Blast from the Past

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  “Come again?”

  “She’s right. I’m on the Web,” the Photo-Operative said. “Photo-operative.com.”

  “He’s a college student or something,” Tilda said.

  “Boston University,” the guy put in.

  “He finds out who’s coming to Boston, where they’re staying, and where they’re going to be. Then he stakes them out until he can meet them so he can takes pictures of himself with them. He puts the pictures up on his website.”

  “He puts pictures of people pissing on the Web?” Nick asked.

  “No!” the guy squeaked indignantly. “I just wanted to get a picture of me and Laryea. The bathroom at the airport was just the first chance I had to talk to him. I’ve been trying to get to him ever since, but you guys have been stopping me. All I want is a picture!”

  Nick looked doubtful. “Are you sure about this guy, Tilda?”

  “Fairly sure.”

  Nick finally turned him loose, and helped him up from the ground. “Sorry about that, buddy. You okay?”

  The Photo-Operative seemed to be torn between wanting to complain and a guy’s natural instinct to claim that it would take a lot more than that to hurt him. He settled for, “Yeah, I’m good. But jeez, guy, get a grip!” He turned as if to go toward the inn.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Nick said, blocking him.

  “But you heard her! I’ve got a website.”

  “You and half the country. That doesn’t give you the right to bother Mr. Laryea.”

  “I’m not going to bother him! I just want to get a picture of him and me together.”

  “Not today,” Nick said firmly. “Only guests are allowed inside the inn.”

  Before the guy could argue, Dom and one of the inn’s own security guards came running up, and Nick turned to talk to them.

  “Thanks for keeping him from giving me the bum’s rush,” the Photo-Operative said to Tilda. “Are you with the movie crew?”

  “Nope, I’m a reporter. Tilda Harper.” She fished a business card out of her satchel and handed it to him. “I’ve seen you around town, but I don’t remember your name.” He’d been at the Boston Film Festival, the Music awards, and at several of the Oldies 103 concerts at the Hatch Shell.

  “Greg Dickson,” he said, handing her a card of his own, complete with a photo of him looming over Tom Cruise, probably from when the actor had filmed Knight and Day in Massachusetts. “Do you think you can get me in to see Laryea? You know, as a professional courtesy?”

  Since when was a college student with a camera and a website a professional? “Sorry, it’s not going to happen,” she said. Still she felt sorry enough for him being manhandled to add, “Laryea’s probably not leaving his room for the rest of the day. He’s got an early shoot tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, you’re not showing up there, but I think he’ll be back here in the early afternoon. If you wait here—outside the inn—you might be able to get that picture.”

  “Awesome!”

  By then, Wilder had parked the Quasit-mobile, and was coming toward them.

  Seeing a way to make Wilder and Dickson happy, she said, “Greg, did you know that Mr. Wilder here used to be on TV with Mr. Laryea?”

  “That’s right,” Wilder said, beaming. “We were on The Blastoffs together.”

  “What’s that?” Greg said.

  Some professional. Had the guy not even bothered to read up on Laryea’s background? “It was Laryea’s first acting job. Mr. Wilder played Posit the wisecracking Twizzle.”

  “Sorry, I never heard of it.”

  “Then why were you taking pictures of Mr. Wilder’s van?”

  “I just thought it would make a cool picture, you know.”

  Dom and Nick came over, and Dom said, “I hear there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Yeah, there sure has,” Dickson said.

  “So let’s make a deal. You agree not to make a fuss about Nick apprehending you, and we agree not to turn you over to the police for trespassing.”

  “Trespassing? I just want to get a picture.”

  But Dom wasn’t having any of it, and the hotel security guy got involved, too. While they bickered, Wilder asked Tilda, “What’s going on?”

  “The redheaded guy has been sneaking around trying to get a picture with Laryea, so they thought he was stalking him.”

