NIGHT CHILLS: A Bracken and Bledsoe Paranormal Mystery
Page 19
“Jeez! What’s in this thing?”
“Found some antique movie reels at the shop, real old stuff, silent stuff; thought mebe he could use it with one of them old projectors he collects!”
“Well! Isn’t that sweet of you!” from Liz coming around the corner, untying her apron, fluffing the back of her raven mane. “Good evening, Mr. Adams!”
Mr. Adams went all flat-footed and off-balance. “Ms. Liz! Well! Certainly didn’t count on seein’ you again today!”
He made a sudden face, reached quickly behind him, pulled green stems from the back of his belt and held up a home-made bouquet. “Uh…these here is fer you…that is, if ya like.”
“Why, Mr. Adams! How lovely!”
Mr. Adams flipped his head indifferently, throwing his granny glasses across the rug. He hurried to retrieve them and stuck them back on, then took them off again and turned them over, then stuck them on again. “Aw, may as well call me Adam…”
“All his friends do!” I added, shutting the door.
“What friends I got! My, ain’t you pretty t’night, Ms. Liz!”
“Thank you! Uh…’Adam’ is it?”
“Yes’m!”
“Your first name?”
“Yes’m!”
Liz nodded confusion. “So it’s…Adam Adams--?”
“Yes’m!” beaming brightly. “My Mamma kept things simple!”
“Well, these are just beautiful, Adam! Let me find a vase somewhere. What kind of flowers are these? Something regional?”
“Danged if I know, got ‘em from my backyard!”
Liz smiled, found a small vase, placed the bouquet on the coffee table as Katie came round the corner. “Evening, Mr. Adams!”
“Ma’am.” He never took his eyes off Liz, nodding all cherry-cheeked as she arranged the flowers. “My, Ms. Liz, that’s a right pretty breast!”
Liz blinked.
“Blouse! Blouse is what I meant! Dang it!”
Liz smiled. “Why, thank you, Adam! I wore the red bra tonight--to go with the garter? Would you care to see—?” fingers on her top button.
Mr. Adam sagged, bowlegged. “Oh, Lawd…” eyes rolling back. I steadied his shoulders with both hands in case his knees went.
There was a noise behind me and I turned to see Byron come frowning through the front door.
He looked at Liz, her fingers still on her top button. “What the hell’s going on here--?”
“Just a little strip poker!” Liz winked.
“Oh, Lawd…” Mr. Adams groaned.
“Mr. Adams?” Byron arched a brow at me. “He all right?”
“Right as rain!” I said. “Adam here brought some nice flowers for Liz, didn’t you, Adam!”
Mr. Adams fought for breath.
“--and a few things for you as well, Byron! Right, Adam?”
Byron looked at the coffee table flowers, the box in my arms, and finally at me. He leaned close, sotto voce. “I thought it was Adams--with an S.”
“Just the last part!” I grinned.
“The what--?”
“It’s a long story. Liz, why don’t you show Adam to the kitchen and your delicious mousse and I’ll show Byron his new toys!”
Liz linked the old man’s arm proudly, guiding him toward the kitchen. “Are you all right, Adam, dear?”
“Fine, fine! Danged collar’s a bit tight is all! Got a moose in the kitchen, have ya?”
I set the box on the divan, pulled back a pasteboard flap. “See what happens when you miss dinner, old man?”
“What is that stuff?” from a still weary Byron, slipping off his jacket.
I pulled back another flap so he could see.
“Don’t thank me, now—thank Liz!”
Byron’s eyes widened. “Holy—that looks like early 35mm nitrate film!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” I winked at Katie “Now, I wonder where there’s a projector handy?”
* * *
“What do you mean you don’t have a projector!”
We were seated in Byron’s home theater room on plush red fold-down chairs, raked toward the big red curtained screen above the stage and complete with cup holders for cold drinks. At least Katie and I were, with the box of Mr. Adam’s ancient film cans on a seat between us. Katie lifted out one hand-written title after another with excitement; Byron was perusing the north wall of the room over by the popcorn maker cart and his collection of antique movie projectors. “You were bragging about them to me a few days ago! What do you call those things you’re prowling among?” I demanded.
