Paul sprayed a mouthful of coffee across the room. He slammed down the mug.
He stared in shock at the radio.
“Holy shit! Harry.”
44
Harry sped toward West Hollywood in his silver Audi, wheels squealing around a corner as he entered La Brea Avenue. He had awakened this morning devastated and aching over the prior night’s blow-up with Rachel. He had searched deep in his soul and decided it was time to come clean.
Enough bullshit. He was going to tell Rachel everything. And then he was going to the police.
He dreaded Rachel’s reaction most. The humiliation would be crushing. But she needed to know.
He was not a great director.
He did not create Deadly Desires.
He was still the same old loser she had rejected at the start, the maker of terrible, cheesy horror movies. Everything that excited her about him was a lie.
Deadly Desires was all Marcus Stegman, from beginning to end, and Harry had taken credit for another man’s movie. It was a desperate effort to boost his sagging career and medicate his midlife crisis.
Then, with that confession out of the way, Harry would tell Rachel the twisted truth about Stegman: The real killings masquerading as film art. The brutal fate of Sandra Ross.
And the real reason he did not want Rachel to shoot the scene for Stegman’s new movie.
Her life was in jeopardy.
A fresh bouquet of flowers bundled in cellophane sat beside him in the passenger seat. They might not mend fences. She might throw them back in his face. But if he could stop her from filming that “Psycho” scene next week, it was worth it. Even if she never talked to him again. Even if he spent the rest of his life in jail.
If he could save her from this madman, that was good enough. He no longer cared about his career, his reputation, his legacy. He was done giving priority to a fake world.
There was Hollywood and there was real life, and it was time for real life to finally take over.
Harry parked as close as he could get to her building, given the dreadful West Hollywood parking, and hurried up the sidewalk, clutching the flowers.
In the lobby, he buzzed all the units until someone let him inside. He took the elevator up to the third floor, walked fast down the hall to Rachel’s door and knocked hard.
After two minutes, Harry saw the peephole darken and a voice behind the door said, “What do you want?”
It was Maria, the roommate.
“I need to see Rachel,” said Harry.
Maria opened the door halfway and faced him, dark eyes cold, a hand on her hip in a confrontational pose.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” said Maria.
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” said Harry, “but I need to speak with her. It’s very important.”
Maria gave him a smug smirk. “Too late. She’s gone. Not home.”
Harry’s heart sank. Then, looking past Maria, he saw a large bouquet of flowers in a vase on the coffee table. The colorful assortment dwarfed the bouquet in Harry’s hand.
“Who sent those flowers?” said Harry.
“None of your business.”
“Was it him?”
“I think I’ll close the door now,” said Maria, and she started to do so.
Harry slammed his hand against the door to prevent it from shutting. He shoved it back open and entered the apartment.
“Hey!” said Maria, stumbling back a few steps.
He brushed past her to examine the flowers on the table. He saw the card resting near the vase and picked it up.
“That’s none of your business,” said Maria, coming at him.
But Harry had already read the card. “Marcus Stegman,” he said aloud. He tossed his flowers on the sofa.
“That’s right,” said Maria. “She’s involved with another director. Someone who treats her with more respect. A real man. Because of you, she sat up half the night crying. It’s over, Harry. Why don’t you just give it up and go away.”
Harry returned Maria’s hard stare. “Tell me where she is.”
“Screw you,” said Maria.
“I’m not leaving this apartment until I get a chance to talk with Rachel. It’s crucial. She cannot film that scene next week.”
Maria laughed out loud then.
Harry looked at her strangely.
Maria said, “You’re too late, bozo. The shooting got moved up to today. She’s already filming her big scene right now. Guess you can’t stop her after all. So boo hoo to you.” She picked up Harry’s flowers from the couch and slapped them back at him.
Harry let the flowers drop to the floor, stunned. He thought for a long moment, recalling the previous night’s conversation. “The Stardust Motel...”
