Carefully he opened it fully before him and stared at it, puzzled.
It was a crudely drawn map. An island…
He instinctively turned it over to look at the back. Here someone had scrawled words, fragmented sentences in a spidery handwriting.
Whatever this was, Denham had never mentioned it. The parchment felt heavy in his hands. Preston studied the words, trying to read the scrawl, and as he worked out what some of them were, a chill danced up the back of his neck while his mouth dropped open.
His astonishment was interrupted by the sound of loud footsteps out in the hall. With a glance toward the door, Preston hurriedly stuffed the map into his pocket, even as Denham stormed into the room.
“Did you find it?”
Preston’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“The filter box?” Denham prodded. Then he rolled his eyes. “Never mind. It’s over here.”
He grabbed the filter box from a shelf and Preston stood, watching him warily. When Denham gave him an impatient look and strode out, returning to the deck that was their impromptu film set, Preston sighed with relief.
But his mind was awhirl with dreadful curiosity. For now he had to follow the director, but later he would take a better look at that map.
The film crew finished shooting Ann’s close-up and were setting up for another scene—a good time for her to take the opportunity and locate the nearest bathroom. As she made her way along one of the many interior corridors of the labyrinthine ship, Jack Driscoll rounded a corner up ahead of her, coming her way.
There was a moment in which they both hesitated. Ann noticed it only because she was just as guilty of the temptation to flee as Jack. They kept on toward one another and she tried to think of what to say, some meaningless pleasantry to pretend the butterflies in her stomach weren’t real, that the tension between them didn’t exist.
The sea had been calm all morning, but they must have been entering rougher seas, for the ship gave a sudden roll, the whole vessel swaying.
Jack was thrown forward, but Ann held her balance just fine.
“Good legs,” he said.
She shot him a sharp look.
Jack colored. “Sea legs, I meant. Not that you don’t have good legs. I was just…”
He let his words trailed off as she turned to edge past him in the corridor, not bothering to respond to his rambling.
“…making conversation,” he finished, when she was past him. Then he raised his voice. “Jesus! Miss Darrow!”
Ann was surprised at the intensity in his tone. She’d learned rather quickly that Jack was a thinker, and that was where his passion lay. But now she stopped and turned, wondering at his outburst.
“About the scene today,” he began, “with you and Bruce—”
Of course. He wanted to talk about his words.
“I know,” she said, working both an apology and a bit of disdain into her voice. “It wasn’t what you wrote. But Mr. Baxter felt very strongly that if a man really likes a woman, he ignores her, and if things turn really hostile…then it must be love.”
She gave Jack a pointed look, but it was obviously lost on him.
“Hmm. Interesting theory…not quite what I had in mind.”
“I’m sorry, I should have…” she began, but then paused. What should she have done? Insisted that Bruce stick to the script as written? Surely, that was someone else’s job. Mr. Denham’s, or Jack’s. If words were all he cared about…
“I was just very nervous,” she managed, wondering why she felt the need to make excuses at all.
But then he looked at her, searching her eyes, and there was charm and warmth there that seemed uncharacteristic for Jack Driscoll. Ann liked that. She liked it very much. Too bad she had made such a mess of things when she’d met him. Ann had daydreamed about what it would be like to meet Jack Driscoll, how perfect it would be, but fate had obviously had other plans.
“Well,” he said, looking at her with a kind of curiosity, as if she was some kind of animal he’d never seen before, “it wasn’t what I intended. But you made it your own. It was funny, actually. You were funny.”
Ann gave the tiniest of shrugs. “Yeah, but you meant for it to be serious.”
“I have a tendency to do that.”
“Mister Driscoll, you don’t have to say anything.”
Jack looked at her closely. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, so gentle that it froze her in place. The air between them seemed to crackle with electricity. Ann searched his eyes. There was something there, and it drove her crazy that she didn’t know what it was. The man infuriated her and compelled her all at the same time.
He had to know, didn’t he? Had to realize from the way she’d behaved that she had created this whole story in her mind, this whole idea of how this journey was going to unfold? Her great adventure at sea with Jack Driscoll, whose words had created such passion in her.
And now she’d discovered Jack Driscoll was just a man. An ordinary man, who hid whatever passion he had behind veiled eyes and dry intellect. And she herself had been revealed to be nothing more than a fanciful, dreaming girl.
Did he really understand all of that? How humiliated she felt?
“I guess…” she began, and then faltered. Ann shook her head, feeling the absurdity of it. But there was kindness in his gaze, and that drew the truth from her. “I just had this stupid idea that maybe, this one time, things would actually work out. Which was really very…”
A tremor went through her.
“…foolish.”
She saw Jack, noticed the way he was looking at her, felt that charged air between them again, and a realization went through her.
Maybe she hadn’t been as foolish as she’d feared.
8
THE NEXT FEW DAYS passed pleasantly enough, though for Jack, living on shipboard was taking more than a little getting used to. As a playwright, he was certainly not rolling in money, but he’d done well enough that living in Manhattan was a pleasure. There were thousands of restaurants in the city, or so it seemed, and one could begin on New Year’s Day, eating in a different spot every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and still not have touched them all by year’s end.