  “Shame on him!” Wilder said indignantly. “That youngster has no right to bother a man like John Laryea. Even public figures have a right to privacy. The press these days—it’s totally out of control.” Then, realizing who he was talking to, he said, “Not you, of course. You’ve shown John and me nothing but respect.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping it sounded sincere.

  She wasn’t sure if Nick wanted to talk further or not, but didn’t want to interrupt, so she said, “Were you going up to the inn?”

  “I was, actually. I thought I’d go see John and see how he’s feeling. I missed him the other day. He was already napping when I brought his balloons.”

  Tilda didn’t think Wilder would get any closer than the Photo-Operative had, but she walked back inside with him, and as he headed to the front desk to call up to Laryea’s room, casually mentioned that she was going to get something to drink at the bar. Sure enough, he came to join her a few minutes later.

  “John’s sleeping,” he told her. “His new assistant seemed very nice, though. Very conscientious.”

  “Sebastian certainly gives that impression.”

  They ordered sodas and Tilda thought she might as well pick the older man’s brain while she waited for Nick.

  “Hugh, can I ask you something kind of odd?”

  “Certainly, you can ask me anything.”

  “You’ve known Mr. Laryea a long time, probably longer than anybody else around here.”

  He puffed his chest out in pride.

  “Do you know of anybody who might have a grudge against him?”

  “Against John? No, of course not. Everybody loves John! Why would you even ask such a thing?”

  “Just something I heard somebody saying,” she said, which wasn’t even a lie. She’d heard herself say it, hadn’t she? “Somebody was speculating that maybe the accident with the limo wasn’t strictly an accident.”

  “That’s crazy talk! Didn’t the police arrest the limo driver? I heard he was as drunk as a skunk.”

  “He says he wasn’t driving the limo that night.”

  “Of course he says that. And, to give the man his due, he might not even remember what he’s done. Too much alcohol does things to a man’s memory, you know.”

  “Still, just for argument’s sake, is there anybody you know of who might wish Laryea harm? Maybe even from as far back as The Blastoffs?”

  “Absolutely not! Didn’t I tell you how we were like a family?”

  “People kill their own relatives all the time,” she pointed out.

  But he was shaking his head. “I just don’t believe it. Everybody loves John Laryea.”

  Tilda gave up on digging up any dirt, and said, “He is amazingly talented.” That was enough to get Wilder going on about various scenes in The Blastoffs that showed just how brilliant an actor Laryea was, and Tilda did some brilliant acting of her own to make him believe she was interested. She was relieved when she saw Nick come in, and she excused herself to go talk to him.

  “Everybody happy now?” she asked.

  “Nobody’s particularly happy,” he said, “but that guy isn’t going to sue me for tackling him or for throwing his camera into the toilet, and we aren’t going to have him arrested. That’ll do.” He shook his head ruefully. “I can’t believe I wasted all that time chasing that loser.”

  “How could you have known he was an über-fan? It’s not like stalkers wear uniforms or something.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not Pop, but I’m supposed to have some instincts for things like that. Anyway, I’ve got to go on duty, so I guess I’ll see you at the shoo
t tomorrow.”

  “Location shots at the lighthouse, right?”

  He nodded. “Which is good news and bad news for us. On the good side, there’s nobody who lives anywhere around there, so we won’t have to worry much about rubberneckers.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve toured that lighthouse. It’s right in the middle of town.”

  “You didn’t read your schedule carefully enough—you’re thinking about the Glenham Lighthouse. They aren’t using that one because it’s not atmospheric enough. They’re using the Monomoy Point Lighthouse instead.”

  “Where’s that? And do not say ‘Monomoy Point.’ ”

  “It used to be Monomoy Point,” he admitted, “but ever since the Blizzard of ’78, it’s been South Monomoy Island, which is off the coast of Chatham. There’s nothing there other than the lighthouse and the lighthouse keeper’s quarters, and the wildlife.”

  “So you’ll be protecting Laryea from what? Bears? Mountain lions?”

