Haze

by E. R. Torre

  "Lewis Sinclair was supposed to play the villain this time around, too," Judith whispered when the movie’s villain appeared for the first time. "But they didn't come to terms."

  "Who?"

  "The studios, my Grandfather, and he.”

  “Your Grandfather?”

  “You never heard the story of the infamous coin flip?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder if it’s more mythology than reality,” Judith said. “It goes something like this: Granddad and Sinclair were partners way back when. They met at some casting calls and both were aggressive in pushing their careers. It was the only way to make something of yourself, you know? Anyway, the story goes that Granddad and Sinclair optioned a couple of novels and were pitching them to the studios. Their idea was to film the two novels back to back with the same cast and, effectively, make two films at half cost.”

  “That’s what got the studios interested, the idea they could make two films for that cheap. The twist was that Granddad and Sinclair would swap roles. In one film, Granddad would play the hero. In the other film, Sinclair would do the honors and Granddad would play the villain.”

  “Collision Course was to be the first of the two films, and in trying to figure out who would play the lead, Granddad and Sinclair decided to flip a coin. Supposedly, that’s how Granddad wound up with the lead in that film.”

  “You mean Sinclair—”

  “Could have just as easily become John Robinson, and vice versa.”

  I let out a whistle.

  “So what happens? The studios see the dailies on Collision Course and they’re impressed with Granddad’s work. When they finish that film up and are about to begin shooting Death Highway, they insist that Granddad once again take on the lead role.”

  “And?”

  “You can’t argue with the studios. They’re the ones paying the bill. Sinclair feels like he’s been stabbed in the back. He tells everyone off, even Granddad, and storms off the set, never to return. His carrier was still pretty much in its infancy and he probably figured he could get more parts. It didn’t work out that way."

  On the screen, the movie’s villain pulled a gun from his holster and fired shots at John Robinson. The chase was on.

  "Anyway, poor Lewis Sinclair gets shafted not once, when he didn’t get the lead in Collision Course, but twice when he refused to play the villain in Death Highway,” Judith continued. “Jack Mortimer, the guy who wound up playing the villain here, went on to much bigger and better things. You recognize him?"

  "I do," I whispered, despite the fact there was no one else was in the theatre to disturb. "He was in some movies and…Wasn’t he in a TV show?”

  “A couple. Jericho’s Run and Raw Story.”

  Both shows were popular in the 70’s.

  “I remember,” I said. “Your Grandfather and he became big stars while Lewis Sinclair disappeared."

  "Sinclair and Granddad eventually made up and Sinclair went on to become a cinematographer in a couple of films and then an agent," Judith said.

  "But he lost out on much bigger things, right?"

  Judith didn't answer and I didn't push. Without meaning to, I was again stepping into territory I had no business in. What better motivation could Lewis Sinclair have for wanting to kill John Robinson than jealousy and lost opportunity? I forced the thought out of my head and instead focused on the film.

  As we watched, we heard the distinct thunder rumbling outside. At one point, the movie projector’s light faded.

  “Must be a hell of a storm out there,” I whispered. If Judith heard me, she didn’t give any indication. Her attention, like that of Lewis Sinclair the day before, was entirely on the screen.

  I gave up on any further conversation and simply watched the film. But each time Jack Mortimer showed up on screen, the image of John Robinson and Lewis Sinclair arguing in the Drug Store came back.

  Could their argument have been about this?

  The credits rolled following the climactic gunfight. The film wasn't as good as Collision Course but Mortimer made a more credible villain than Lewis Sinclair. Maybe, I thought, that more than anything else was the truth of behind Sinclair’s abrupt acting career: He simply wasn’t good enough. I wondered how many Lewis Sinclair's were out there, people who were just this close to hitting the big time but found their treasure a brief illusion. How painful it must be to beat the odds and shine for a moment, only to ultimately fail.

  Did Lewis Sinclair have any regrets? He certainly must. He had to be bitter that he refused the role in Death Highway. But that anger would be self-directed. After all, he had the opportunity and refused. Was he even angrier that his career might, if not for fate and bad choices, equaled John Robinson’s? And were these feelings the type that stewed within him day after day and year after year until the hatred finally –finally- exploded…

  …and John Robinson died?

  Judith and I walked out of the theater and into the early evening. Given the thunder we heard, I expected a very strong storm outside. As it turned out, the storm already passed. The streets were covered in a thick layer of fresh snow and the air felt much colder. A car drove by. Its tires momentarily slid in the slush that filled the road.

  "Thanks for joining me," I told Judith. "I’m guessing you must be tired of seeing these films.”

  “Some more than others,” Judith admitted. “But he was my Grandfather. The film may tire me, but I never get tired of seeing him.”

  “How many times have you seen Death Highway?”

  “You don’t want to know,” she said and chuckled.

  “Fair enough. At the very least, I hope I didn't bore you."

  "You didn't," she said. "Besides, I enjoyed the company."

  We smiled at each other like a pair of grade school kids sharing their first crush.

  "I have to leave," she said. "It’s time to close the theater and prepare."

