AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I think I know what they show,” Robideau answered, “but I just ... yes. Here."

  His big hand hung over the mouse button. The picture showed, in digital detail, a cluttered corner of Bulwer Onager's kitchen. And there at the end of the counter, on top of the milk cartons, on top of the Christmas cards, on top of the stack of out-of-date calendars, open jam jars, and a spray of knitting needles, was a backpack. But the backpack was blue with a Nike logo on it. Definitely not army surplus.

  He sat there. He had been so sure...

  He slowly searched back through the photos in reverse. The last one to appear was the practice shot Pete had snapped through the windshield of the car. There was a glare across it, the sun striking in across the dash. Behind the glare, and a little washed out by it, was the back of Oddlot's van.

  His eyes narrowed. In the rear window of the van was a backpack. It was desert camo. And he could see what looked like an oversized patch of old Hitch staring at something off-screen.

  Robideau stood up. “Oh my God!"

  Leaning hard on the accelerator, he made it to Oddlot's mini-home in minutes. He pounded the steering wheel. The yard was empty. There was no sign of Oddlot's van around.

  "You lookin’ for somebody?” a voice asked. He turned and found Pete Melynchuk's sardonic face watching him curiously from the street.

  * * * *

  The Palace Roxy's façade extended for one hundred feet along the east side of Burton Street, part of the usual small town brick and mortar continuum of shop fronts. The marquee, which had once blazed with hundreds of tiny incandescent lights, drooped sadly over their heads, dead for years.

  "So you figure Oddlot grabbed the girl, do you?"

  "No. I'm saying her backpack was in his van."

  Pete raised and lowered his eyebrows. He drew some picks out of his jacket pocket and went to work on the door.

  "You're not supposed to know how to do that,” Robideau observed.

  "Good thing I know what I'm not supposed to know, then, isn't it?"

  Pete pulled the door open.

  There was the old familiar lobby, the concession stand, the chrome-plated stanchions with the velvet rope drooping between them. The velvet rope was now two-toned: red along the bottom and gray on the top with dust. Ramps at each end of the room led to the auditorium.

  "Whasamatter?” Pete asked.

  Robideau was caught in a sudden rush of nostalgia. He had watched his first low-budget screen-screamer here: Creature From the Black Lagoon. It had astonished him. Delighted him. He'd loved it so darn much he'd hurried back for Tarantula, Monolith Monsters, and The Deadly Mantis, in that order.

  "Did you ever see The Deadly Mantis?” Robideau asked.

  "I seen Wilmer's first wife, does that count?"

  "And The Mysterians.” Robideau's eyes misted over. “I still remember that pointy-nosed robot kicking a jeep out of its way. Pretty silly. But we loved it."

  "I seen that Phantom of the Opera movie here,” Pete said. “The old silent version. Guy with a face like a boiled sheep's stomach and fingernails down to his knees. Coulda been Howard Hughes. They wouldn't have needed makeup.” He stopped and glanced around uneasily. “Hope to hell we don't find nothing like that lurching around in here."

  Framed posters still hung in the lobby. Probably valued by collectors, Robideau thought to himself. One of Janet Leigh in her underwear. And one of Hitch himself dressed in suit and tie, pointing at his watch, with the caption: NO ONE ... BUT NO ONE ... WILL BE ADMITTED TO THE THEATER AFTER THE START OF EACH PERFORMANCE. And another: DON'T GIVE AWAY THE ENDING—IT'S THE ONLY ONE WE HAVE.

  Robideau pulled himself out of his reverie. He was here on business. He had come to find Oddlot Jenkins and ask him some tough questions. He followed Pete into the auditorium.

  The room was in darkness. Pete switched on the large nine-volt lantern they had brought from Robideau's car.

  Robideau felt the back of his neck prickle. The Palace had never been luxurious—not a “picture palace.” This was a small town, after all. But it had once boasted a certain grandiosity with its plush-carpeted aisles, Art Deco sconces, pilasters, and not one but two glittering chandeliers, presumably to give the projectors an unobstructed line of shot. Now the chandeliers were clotted with spiderwebs, and dust hung in mats from the sconces.