  “Deer, gray seals, and enough different birds to make a bird-watcher drool.”

  “Seals aren’t so tough. You can take ’em.”

  “Yeah, but those deer are mean mothers. Seriously, though, it’s mostly about protecting the animals from the ravages of Hollywood. The island is a wildlife refuge, and many papers were signed and promises made to ensure that the island will look the same when we leave as before we arrived.”

  “Trusting souls,” Tilda said, having seen the condition of houses after they’d been rented for location shots.

  “They probably wouldn’t be letting them film there at all if they weren’t looking to raise money to overhaul and preserve the lighthouse.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to use the Glenham Lighthouse?”

  “Probably, but wait until you see Monomoy.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Easy. Just show up at the dock and they’ll get you on the first available boat.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Did I mention you need to be there at 4 AM?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Four in the morning.”

  Tilda groaned. She wasn’t a morning person, a fact Nick knew full well. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Joni wants to capture the sunrise.”

  “She’s making John Laryea get up at that hour?”

  “Actually, he won’t have to come until later. They’re just doing exterior shots of the lighthouse at first. He doesn’t have to be there until five thirty.”

  “Lucky him.”

  “What are you complaining about?” he said. “I’ve got to spend the night on that island watching the equipment they already took over.”

  “Whereas I’m going to go back to my cottage and go straight to sleep. Thanks—that does make me feel better.”

  “Sure, rub it in.”

  “Tell you what. Walk me out to my car for real this time, and I’ll split the cookies with you. I think you need them.”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  When she got back to her cottage with the remainder of the cookies, she wondered if she should have kept them all to comfort herself. That was when it occurred to her that if the mysterious stalker was the Photo-Operative, then she’d lost her most promising murder suspect.

  Chapter 25

  Melusine once asks Dylan O’Taine about his lighthouse home. He replies, “To those at sea, Pharos is a beacon, a guide to safety. To those on land, it’s a bulwark against the power of the ocean. And to me, it is both my haven and the source of my strength.” Fans speculate that had Pharos ever been destroyed, O’Taine would have died, too, but Leviathan never established the link with any certainty.

  —TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA ARTISTS: THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE

  AT 3:55 the next day, a time of the morning she usually only saw by staying up extra late, Tilda was on a dock with a satchel of supplies and a freshly charged laptop, ready to board the next boat with an empty seat. It was still dark when she arrived at South Monomoy Island, but she had a flashlight and managed to find her way across the tiny island to where the shoot was taking place. By the time the sun rose, she was on the beach.

  She found a spot safely out of the way of the frantic moviemakers, and picked a semiflat rock to sit on to wait for sunrise. The sky was clear, the water had only the gentlest of ripples, and when the sun started out as a tiny disk at the edge of the horizon, it was as though the world was winking at her.

  Nick showed up next to her as the light grew. “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Like a baby. You?”

  “I’ll tell you when I actually get to sleep. But I think seeing this sunrise may be worth it.”

  “If not, it comes pretty close.”

  “Aren’t you going to take a picture?” he asked, nodding at the camera in her lap.

  “Nope. I’m feeling selfish—I want to keep the view all to myself.”

  “What about me? Should I close my eyes?”

  She wondered if he would have, but she said, “I suppose there’s enough to share with you.”

  The sounds they heard were not quite so idyllic. The cinematographer cussed his way through framing shots, sighting angles, and getting as much footage into the can as possible. From what Nick told Tilda, the man knew he might not get another opportunity to film on the island, so he was making the most of his chance.

  “Have you seen the lighthouse yet?” Nick asked once the sun was mostly up.

  Tilda shook her head, and took the hand he offered to pull her up from the rock. He had remarkably strong hands, and under her breath, she whispered, “No poaching, no poaching.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I was just thinking that poaching must be a problem around here,” she lied.

