Bottom Feeders

by John Shepphird

  Where’s the killer now?

  Tom ran for his life.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sheila ran ahead as she and Eddie made their way down the dirt road. She wouldn’t allow him to slow her progress. He can fend for himself.

  She ran a good ten minutes before she rounded the bend and was surprised to see Don’s passenger van flipped over on its side, nestled into a roadside ditch. She slowed to a walking pace which gave Eddie time to reach her. They studied the wreckage, catching their breaths. Eddie said, “No wonder why the van never came back.” He aimed the shotgun at the van and brushed past her.

  “What do you think happened?” she said.

  “Looks like it was heading back up and …” she could see Eddie stammer at the sight of something. Sheila approached. He held up his hand to halt her progress. “You don’t want to see this.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me.”

  Sheila ignored him and came up anyway. Don the driver was splayed over the dash. His throat had been slashed from ear to ear. A large kitchen knife was lodged under his jawbone, its black handle protruding out. Splattered blood drenched the windshield.

  Eddie lowered the shotgun and said, “Throat slashed while he was driving.”

  “So, the killer was behind him,” Sheila said.

  “One of the passengers.”

  Sheila swallowed hard, said, “I don’t get it.”

  “It was one of us,” he said.

  “What was?”

  “Don was driving back to get us. He was attacked from behind, someone in the passenger seat.”

  “What makes you think it was someone from the crew?”

  “I doubt he would have picked up a stranger.”

  “But … maybe the killer was hiding behind the seats.”

  “And snuck on after everyone was dropped off at the Gold Strike? I doubt it.”

  Sheila tried to envision it. Even though she was sweating, she felt an icy chill. She wondered aloud, “Who from the crew would want to kill us all?” She tried to recall if anyone fit the profile, adding, “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “We should keep moving,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

  He was right. She felt they’d spent too much time standing there even though it had only been a minute. She scanned the woods, said, “We’ll stay off the road and make our way down in the trees. If help comes we can run out and flag them down.”

  Eddie agreed before taking one last look at Don hunched over in a pool of blood. “Poor bastard,” he said. “He was coming back for us.”

  They moved on. Sheila led the way as they hugged the tree line adjacent to the dirt road. Since the thick foliage slowed their progress, Eddie was able to keep up. She asked, “Where do you think Tom went?”

  “I saw him running up the hill.”

  Sheila thought about what she’d just seen and felt sick to her stomach that Giovanni, her best friend, was now dead. The grim reality was so horrible she tried to not think about it. She said, “Assuming your theory is right, that the killer is someone employed on the film … what would their motive be?”

  “Revenge,” Eddie replied.

  “Revenge for what?”

  “Who knows? Did you get the feeling anyone on the crew was pissed off?” he asked.

  “Other than me?”

  “What are you mad about?”

  “Everything,” she said. “I should have never taken this job but Giovanni asked me to,” saddened that her friend was gone. “My mom just passed away and …”

  “Your mom in that assisted-living place?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The place you hate so much.”

  “Yeah. How do you know about it?”

  “You told me,” he said, “the night of the wrap party.”

  “Oh, right …” Sheila couldn’t remember mentioning her mother to him.

  Eddie said, “You told me how great your mom was, raising you alone like she did, without any help. You said you guys were a great team and that only now, as an adult, did you realize she’d put her own dreams aside so you could pursue yours.”

  “I said that?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Sort of. I guess … I was really drunk that night.”

  “I could tell you loved her.”

  “She’s the only family I’ve ever had,” Sheila said with a hint of sadness, a bitter reminder that now she was all alone.

  “She must have been proud of you.”

  “I guess.”

  Eddie said, “My mom thinks I’m a bum, wonders why I don’t have a real job.”

  “But you’re a director.”

  “She’d rather I sell out for a weekly paycheck, a stuffy corporate job with two weeks’ vacation and a 401(k) like my brother. Maybe she’s right. I am a bum.”

  “You’re not a bum.”

  “Definitely a ne’er-do-well, and the prodigal son in my family.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Sheila said. “You’ve got a career.”

  “Hardly. I can’t catch a break to save my life.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Eddie said, “It’s great that you were so close to your mother. You’ll always have that. A foundation.”

  Sheila said nothing more as they made their way down the hill. She wanted to go home but she didn’t have one. She’d move out because it was Lisa’s apartment, and under Santa Monica rent control so it was reasonably priced. Sheila would have to get her own apartment and start anew but she knew she couldn’t afford Santa Monica. There was a little money in her mom’s bank account. Once that became available maybe she’d have enough for the first month’s rent and a security deposit, hopefully on the West Side, possibly in Mar Vista or Culver City.

  When they reached a clearing, she saw a pickup truck ahead. She halted Eddie, pointed it out.

  He eyed it for a moment and said, “That’s Lucky’s truck,” Eddie raised the shotgun and they cautiously approached. She could see the sixties-era vintage truck was pulled over on the side of the road but there was nobody in the cab. Eddie moved out onto the open dirt road to investigate. Meanwhile Sheila scanned the woods, wondering if this truck could be bait for an ambush—the killer lying in wait.