  Pete swept his light out over the seats. Nearly every one was heaped with something: books, paintings, an old typewriter, a large clock, a large number of mounted birds, rolls of carpet, a heap of hard hats, stuffed animals, a huge globe of the moon, boxes of ceramic tile. It was as if a convoy of bulging Salvation Army vans had off-loaded their contents into the place.

  "What I think Bullet must've done,” Pete said, holding the lantern in his two hands and beaming it around, “is brought stuff from those other Onager businesses when they closed and stashed it here. Wouldn't get rid of it. And over the years he's kept on adding things."

  "It looks that way."

  "The guy's a psycho."

  Heavy industrial furnishings crowded the proscenium. Display cases from the old Onager Department Store, complete with shelving and original merchandise. Stacks of men's shirts behind the dusty glass. And manikins. There were manikins everywhere.

  "I don't see Oddlot around,” Pete said, stating the obvious.

  "No, but someone's been here."

  "Yeah?"

  "Take a look at the floor."

  Pete aimed the light at their feet. There were plenty of footprints in the grime. Trails led off everywhere. Pete planted his own boot down deliberately, and a little mushroom cloud of dust billowed up. “I see what you mean."

  "Listen,” Robideau said, “I don't dare waste any time. I'm going to take a run over to Bulwer's. Do you think you can hang around here for a while in case Oddlot shows up?"

  "Well, now, just a minute, we still haven't..."

  "Thanks, Pete."

  Robideau rushed off. Pete heard the front door to the street bang shut. He sighed. He went back along the ramp to a sort of switchback, meant to keep stray light in the lobby from filtering down into the auditorium. He moved the beam of the lantern over the walls and found what he was looking for. An almost invisible door. This had to be the way up to the projection booth. He lifted the small black latch.

  His feet made no sound on the carpet as he slowly mounted the stairs. At the top was a door. He opened it. Before him was the projection both, dominated by two large movie projectors and two smaller ones. There was a slide projector. There were a couple of plastic chairs, a metal stool, and a light table next to some splicing equipment.

  And something else. Something weird. The room was practically spotless. No dust, no clutter. “Someone uses the place,” he muttered, puzzled. “Someone sweeps up here and takes good care of things."

  Then a voice so close behind him that he could feel the breath on his neck said, “Go right in, Pete."

  Oddlot Jenkins squeezed past, holding a large cardboard box in his arms, containing reels of film. He flipped a switch with his elbow, and the room was suddenly bathed in light. He set the box down on a small bench. “I keep these in the fridge,” he confided.

  "Oddie,” Pete said evenly, “What're you doing here?"

  "What am I doing here? I've got a key."

  "What do you know about that girl? The one everybody's lookin’ for?"

  Oddlot stared at him, blinked, then turned away and started tinkering.

  "Nothing."

  "You've got her backpack. How come?"

  He grinned, as if he at last understood. “You mean that one in the van? I found it."

  "Found it!"

  "That's right."

  "You found it, but you didn't go through it, find some identification, and make a call to Butts?"

  "It was empty."

  "Really."

  "Yes, really."

  "All right, then where did you find it?"

  Oddlot kept working, threading the film through the camera mechanism.


  "You're not gonna tell me?” Pete said. “It's a secret?"

  "I don't have to tell you anything."

  "No. You can answer to Butts and Robideau. She was here, wasn't she? In this theater?"

  "Somebody was here. I don't know who exactly.” He fed the end of the film into the take-up reel. “You know, people used to come here a lot in the old days. I even gave tours of this room back then.” He glanced around, looking a little dejected. “The insurers ended that. They don't let you do it now."

  "You're sayin’ the girl might've been here? That she wandered in accidentally?"

  "I'm saying somebody did, that's all. I only left the back door open a second—I was bringing the car around to move a few items in for Bulwer. It might have been her. People do that, you know. Sneak into movie theaters."

  Pete sighed. This guy was living in the past. He tried a different tack. “Does Bullet know you're here? Does he know you're screwin’ with his cameras?"

