She filled a cup, then went into the den and curled up on the couch in the dark. Her gaze drifted to the fireplace, the white cover of The Precipice barely showing in the shadows, face up. Just as, earlier, it had seemed to reach out and grab her ankle as she walked by, it felt as if it were calling to her yet again. This time, though, she answered the call.
She set her cup on the coffee table and approached the fireplace, opened the screen, and took out the script. She dusted a few stray ashes off and then returned to the couch, turned on a lamp and, for the first time, actually opened the cover.
And began reading.
An older model Chevrolet sedan sat curbside in front of Teri’s house. A lone occupant sat behind the wheel: Annemarie Crowell. Annemarie watched the house as lights came on, first in what she remembered as being the kitchen from her prior visit, then a softer, fainter light from the living area. The light by the couch. Annemarie knew the actress was sitting on the couch, Leland’s screenplay in hand. Reading it.
At long last, reading it. An hour and a half later, Teri turned the last page. A cup of cold coffee sat untouched on the table before her. She sat silently, digesting what she had read.
She pulled her cell from her pocket and dialed a number. After several rings, Mike Capalletti’s sleepy voice answered. “Hello? Teri?”
“The script is brilliant,” she said. “What’s our next step?”
PART TWO:
THE PRECIPICE
CHAPTER 11
Only one word could adequately describe the look on Teri Squire’s face: fear. What the hell was she doing there, so far from the comforts of her own home? This was not the kind of house she made a habit of going to. The last one like this had been Spencer West’s so-called office, dark and drab, filled with cast-off furniture. She stood silently in the entryway, just inside the front door, head cocked, as if listening.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
Nothing.
She stepped deeper into the house, across the entryway and stopped
at the edge of the house’s living area. Torn wallpaper hung from the wall beside her and the roof sagged directly above her head, spotted with yellow watermarks. She heard scampering sounds in the attic, too heavy for mice, too light for raccoons. Probably squirrels.
At least she hoped it was squirrels.
She hesitated for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the blackness of the house, which was darker than outside, even though it was a moonless night. She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket, held it close to her face, and squinted. This was the address she had been given, but there was nothing familiar about the house or its contents, at least to the extent she could see them.
She tucked the paper back in her pocket then reached inside to the den wall and felt for a light switch. She flipped it, but no light came on. She took out her cell phone, pushed an app button, and it lit up. She held it out, its light meager but at least allowing her some field of vision. Directly ahead was a fireplace with a barren mantel above it. She moved the phone around, trying to gauge the rest of the room. A couch, sticklegged coffee table, recliner, television—all aged, all ragged, and all there was. The walls were barren, striking in the absence of any signs that this house was lived in.
A dark spot in front of the couch drew her attention. She walked closer and knelt beside the darkness, about the size of a manhole cover on the threadbare carpet. She extended her phone to see better, then gasped. It was reddish in color. She felt it with her free hand, jerked it back at the wetness. She held her fingers next to the phone. No mistaking the liquid at the tips: blood. She held the phone about a foot from it and snapped a picture.
A creaking sound came from behind her, then a shadow appeared, recognizable only by a deepening of the darkness in the room. She stood and turned, cell phone hand outstretched. There he stood. She couldn’t see his face, but she instantly knew the shape and form of his body, standing well over six feet tall, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the doorway to the den. She pushed the video button on her phone and began recording what she saw.
“I knocked,” she said, “but no one answered. The door was open.”
No response. She couldn’t make out the features on his face. His eyes were like caves, dark black against a charcoal face. He stood with his hands behind him, as if hiding something.
“I just want to talk,” she said.
Still no response.
She looked at the screen on her phone to view what she was recording. All that was visible was the silhouette of this very large, very disturbed man.
“What have you got behind you?” she asked.
He moved one hand around and waved it in front of his face. Nothing.
“Your other hand.”
He moved it around. Even in the dark, she could see the outline of a knife. A hunting knife, maybe, or a kitchen knife. Maybe even a Bowie knife.
“I know it’s not your fault,” she said. “I know about your mother. I can help you.”
The man stepped forward.
Teri stepped back.
He stepped again. She backed up again, the backs of her knees pressing against the couch. She heard squishing sounds as she stepped in the pool of blood on the carpet. With nowhere to go, she sat down on the couch. Arm still extended, still recording.
The man kept coming forward, until he completely filled the screen on the phone.
He extended the knife.
Everything went black.
A screen disappeared behind an overstuffed chair where Teri sat, wearing jeans and a button-down Oxford shirt, next to What’s Up in Hollywood? host Carl Price’s desk. A full studio audience applauded, led by Price.
As the applause died down, the rubber-faced Price said, “Boy, how’re you going to get out of that one?”
“You’ll just have to watch the movie when it comes out and see.”
“Was that guy, like, a zombie?”
Teri smiled mischievously. “Again, you’ll have to watch the movie. I don’t want to give away all the secrets.”
“We can keep a secret, can’t we folks?”
