward and grabbed him by the shirtsleeve.
“No way are you going near that maniac unarmed! We have to call the police!”
“He could get away!”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m not going to risk him getting you too. He’s big and strong and crazy!”
Adrenaline pumping, Charlie was ready to take on this madman all by himself, but I gripped his arm tightly enough to press my point even further, and finally he stopped resisting me, and nodded. “Okay, let’s go get some help.”
Charlie knew which direction to go, and within two minutes we pounded onto the set, interrupting a take with Viveca. Before Larry could erupt in a tantrum, Charlie had commandeered Amy Jo’s cell phone and was dialing 911. I quickly explained what had happened, and a small band of bulky teamsters grabbed some hammers and drills and a couple of lights, and we charged into the woods in pursuit of my childhood nightmare. I led the determined little army to the spot where I had witnessed Wendell stab Rudy Pearson. As we came upon the clearing, there was no sign of Wendell. Or Rudy Pearson’s body. There was nothing. One of the grips on the crew shined a portable klieg light from the set on the entire area, and we scanned the leaves on the ground for any traces of blood. But there were none.
By the time the police arrived forty minutes later, the interest of the film crew in my story was waning, and a few started whispering to one another, speculating on whether or not I was drunk and making the whole thing up. You know those attention-seeking actors. Charlie stood firmly by my side. He knew my history with Wendell Butterworth, and his recent creepy appearances in the diner up in San Simeon, at Costco, and on the set of this movie. When investigators finished combing the area, the lead investigator, a handsome African-American man in his mid-forties with a close-cropped beard and a barrel chest, walked over to Charlie and me.
“Your killer must have moved the body in the time it took for you to come back with the cavalry,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, can we put out an APB on Butterworth?” Charlie asked.
The investigator shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. We’re having a tough enough time establishing that there’s even been a crime.”
“But I saw him kill a man!” I yelled. Charlie placed a gentle hand on my back, silently suggesting I rein it in a bit.
“Without a body, there isn’t a whole lot we can do,” the investigator said, trying hard to be sympathetic but anxious to move on to a real crime scene.
“Butterworth has a history of stalking Jarrod,” Charlie said calmly. “He followed him down here and weaseled his way onto the set. He’s a menace, a danger to society, and I think it’s in everybody’s best interest that we find him.”
“If he’s such a danger, why did the parole board up in Vacaville release him?” the investigator asked. He had a point. Without any proof, it was a waste of time trying to enlist the police to help us. Sooner or later, Rudy Pearson’s body would have to turn up. Some hiker or a couple of hunters would stumble across his corpse, or a piece of it, or something. And then we’d be in business. But until then, I felt completely exposed. It was as if Wendell Butterworth was anticipating my every move, taunting me, and it scared the hell out of me.
As we walked back to the set, I caught a few looks from the crew. They weren’t accusing looks, but they betrayed a sense of skepticism. They had all witnessed my world-class freak-out when Wendell turned up on the set in the Elmer Fudd mask, and they were contemplating my current mental state. Maybe I was so discombobulated from all the stress, I was starting to see things. After all, it was dark in the woods, and swaying branches from a tree can create the illusion of a person, and wouldn’t there have been just a tiny spec of blood if Butterworth had indeed stabbed Rudy Pearson repeatedly and then dragged the body away? How could I blame the crew for eyeing me suspiciously ? A small part of me was beginning to question what I’d seen out there myself.
Larry wrapped for the day, having completed only half a scene. We were now two whole days behind schedule thanks to Juan Carlos going AWOL and my fantastic murder-in-the-woods adventure. For a young guy, Larry looked as if he was on the verge of a stroke. He was pale, gaunt, and grim. I was about to wish him a good night, but decided the last voice he wanted to hear was mine.
Laurette and Juan Carlos had left for the hotel long before all the drama blew up, and most of the actors had cleared out the minute the police were contacted. Nobody, not Viveca, Dominique, or even the little brat Simon, wanted to be associated with a possible tabloid scandal that could adversely affect their career. There was only a handful of crew members left to clean up and close down the set for the night as Charlie and I made our way to the trailer I shared with several of my costars.
“My bag’s inside. Let me just get it, and then we can go,” I said to Charlie. Charlie sauntered over to an ice cooler, bent over, and perused the soda selections as I opened the door to the trailer and entered.
“You gave me quite a fright,” a deep voice said. I nearly jumped out of my skin before I spun around to find Bowie sitting in a folding chair, his hands clasped behind his neck.
