Watch Them Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Thanks, Joyce.”

  Hannah hung up the phone. She glanced at Scott, who met her gaze, then eyed the Casino tape on the back counter. “Are you going to look at it?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I pulled up the last rental record,” he said. “It was checked out and returned three days ago. So he must have ripped it off within the last couple of days.”

  For all she knew, Hannah might have been in the store when her “secret admirer” stole the tape.

  She took the cassette and went into the break room. Scott followed her. She switched on the TV and inserted the cassette.

  Scott stood behind her, at the break room door.

  The sound and picture came up on the little TV screen. “The House of the Rising Sun” churned over the soundtrack while a drugged, zombie-like Sharon Stone stumbled down the hallway of some seedy motel. Every few steps, she stopped and rested her blond head against the wall. Hannah recognized Robert De Niro in the grim voice-over, explaining that Stone’s character, Ginger, had been given a “hot dose.” He said they never found out who gave Ginger the drugs that killed her.

  “So explain to me again,” she heard Scott say. He sounded a bit scared. “Why would this guy want you to see this particular scene?”

  “He’s telling me that he’s ready to kill again.” Hannah nodded at the screen, at the dazed, depleted Sharon Stone, staggering though that barren corridor. “And this is how the next one will die.”

  “Hannah, can I call you right back?” Britt asked, on the other end of the line. “I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call in two minutes, I promise.”

  “All right,” Hannah said.

  “Okay, bye.” Britt replied; then she hung up.

  Sitting at the desk in the break room, Hannah replaced the receiver on its cradle.

  Scott was behind the counter, minding the store. He and Hannah had tried to figure out whose death the Casino scene forecast. If the pattern stayed consistent, the next victim would be a woman—like the victim in the video.

  “It sounds crazy,” Scott had said. “But I keep thinking of Britt. She’s a sweetie pie, and I love her dearly. But Britt has a drug problem, and she’s just dumb enough to end up dead from an overdose in some fleabag hotel.”

  Hannah could almost picture Britt repeating Sharon Stone’s Casino death scene in a hotel corridor. She suddenly realized how her stalker worked.

  He had to be watching her constantly. No doubt, he saw or heard those confrontations with Cindy Finkelston and Lester Hall. As much as he stalked her, he must have kept surveillance on his intended victims, too. He must have decided to push Cindy Finkelston out of that fifth-floor window when he saw she lived in a tall apartment building. The killer was a film buff. He sent Hannah a sneak preview of Cindy’s murder with the Rosemary’s Baby tape cued on the scene with the fallen corpse splattered on the pavement. He had to know about Lester Hall’s massages before he furnished her with that murder-on-the-massage-table scene from The Godfather. And how long had he been following around Ronald Craig before deciding to mow him down with a stolen car in the fashion of that scene in Wait Until Dark?

  His next victim would be a woman with a drug habit, most likely someone from the store, someone just dumb enough to end up dead from an overdose in some fleabag hotel.

  When the phone rang, Hannah grabbed it. “Hello?” Then she realized it could be a customer. “Um, Emerald City Video. Thanks for calling.”

  “Hannah? It’s me, Britt. Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. I was in the middle of something. What’s going on?”

  “Well, remember I told you how someone was giving me these videos?” Hannah said. “They were cued to just the spot when a murder takes place.”

  “Oh, yeah. Did you ever find out who was doing that?”

  “No,” Hannah said. “But the thing is, after I got each video, someone was killed a couple of days later in the same way the characters in each of the movies died.”

  “I don’t get it,” Britt admitted.

  Hannah tried to explain it again, but she could tell Britt wasn’t grasping the seriousness of the situation. She sounded a bit foggy in her responses. Hannah figured Britt must have been getting high when she’d called her a few minutes ago.

  “Anyway, the video I just got was Casino,” Hannah continued, a bit exasperated. “It was set to a scene with Sharon Stone in this crummy hotel, and she’s dying of a drug overdose, or a ‘hot dose.’”