Studying Harry, Maria read his thoughts. “No. You’re not going to...”
“How long ago did she leave?” asked Harry, grabbing Maria by the shoulders.
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Harry let go and spun away from her, heading for the door. “I can still stop them.”
“No you won’t!” thundered Maria.
She raced him to the door. She tried to block him.
They struggled for a moment and she grabbed hold of his shirt. He tore himself free, heard the fabric rip, and stumbled into the corridor.
“You will not ruin this for her!” shouted Maria.
Harry headed for the elevator, saw that Maria was coming at him, strong and fierce, and realized he couldn’t wait. He was better off rushing down the stairs.
He threw open the stairwell door and began to descend. She entered the stairwell and shouted from powerful lungs, “Stop! Somebody stop him! Murderer! Rapist! HELP!” Her voice echoed loud, crashing off the walls, all the way down.
Harry didn’t look back, taking the steps two at a time, grabbing the rail for support. As he reached the ground floor, Maria let loose with a final, mighty scream from above.
“SOMEBODY STOP THAT MAN!”
45
The Stardust Motel rested on a weedy plot of land just south of the Santa Monica Freeway, situated near a dead commercial strip of shuttered storefronts and barely alive, unbranded fast food joints.
Rachel stood in the parking lot, an uneven stretch of cracked blacktop, empty save for a single white van. The motel rooms surrounded the parking lot in a U-shape, two layers of red doors and darkened windows. Litter blew past her feet.
This was not a good part of town, and Rachel felt uneasy that no one was here to greet her. Nothing indicated that she had entered a filming location. Perhaps she had gone to the wrong Stardust Motel? But the phone book only listed one...
She heard the hum and rumble of trucks on the freeway and felt alone in the stark surroundings. Even if this was the right location, she wondered if she had still made a mistake. She started to step back from the motel when a voice greeted her.
“Rachel.”
She turned. Marcus Stegman approached, beaming. He wore all black, ponytail tied so tight behind his head that his pale face looked like a skull.
“Where are we filming?” asked Rachel.
“Room 10.”
She shrugged. “Oh...OK.”
He smiled, tuning into her concern. “We’re using a real motel room. I know —not very glamorous. But why build a set when you can use the real thing? The motel is between owners at the moment. I worked out a financial arrangement to borrow one of the units for some filming. Got a good deal, too. It always helps when you are negotiating with a drunk.” He laughed heartily.
Rachel just nodded. “So where should I go?”
“Just follow me.”
Stegman led her across the lot to Room 10 on the first floor. He opened the red door and gestured for her to enter. Stepping inside, Rachel faced a bare bones crew consisting of exactly two people: a tall, redheaded male and a shorter, dark-skinned man with an earring. She saw two halogen lights on stands, and two video cameras.
A large portion of the w
all separating the bathroom from the rest of the room had been torn down, exposing the shower to allow for easier filming.
Stegman entered behind Rachel and shut the door. “Gritty realism. It doesn’t get any better than this. This place even has cockroaches.”
“Great,” said Rachel. Her shoes felt spongy on the crusted carpet. A wall of bad smells smacked her: cigarettes; body odor; and heavy, uncirculated air. The wallpaper and furniture looked old and funky.
Stegman introduced Rachel to Garon and Terrance. She shook their hands, nodded, smiled. They seemed nice enough, if a bit freaky.
“Don’t let the modest set-up fool you,” said Stegman. “We have the best state-of-the-art digital equipment that money can buy. Terrance here will play the lead. Garon and I will operate the cameras. We’re a lean, mean, movie-making machine.”
“I guess that’s the formula that made Deadly Desires such a hit,” said Rachel.
“Exactly,” said Stegman.
“So where are my script pages?” asked Rachel.
