I follow Barry down a hallway past a parade of oddities. I am far too sober for this.
We stop in a quiet corner. Barry turns to me, expectantly.
“Well?”
“Well what?” I respond.
“The pages, Ellis. The pages. What do you expect me to go in there with? An idea and an airy fart?”
I reach into my bag and pull it out, handing Barry the script. “It might be a little different from what you were expecting.”
Barry looks at the cover page, his face going dark. “The Girl Who Fell Through Time? What the hell is this? Ellis, we’ve got a movie to put together in less than three months. Barry is expecting to start shooting in London this summer. We need to cast. We need to build sets. So why are you telling me that it’s different?”
“Barry, let me explain.”
“Okay, okay.” He takes in a deep breath.
“So, there’s this secret Government program.”
“Okay, we can do secret Government programs. What are they doing?”
“Time travel.”
Barry just states. “What, like science fiction?
“No, no, no. This isn’t H.G. Wells—”
“Who?”
“What I mean is there’s no time machine or nothing like that. Think . . . tunnels.”
“Tunnels?”
“Holes through reality that you can just step through. At one moment you’re in Bob Carr’s beautiful home, and the next moment you’re in ancient Egypt.”
“Sounds fucking terrifying.”
“It’s wish fulfillment is what it is.”
Barry rubs his forehead. “I don’t care about ancient Egypt. I don’t care about time machines or tunnels. I care one thing and only one thing—that Mr. Carr is happy!”
“There’s this girl from the present day who’s thrown back in time to 1950s Paris, just before the war. She doesn’t know why she’s there. But she soon learns that there are these other travelers from hundreds of years in our future, and whatever they want, it’s in her head.”
Barry stares at me, expressionless.
“You hate it.” I say.
He pulls me a few steps down the hall with a vice like grip and hisses into my ear. “You’re not going to say anything to him. In fact, I don’t want you to look at him, speak to him, or even breath in his general direction. If he so much as smells a fart from you, I will shove your head so far up your own ass that for the remainder of your life, you won’t be able to eat, drink, or breathe without tasting your own rectum!”
The door beside us opens and Carl steps out, squinting at us over mounds of pale jowls.
“Ellis,” his jowls transform into something resembling a smile. “Good to see you again, buddy. Mr. Carr is ready for you now.”
Carl nods. “That’s right.”
Barry turns back, jabbing his finger at me. “Not a word.”
Carl steps back, holding the door open for us, and we step inside.
Bob Carr’s office is lit by a single lamp. The light barely touches the low ceilings, mostly highlighting the drifting haze of cigar smoke obscuring the figures within. A slim man is visible through the smoke, stationed behind a large desk. I see a youthful face framed by cherubic blonde hair. Steely blue eyes pierce through the darkness.
Then I notice the man in the corner of the room. He’s tall, slender, wearing an impeccably tailored suit. The two dim outlines that flank him are both twice as large as Carl, which wouldn’t have seemed possible if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes.
So, this must be Selvin.
Carl gestures at our host: “Mr. Carr.”
Bob Carr sets down his a wine glass and extends his hand toward mine “This is the new David Selznick? He doesn’t look like much.” His voice is like water falling on pebbles.
“He’s got a killer idea, Mr. Carr.”
Carr raises his free hand, silencing Barry immediately. I feel a shiver. “Do I have to remind you that we’re already weeks past the original deadline and that cameras are supposed to be rolling in only a month’s time? That doesn’t exactly give me confidence, Barry.”
“No, you don’t have to remind us, Mr. Carr. But I’m telling you, the kid has something really special here.
Carr let’s out a sigh. “Save it, Mendehlsson. Just show me the script.”
I reach into my bag and pull it out. I nearly yelp when Tracy appears suddenly, as if materializing from the shadows, and takes it from me. He hands it Carr without comment.
Barry steps forward. “It’s a little different from what we initially pitched to you.”
Carr holds up a hand. “Do you make a habit of accompanying your writer’s to a pitch meeting, Barry?”
Barry squirms. “Actually, this is something Ellis and I worked on together. I thought that I would start the pitch off.”
“I’m not here to listen to a pitch. I’m here to read a script.”
I glance over at Barry. His eyes are wide and unblinking. “You—you’re going to read it? Right now?”
Carr cocks his head to the side. “Why else would I ask you to bring it?”
He sets the script on his desk and looks down at the title page.
“Hmm, it’s a horrible title.” He thinks a moment, then waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “But we can change the title.”
“That’s right,” Barry says.
Carr looks up. “What the hell did I just say? We’re not talking. I’m reading this. Now, I happen to be a very fast reader. But if I keep getting interrupted, then I think it’s going to take a while.”
Bob Carr leans back in his chair and begins to read.
It is nearly impossible to ignore someone when they are reading something that you’ve written while sitting right in front of you. Every little tick, every smile, frown or grimace, is given subtext. Carr could could sneeze and I would be interpreting it as either an extreme love or deep loathing of the script.
