Crampton

by Thomas Ligotti

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  No, not plain old. This guy had the Mt. St. Helens of heart attacks. See, most heart attacks are caused by a clot cutting off the supply of blood to the heart. Just one clot can put you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Two clots will put you in the ground. Agent Johnson here suffered no less than six simultaneous blood clots. It was like a total system malfunction. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  BRADY

  Six clots ... six shots.

  HELEN

  Then what's the deal with his eyes?

  The M.E. leans over Johnson's body again.

  JOHNSON'S POV - looking up through a FISH EYE LENS we see the medical examiner leaning over, shining the penlight INTO THE CAMERA, then out.

  MEDICAL EXAMINER

  There are numerous examples of postmortem muscle activity, but it's typically manifested in the arms and legs, not in the eyes. In my experience, I've never seen anything like it.

  The medical examiner pulls the sheet up over Johnson's face, COVERING THE CAMERA.

  BRADY (O.S.)

  (whispering to HELEN)

  I have.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - SMALL CONFERENCE ROOM

  Helen is sitting as Brady sets up a VCR and video monitor. An evidence box is on the table.

  BRADY

  This was, like, five years ago, before I joined the Bureau. Larry Johnson and his partner were following this scam. Psychic hotline. Television spots ran for it on local channels in the Midwest.

  (the television comes on)

  There we go.

  Brady takes a video cassette out of the evidence box.

  BRADY

  Here's one of them.

  He jams the tape in the VCR. The screen goes from black to snow to--

  COMMERCIAL - Gaudy red letters: "The Mystery Line," along with an 800 number. The words dissolve into the image of an ECSTATIC WOMAN waving a slip of paper.

  MAN'S VOICE (V.O.)

  What lottery numbers will make you rich?

  ... the picture changes to a LONELY MAN staring longingly at a PRETTY WOMAN across a crowded room ...

  MAN'S VOICE (V.O.)

  How can you make that special someone notice you?

  ... changes to a YOUNG WOMAN sitting thoughtfully, chin cupped in one hand ...

  MAN'S VOICE (V.O.)

  What is your purpose in life?

  ... changes to an OLD WOMAN IN BLACK standing forlornly next to a fresh grave ...

  MAN'S VOICE (V.O.)

  When will you die?

  ... and finally dissolves into a blandly handsome BLOND MAN sitting at desk. A heavy black rotary-style phone is the only thing on the desk.

  HELEN

  Looks a bit like our killer mannequin.

  BRADY

  Maybe a little.

  BLOND MAN (ON COMMERCIAL)

  The Mystery Line has the answers to all your questions.

  The man holds up the receiver and looks piercingly into the camera.

  BLOND MAN

  Call now, if you really want to know.

  OFFICE

  Brady PAUSES the commercial. The blond man is frozen in place, receiver extended.

  HELEN

  A clear-cut violation of FCC codes. You can't tell people when they're going to die or promise them winning lottery tickets.

  Brady EJECTS the tape and gets another one out of the evidence box, sliding it into the VCR.

  BRADY

  The FCC stuff had nothing to do with it.

  Thirty-three people were found dead--phone in their hand, still connected to the Mystery Line.

  On the VIDEO, a hand-held camera documents the interior of an apartment. Several FBI agents stand over the body of a middle-aged woman, her dead eyes open and staring. A telephone receiver is locked in her fist. In the background we can hear television STATIC.

  BRADY

  (pointing to the screen)

  Here--check this out.

  On the VIDEO, an agent takes a penlight and inspects the dead woman's eyes. The pupils contract as the light hits them.

  HELEN

  They were all like that?

  BRADY

  Every one of them.

  HELEN

  What killed them?

  BRADY

  Heart attack. Aneurysm. Stroke. Natural causes, every one of them.

  On the VIDEO, RICKY SMITH is giving orders. He turns to the camera--

  RICKY SMITH (ON VIDEO)

  Get that thing out of my face!

  Brady again PAUSES the tape, freezing Ricky.