“You don’t need any. Really, the scene is very simple,” said Stegman. “You are Betsy Brewer, a weary business traveler from Chicago. You want to take a quick shower. You disrobe; you climb into the tub, and you begin your shower. Then Terrance here...” He gestured to the tall redhead. “Terrance plays the killer. He’s Boris, the psychotic horror fan. Boris has come to this seedy motel, driven by an obsession to commit murder in the same manner as his all-time favorite horror movie scene. He enters with a key stolen from housekeeping. You don’t hear anything over the rushing water. You just keep soaping yourself, up and down.” Stegman rubbed a hand in a circular motion across his chest and then down to his groin to demonstrate.
Rachel cringed at his enthusiastic display.
“So I take a shower,” she said. “OK, got it. Then what?”
Stegman walked over to the twin bed, which was covered with camera equipment, cables, and supplies. He reached into a black bag and took out a large knife. Light hit the blade and it glistened.
Stegman held up the knife. His voice grew dramatic. “All of a sudden, Terrance yanks back the shower curtain. You see him and scream. You scream with all your might. But you are helpless. He’s upon you in seconds.” Stegman began making stabbing motions in the air. “He lunges the blade at your naked flesh again and again...hacking with brutal force...a cold-hearted killer. Viciously, he slashes you to death and your screams turn to whimpers. You collapse, emitting a final, choking gasp. Then you die.”
Stegman smiled and dropped his hand. “And that’s your big scene. Think Janet Leigh, Alfred Hitchcock. Except now it’s Marcus Stegman and Rachel Stoller.”
Rachel nodded, eyes focused on the knife still in Stegman’s grip.
“That’s a very realistic looking knife,” said Rachel.
“Of course,” said Stegman.
Rachel held out her hand and asked, “Can I see it?”
46
Harry slammed the brakes in front of his Eagle Rock house, threw the car in park, jumped out and raced across his lawn. He reached the front door, unlocked it fast, and entered.
Running into his den, he pulled open his bottom desk drawer, grabbing files and papers, throwing them on the floor, searching for the Beretta semi-automatic. He found a box of cartridges, then remembered tucking the gun under a sofa cushion in the living room when Rachel visited. He retrieved it, tossing the cushion across the room.
Harry removed the magazine from the pistol and loaded it with ten rounds. He pushed the magazine into the pistol grip until it clicked. Then he loaded the first live cartridge into the chamber. He activated the safety lever, stood, and placed the gun under his shirt, into the waist of his slacks.
Then he rushed back outside.
As Harry crossed the front yard to his car, a blue Mercedes screeched into the driveway. Paul Jacobs scrambled out. He waved frantically. “Harry! We have to talk!”
Harry swore and kept going.
Paul dashed toward Harry and caught up with him just before he reached his car door.
“Harry, Harry,” said Paul, blocking him, lit up in panic. His hands fluttered like wild birds. “How could you do this to me? To our company?”
“I can’t talk,” said Harry, trying to reach past Paul for the door handle.
“No,” said Paul. “We have to talk! On the radio they said they found a watch —“ He grabbed Harry by the shoulders. “Listen to me.”
“Let go of me, Paul!”
Harry tried to shake him off, but Paul was all over him.
“They found a watch with Walter Wiggins’ body,” said Paul. “They described the watch and it’s yours. The one I gave you!”
Harry pushed at Paul, but Paul maintained his grip on Harry.
“I’ll explain everything later, but not right now,” said Harry. “Please let go of me. I really have to go.”
“Harry, you could be locked up for life! This is big trouble! What did you do to Wiggins?”
“Paul, stop it —”
“I won’t stop it!”
Harry finally pulled the Beretta 9000S semi-automatic pistol out from under his shirt. He pointed it into Paul’s chest. “I said let go of me, Paul. I really mean it. I have to leave!”
Paul’s eyes bulged. His panic reached a new stratosphere when he saw the gun. “Oh my God! It’s true! You’ve snapped! You’ve gone crazy!”