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“Jesus, Bowie, what are you doing here?” I said.
“Got a friend in the Coral Gables Police Department. He gave me a ring after your 911 call came in. Came out here as soon as I could,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think they’ll be giving me a Good Citizen Award anytime soon. I’m not sure they believe my story.”
“They don’t. They think you’re making it up to get Butterworth off the street and out of your hair.”
I nodded. Big shocker. “Do you believe me?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Because I want to hire you.”
Bowie raised an eyebrow curiously. “To do what?”
“I want you to prove Wendell Butterworth killed Rudy Pearson. I want you to find the body, tie that freak to the murder, and send his ass to prison. And this time I don’t want him ever getting out.”
I was shaking. I had kept it together for so long. But now, in front of a man I had known for only a few days, I was coming apart. Ever since the parole hearing in Vacaville, I had been haunted by all those disturbing images from my childhood. Over and over I would see the contorted, wild face of Wendell Butterworth trying to snatch me from my home while I was eating breakfast or attempting to shoot me while I sat in a car with my mother. I had never truly gotten over those traumatic events, and now they were coming up again as Wendell continued to insert himself into my life. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just wanted it all to go away. I was tired of worrying, tired of running, tired of waiting for my past to finally catch up to me.
Bowie stood, quietly walked over to me, and put his arms around me. He squeezed me tight and whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry, Jarrod. I’ll do whatever it takes to make him go away.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling weak and helpless, and hating myself for it.
I felt a cool rush of air from outside. Someone had opened the door to the trailer. I looked up to see Charlie’s crestfallen face staring inside at me as his old friend embraced me.
Chapter 27
Bowie immediately sensed me tensing up, and let go, turning to see Charlie hovering in the doorway.
“Charlie, man, how long has it been?” he said as he walked over and gripped his hand.
Charlie shook it, but his face remained hard and unresponsive. “Been a while, Bowie. Been a while.”
The two friends just stared at each other awkwardly, neither knowing how to break the stifling tension.
“We should get together while you’re in town,” Bowie offered. “Kick back a few, talk about old times at the academy.”
“I’m not sure how long I’m going to be down here,” Charlie said. The chill in the air was enough to frost over the smudged, grimy windows on the trailer.
There was a long, agonizing silence. Finally, Bowie said, “Well, you’ve got my number. Give me a call.” And then Bowie turned to me. “I’ll get to work right away on that matter we discussed.” He wasn’t willing to talk about the details of a case in front of anyone but his client. Bowie was the utmost professional. He nodded to Charlie, who had to move to the side to let him pass.
When we were alone, I sighed, and said, “Charlie, he was here when I came in, and I was a little shaken up over the whole Butterworth mess, and he just agreed to—”
“I really don’t want to hear it, okay, Jarrod?” Charlie fought hard not to explode. In a way, I wished he would. Get it all out. I could reassure him that nothing had happened, and we would be done with the whole matter. But that wasn’t going to happen. He clearly didn’t want to deal with me at this moment, and he turned to leave.
“Make sure one of the crew walks you to your car in case Butterworth’s around,” he said, and then he was gone.
I started to chase after him, but stopped when I saw him climb aboard the last transportation van back to the hotel. He never even turned to see if I was watching as they drove away from the set. I was on my own, not about to stick around for any length of time on the off chance that Butterworth was lurking about. The psycho had already proven he could mysteriously appear anywhere at will, like some ghostly apparition fiercely determined to haunt me. I ran down the wooded path to the parking lot, jumped into the Taurus, locked all the doors, and drove back to the Ritz Plaza in South Beach.
When I got back to my room, the red message light was blinking on the telephone next to the double bed with the tacky red floral print spread. God, I hated this room. I scooped up the receiver and punched the voice mail button, praying it was Charlie wanting to meet me and talk everything out and resolve all this drama over my budding friendship with Bowie.
“Jarrod, it’s me. I’m at the Delano in the bar. I need to speak with you right away. Get over here as soon as you get this,” Laurette said, her voice frantic. There was a click. The message had been left twenty minutes ago.