Lumpy’s cooking didn’t quite measure up.
But the culinary deprivation was minor in comparison to other basic niceties. Laundry, for instance. He had nothing to wear save what he’d had on when he came aboard and whatever he could beg, steal, or borrow from the sailors and the film crew. Also, it seemed to him that no matter how vigorously he scrubbed with the laundry soap, washing his shirts and drawers by hand never quite got them completely clean.
Still, these were small things.
The truth—and it was difficult for him to admit, even to himself—was that being cast adrift like this, cut off from all that he knew of civilization, Jack felt more alive than he ever had in his life. The Venture steamed on toward the East Indies under blue skies and at night the sun burned orange as it set upon the ocean.
And for those days, Jack wrote.
With Denham breathing down his neck, he produced several new scenes for the as-yet-unnamed jungle adventure the director was orchestrating. But time and again he found himself going back to another project, a brand new play that had taken root in his creative consciousness and was demanding to be written. Ever since he had met Ann Darrow, something had been niggling at his brain, some idea playing there. And once he’d seen her filming her scenes with Bruce Baxter, seen the natural humor and charisma she brought to her performance, it had begun to take form.
Ann was a comedienne. Jack had denigrated her vaudeville roots when Denham had first told him about her, but now he saw that there was more to vaudeville than simply buffoonery. Ann was a genuinely funny person. It was in her delivery, her facial expression, her confidence. When she wanted to be archly comic, it flowed from her naturally, a part of her no less than her beauty. And that was another thing
; she seemed completely unaware of how stunning she was.
The fact was, he just couldn’t get Ann Darrow out of his head. As prickly as she’d been with him, she was damned charming as well, particularly when she was embarrassed or uncomfortable.
Jack’s nature in contrast could be pretty dour. He wrote drama, investigated the human condition and at times all sorts of other depressing subjects. But for the first time in his life, he wanted to try his hand at comedy, to understand it. Ann had triggered in him a fascination with the comedic form.
So he stayed down in the filthy hold and wrote. Now, here in the morning hours, he sat in his singlet and boxer shorts, typing madly while his clothes hung to dry from a makeshift clothes line he’d rigged above the cages. He had no idea if what he was writing was funny, but when he imagined Ann speaking the lines of the female lead, they made him smile, so he thought that was a decent start.
Bruce Baxter was troubled. Ann was a sweet girl, but she was an amateur, and from what he could tell so far, just about every man on the ship was falling for her. Wife, girlfriend, mother, daughter, sister…she just touched a nerve for all of them, somehow.
Not that he was immune, either. She was a decent enough actress, he supposed. Her sharp wit gave him something to react to on camera. That was more than he could say for some of the wooden actresses he’d worked with in the past.
But he wondered if perhaps she was a little too good. Denham was enchanted with her. Not romantically—Bruce didn’t know if Denham had an ounce of romance in his soul, and there was always that little thing between him and the rest of humanity…the camera. He always viewed the world from the other side. But Denham was nevertheless caught up in Ann’s allure.
Driscoll, too, and maybe even more so.
Where did that leave him? Bruce was the hero. The star. He’d signed on to play the lead in this picture, and he wanted to make sure Denham and Driscoll didn’t forget that fact. Bruce had too much at stake. His last few pictures had not performed to expectations, and studio executives were apt to just move on to the next handsome young man. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be playing second fiddle by year’s end, or worse yet, the heavy.
He could fight, though. And by God he would. He’d come from nothing, grown up down South in a hardscrabble backwater town, and when he came to Hollywood, he’d risen the hard way. Bruce didn’t like to let it show. He was a star, after all, and had an image to consider.
But he was a scrapper, and when it came to his career, with this picture he was fighting for his life.
One of the posters in his cabin had fallen down. The moisture had gotten up under it and loosened it from the wall. Now Bruce took pains to hang it up again. His favorite poster…The Dame Tamer. That was the circus one with the lions. Bruce had enjoyed the heck out of that one. He’d also hung the posters for Rough Trader and Tribal Brides of the Amazon in his cabin, just to remind him who he was, and what he was doing out here in the middle of the ocean, making this picture.
Fighting for his life.
At dusk, Denham stood on the deck, hoping to catch the light exactly right for the shot he wanted. Ann wore a cream-colored dress that shimmered and sparkled with beads, the picture of glamour. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she was clad in rags; the woman was radiant on film. In a certain slant of light, she gave him all a director could ever want of a woman’s soul up on the screen. He just knew that men all over the world were going to fall in love with her when they saw this footage.
He stepped back from the camera and wiped sweat from his brow. Herb moved in and checked focus. Mike had his headphones on and he gave Denham a thumbs up to say the audio was recording just fine.
Denham glanced at Preston, who had seemed extremely distracted the last couple of days. The assistant caught his look and gave him a curt nod, then looked away. Something was going on with the kid, but Denham didn’t have the time or patience to find out what.
He had a film to make.