Harry again tried to get into his car, but Paul continued to block his path, grabbing for the weapon.
“Give me that gun, Harry, before you hurt someone.”
“Paul, let go.”
“I’m serious. Give me the gun.”
They struggled for the pistol. Harry finally reached back and slugged Paul in the jaw, knocking him down into the street. It was the first time Harry had hit anyone since junior high.
Paul sat on his butt for a moment, stunned, holding his chin.
“Ow,” he said.
Seizing his window of opportunity, Harry yanked open the car door. He jumped in, slammed the door and locked it.
Harry started the engine.
Paul jumped up and rushed toward the Audi. Harry floored it in reverse, shooting backwards about 50 feet, creating a long arc ending on a neighbor’s lawn. Then he threw the car in drive and tore down the street, roaring away from Paul.
Paul screamed, waved, and danced in the rearview mirror like some kind of spastic puppet, limbs flying everywhere.
Harry kept going.
47
Stegman reached out and took Rachel’s hand. He turned it over. He pressed the knife blade into her palm.
The blade retracted into the handle.
“See? Painless,” he said. “Doesn’t break the skin. Can’t cut a thing. Check it out.”
He let her hold the knife for a moment. She ran her fingers along the side of the blade, delicately at first, then applying pressure. She touched the tip. “It looks so real.”
“Just a prop. Made by a professional theater prop manufacturer.”
“Impressive.”
She handed the knife back to Stegman. He passed it on to Garon.
“We should get started,” said Stegman. “We’re on a strict schedule, and we need to move quickly.”
“I’m ready when you are,” Rachel told him.
“Great,” said Stegman. “Let me explain the shot sequence. First, we’ll shoot you entering the motel room. Then you call home to touch base with your family. After that, you decide to take a shower. You disrobe. You climb in the shower. Then the killer attacks.”
“Pretty straightforward,” she said.
“Garon, please present Ms. Stoller with her wardrobe,” said Stegman.
Garon brought Rachel a 3-piece pinstripe skirt suit, polyester, with a black and lilac color scheme and lace trim camisole. Price tags dangled from the clothing.
Ugh, thought Rachel. Ugly.
Stegman noted her expression and promised, “You’ll look lovely. We have nylons and pumps, and a
matching purse.”
“What kind of company do I work for?” she asked.
Stegman seemed to make up an answer on the spot. “Ah... office supplies.”
“Great.”
“If you’ll get dressed into character, we’ll prepare the lights and cameras for your first scene.”
Rachel, holding the business suit, glanced around the room. The interior bathroom wall was gone. “Where...do I get dressed?”
“Rachel,” chuckled Stegman. “There’s no dressing room here. No one has a trailer. We’re family. Go right ahead. Don’t mind us. We’ll be seeing you in your birthday suit soon enough anyway.”
Rachel was feeling increasingly creeped out by the whole thing. Her initial excitement had been replaced by an attitude of, Just get it over with.
Maybe Harry was right. This guy was an amateur hack and not one of the exciting new breed of low-budget film directors. The whole set-up felt unprofessional.
Had she jumped at this role simply to snub Harry and make him jealous? To awaken his passion?
Way to go Rachel, she told herself. Another brilliant career move. She unfastened her blue jeans and slid them down to her ankles, as Stegman and Garon reviewed lighting levels.
She caught the other fellow, Terrance, checking her out. She smiled weakly at him, before taking off her pink top.
The business suit felt baggy. The padded shoulders gave her a bulky, masculine look. The shoes were small and hurt her feet.
I suffer for my art, she thought. To complete the businesswoman look, she put her hair up, something she rarely did. She didn’t like the way it enlarged her face. I should count my blessings. If I actually was a businesswoman, I’d have to look like this every day.
“All right, Mr. DeMille,” said Rachel. “I’m ready for my close-up.”
Stegman chuckled with appreciation at the classic film line. He said, “Come here; let me get a good look at you.”
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