The much fancier, hipper Delano Hotel was right next to the Ritz Plaza and it took all of four minutes to get there. When I entered the restored Deco lobby, bathed in milky white draperies hanging from soaring white columns, I quickly crossed to the bar, where I found Laurette hanging off the arm of George Clooney. Damn. She was right. He was staying at the hotel. Laurette had pinned him against the bar and was working on what was probably her fourth or fifth Cosmopolitan. The bartender, dressed from head to toe in white, the signature color of the Delano, watched her with amusement as she prattled on to Clooney about their shared Kentucky heritage, which she’d read about in People magazine.
“I understand people from Kentucky, George, being from Lexington myself,” she said, her words slow and slurred. “I could really help jump-start your career, get you moving in the right direction.”
George flashed his megawatt smile. He was enjoying this. “Yeah, things have been pretty bleak lately on the work front.”
“Are you sure you’re from Kentucky?” Laurette said, trying to focus on his face.
“Yeah, why?” George said.
“Because when you smile, you’ve got all your teeth.” Laurette guffawed and slapped her knee. Thrilled she’d made a funny.
It was time to intervene. I touched Laurette gently on the arm. “Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”
Laurette was not happy someone was screwing up her quality time with George. She swiveled around on her bar stool with a scowl, and for a moment, I thought she was too drunk to recognize me.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” I said. “What’s the emergency?”
Laurette sat up straight, and made an attempt to be lucid and professional. “George, this is one of my top clients as well as my best friend, Jarrod Jarvis.” She then leaned into George and whispered loud enough for the whole room to hear. “He’s really not one of my biggest, but he is my friend, so I have to say that.”
George shook my hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jarrod.”
“You probably don’t remember, but I played an Amish burn victim in the first season of ER. But I had a lot of makeup on . . .”
“Of course I remember,” George said. “Noah Wyle was so stoked to have you on the show. He was a big fan of Go to Your Room! He wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“Really?” I said.
“Oh yeah, he didn’t want to embarrass you by making a big deal about it, but every day, he’d pop into my trailer and go—”
George and I did it together. “Baby, don’t even go there!”
Wow. I was bonding with George Clooney. Maybe he’d put me in his next movie and I could bid adieu to these cheap horror films. Now I was dreaming.
“Well, I’m meeting some friends so I better go,” George said.
Laurette slapped a business card in the palm of his hand and winked at him. “Call me. We’ll talk.”
He held the card up and, ever the consummate actor, pretended it was like a winning lottery ticket. “Thank you, Laurette.” And George Clooney waltzed out of our lives. We both let out an audible sigh.
“He’s just one of those people who gets better looking with age,” Laurette said
, before grabbing the bar rail to keep from falling off the stool.
“People say that about me,” I said, hoping she would agree. She didn’t. So I took a seat next to her at the bar and ordered a vodka tonic from the bartender.
Laurette grabbed the neck of her Cosmopolitan glass and lifted it unsteadily to her lips, splashing the drink over the sides and onto the floor. She took a small sip, and put it down again. “Juan Carlos ditched me.”
“What do you mean ditched you? Did he ask for a divorce?”
“No, nothing like that. We were walking along Ocean Avenue, and we were right in the middle of a serious discussion about our marriage, and how trust is important to me, when suddenly he spotted these two men following us. He got really nervous and ducked inside a sidewalk bar to go to the bathroom, but he never came out. I went inside and looked everywhere. He was gone. I was so upset. And so were the two men who had been following us.”
“What did they look like?”
Laurette shrugged. “I don’t know. Big guys. One white. One Hispanic.”
Javier Martinez’s goons. No doubt about it. “Did they follow Juan Carlos inside?”
“No, they hung around out by the street, a few feet away from me. I guess they thought he wouldn’t just leave me standing there like a fool. Their mistake.”
“Laurette, I can’t stress enough the kind of danger Juan Carlos is in. Those men work for Javier Martinez, and he could do some serious damage to both him and you.”
“Please, I’ve dealt with bigger sharks in Hollywood,” she said, staring straight ahead toward the entrance to the hotel bar.
“I’m afraid he may already have gotten to Juan Carlos,” I said.
“Omigod.”
“What?”
“Over there,” Laurette said. “The two guys who were following us. They’re here.”
I whooshed around and saw the two giants, wearing a couple of print silk shirts, white slacks, and sandals, amble in and survey the room. Satisfied, they turned and signaled behind them. Javier Martinez, in a light beige linen suit, swept in with a gorgeous woman in her forties on his arm. She was poured into a tight yellow dress, and boasted a fortune of sparkling Harry Winston jewelry on her neck and wrists. I immediately recognized her as Juan Carlos’s paramour and costar, Viveca.