  "For what?"

  "At eight we’re having a private party, the official end of the film festival. Tomorrow we close the theater for the day."

  "The sixth anniversary of your Grandfather's death."

  “A day of silence, in his memory. It's hard to believe it’s been that long. I'd like you to come.”

  "I'll be there."

  Before I could thank her for the invitation, Judith leaned forward and gave me a kiss. It was a quick, almost shy gesture, but electric with promise. She walked back into her theater, but gave me one final look and a smile before disappearing behind the theater's doors.

  I swaggered back to the Green Manor Inn. My second chance with Judith was more than I could have hoped for. Thoughts of our first encounter and how badly it ended faded with each step. Even the wound on my side didn’t bother me.

  I kicked at the fresh snow and turned around. A trail of footprints, mine, led back in a straight line to the theater.

  To Judith.

  I smiled and entered the Inn’s parking lot. My SUV was covered with snow. Next to it was Karl Walker's car. His vehicle, unlike mine, hardly had any snow on it. Perhaps he had just come back from a trip.

  You’ve had a busy day, Karl, I thought. So have I.

  I stopping beside my SUV and brushed away the snow from the rear glass window. I was in a near daze, my mind still on Judith, our kiss, and the promise of the evening. The past was gone. The visions didn’t matter. We would start fresh.

  And then I noticed it.

  The snow covering the driver's side window of my truck was splattered with droplets of red. They reminded me of the Pharmacy and the blood that fell from my nose and onto the ground—

  Blood.

  I stepped back and looked to my left, at the space between my SUV and Karl's car. Sandwiched between them and was a body of a man. He was lying on its right side. His face was a bloody mess. A dark hole lay where his right eye used to be. His left eye, somehow untouched by the carnage, looked up at the sky, as if searching for some comfort.

  I tried to scream but
couldn't. Instead, I stared at the body of Karl Walker while his papers flew around us in the breeze.

  It had all come to this, I realized.

  It had all come to this.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Even as I replaced the phone into its cradle, I could not remember leaving Karl’s body and walking into the Inn. Mrs. Borg tried to calm me down and I think she was the one that first called the police and made me speak to them. Afterwards, she sat by my side and waited for them to arrive. She held on to me as if I were her scared little child and comforted me with her soothing voice.

  She kept telling me everything would be fine, but she didn't see the body. She didn't see what was left of Karl's face. When a pair of police officers showed up to take me outside, she released me from her arms and nodded. You’ll do fine.

  The younger of the two was deferential to his superior officer. That man was as tall and muscular as the younger deputy, though his hair was thinner and far grayer and his stomach was easing its way over the belt that held his pants up.

  “I’m Sheriff Chandler,” the elderly man said as we exited the Inn.

  I gazed at him again and remembered the little Karl told me about Sheriff Chandler.

  Sheriff Chandler was in his late forties or early fifties. His face bore the full weight of his age and, perhaps, the pressures of his job. There was an acrid smell of cigars that hovered around him. His light blue eyes were like lasers and hinted at the quicksilver sharpness of the mind hidden behind those all too mortal features. The younger deputy broke away from us and walked on, to the scene of the crime, while Chandler and I continued across the parking lot and to what I assumed was his police cruiser. Chandler motioned me into the back seat.

  "You knew the victim?" Chandler asked.

  "Only met him today. He was staying in the room next to mine."

  "I see," Burton said. He looked back at the Inn. "How long have you been here, in Viktor?"

  "This is my second day."

  "What brought you here?"

  I stifled a laugh. How many times would I have to explain the unexplainable?

  Hallucinations brought me here, Sheriff. You see, I'm fucking crazy.

  "I was going to Manville to ski,” I said, duplicating the story I fed Judith. “In the Manville Airport I spotted a map painted on the wall that pointed out the town of Viktor. It looked like a nice, quiet little town, so I decided to give it a try."

  "Uh huh," the Sheriff said. A couple of crime scene technicians walked past us and into the Inn. They were on their way to search Karl's room.

  "Who was he?" the Sheriff said, ignoring this movement.

  "His name was Karl Walker. He worked on computers. I think he said he was a systems analyst for Octi Tech. I don't remember if he told me where he was from. He was..." I paused. Our conversation was surprisingly fresh in my mind. "He was looking into John Robinson's death."

  Burton's eyes remained neutral but his intense stare was becoming bothersome.

  “Did you find that stuff interesting?”

  "I guess so."

  "You planning to take up where he left off?" the Sheriff asked. His tone was light and full of sarcasm.

  "No. I came here on vacation. Karl and I bumped into each other and he told me some things and that’s it."

  The Sheriff nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn brown notebook. He flipped the pages, stopping after a fashion, and scribbled a couple of things down.

  "When was the last time you saw him?"

  "About two hours ago.”

  “And the first time?”

  “We bumped into each other going out of our rooms early this morning. Later, we ran into each other in the parking lot of Viktor’s mountain. We talked a bit before heading to the Clement Restaurant for a late lunch. It’s where we had our one and only long conversation."