  “Oh, Sharon Stone was so good in that movie,” Britt said.

  “That’s not the point, Britt,” Hannah replied, an edge creeping into her tone. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried you’ll end up dead from a bad dose of some drug. It might not be your fault. You might not know.”

  “Oh, Hannah,” Britt said with a little laugh. “You act like I’m this major addict or something. I just get high once in a while. God, stop worrying about me. I’m fine. In fact, I’m great. I have the next two days off. I’ll be with Webb practically the whole time, so I’ll be safe. We’re just gonna kick back. So don’t sweat it.”

  “Listen, Britt. Will you promise me something? Will you call me if you find yourself alone for a while? I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Sure, but like I said, Webb will be with me,” she replied.

  “And promise to be careful, okay? I know you’ll probably want to get high, but please don’t take any chances. I don’t want you to end up with a bad dose. Do you understand?”

  Britt laughed. “Sure, whatever you say, Hannah. Listen, I gotta go. Webb’s here, and we’re headed out.”

  “Okay,” Hannah said. “But promise me you won’t take any chances.”

  “All right already,” Britt replied, giggling again. “God. Hannah, I’m not Sharon Stone in Casino. I wished I looked like her, but I’m not her. Listen, I need to motor. I’ll call you later, okay? And hey, mellow out. Remember, it’s only a movie.”

  Hannah heard the click on the other end of the line.

  She figured her coworkers hated her right about now. After coming to the store nearly four hours late this morning, she’d spent most of the afternoon in the break room. She’d been tapping into the computer for rental histories on Wait Until Dark and Casino. But she wasn’t coming up with any names that matched.

  Hannah began looking for patterns elsewhere. She charted out a timetable of the events since all of this started:

  3rd Week September (approx)—Video dropped off at store.

  Wed-10/9—Run-in w/Cindy F. Took GOODBAR video Home. Break-in.

  Thurs-10/10—2nd break-in. ROSEMARY’S BABY tape left in VCR.

  Sun-10/13—Cindy Finkelston killed.

  Tues-10/15 (or Mon?) Run-in w/Lester Hall.

  Sat-10/19—GODFATHER video left in shopping cart.

  Tues-10/22—Lester Hall is killed.

  Wed-10/23—Found WAIT UNTIL DARK tape in public restroom. Craig killed.

  Today-10/24—CASINO video in purse.

  There was no consistency in the time lapse between her receiving a video and the subsequent murder. The first two victims were each killed three days after she got the videos forecasting their deaths. But Craig had been mowed down within hours of her finding the Wait Until Dark video in that lavatory. She couldn’t hope to predict when the Casino-style murder would take place.

  Hannah felt like she was banging her head against a wall. The only pattern she saw was the obvious one: someone was making her a reluctant, silent accomplice in a series of murders. He slipped her videos of Hollywood death scenes as a preview of his lethal handiwork.

  The homemade Goodbar tape was the exception. That was no preview. It was a real murder, caught on tape; she had no doubt about it now. Had the other deaths been captured on videotape as well? Did he have an accomplice filming Cindy Finkelston’s fall? Was someone else lurking in the parking lot last night, and did he have a video camera to shoot the Wait Until Dark reenactment? How had they filmed Lester Hall’s death?

&nbs
p; On that first night, October 9th, she’d thought she saw someone videotaping her from an alley.

  She kept coming back to Paul Gulletti, with his knowledge of film and his unhealthy interest in her. When she’d first met him, he’d claimed he was planning to direct his own movie. Was it the Goodbar homage?

  She’d been selected to see that video. The cassette hadn’t been dropped off at the store by accident. Someone knew she would take it home and look at it.

  Hannah remembered her first day in Paul’s class last semester. Each student had to stand up, introduce themselves, and talk about their interest in film. Hannah mentioned working in a video store. Paul got a laugh when he jokingly asked if anyone ever dropped off their homemade sex tapes at the store by accident.