  "They're not cameras, they're projectors. And, yes, he knows all about it. He likes this movie too. He's seen it seventy-one times, and I've seen it fifty-four times. In fact—” He extended his arm and looked at his wristwatch. “—he should be here by now. We always start right on time."

  "What're you telling me? You guys get together an’ watch movies in this dump?"

  "Sometimes. Sometimes Bulwer comes here and watches the film all by himself."

  Pete shook his head. Weirder and weirder. But he didn't really care about that.

  "Are you gonna tell me where you found the backpack?"

  "Stick around, Pete,” Oddlot said. “The movie's coming right up, and it's special. We're showing the 35mm print tonight. We usually show one of the 16s."

  "Oh, you do, huh? So what's the occasion?"

  Oddlot finished loading the second projector, closed it up, then turned and looked at him. “Bulwer thinks this might be the last chance we get. He figures they're going to shut him down any day now—for good."

  He struck the arc in projector number one, touched a switch, and the booth went dim. The only illumination now was the glow of the lacing bulb, the light in the arc housing, and the glow shining up through the clear plastic top of the splicing bench.

  Frustrated, getting nowhere with the guy, Pete stepped to the door.

  "Where are you going?” Oddlot glanced up.

  "Downstairs."

  "I think you should stay up here. Bulwer wouldn't like—"

  "I don't care what Bulwer likes or doesn't like."

  Leaving Oddlot to his movie machinery, Pete headed back down to the auditorium. Robideau could deal with Oddlot Jenkins, drive splinters under his nails or beat him with a hose. And while he waited for the old cop's return, Pete would make good and sure he hadn't missed anything. He walked slowly down the sloping aisle, beaming the lantern around. The most unnerving thing was the manikins, rescued, like the shirts, from Onager's Department Store, dragged in here and crammed into the seats. They looked like rump-naked androgynous movie fans that had wandered in to catch the final show.

  And it seemed they were going to get their wish.

  The curtain was rattling open. The movie was starting. Evidently Oddlot wasn't waiting for Bullet. Up on the screen a starry background resolved into a rotating globe with the word UNIVERSAL stretching across it. The logo faded and the music started: a jarring attack of nerve-racking violins. Pete didn't like violins. Fiddles sure, but not violins.

  He clumped on down the aisle.

  Black bars stabbed across the screen. Then crisp white block letters: ALFRED HITCHCOCK...

  White bars now, the violins screaming.

  "Seventy-one times?” Pete grimaced in disbelief. He scowled up at the projection booth but could make out only the shifting and dancing beam of light from the porthole.

  Turning back, he caught the tail end of the credits blinking onto the screen. VERA MILES, JANET LEIGH ... Black bars, white bars shooting in all directions. Names splitting in half. Jeez! And then finally, thankfully, the opening scene: a cityscape, the camera lens settling birdlike down, down, down over the buildings, and drifting in through a partly raised window.

  Reaching the flat area at the front of the theater, he turned and moved slowly along the front row of seats. He could see a heck of a lot better this time with the help of the reflected light from the screen. Here was a seat piled with burlap sacks, probably from the family's market garden. Then two manikins with concavities for eyes, one with an arm outthrust as if making a warning sign. He turned in spite of himself; nothing there.

  Here some old plumbing fixtures. A box of curtain rings. And here—

  Pete froze.

  In the flickering light from the screen behind him, a dead woman sat staring rigidly back at him. She stared with a look of astonishment and dismay on her face. He knew who it was. The young woman in the poster. And there was more. In the seat beside her was another body. Some big guy Pete had never seen before.

  "Oddie!” he hollered, getting his breath back. “Oddie, you get your skinny butt down here!"

  * * * *

  This time Robideau approached the house from the rear, following the gully and angling up through the trees. He knew he was going to have to sneak into the house, that there was no way Bulwer would let him in voluntarily. Sheet lightning rippled in the sky, backlighting whole sections of swift, driving cloud. Low, rumbling booms of thunder muttered far out over the marsh.

  He had to literally push his way through a mound of garbage bags to get near the back stoop.