  Chandler wrote that particular bit of information down. When he finished writing, he bit his lower lip.

  “That’s where you talked about John Robinson.”

  “He first mentioned Robinson at the mountain. I think he wanted to know where he…”

  "Did he have any specific suspect?"

  The question hit me like a sucker punch. It was hard to keep the surprise from my voice.

  "Particular, no," I said. I was curious, and perhaps a bit brave. Either that or really fucking stupid. I said: "He thought you were a decent candidate."

  "I've read some of those pamphlets, too," he said. A chilly smile appeared at the corners of his lips. "What happened afterwards?”

  “We ate and left the restaurant. He walked back toward the Inn, and I walked to the theatre.”

  “To see a film?”

  “In the end, yes. I invited Judith Robinson to see Death Highway with me.”

  “Judith Robinson?” the Sheriff repeated. He was surprised.

  “Yes, Judith Robinson. I met her yesterday.”

  “Small world. Please, go on.”

  “Well, there’s not much more to say. We saw the film and after it was done I walked back here.”

  “You were together all that time?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sheriff Chandler wrote that down.

  “She’ll vouch for you?”

  “Yeah. And if it means anything, I can vouch for her, as well.”

  Chandler was silent for a few uncomfortable seconds.

  “’Decent candidate’,” Chandler mused. “Were those his words?”

  “What?”

  “You said Karl Walker thought I was a ‘decent’ candidate in John Robinson’s death. Were those his words?”

  “I think so.”

  “John Robinson’s death was an accident, Mr. Towne. No ifs, ands, or buts. He ran into a tree and it was gruesome as hell and a big loss to the community and the world but it was an accident. Your friend, on the other hand, was murdered in cold blood. Whoever did this got up real close and personal without raising any suspicion on Karl’s part and pointed a gun right at your friend’s face. Before the poor bastard could do anything about it he’s dead. He’s dead before he even hits the ground.”

  “Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. His wallet was still on him, so it doesn’t look like a robbery. So either he was the victim of some random psycho thrill kill, or Mr. Walker had enemies."

  His voice trailed off and I stared at the Inn’s parking lot. Technicians continued searching and cataloging the crime scene. Beyond them, Viktor's Mountain loomed in the distance. It had silently witnessed yet another death.

  The Viktor Police Station was a quiet little building almost directly in the center of town. Its double glass door entry led into a small lobby with a low ceiling. On the far side of this waiting room sat a lady behind a glass partition. She looked up momentarily as the Sheriff and arrived. Her gaze then returned to her paperwork. Another day in the office.

  The Sheriff and I walked to the left corner of the lobby and stood before a heavy metal door. An electronic buzz disturbed the silence and the door was unlocked. We passed it and entered the rear of the station. This area was even more compact than the lobby. It consisted of a short and thin corridor lined with dark wood paneling. Four doors, two on each side, led to offices. At the end of the hallway was a much larger door. A bronze plaque over the door read "Sheriff Burton Chandler". The Sheriff opened this door and motioned me into his office. This office was also small. It was lined with more plaques and photographs. Most featured the Sheriff and, I supposed, various family members. I sat in front of his wooden desk.

  "Want some coffee?" the Sheriff asked. He stopped at the corner of the room, next to a small table with a coffee machine. He was already pouring himself a cup.

  "No thanks," I said. During the trip to the Police Station I felt a series of chills. By the time we arrived at the Sherriff’s office, they were mostly gone, but visions of Karl's body lingered. "Did anyone see or hear anything?"

  Sheriff Chandler ignored the question and sat in his chair
. It squeaked as old springs strained to keep him upright. Chandler took a sip of his coffee. Steam rose lazily out of the cup and to the ceiling, dissipating before reaching their goal.

  "Could his death be related to—”

  Burton gave me a condescending smile.

  “Related to what?”

  “I was just wondering,” I continued, then stopped. The smile on Chandler’s face tightened. He was giving me rope and letting me dangle. He was making a fool of me, and enjoying every second.

  “Go on, detective.”

  “Is it possible that Robinson and Karl’s death were related?”

  “What you mean is could this entire police department, and me in particular, have been completely wrong about John Robinson’s death being an accident,” Chandler said. The smile was gone and he pointed his finger in my face. “What you mean is could Karl have discovered John Robinson’s murderer, confronted him, and was in turn killed to silence this earth shattering discovery.”

  Chandler’s finger dropped.

  “That’s the type of stuff you’d see in the old man’s films,” Chandler said. He sighed. “I’ll give you this much, Mr. Towne, Karl Walker’s murder might well have been related to John Robinson’s accident, just not the way you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Perhaps you’re unaware that this town’s been flooded with people like Karl for the past six years. Each and every one of them have their pet theories about John Robinson’s death but they’re all in agreement about one thing: He was murdered. And to prove they’re right, they hang out in our shops and restaurants and harass the locals with questions and accusations. At first it was a lark, and we laughed it off. After a while, they became an annoyance. Later, they became pests. Maybe your friend needled someone to the point where they finally had enough.”

  “He was killed because someone was fed up of rumors?”