  HELEN

  Who's that guy?

  BRADY

  That's Ricky Smith. He was Larry Johnson's partner at the time. I guess he had a reputation as kind of a son of a bitch. But from what I've see in these reports, he was a hell Of an agent. Meticulous. Some might say obsessive.

  HELEN

  You ever meet him?

  BRADY

  Once, about the time the whole Mystery Line thing blew up. Smith and Johnson first tried following the money, but none of the victims were ever actually charged for the phone calls, so that was a dead end. They eventually traced the phone number to this old warehouse in Detroit. I was Detroit PD at the time, but I'd been trying to get into the FBI for a while. Whenever something federal would come around, I'd volunteer for it.

  HELEN

  We had a name for guys like you down in Florida. Wanna-be.

  BRADY

  Yeah, but I got to be. Anyway, we bust into the place in full riot gear, and it's just, like, old boxes and shit. Nobody home. I guess the strain of the investigation got to Ricky, because he had some kind of a nervous breakdown right in the middle of the raid. Had to carry him out of there in a stretcher--the kind with four-point restraints.

  Helen and Brady just look at the paused face of Ricky Smith, frozen into a scowl.

  HELEN

  So Where's Ricky now?

  BRADY

  I don't know. After the Mystery Line deal, he and Larry had a falling out. Larry switched to a desk job, analysis or something.

  He actually helped get me in the FBI. Ricky ... eventually he just quit and kind of disappeared. Probably flycasting somewhere in New Mexico right now.

  HELEN

  Well, since he's the only other guy who's had any real experience with this thing, don't you think it'd be nice to know where he disappeared to?

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - RECORDS CENTER

  Brady and Helen stand at a counter that looks like a library reference desk, waiting.

  A RECORDS AGENT walks up to the other side of the counter, a computer printout in his hand.

  RECORDS AGENT

  Smith, Richard J., Federal Bureau of Investigation 1976 to 1996.

  BRADY

  That's our man.

  RECORDS AGENT

  I know this is part of the whole Larry Johnson business, but I have to tell you, I can't give you full access to the guy's file without authorization.

  HELEN

  We don't need the whole file. We just need to know his current address.

  RECORDS AGENT

  Oh, that's no problem. We keep pretty good tabs on former agents. You know, just in case.

  BRADY

  In case what?

  RECORDS AGENT

  In case they've developed some kind of a grudge against their former employer and decide one day to buy a van and a bunch of fertilizer,

  (he flips through the printout)

  Criminal Division ... voluntary dismissal, 1996 ... principal residence ... uh-oh.

  HELEN

  What?

  RECORDS AGENT

  We've got his address as being in Georgetown, only he hasn't lived there in two years.

  BRADY

  He moved?

  RECORDS AGENT

  Nope--"unexplained abandonment."

  BRADY

  What does that mean?

  RECORDS AGENT

  It means one day he just stopped showing up.


  (he flips through the printout some more)

  All his utilities--electricity, gas, phone--he stopped paying on them in the same month.

  BRADY

  Maybe he moved away and didn't give a forwarding address.

  RECORDS AGENT

  Trust me, we'd know. That's what we do. These things may just look like a bunch of numbers to you, but there's patterns in there. Little clues. I can look at one of these and tell you if a guy changed his name to avoid paying his ex-wife alimony, hit the road to become a drum tech for Cheap Trick, shaved his head and Joined a cult, whatever. When a person's vitals just peter out like this--

  (he holds up the printout)

  --it usually means one thing.

  HELEN

  He's dead.

  RECORDS AGENT

  Bingo.

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - HALLWAY.

  Helen and Brady step tiredly out of the Records Room door.

  BRADY

  This doesn't make sense. A guy like Ricky Smith doesn't just fall off the face of the earth. I mean, you should see his reports. They're like a fucking card catalog, all cross-referenced and shit. This isn't the kind of guy who just stops paying his bills one day.

  HELEN

  Maybe it's like the records guy said. Maybe Ricky Smith's dead.