“What I call them are a Biograph, 1896, A Bioscope, 1897, a Lumiere Brothers’ Cinematograph, 1896—which is actually a projector and a camera—and a Kinesigraph. None of which is of any use for the films in that cardboard box.”
“Why?”
“Because none of them takes 35mm perforated film stock.”
I flopped back in my seat. “You’re saying you don’t have a single projector in the house we can use, Byron?”
“Not one with a claw mechanism that runs perforated 35. I collect antiques, Elliot.”
I sighed, glancing at Katie. “Great!”
Byron leaned against the long, knotty pine display table and chewed thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth. “Wait a minute…”
He started for the stage behind the curtain.
“Where are you going?”
“I may still have that Arnet Magniscope in back, if I didn’t sell it.”
“Is it old?”
“1896 but it will thread 35 mm film, hold on…”
Film cans rattled beside me and I turned back to Katie.
“I’ve been through all the film cans Mr. Adams brought tonight. Want the good news first, Elliot, or the bad news?”
“You pick it.”
“All the film cans are dated no later than 1917 and all of them have San Diego handwritten across the lid on a piece of tape.”
“That’s good! What’s the bad news?”
She held up one of the cans. “They all have subheadings. This one reads ‘Charles Hatfield.”
“Who’s he?”
“Exactly.”
A racket from the stage: Byron was pushing a small cart containing an assortment of strange looking gadgets, including a large box with a crank sticking out of one side. “We’re in luck! Found the Arnet machine! Have it set up and running in a jiffy!”
I turned back to Katie, who was still holding up the reel can.
“So? Where do we start, Elliot?”
I thought about it, finally taking the ‘Charles Hatfield’ marked can from her.
“See y’all later!” from the door behind us under the red EXIT sign. Liz was waving merrily beside a proudly beaming Mr. Adams.
“Liz? Where are you going?”
“Adam is taking me out for a drink! Isn’t that sweet? Enjoy your movies!”
Oh, Christ.
I was starting up from my seat when I felt Katie reach over and grab my wrist. “Let her go, Elliot!” she hissed.
I whirled on her. “Katie, that old guy is old enough to be her—“
“I really think your mother knows what she’s doing, Elliot.”
“Yeah, but—“
“She’s been a tremendous help! She deserves some R&R!”
“Yeah, but—“
“Everything okay down there?” Liz called from the door.
“Fine!” Katie waved. “Have a good time, you two. Oh, and Liz--?”
Liz ducked her head back in.
“—I understand there’s a wonderful bar at the Hotel del Coronado!”
Liz was already smiling. “That’s what I was thinking, dear! ‘Night!”
The door shut softly behind her.
Byron appeared at my side, nodding at the cardboard box. “Which one first?”
I handed him the reel.
“Who’s ‘Charles Hatfield’?
I sighed. “I guess we’ll find out.”
* * *
The red curtains p
arted.
The theater lights went down.
The film started.
On Byron’s big, high-tech screen the flickering images actually looked amazingly good, especially considering they were hand-cranked by Byron himself.
Black screen, a few emulsion lines, a hint of stains and then the first title on the first reel of antique silent films:
“DELUGE—1916”
WIDE SHOT OF A FLOODED DOWNTOWN SAN DIEGO
“Rainmaker Charles Hatfield blamed for $4 million
In damages—accused of causing San Diego’s worst flood!”
MED CLOSE SHOT OF A WORRRIED LOOKING MAN IN A STRAW HAT.
“Pluviculturist develops method for producing rain with 23
Chemicals in large galvanized evaporating tanks he claims
Attract rain!”
CLOSE SHOT OF LARGE GALVANIZED EVAPAPORATING TANKS.
“Morena Dam reservoir overflows after month long downpour!”