  Though the sunrise the film crew was so busy capturing was supposed to be visible from Dylan O’Taine’s lighthouse, the real lighthouse was actually fifteen minutes’ walk away. And when Tilda got there, she realized why it was that Joni had insisted on filming at Monomoy. Not for the sunrise, as glorious as it had been. It was the lighthouse. Monomoy Point Lighthouse was Pharos!

  The cast-iron tower, with outer braces to hold it steady; the balcony circling the lantern room; the shingled keeper’s house next it—everything was exactly the same as the one Leviathan had drawn in the comic book. The only difference was the color.

  “Why is it red?” Tilda asked. “I thought lighthouses were usually white.” Dylan O’Taine’s had been black, which had been part of what made it so cool.

  “They painted it so that sea captains would be able to spot it in the daylight.”

  “That makes sense.” But she could see why Leviathan had gone for black instead. “Can we go inside?”

  “I’m afraid not. They can’t film in there, either, which made Joni crazy. It’s historically significant and I suspect they’d never get the camera angles they’d want without destroying the place. They’re going to set up some sort of tower near Glenham to put Laryea on, so they can film him looking out on the ocean and then stage his half of the climactic battle. Then with the magic of CGI, they’ll combine footage of the lighthouse, the sunrise they just filmed, and the stuff of him on the phony lighthouse to show us O’Taine looking out over his domain.”

  “Sometimes I think it would be easier if they just built their own lighthouse.”

  Tilda heard a whisper that meant somebody was calling Nick on his headset.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Duty calls. Are you going to stick around here?”

  “For a while, anyway,” she said. Maybe she couldn’t go inside the lighthouse, but she definitely wanted to get some photographs of it. Not only was it incredibly cool in its own right, but it was so clearly the inspiration for Dylan O’Taine’s mystic fortress.

  As she snapped photos, a happy thought came to her. She had a juicy new fact to use to figure out which of the wannabes was Leviathan. She didn’t believe the resemblance between the real ligh
thouse and the fictional one could be a coincidence, so any wannabe who couldn’t identify the inspiration for Pharos as the Monomoy Point Lighthouse was as phony as a three-dollar bill.

  Chapter 26

  storyboard n A panel or panels on which a sequence of sketches depict the significant changes of action and scene in a planned film, as for a movie, television show, or advertisement.

  —DICTIONARY.COM

  THOUGH Tilda had packed a water bottle and a couple of the previous day’s chocolate chip cookies, as the morning progressed, caffeine began to sound like an excellent idea. The shoot was more disorganized than the one at the beach had been, but eventually she found the craft services table. There were, sadly, no nachos, but a Coke and a croissant made up for their absence.

  Edwina was nearby, and in contrast to her ease during the sunset shoot, she looked a bit frazzled as she talked to one of the various technical experts whose roles Tilda remained unsure of. She wandered closer, semicasually, to eavesdrop.

  “Just go with what’s on the storyboard,” Edwina was saying.

  “I can’t!” the expert said. “Look at the angles.” He pointed to a stand of bushes. “Those things are in the way, and you told me I can’t trim them—”

  “Don’t even joke about trimming anything! You were at the briefing—we’re lucky they let us on this island at all.”

  “If we can’t touch the bushes, then we can’t get the shot.”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell Joni!”

  “Joni is in a boat chasing sea lions.”

  “They aren’t sea lions. There are no sea lions on the Cape. They’re seals.”

  “Whatever she’s chasing, she’s chasing them somewhere else. And we’re going to lose the light if we don’t do something now.”

  Edwina closed her eyes tightly and started muttering in some other language—Latin, Tilda thought. When she opened her eyes again she said, “Get me a piece of paper and a marker.”

  Since Tilda had both in her satchel, she said, “I’ve got it,” and handed over a pad of lined paper and a black Sharpie.

  Edwina nodded her thanks, took the clipboard with the offending storyboard pictures from the expert, and quickly sketched a series of shots that showed the lighthouse getting increasingly bigger, as if somebody was walking along the sandy path and suddenly saw it looming above the bushes.