  BRADY

  I don't know ... I don't know.

  HELEN

  (looking at her watch)

  Well, as first days on the job go, this has definitely been my weirdest. I'm going to go home and crash.

  BRADY

  Yeah, okay. I'll see you tomorrow.

  Helen walks away slowly. Brady stays put, thinking.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. JOEY'S GAME ROOM - NIGHT

  The streets are quiet. The two snitches exit the bar in a good mood, each counting a wad of bills. Evidently the poker game went well for them.

  BRADY (O.S.)

  How did you know?

  The snitches nearly jump. Brady steps out of shadows.

  BIG SNITCH

  Christ, Wells, what the fuck are you doing hiding in the fucking shadows?

  BRADY

  Larry Johnson. How did you know?

  BIG SNITCH

  I didn't, not exactly. It just sounded familiar. There used to be an old joke among magicians, or at least some of us, that the ultimate trick would be so convincing it could actually kill someone. Tricked to death, you could say. Sounds like your terrorist figured out how to pull it off.

  Both snitches look around, like they think they're being watched.

  BIG SNITCH

  Fuck, we shouldn't even be talking.

  BRADY

  Why? We talk all the time.

  BIG SNITCH

  This is different. Let me ask you ... how deep in this shit are you?

  BRADY

  About to my neck.

  BIG SNITCH

  Any chance you could hang back on this one? Let someone else handle it?

  BRADY

  Can't and won't.

  BIG SNITCH

  (looking around again)

  Look, Wells, you're not the brightest guy I ever met, but you seem pretty okay for a Fed, so let me ask you something. If I was one of those old-time sailors who had spent all his life at sea, one of those crusty old barnacles who could read the water like it was the morning news, and I told you there was a storm coming, you'd get your boat out of the water, wouldn't you?

  BRADY

  I guess.

  BIG SNITCH

  We've been doing this all our lives. There's a storm coming. Get your boat the fuck out of the water.

  The turn their backs to Brady and walk away.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT

  A typical middle-income apartment building in the D.C. area.

  INT. BRADY'S BEDROOM

  Brady, shirtless, sleeping in a tangle of bedsheets. Hands twitching, face a scowl, eyes darting under closed lids. The room is bathed in the blue-gray glow from a television.

  The sound of the television is slowly drowned out by a ROARING SOUND like an approaching tornado. As it gets louder, Brady gets more and more agitated.

  Suddenly Brady SITS BOLT UPRIGHT in bed, face slick with sweat. At the same moment the ROARING STOPS. It takes a few moments for Brady to catch his breath.

  CUT TO:

  INT. FBI HEADQUARTERS - MORNING

  Helen is sitting at a desk, looking pissed off. Brady walks up holding two coffees and a wax paper bag.

  HELEN

  At my orientation they told me that violation of core time was a dismissable offense.

  BRADY

  "Violation of core time?" Is that what they're calling it now? When I started they just said don't be late.

  (handing Helen a coffee)

  Here. I hope black is okay--they only had powdered creamer.

  HELEN

  Thank you, black is fine.

  BRADY

  (reaching into the paper bag)

  And I got you one of these.

  He hands Helen a muffin, then pulls out another one for himself. Helen eyes the muffin suspiciously.

  HELEN

  What's that?

  BRADY

  It's a bran muffin.

  (Helen just looks at him)

  What? I have one of these with my coffee every morning.

  HELEN

  So does that mean we'll need to stop off in an hour so you can take a dump?

  BRADY

  More like ninety minutes. What do you mean "stop off?"

  HELEN

  We've got orders to hit the road. Our flight leaves in two hours.

  BRADY

  No shit? Where to?

  HELEN

  (standing up)

  Arizona.

  She walks away.

  BRADY

  Arizona?

  CUT TO:

  EXT. DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - DAY

  One of the nation's busiest airports, in full swing.

  INT. AIRPLANE

  A full flight--every seat is taken. The plane is starting to push away from the gate, and the flight attendants are beginning their safety spiel.