He pauses after what feels like ages and looks up at me. “I gotta say, kid. Most people I’ve already talked to have just pitched me, basically the same thing as Gomorrah’s Winter, with just a few differences added. I am sick and tired of ‘same but different,’ you have no idea.”
I glance at Barry and he looks away, his face ashen.
“But this… this is different. A little weird, sure. Some typos, but that’s no big deal. And I fucking love that you wrote yourself into it. We’ll have to cut that out of course.”
Barry looks up, his fear turning slowly into hope.
I turn back to Carr, feeling as if a year’s worth of stress was being lifted from my back. There’s actually a smile on his lips.
And then he frowns. Carr flips forward a few pages, then back.
“What’s this?” he asks, looking up at me.
“What’s what?” I ask.
Carr flips the script over and throws it on the desk
My normally neat, concise sentences end halfway down the page to be replaced by a single, repeating phrase.
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
That single phrases continues to the end of the page. I stare at it, then look back up at Carr.
“I must have had a little too much to drink that night,” I say with a grin.
“Which night?” Carr asks. He picks the script up, flipping through the rest of the pages. “All of them?”
The phrase continues to repeat, page after page after page.
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
Don’t trust her
“What the hell is this?” Barry asks, snatching the script from Carr’s hands. He flips through the pages, his face becoming a pure white. “I—I can explain this, Mr. Carr. It’s for a marketing campaign that I’ve got another writer working on. The typist must have mixed up the pages. We’ll have this fixed by Monday.”
There’s a crash and the room falls silent. I turn to see broken splinters of glass on Carr’s desk. He had smashed his drink on the hard wood of the desk. “I want you to listen to me carefully, Ellis.” Carr takes in a long breath. “I’m beginning to think that you’re not taking this seriously. But I’m a serious man, Ellis. I make serious films. You understand that, right?”
I nod.
“Good. Now turn around. Do you see that man back there? That’s Mr. Selvin, and he is an even more serious man than I am.” He pauses, and then adds for good measure: “Are you still following me, Ellis?”
My head is beginning to feel like it is on a spring.
Carr leans forward and his whole demeanor changes. “Now let me make things clear for you. I am self financing this movie. I can make whatever the hell I want. If I want to make the most boring fucking thriller in the world, then that’s what I will make. If I want to make another film like Gomorrah’s Winter that would make your girlfriend’s tear ducts flow with more water than Niagara Falls, then that’s what I will fucking make. You could have pitched me whatever the hell you wanted and I would’ve listened. But do you know what I won’t tolerate? No? Do you want to know? What I won’t tolerate is when people fuck around with me!”
His well-manicured fist slams on the desk with an impressive thud. I feel myself shrinking inside. Behind me I hear a whispered curse. It’s Barry.
“Are you fucking around with me.”
“No, of course not!” My objection sounds pathetic even as I say it.
Carr leans back. “Well, I’m not convinced.
He gestures as if to flick me away. Rough hands grab me and I am dragged backward. Barry’s horrified face recedes in my vision. They pull me through the hallways of Carr’s house. The beautiful faces of his guests float by me, mutated into hideous, jeering nightmares as I am dragged into their midst.
A door opens and I am pulled into a different hallway. It’s quieter here. Further away from the party. Carl and Tracy let go and I crash onto the floor.
Tracy fiddles with a key and opens a door. I look up, seeing into a bedroom. I feel myself grow cold. There can only be one reason they want me here, and it’s not a good one.
Down the hall, a door opens.
Carl and Tracy both pause, looking toward the sound. I struggle up, but Carl puts his shoe on my chest, pressing me to the floor.
“Does anyone know where the bathroom…” the voice trails off.
“Wrong hallway,” Tracy growls.
“Hey, what’s wrong with him?” The man asks. I can hear him moving forward. I turn, seeing a man in a tuxedo moving toward me.
“He had too much to drink,” says Carl.
“Is that right?” the man asks. “Well, to be honest, so have I.” The man laughs, stumbling toward Carl.
“Look out, buddy!” Carl shouts.
There’s a blur of motion above me. The tuxedoed man reaches out, grabbing Carl and smashing him headfirst into the wall. Tracy shouts and lunges forward, but the guy grabs Tracy’s arm and spins him around into the opposite wall. I feel a tug on my leg and look up to see Carl, grabbing at my ankle. The man’s foot comes down on Carl’s wrist and I hear a sickening pop.
The man in the tuxedo turns, surveying his handiwork. Both Carl and Tracy are writhing on the floor in pain.
“What do you want?” I gasp.
The man bends down, revealing a face red with scars.
It’s Vic.
“I want to help.”
I follow Vic out to the pool. My mind is still spinning. Why the hell is this man, who the last time we saw each other said that he wanted to kill me, now leading me between the planters on Bob Carr’s back patio? And why the hell did I write “don’t trust her” several hundred times on my script? The LSD is an obvious culprit, but I can’t help but feeling that there’s something more.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “The last time I saw you, you held a tire iron to my skull.”
“Don’t stop worrying, because if I don’t kill you, then those guys will.” Vic nods across the patio. Two completely average looking men in tuxedos are walking casually through the crowd.