He led the audience in another round of applause.
“Patience, Carl, patience. The movie will be out next month.”
“I’m not giving anything away, though, if I say it’s about a serial killer who is also a hypnotist?”
“Say no more.”
“My lips are sealed.” Price turned an imaginary key at his mouth. “I’ve got to tell you, though, this is one of the most fascinating stories of how a script made it to the screen Hollywood has ever seen. For those in our audience who have been living in caves for the past two years—”
He stopped and looked across the stage to his bandleader, Archie Soocher.
“You listening, Archie?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
Laughter from the audience. Even bigger, more exaggerated laughter from the band members.
“The screenwriter actually willed this to you, right?” Price asked.
“Right. And then he took his own life. His mother brought me the script.”
From across the stage, Archie said, “Man, I’ve got to get out of that cave more.”
“I think we’re all better off, especially the women, if you stay there,” Price said. When the laughter died down, he turned back to Teri. “It reminds me of John Kennedy Toole, the author of A Confederacy of Dunces.”
“Believe me,” Teri said, “we’ve all talked about that parallel. A novel writer who took his own life because he was so despondent that he couldn’t get his book published—”
“Then ended up winning a Pulitzer Prize when his mother got it published after his death. What kind of prize are you hoping to win?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got room for something else on my mantel. I’ve always thought three was a nice round number.”
That set off a wild round of applause from the studio audience packed with Teri Squire fans. Price and Archie joined in
, while Teri smiled. It was good to be back in Hollywood’s good graces again. It had taken two years, but Hollywood memories were short and all was forgiven. For now.
“Ladies and gentlemen, two-time Academy Award winner Teri Squire,” Price said. “The movie is called The Precipice, and it opens soon at a theater near you.”
CHAPTER 12
Teri looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. An unusually harsh critic, she took one more stab at her hair, then double-checked that her dress, specially created by Montavo, Hollywood’s newest one-namedesigner flavor of the month, didn’t reveal any unflattering cleavage or cling too tightly to hips, love handles, or buttocks. Makeup effectively covered the crow’s feet that radiated from her eyes. She had always heard that exposure to sun would age your skin, but growing up in Texas, it was impossible to avoid sun, especially for a ranch tomboy who spent more time out of doors than in. Crow’s feet were badges of character where she came from, instead of the beginning of a countdown to the ends of careers, as they were in Hollywood. Fittingly enough, if they ran amuck, she would soon move from leading lady to character actress.
Mike entered and stood behind her. He put his arms around her waist, clasped his hands on her stomach, and pulled her close. “You about ready, Babe?”
She pulled at her bangs, spreading them evenly across her forehead. “Does my hair look stupid?”
“No.”
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
He gave her a once-over in the mirror. “Like anything could ever make you look fat.”
She unclasped his hands from her waist, turned, and sighed. “Well, if I don’t look fat and stupid, then I guess I’m ready to go.”
Mike laughed, and Teri smiled to see it. Throughout their relationship, she had always been able to make him laugh. That is, until the “troubles,” the term he used to describe the firing/unfiring of her by her agents, the way some older folks in the Deep South still referred to the Civil War as the “recent unpleasantness.” Teri thought that using that word was Mike’s way of marginalizing what had happened, and his part in it, as if the whole sequence of events had merely been an uninsurable force of nature or an act of God, as opposed to a calculated decision by Bob Keene, supported—or at least acquiesced in—by Mike.
Even now, with her career apparently back on track, things were not what they had once been. If the future of their relationship was to be dependent on the fickleness of a Hollywood career, things most likely would never be the same. But things were good for now, and that was as much as Teri could hope for. She had long ago shelved the marriage hopes she once harbored. There might still be marriage in her future, but she knew it wouldn’t be with Mike, or anyone else in “the business,” for that matter.
They drove to the Beverly Hilton in silence. Teri kept her face to the window as Mike drove down Coldwater Canyon Drive, across glitzy Sunset Boulevard where Coldwater Canyon became Beverly Drive, and on to Wilshire Boulevard. Limos and luxury cars were already lined up in front at the valet stand of the Hilton, the car-parkers working in overdrive. Rope lines had been set up alongside a red carpet, from the curb to the entrance, and crowds of fans and onlookers gathered on both sides, cameras and cell phones in hand, ready to snap shots of celebrities.
Mike pulled in at the back of the line, waiting to edge up one car at a time.
“You nervous?” he asked, the first word spoken since they got in the car.
“Yes. Are you?”
“No.”
“Your reputation’s on the line, too.” She knew, though, that he’d be ready to bail out at a moment’s notice, just as he had before. She was sure he had already re-packed his parachute after aborting his last bailout in mid-jump.
“We’re going to do a hundred mil opening weekend,” he said. “And that’s if a natural disaster cuts into the box office. I’ve never seen buzz like this on a movie before.”
They moved forward another car length. Teri let out a big sigh.
“What are you worried about?” he asked.