LONG SHOT OF OVERFLOWING DAM
“Bridges destroyed, trains marooned, phone cables cut, homes
Farms—Sweetwater and Otay Lake inundated!”
MED LONG SHOT OF TWO INUNDATED LAKES.
“Hatfield denies fault—blames city or inadequate
Precautions! Sues council!
This went on for another ten minutes, during which the city council refused to pay rainmaker Hatfield for his work unless he accepted liability for damages, and Hatfield countered by trying to settle for $4000 and sue the council and, two trials later the rain was ruled as an act of God and they threw the case out of court.
THE END.
Black screen.
The lights came up.
“Gee,” I said.
“Wow,” Katie yawned.
“I could watch that for seconds!” Byron said behind us. “What’s next?”
Next was a film depicting a reenactment of the ‘Birth of San Diego’ during which Portuguese-born explorer Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo sailed from Navidad, Spain to what is now known as The West Coast, claiming it for the Spanish empire in 1542. He was followed in 1602 by Sebastian Vizcaino, who mapped the California coast, surveyed the harbor, Mission Bay and Point Loma and named the whole area for the Catholic Saint Didacus, more commonly known as San Diego de Alcala.
THE END.
Black screen.
“Wow,” Katie yawned.
“Gee,” I said.
“What’s next?” from a weary Byron.
What’s next was a reel on the menagerie of exotic animals featured at the 1915 World’s Fair exposition, which provided the basis for the San Diego Zoo. After that, another short reel on the significance of the U.S. Navy beginning in 1901 with the establishment of the Navy Coaling Station in Point Loma. This was followed by an equally thrilling account of the origin of the initial San Diego downtown located at the foot of Presidio Hill, now called Old Town. The location was less than ideal, constantly threatening to blow away, and in the late 1860’s Alonzo Horton promoted a move to “New Town” on the San Diego Bay, which quickly became the economic and governmental heart of the city.
“Wow,” Katie yawned.
“My cranking arm’s falling off!” Byron groaned.
“There has to be something of value in here!” I announced digging deep into the cardboard box. ‘”Let me try,” Katie muttered, “you go crank for Byron.”
She selected a blank canister (“How can we do worse?”) and handed it to me, I handed it to Byron, replaced him at the crank and the theater went dark as the first titles came up.
“GAS LAMP QUARTER CREATED BY ALONZO HORTON—1867”
“Oh God, please,” I moaned, “not more Alonzo Horton!”
“At least it sounds romantic,” Katie yawned.
“It might be architecturally interesting,” from Byron, “the Quarter is still there, you know, right downtown, still busy.”
“Terrific,” I said, picking up Katie’s yawn, “let’s all watch, shall we?”
The Gas Lamp Quarter was apparently what New Town became in 1867 when this guy Horton purchased 800 acres of land for $265 and began major development with 5 Avenue as the main street of what he hoped would become a new city center closer to the bay. It did become a center---from the 1800’s to the 1900’s--then known as the Stingaree and home to dozens of saloons, gambling halls, bordellos and ladies of the night. After that it fell into a state of decay.
“I don’t suppose there’s a cartoon somewhere in that box?” I called from behind the crank.
Katie sat up straight with sudden interest as the next title appeared on the screen:
“BRUTAL SLAYING OF PROSTITUTE IN GAS LAMP QUARTER!”
I became abruptly very awake as the screen filled with actual footage of a young blonde-haired woman, sprawled in a stone gutter, whose Victorian dress and face were slashed almost beyond recognition in a scene no newsreel camera would dare reveal for public consumption today.
“My God…” I heard Katie mutter under her breath.
When the camera went in for a close-up, big muscular Byron actually turned his head. “Jesus! Media didn’t pull any punches in those days, did it?”
“POLICE SUSPECT ESCAPED ZOO ANIMAL—PUBLIC LOCKS DOORS!”