  “Well, I haven’t seen any,” Hannah had replied. “And I’m the only one who ever takes home the wrong-returns and looks at them. No one else cares. Guess I’m just curious.”

  The Goodbar cassette had been in the store for over two weeks before Hannah had brought it home. How she must have stretched his patience while he waited for curiosity to get the best of her.

  He must have been watching her that whole time. Somehow, he must have been listening, too.

  Three different men had been following her, so Ben Podowski claimed. If she were looking for patterns, there were a few common denominators with two of those three men. Both Ben Podowski and Ronald Craig had lied to her about their true identities. Yet each man professed a desire to help her. She wondered if Ben—like Ronald Craig—had been hired to spy on her by her estranged husband. Ronald Craig had been murdered because he’d seen too much. Ben could die for the same reason. Maybe he would be the next victim, dying from a “hot dose” in some hotel. Her stalker could have taken liberties with the locale in Casino. If Ben Podowski died from an overdose in that tenement, no one would blink an eye.

  Hannah stared at his phone number—among all the notes and lists she’d been making. She picked up the phone and dialed. While it rang, she wondered if her husband, Kenneth, was somehow behind all these killings. Thanks to Ronald—and perhaps, Ben—he might have tracked her down. Maybe he was playing some sort of sadistic game with her for revenge.

  There was a click on the other end of the line, then a recording: “Hello, this is Ben. I’m not home right now, but—”

  Hannah hung up. She wanted to warn Ben. But for all she knew, he could be the killer or an accomplice.

  “Shit,” she muttered, staring at the phone. She didn’t know what to think or whom to trust. If she was compelled to make a phone call, it should be to the police.

  Someone knocked on the door, and she jumped a bit. “Um, yeah? Do you need me up front?”

  Scott poked his head in. “No, in fact, it’s dead as Planet Hollywood out there. C’mon, step outside with me while I grab a smoke. Cheryl can take over for a few minutes. You need some fresh air. It’s really pretty out.”

  Scott was right. Orange and pink streaks slashed across the twilight sky. Along the sidewalk, leaves scattered in the cool, autumn breeze. Hannah and Scott leaned against a bicycle rack outside the store. He lit up a generic-brand cigarette.

  “Scott, you understand my situation,” she said. “I have no business asking you to do this. But could you—maybe contact the police for me? You can say all this has been happening to you. Tell them about the videos, and the deaths that followed.”

  He exhaled a puff of smoke and gave her a deadpan stare. “So—I’m supposed to tell them I found this latest video in my purse?”

  “Okay, say it was in your backpack,” Hannah retorted. “The important thing is someone—maybe Britt—could be in trouble. Maybe the police can do something. Maybe they can catch this guy before he does any more harm.”

  “You want them to follow Britt around? Hello? Hannah, they’ll pick her up for possession. And hell, I’ll bet good ol’ Webb is dealing. They’ll throw his sorry ass in jail, too. I don’t give a crap about him, but I couldn’t do that to Britt.”

  “Would you rather see her dead?”

  “Of course not. But I won’t get her—and myself—in trouble because you want me to tell this story to the cops for you. Hannah, you need to do it yourself.” He took another drag off his cigarette and shook his head. “The cops would have all sorts of questions for me that I couldn’t answer. I’ll back you up, but I can’t be your beard here.”

  “You’re right.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  If she hoped to prevent another murder, she would have to go to the police with her story. But once they found out who she really was, she’d be as good as dead.

  “What are you thinking?” Scott asked quietly.

  “I’m thinking I’m screwed,” Hannah replied.

  They got swamped with customers in the store. Hannah worked an extra hour to make up for all her time in the back room. She didn’t clock out until six-fifty. On a regular Thursday evening, that would have given her ten minutes to get to film class, but she wasn’t going tonight. She felt bad enough that work took her away from Guy while he was sick. She needed to be with him tonight.

  But she had an errand to run on her way home. She’d bought two rolls of quarters at the store. It made her purse a bit heavier as she started to take a roundabout way home.