“What if the movie’s no good? What if I was just so desperate for a hit that I let all the weirdness of suicides and wills and crazy mothers influence my judgment?”
“I read the script, too, Babe. It’s good, damn good.”
“You read the scripts on the busts, too. You’re the one who told me to do them. Do we trust your judgment?”
“Trust Doug Bozarth and his people who thought it was good enough to sink seventy-five million dollars into. And you’ve seen the final cut of the movie. You know it’s good, Babe. The hype may bring in the audience the opening weekend, but word-of-mouth’s going to give it legs. We’re going to set records with this one.”
“If you say so.” But Teri wasn’t so sure. She had seen can’t-miss turn into what-were-you-thinking before. Sure, opening weekend should be good, but word-of-mouth, while it could give the movie legs, could also cut it off at the knees. Twitter and Facebook and other forms of social media, with the instant gratification they brought, could kill it before the first Saturday matinees were over if the Teri Squire haters started texting in darkened theaters.
They pulled up another car length, and a young man in black pants, white shirt with tie, and tennis shoes opened the passenger door. The murmur from the crowd opened up to a roar. Teri could just make out her name being spoken over and over, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a shout, as the crowd recognized who was in the car.
Mike took her hand in his. “You ready to do this?”
Teri took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and smiled. She nodded.
“Then let’s go greet your fans,” he said.
She gave the valet her hand and allowed him to escort her out of the car while Mike hustled around to take the handoff and lead her to the door. Excited fans surged forward against the rope line. Hands extended holding paper, pictures, napkins—anything she could autograph. She took the first one and signed her name, then took the next.
“Babe, we gotta get inside,” Mike said.
“Just a few more,” she said. “You’ll notice these folks don’t think I’m toxic.” She reveled in the attention and adulation of the crowd. It had been a long time since she had felt like this. And with her track record, there was no guarantee she would ever feel it again, so she wanted to enjoy it while she could.
Mike held her elbow and tried to hustle her along, but she insisted on signing everything that was thrust her way. Exasperated, he grabbed her hand as she reached for a glossy shot of her from her first Oscar-winning film. She got only a glimpse of it, but something about the photo troubled her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe not the photo, exactly, but the hand that held it.
“Now,” Mike said. “Inside.”
She looked at the person who held out the photo. “I’m sorry. If you’ll still be here later, I’ll be happy to sign it.”
The man was thin-faced with longish greasy hair and a gap-toothed smile. His appearance startled her. There was something troubling about his face, just as something troubled her about the hand that held the photo. She glanced down just as the man withdrew the offer. It was a fast move, too fast for her to be able to make out any detail of the tattoo on his bare forearm. She could see just enough to tell there was something there, crude and simplistic. And vaguely familiar.
She looked back at the man, whose smile lingered but his eyes showed no mirth. They were dark and flat and emotionless, almost reptilian. A cliché villain. And yet, a fan.
“I’ll be waiting,” the man said. “I have been for two years.”
Teri allowed Mike to pull her away, her mind troubled by the encounter. Something continued to nag at her mind. Who the hell was that guy? Did she know him? She was pretty sure she didn’t, but there was no denying a familiarity that was more than just a fleeting sense of déjà vu. Something about those eyes, especially. The frozen smile beneath lifeless eyes. She couldn’t shake it.
“What’s the matter
, Babe?” Mike asked. He led her inside as uniformed doormen opened both doors to allow them to enter.
“I just wish I could have signed some more autographs. It seems like it’s been a long time since anybody wanted one from me.”
“They’ll be there later. But remember, sign and move on. We’ve still got to get over to the theater.”
Teri kept thinking about the man with the tattoo as Mike escorted her to the ballroom. As they neared, music and the dull roar of voices from inside greeted them. The pre-premiere party was in full swing, the room full of loud, boisterous people chatting, drinking, and some even dancing to a live band.
Bob Keene, wearing a black tuxedo with tails, saw them as they entered. He left the group of people he was talking to and strode toward them, beaming. Teri didn’t know when she had ever seen such a big smile on his face, and she wanted to slap it off. Something about him always made her want to whip his ass—and that was before he tried to sink her career.
“One of the best pre-premiere parties I’ve ever been to,” Bob said. “Expectations are sky high.”
Great! Teri thought. Nowhere to go but down. She preferred lower expectations, where it took less to be considered a success, to high expectations, where even a success by any other standard could be deemed a failure.
Bob shook hands with Mike, then extended his hand to Teri, who gave it a tiny shake and let go almost instantly.
“Are the angels happy?” Mike asked.
“The angels are ecstatic. We’ll hit a hundred mil the first weekend, maybe one and a quarter, but we’re thinking three or four or maybe even five hundred domestic before it’s over, and who knows how much in foreign. By the time all the income streams are tapped out, the angels’ll probably quadruple or quintuple their money.”
“Isn’t that great?” Mike said to Teri, who stood with an almost stoic countenance. Yeah, it was great, but she would be damned if she’d give Bob Keene any satisfaction.
The Bequest Page 5