  Helen and Brady are seated one row apart. Brady has to lean forward over the seat to talk to her.

  BRADY

  Cheap-asses at the Bureau. Couldn't even seat us next to each other. I guess we should be glad they put us on the same flight, at least.

  HELEN

  I know I'm glad.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT

  (to BRADY)

  Sir, you're going to have to sit back.

  BRADY

  Sorry.

  He sits back. A few seconds later he's leaning over the seat again.

  BRADY

  Let me see it.

  HELEN

  What?

  BRADY

  The thing.

  HELEN

  Why?

  BRADY

  Because I want to. Jeez, what are you, my mom?

  A heavy sigh from Helen. She takes a small briefcase out of the storage area at her feet, opens it, removes a plastic bag, kind of like a Ziploc but with a red band and the word "Evidence." She hands the bag over her shoulder.

  HELEN

  Don't mess it up.

  BRADY

  I'm a federal agent too, you know. I think I can handle evidence without messing it up.

  He inspects the bag. Inside is a receipt slip, the old kind that uses a sheet of carbon paper to make a merchant's copy.

  CU ON RECEIPT - On it, printed in block letters, is the name of the merchant and a receipt number. Apart from the name and address of the merchant, the receipt is blank.

  BRADY

  "Illusions of Empire." Does anyone know what kind of place this is?

  HELEN

  I think that's the whole reason they're sending us out there.

  BRADY

  But there's nothing on here.

  HELEN

  Check
out the back.

  Brady turns the receipt over. On the back, in a neat but somehow antiquated hand, is a map showing a few nameless roads. Along one road is a box labeled "Yellow House."

  Brady leans forward again.

  BRADY

  "Yellow House"? What the hell does that mean?

  HELEN

  How do I know?

  BRADY

  If you ask me, this is a pretty weak clue.

  HELEN

  It's a pretty weak case.

  BRADY

  Waste of our fucking time.

  HELEN

  I hate to break this to you, Wells, but I don't think we're the Bureau's starting line on this one. The real case is back in Washington. We're just tying up the loose threads.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT

  (to BRADY)

  Sir, the pilot can't begin takeoff until you sit back in your seat.

  Brady drops dejectedly into his seat.

  BRADY

  (to himself)

  This case sucks.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. EMPIRE, ARIZONA - DAY

  A nasty and desolate section of desert. Though there are mountains on the horizon, this area is flat and brown.

  Two highways, bleached and cracked, intersect here under a flashing yellow traffic light. At one corner is a gas station. Across from it is a building that obviously used to be a gas station, but has been transformed into Illusions of Empire. The sunblistered exterior is decorated with gaudy astrological symbols.

  A nondescript rental car pulls into the parking lot, making it the only car there.

  INT. ILLUSIONS OF EMPIRE MAGIC SHOP

  The place looks like an old basement. Shelves bow under the weight of boxes. One wall is devoted entirely to ventriloquist dummies.

  A small bell RINGS pathetically as Brady and Helen enter. Brady looks around and grins.

  BRADY

  Wow--there was a place just like this near where I grew up.

  He takes down one of the dummies--the label reads "My name is Laffo!"--and clumsily manipulates the mouth.

  BRADY

  (mumbling through clenched teeth)

  Hi there, kids! My name's Laffo!

  DUMMY'S POV - FISH-EYE on Brady, his comic smile. Helen is looking at Brady the way a mother looks at a misbehaving child.

  SHOPKEEP (O.S.)

  That one and Reggie McRascal are on sale ...

  Illusion of Empire's SHOPKEEP is standing behind the counter. He looks like some small-time hustler out of an old gangster movie: greasy hair, thin mustache, smoking an unfiltered cigarette with another one behind his ear.

  SHOPKEEP

  ... 'cept Reggie's broken. The one eye don't open all the way. How can I help you folks today?

  Brady puts "Laffo" back on his shelf and flashes his FBI ID.

  BRADY

  We'd like to ask you about a purchase that was made here.