  There was a phone booth outside a little mom-and-pop grocery store four blocks from her house. It was on a quiet street; in fact, so quiet the little grocery store had recently closed from lack of business. Of course, maybe their charging $1.59 for a can of Coke had something to do with it.

  Tonight, Hannah was sorry they were closed. There was something sad and creepy about the boarded-up store. The light from its RC Cola sign used to illuminate that section of the sidewalk. Hannah had made calls to Chicago friends from this phone booth, but never when it had been this dark. The light above the phone was dim and flickering.

  She took out her rolls of quarters and dialed directory assistance for Green Bay, Wisconsin. She asked for the non-emergency number for the Green Bay police. Hannah dropped fourteen quarters into the slot, and was automatically connected to her party.

  “Green Bay Police, City Precinct,” the operator answered.

  “Um, yes,” Hannah said. “I have a question about a potential missing person.”

  “One minute while I connect you with a detective.”

  While she waited, Hannah glanced around. The sidewalk was deserted except for a cat lurking around a dumpster halfway down the block. Most of the trees had lost their leaves. It was so dark it seemed more like midnight than seven P.M.

  “This is Detective Dreiling,” a gravel-voiced man piped up on the other end of the line. “Can I have your name, please?”

  “Yes, I’m Deborah Eastman,” Hannah said, using the name of a favorite customer from the store. “I’m on vacation here on the West Coast. And yesterday, I ran into someone in San Francisco who I think might be a missing person from Green Bay. Her name is Hannah Woodley. I think she was supposed to have disappeared a while back or something.”

  “One minute, please,” he said.

  Hunched inside the phone booth, Hannah could hear a keyboard clacking faintly on the other end.

  “Can I have your phone number, please?” he asked.

  “Where I am now, or my home phone?” Hannah asked. “Because I’m in the middle of moving, a divorce really. I can give you a number where I’ll be tonight. I’m staying with some friends—”

  “Ma’am,” he interrupted. “I need a number where we can contact you—”

  “Well, I can give you one,” Hannah replied, talking fast and trying to sound a bit agitated. “But I really don’t want to waste any more of your time or mine if they aren’t looking for Hannah Woodley. This is a long-distance call, you know. I heard something about her disappearing a while back, and I’m just trying to help out.”

  “Ma’am, yes, she and her son are listed here as missing persons. Mrs. Woodley is also wanted for questioning in connection with re
ported kidnapping and larceny charges. Any information as to her whereabouts would be appreciated. Now, can I get your phone number?”

  Hannah felt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. She knew the Woodleys had probably brought up charges against her, but Scott had convinced her there was a chance they hadn’t. Now, as she listened to the police detective read off those charges, she felt so doomed.

  “Ms. Eastman?” the detective said. “Are you there?”

  Hannah quickly hung up the phone.

  She hoped she hadn’t been on the line long enough for them to trace the call. She sagged against the inside of the booth. A couple of moths flew around the flickering overhead light. Hannah had to remind herself that she wasn’t really any worse off than she’d always figured. She just didn’t like hearing it.

  Sighing, Hannah grabbed what was left of the torn-up roll of quarters on the little shelf under the phone. She started to step out of the booth, and gasped. The coins fell out of her hand.

  He stood halfway down the block, by the dumpsters. He was filming her with a video camera. She couldn’t see his face, just a tall, shadowy figure silhouetted by a streetlight in the distance behind him.

  Hannah backed into the booth and hit her shoulder against the edge. Desperately, she glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby. No one. She was alone. She quickly dug into her purse for her little canister of pepper spray. Then she looked toward the dumpsters again.

  He was gone.

  A car drove by. Hannah raised a hand to flag it down, but it kept going. Its headlights swept against the dumpsters and an alley behind them. She didn’t see him, but she had a feeling he was still there, watching.

  Hannah found the pepper spray. Clutching it in her fist, she dared to take a couple of steps down the sidewalk—toward the dumpsters and the mouth of that gloomy alleyway. She hoped he didn’t notice she was trembling.