“Who are they?” I ask.
Vic turns to me and I can see the gears moving behind his eyes. Finally he answers. “They’re ISD agents. And spare the act. I’m aware of exactly how much you think you know.”
“And they’re after me?”
“They’ll find you if we don’t hurry. Come on.”
I follow Vic around a half naked waitress and behind a gazebo.
He grabs me as soon as we are out of sight, pushing me against the gazebos’ bamboo latticework. “Now listen carefully, the only way you get out of this alive is by telling me exactly what you and your little scooby gang have been planning at Camton University every night.”
I smile. “You talk tough but there’s plenty you don’t know, isn’t there?”
Vic grimaces. “It makes no difference what I do or don’t know.”
“I thought you said you’d kill me if I saw her again.”
“There’s still plenty of time for that,” Vic growls.
“What, you don’t you want your little ISD buddies to steal the opportunity from you?”
Vic narrows his eyes, regarding me evenly. “You’re stupid, but you’ve got guts. I’ll give you that much.”
“Why should I tell you anything?” I ask.
“Would you believe me if I said the fate of the world depended on it?”
I hesitate. “Maybe.”
“Well, it might.” Vic says.
“I promised to help Jane.” I say. “If I tell you what I know, are you going to try and stop her?”
“I make no promises,” Vic says.
I smirk. “Well, maybe that’s why she left you.”
Vic growls and presses his arm into my windpipe. I can immediately feel the blood pounding in my ears, but his voice is still audible, a quiet whisper just above the roar. “She didn’t leave me, you idiot. I left her. But sixteen-year-old girls don’t handle abandonment like the rest of us. I did what I did because I had to. For her sake and for everyone else’s.”
I hear a commotion and turn and look across the back patio. Carl is pushing his way through the crowd of people, blood streaming down his head. He’s holding a towel to the wound, but it’s doing little to stop the flow.
“Wow, he’s really bleeding,” I say.
“I barely touched him,” Vic says. “Come on. This way.”
Vic pushes open a gate. I stumble after him onto a stone path that winds its way through a tropical paradise. A canopy of palm fronds enshroud us. Bamboo groves line the paths. I am reminded of the summer my family spent in Hawaii. The water bill for this place must be astronomical.
I glance over my shoulder and see Tracy and Carl ducking into the grove behind us.
“They’re following us!” I hiss.
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Vic says. “This way.”
He squeezes into a gap in the bamboo. I follow him, feeling the bamboo leaves scratch against my face. We enter a small clearing in the grove. Vic turns, crouching in the undergrowth. I crouch behind him, looking out at the path. I can see the silhouetted shapes of the two goons moving slowly down the path.
They slow near the place where we entered the grove.
“Shit, they found us!” I whisper.
Vic holds up a finger to silence me. It works.
“Clear out, we’re looking for someone.”
The voice is Carl’s unmistakable tenor.
“So are we,” says another voice. It’s unfamiliar, flat, and dead sounding. It reminds me eerily of Vic’s own way of speaking.
“Oh yeah?” Tracy says. “Who are you guys looking for?”
“Ellis Claymore,” says a fourth voice, as flat and dead as the second man who’d spoken. “Have you seen him?”
“Jesus, you’re FBI?” Carl responds. “Sorry fellas. We think he came back here
.”
I give Vic a glance. “FBI?” I whisper.
Vic shakes his head.
“We think they went in here,” Tracy says.
The four men move into the bamboo grove, heading slowly toward us. Vic begins to creep backward. There’s now a gun in his hand. I have no idea where it came from.
“What do we do?” I whisper.
Vic doesn’t respond.
We squeeze through another bamboo copse, stepping onto an adjacent garden path. Vic looks around, then stands.
“Follow the path,” Vic whispers. “You’re going back to the party. Head straight through the house and get your bike from the valet. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“What about you?” I ask.
I’m going to keep these guys busy,” he whispers back.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper, straightening. I turn, heading back up the path. I can see the amber glow of the pool in the artificial lighting, flickering through the trees. A tall man in a lavender tuxedo steps suddenly out of an alcove in the garden path and I run straight into him.
The man spins, turning on me in a rage.
“Jesus Christ,” he shouts. “You made me spill my drink!”
I look up and nearly piss myself when I see Ray Brenner glaring down at me.
“What, you’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“He says sorry,” says Brenner, turning to someone else in the small alcove. A slender woman wearing flower print dress that shows nearly all of her long legs gives Brenner a shrug. Jane Shelley of course.
“Ray, be nice to him,” says Shelley, lazily waving the cigarette in my direction. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“I said I’m sorry,” I say, glancing back down the path.
Ray narrows his eyes, as if noticing me for the first time. “Who are you anyway?”
“I’m a writer,” I say, glancing down the path again.
“Oh, you are a pretty thing,” he says, brushing my cheek with his hand. “A writer you said? One of Carr’s new proteges?” He follows my gaze down the path, and then looks back at me with—what, is that sympathy in his eyes? Understanding?
Dispersion: Book Two of the Recursion Event Saga Page 12