This was followed by several unsteady shots of the dark-coats and long brass buttons of Victorian police officers milling about this tavern or that in what was probably an attempt to beef up security. There were a few shots of darkened streets and frightened faces, then a series of quick, blurry shots: rifle toting police shooting a mountain lion in a chaparral dotted field.
“AUTHORITIES DISPATCH LARGE ZOO CAT—CITIZENS RELIEVED!”
Then a badly lit morgue interior, a steel table and the ripped apart body of another young blonde, recognized as different from the first victim only by what was left of her dress.
And the final title:
“2ND GAS QUARTER VICTIM FOUND AS “PANTHER MAN” STRIKES AGAIN!”
THE END.
Black screen.
NINETEEN
“Elliot--?”
“Yes?”
“Were you sleeping?”
“No. I’ve been awake all night. Most of the night.”
“Me too. What are you thinking about?”
“Panthers. You?”
Katie rustled below me on her camping mattress. “That. And images of mutilated young women I won’t soon get out of my head--thanks to Adam’s miserable silent films. Why were they so graphic back then?
“Well, they didn’t have computer games.”
“Disgusting.”
“Yeah…” I rolled over on the divan sleeplessly and crossed my arms behind my head, staring up at the opaque ceiling.
“It must be close to dawn,” Katie said. “Sky’s pinking. Can you see it there, through the picture window?”
“Can’t from up here. Just darkness. Few stars.”
“I’m sure it’s close to sunrise. Elliot? Hey--still there? What are you thinking about now?”
“What those young women must have been thinking about…before their final darkness. If they knew they’d never see another sunrise. If they thought maybe God was punishing them for being prostitutes.”
“I doubt the citizens back then felt even a prostitute deserved to die like that.”
“Yeah…”
“Awful. Heinous.”
“Yeah. Lonely.”
“God.” Rustling. “I need a shower.”
“You said that last night. Just before you took one.”
“Well, I need another one now. No. I need to get away from here, that’s what I need.”
I turned toward her voice again in the dark. “Away? From San Diego?”
“Just away from here, this house. Those images. I can’t breathe.”
“Maybe you’re having a panic attack.”
“Don’t be so literal. I just need some fresh air. You’re always so bloody literal.”
“I am.”
“Fresh air. Sea air. A walk on
the beach.”
“But?”
“I’m afraid.”
“You?”
“I am tonight. Will you come with me? It’s only a short walk to the beach, and it will be light soon. We could watch the sunrise, Elliot! Will you?”
“No. I’m too scared.”
“Please? Make me feel safe?”
“It’s cold here in the morning.”
“Please?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. Ask me nice.”
“Please?”
“Okay.”
Almost immediately the end table lamp beside my head came on. Katie was already gathering up her clothes. She started hiking up the Mets jersey. “Turn your back, huh?”
“Right.”
In a few moments she turned to me. “Okay, your turn,” and she tossed me my jeans from the back of an easy chair.
I caught them in one hand. “I didn’t turn my back,” I told her.
Katie was facing the big picture window, gazing out at the slowly brightening horizon. “I know…”
* * *
I think that’s what did it.
The off-handed way she said, ‘I know.’
I think that’s when I knew how I really felt about her. At that instant.
I dressed and we scratched a quick note about beachcombing and left the house quietly, walking the few short blocks past predawn houses to the restless drum of the breakwater. A short flight of cement steps and a steel railing led down to the still-dark swath of beach. It had been an effort, all during the walk there, for me not to take her hand.
We stepped through squishy, truculent sand in our sneakers to the firmer wet sand at the edge of the shore. The flat line of the Pacific Ocean was still a featureless mass but the Point Loma lighthouse winked coyly from its revolutions at the ragged end of the land. The stars were evaporating quickly, replaced by flashing comets of early feeding gulls, their cries just audible above the boom of the combers, hissing their retreat; ancient, eternal and somehow reassuring.
I took Katie’s hand as we walked the south end of the island. And under the brightening cyclorama of horizon I swallowed hard and finally said, “I love you, Katie.”
But only in my mind.