  Eddie turned back and said, “Nobody.”

  When Sheila felt it was safe, she emerged from the trees and ventured, “Maybe the keys are in it.” Eddie peeked into the truck bed, and she went for the driver’s-side door. When she opened it, rattlesnakes sounded and Lucky fell out.

  Sheila screamed and jumped back.

  The lifeless assistant wrangler was covered in his own vomit. One of the vipers was tangled in Lucky’s dirty blue jeans. A few dropped from the truck’s floorboard and onto the dirt road while a cacophony of rattles clattered within the truck cab. Sheila could see broken shards of glass from what looked like a fish aquarium on the upholstered bench seat.

  Eddie gave the snakes on the ground a wide berth before he managed to slam the door of the pickup. A pair of diamondbacks slithered underneath the pickup but one was still tangled around Lucky’s body.

  “His own snakes,” Eddie said.

  Sheila considered Lucky’s bloated face and the puncture wounds on his cheeks. “Where’d they come from?”

  “He brought them. They were his pride and joy, the crazy bastard.”

  “Why rattlesnakes?”

  “Who knows? They’re rescue snakes,” he said.

  “What?”

  He gave her a nod.

  “Like … rescue dogs?”

  “Exactly. He wanted me to put them in the movie.”

  “Do you think he’s dead?”

  Eddie prodded Lucky with the barrel of the shotgun. “Don’t know, but it su
re as hell looks like it.”

  She considered one of the snakes coiled under the truck and asked, “Do you think we can open the doors, clear them out, and take the truck?”

  “I’m not going in that cab,” he said. “Who knows how many are in there.”

  Sheila had images of snakes hidden under the old seat. “Yeah … makes sense,” she said.

  “Maybe someone broke that aquarium on purpose,” Eddie said.

  “Not an accident?”

  “Nothing today has been an accident.”

  She felt a cool shiver up her spine. She felt naked standing out in the open road and said, “We should keep moving.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Snakes totally freak me out,” she confessed as they found cover back in the trees. “Who would keep those things as pets?”

  “I had a lizard when I was a kid, a chameleon,” he said. “I fed it lettuce and special mealworms that came in plastic containers full of sawdust we bought at the pet store.”

  “But that’s a lizard, not a deadly rattlesnake.”

  “I guess so. The lizard turned either brown or green. I had construction paper in each color leaned against the cage to demonstrate the magic. Then one day it stopped moving and turned black. My older sister said it was dead, but I wouldn’t accept it, thought it was sleeping. My mom knew the lizard was a goner but she humored me and let me keep it for a couple days more. Finally, when it hadn’t moved in a week or eaten any of the mealworms I’d offered and began to smell, I realized my sister was right. We put it in a jewelry box and buried it in my backyard. Held a mini funeral and everything.”

  With the talk of living things changing color, Sheila thought about her mother’s skin tone as she died. Thoughts of her mother brought to mind the pet she’d had as a child. “We had an old cat,” she said, “died when I was away at school. It was really sad. My mom called to tell me and I didn’t want to cry in front of my dorm roommates, so I took a shower and let myself have a cry under the spray. I mean, the cat was really old, slept all the time, ornery as hell, but it was still sad. There was no funeral. My mom called Animal Control and they came to take her away.”

  “Pets fulfill us in a way,” he said. “Taking care of something, or someone else, is good for the soul. It’s what we’re meant to do.”

  She thought about how she’d taken care of Roland and many of the things she’d done only to be betrayed. Sheila said, “But you’ve got to be loved back.”

  He looked at her, said, “Best case scenario, sure, but love without reciprocation is also real.”

  On that note they walked in silence. She wondered what he thought of her, if he was still mad for breaking it off. He hadn’t brought it up and acted as if nothing had happened between them, but something told her he still carried the torch, the way he looked at her. She felt the need to explain and said, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us, it’s just …”

  “Still trying to figure out what I did wrong.”

  “You did nothing wrong,” she said. “I wasn’t in a place to be in a relationship back then. The timing wasn’t right.”

  “I get it. You were looking for a better option. Or maybe you had one.”

  “I didn’t know you,” she said, “and I shouldn’t have drank so much.”

  “Do you regret it?” he asked. “That we … uhm?”

  “A little.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “I felt a little guilty.”

  Eddie said, “I know this might sound weird, but during the shoot on the last movie, there were things about you that really stuck with me. I couldn’t help but notice how hard you worked. That’s what made you really attractive.”

  “My work ethic?”

  “No, that you were always on task, but also very cool and laid-back,” he said. “I could see that you were committed but still had a sense of humor. And I have to say, you looked really great the night of the wrap party. I hardly recognized you wearing a dress. And heels.”