  The rear door was standing open a crack—no need to lock it behind that malodorous barricade—and in a moment Robideau found himself at the back of Bulwer's industrial-sized kitchen. A fluorescent panel buzzed over the stove, revealing the obstacle course that surrounded him. Stuff was piled to the rafters in tall, unstable heaps. It looked as if it might collapse on him at the next shivering boom of thunder.

  "I know you're a pack rat, Bulwer,” Robideau breathed, “but oh, my dear maiden aunt!"

  Chuck was right. Call in Metro Gariuk's backhoes.

  The thunder and lightning now was almost continuous. Shadows marched and leaped on the walls. Everywhere were the ubiquitous garbage bags and newspapers, stack upon tottering stack of them. He saw a wall of biscuit tins with jolly labels: MCGARRIGALS FOR A TASTY TREAT! YOU'LL LOVE BECK'S CREAMY CENTERS! MIGHTY FINE MUNCHING—HARVEYS! He thought about the little creeping things—Pete's squirmin’ vermin—moving in all this rubbish, and revulsion traced a cold finger from the nape of his neck all the way down to his tailbone.

  There was a passageway through the confusion, circumnavigating a central island. He followed it to the door of the dining room. Beyond the wide French doors, a dark-framed dining table was all but invisible under the junk.

  A blinding lightning flash pierced the room, followed hard by a crash of thunder. The strike lit up the room like a flashbulb and made Robideau jump.

  He licked his lips and went into the sitting room.

  Here again were paths carved through the rubbish. The stink of mildew and cat litter was nauseating. Every few seconds a crack of thunder or flash of lightning struck at his nerves. Bulwer's chair loomed before him. Empty. Where was the old guy?

  He squeezed past it and stepped into the den.

  The storm was raging now, going hammer and tongs. It rippled behind the stained glass windows, shedding an intermittent and sulphurous glow on things. Lengths of pipe, a snakelike garden hose, a dozen dry and empty pet shop fish tanks. Stacks upon stacks of old film canisters, so many of them they took up most of one wall. An electric heater. A large fan-back chair.

  And...

  He caught only an ephemeral glimpse of something. In a flicker of lightning, a shadow closed on his, and something struck him on the back of the head.

  When Robideau opened his eyes he found Bulwer Onager looming over him. A floor lamp lit the big man's face. “I'm very sorry about that, Chief Robideau,” he said, “but you w
ere sneaking around in my house like a thief."

  Robideau's head felt as if someone was drilling into it with a brace and bit. He realized that he was back in the living room, half sprawled on the floor, his shoulders propped against a yellowing stack of newspapers. He must have been dragged here. He was still groggy.

  "The back door was ... was open, so—"

  "I leave it open sometimes. For the cats."

  "I came here ... looking for Oddlot. I thought he might be ... hiding here.” Robideau sat up a little straighter, and the room dipped and swayed. He pressed a hand to the back of his head. He saw Bulwer more clearly now, sitting in his raggedy chair, balancing a cricket bat across his knees. He still had his WIMPY shirt on. Haltingly, Robideau explained about the backpack and the missing girl.

  "Oddlot isn't here,” Bulwer said. “He must be up at the theater."

  "I just came from there. The place was closed."

  "Closed to the public, yes. Not to Oddlot and me. We're different."

  "If Oddlot knows anything about that girl, he needs to speak up,” Robideau said, thinking, Yes, you most certainly are different. We can write that down and have it notarized.

  The old man sniffed. He had other thoughts on his mind. “They want to tear the Palace down, you know.” He seemed not to remember Robideau's appeal to him. “They'll probably open a video store there. I could never agree to that."

  Robideau began to rise. Bulwer lifted the bat, shook his head, and the chief sank back down again. What was the old man playing at? And then he remembered that in the other room, he had seen ... Just what had he seen?

  "You could reopen your place."

  "That's not possible. No money, you see. No credit."

  "You could find investors, Bulwer. Modernize. Divide the place up into one of those multiplexes."

  "Pooh. Those aren't theaters. They're just screening rooms with the sound turned up too loud."

  Robideau thought hard. He had to keep the old man talking.

  "I used to love going to the Palace, you know."

  Bulwer nodded. His troubled face was suddenly in silhouette as a stab of lightning leaped in the room.