“All right, Ann. Let’s move on,” he said, and then he began directing her through a series of emotions. He was building up a reel of reaction shots that he could edit into the film wherever they were necessary, helping to punctuate the story.
Pensive. Sorrowful. Angry. Giddy.
Out of the corner of his eye, Denham saw someone moving along the deck. He glanced over and saw Jack approaching. The writer held loose pages in his hands and was reading them even as he walked.
“Laughing, Ann!” he called. “You’re happy.”
She spun around, blond hair flying around her shoulders as she turned, her whole face illuminated by her laughter and the golden rays of the setting sun. When she saw Jack, she froze for a moment, staring at him, distracted, as though she had completely forgotten where she was.
Denham glanced over and saw that Jack was staring back.
Then Ann broke the look and started to turn again.
Well, well, Denham thought, smiling to himself. Isn’t that interesting?
When Denham was done with her for the day, Ann started back toward her cabin. She hadn’t gone twenty feet when she heard the music begin. A smile immediately blossomed on her face and she went back out onto the deck in search of the source.
There was laughter and the clink of bottles. Some of the crewmen who weren’t on duty had brought out bottles of whiskey and were passing them around. But the alcohol didn’t interest her at all. It was the music that drew Ann, a blissful tune she recognized but couldn’t name, something from the Highlands of Scotland.
There was a flute and some kind of percussion and other instruments, so that it felt to her almost like a little orchestra pit, there on the deck of the Venture. These rough, unshaven men were the soul of the sea, and they had at last let down their guard entirely with Ann. The music drifted out over the ocean and Ann laughed to hear them and to see the pleasure in their eyes as they played.
Standing to one side, she saw Jimmy. The boy was kind and his eyes bright, but there was also a shadow over him at times and from what she knew of him, it was there for a reason. He had lived through dark times. Indeed, they all had.
When he saw her looking at him, Jimmy shyly glanced away.
Ann shook her head, letting him know he wouldn’t be allowed to be bashful with her, and she went over and pulled on his hand, tugging him into a circle of sailors who hooted and clapped.
Even as they began to dance, Choy started to sing. He had a strangely beautiful voice, but none of his shipmates seemed surprised. They clapped all the more for him.
Ann’s heart soared. For the first time since her vaudeville troupe had been disbanded and the theater closed, she felt the rush of giddiness that she always got in the company of close companions. Right then, she didn’t think she could ever wish to be anywhere but there on the deck, with Choy singing, dancing with Jimmy, and laughing.
With a mock serious face, Ann snatched the cap off a sailor’s head and put it on. She strutted in it a moment, and the crew laughed at her antics.
She caught sight of Jack, watching her. Their eyes met for an instant before Jimmy spun her, whirling her away. For a kid, he was a good dancer.
As she whirled about, she caught sight of other members of this strange new “family.” Preston had been keeping to himself of late and he stood off to the side, quite alone. Further along the deck, Denham stood against the railing, scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. Englehorn was beside him, a chart held in his hand.
It crossed her mind for just a moment to wonder what they were looking for, but then Jimmy was spinning her again, and all such thoughts left her. The music went on, and the singing, and dusk turned to evening turned to darkness. After a time, Ann wandered away from the cluster of sailors and at last went back to her cabin.
There was still laughter and music up on the deck, but members of the crew had begun to drift off, returning to their duty, or to sleep, or other pursuits. Denham stood in the mess room, leaning over charts that Preston had brought to him, spreadin
g them out on a table. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but Lumpy, sometime cook and jack of all trades, kept shooting dark, disapproving glances in his direction.
There were footsteps and Denham looked to see Mr. Hayes entering the mess, with Jimmy in tow. The kid had a guilty sort of look, fairly confirming Denham’s long-held suspicion. The director had certainly overheard the whispers and gotten strange looks from the crew.
The kid had heard Jack that day in the cargo hold when he and Denham were talking about their final destination, and he sure as hell hadn’t kept it to himself.
A confrontation was coming, and Denham—master of avoiding confrontation—could see no way around it.
Hayes strode over to the cook, who was wiping down a bench top. “Lumpy, if someone was to tell you this ship is headed for Singapore, what would you say?”
Lumpy sniffed, clutching a rag to his grubby paw. “I’d say they were full of it, Mr. Hayes. We turned southwest last night.”
Denham tried to focus on the charts, to pretend he wasn’t hearing them. But then he felt someone behind him and looked up sharply to find Hayes standing over him.
“Gentleman, please,” the director said calmly. “We’re not looking for trouble.”
“No,” Jimmy said softly. “You’re looking for something else.”
Denham glanced around at the men gathered in the mess, then stared a moment at Jimmy, whose loose tongue had forced this moment. There was no getting around it now.
“Yes we are,” he admitted. “Skull Island is going on the map. We’re gonna find it, film it, and show it to the world. That’s the hook: for twenty-five cents, you get to see the last blank space on earth.”
Lumpy had gone over to the whetstone near the kitchen and now lifted a large knife. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, and set the blade to the stone.
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