  “I borrowed those shoes from my roommate, Lisa,” she confessed. “The next day I was so embarrassed. I mean … I never sleep with anyone on the first date, and we weren’t even on a date. I didn’t know what you’d expect.”

  “We could have started over again, taken it slow.”

  “I guess.”

  “The couple of times we went out afterward, for sushi and those screenings, you had fun, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “But I’m not really your type, am I?”

  “I don’t know if I have a type,” she said.

  “But Roland’s your type.”

  “You know Roland?”

  “From the gym. Not very well, but I’ve seen him around. And I saw you guys out together.”

  “Where?”

  “Happy hour on the Third Street Promenade.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I made it a point not to be noticed. Maybe because I was jealous.”

  “So, you were stalking me?” she teased.

  “No. It was random, and just a few months ago. It looked like you guys were having fun so I avoided you.”

  “Roland’s a douchebag,” she said.

  Eddie laughed, said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why’s he a douche?”

  “He slept with my roommate.”

  “No!”

  “I caught them,” she said with a nod.

  Eddie laughed and then apologized with, “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

  “My soon-to-be ex-roommate is a paralegal, makes good money, has really cool style. Great clothes, great shoes. Satin sheets. Lisa’s the kind of girl that gets her nails done, takes gourmet-cooking classes, and drives an Audi.”

  “I know the type.”

  “She’s a girlie-girl, while I hardly put on makeup. I guess Roland’s into all that. Maybe they deserve each other. I remember now, catching him looking at her a certain way. I should have seen it coming.”

  “Betrayed by both of them.”

  “Because I’m just a bottom feeder.”

  “Bottom feeder?” he asked.

  Sheila explained her theory about those working in the entertainment industry, including herself, who are much like catfish or crawdads, surviving off refuse that sinks to the bottom.

  “You mean working on movies like this?” he asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Now wait a minute,” he said, “don’t bottom feeders eat a lot of shit?”

  “That’s my point,” she said. “It’s the nature of things. The cream rises to the top while the shit rolls downhill.”

  Amused, Eddie said, “I guess that’s true. We eat a lot of shit just to squeak out our meager existence, don’t we?”

  “For some reason, mine is piled especially high,” she motioned with her hands as if trying to swim to the surface above her head, “and I can’t get out of it.”

  “That’s me all right,” he said, “a bottom feeder. You nailed it.”

  “I don’t plan on being one forever,” she said.

  “Both of us could use a career metamorphosis.”

  “As long as it’s not Kafkaesque.”

  He laughed. “Okay, but scientists say cockroaches will rule the world someday.”

  “Probably, but not when we’re around.”

  “Bottom feeders. I like that.”

  They walked for a while in silence. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Sheila just wanted to get back to LA. It was starting to get dark by the time she saw the cabin. “Look,” she said pointing.

  “Tami’s compound.”

  “A phone,” Sheila said, hopeful.

  Chapter

  THIRTY

  Tom was certain he heard someone coming up behind, the worrisome sound o
f twigs snapping, the crunch of footsteps back there somewhere in the trees. He picked up his pace.

  He didn’t see the sinkhole. Tom’s foot sank and he stumbled. He rolled headfirst into a bed of pine needles and his hat flew off.

  There was sharp pain and he knew immediately that he’d sprained his ankle. He’d done it before as a kid playing football, tripping over sprinkler heads. Through the burning discomfort, Tom got up and pressed on, without his hat.

  He ducked below branches, hobbled over a brook, and cut through a meadow. When the pain was too much, he ducked behind a tree and took a break. Heart racing, sweating, he dropped down and held his ankle, now throbbing. Son of a bitch!

  The sounds of pursuit grew closer. Someone was definitely back there.

  He spotted a cluster of tall weeds in a ravine below and got an idea. He grabbed a dried branch near him, rolled over, and plopped himself into the narrow crevice. It was cool and there was enough foliage to cover him completely—a hiding place.

  He pulled the fallen branch over, like a blanket, and tried to steady his breathing. He trained his ears but could only hear his own heart pounding.

  Tom tried his best to stay completely still. Then he heard the footsteps. They were getting closer. At the same time, he realized he was lying in an anthill. He batted a few off his face and could feel them crawling into his collar and up his pant leg.

  Tom heard the mysterious hunter stop for a moment, followed by the sound of breathing. It sounded so close he dared not move or look up. The ants were now stinging the back of his neck as he clenched his teeth, enduring the pain.

  Be still. Don’t move.

  Finally, the footsteps continued. He listened as they moved past him. Tom considered that there might be more than one killer as he stared up through the branches at the sky beyond the treetops, waiting, enduring it all, jaw clenched as ants feasted on his sweaty flesh.

  When he couldn’t take it anymore, Tom rolled from his hiding place and batted away what ants he could, shaking out his shirt, taking down his pants and flicking them off his thighs. He pulled his pants back up and rolled away, finding refuge in a nearby cluster of weeds. This hiding place wasn’t as good as the other, but at least it wasn’t an anthill.