Rough Cut

by Brian Pinkerton

  She walked over, grimacing ow ow ow with every step as the shoes pinched her feet.

  “You look fabulous,” said Stegman. “Classy. Beautiful. Strong. Fuss with your hair a little. Let’s see a few strands out of place. A rumpled look. You just flew into town. You’re jet-lagged. You sat next to a fat man who coughed on you the whole flight. You’re feeling dirty and exhausted.”

  She pulled hair loose with her fingertips until Stegman said, “Perfect! Now we are ready.”

  He proceeded to film the first short sequence: Rachel entering the motel room, tired, loaded down with a laptop, suitcase, business bag, and purse. She dumped everything on the bed and let out a heavy sigh.

  “Cut!” said Stegman. “Awesome!”

  They shot two more takes, and then set up the next scene: Rachel on the phone, calling home.

  Stegman gave her a loose framework for the one-sided dialogue. He told her to improvise, keep it real, keep it short. So she gave him several variations of “Hi honey, it’s Betsy. I’m in Los Angeles now. Just wanted to touch base. I’m wiped. I think I’m going to take a shower. Tell the kids I love them. Bye.”

  “Love it!” he said after the second take. “You nailed it. On to the next. Now it’s shower time.” He walked over and tossed his arm around her shoulders.

  Don’t touch me, she thought to herself, but said nothing.

  “This next scene is simple,” he said in a reassuring voice. “You feel icky. Your clothes are sweaty and dirty. You want nothing more than to peel them off. Turn on the shower. Get the steam going and disrobe.”

  “How far do you want me to...disrobe?”

  “You’re taking a shower,” he said. “All the way, of course.”

  “I mean, what’s going to show on the screen?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll be tasteful.”

  She looked over at Terrance. His eyes sat on her, eager, like a wolf. She sighed. She had shown off her body before. She had revealed almost all in lingerie ads. She had worn a bikini in a TV beer commercial. She hadn’t bared everything for the cameras, but it wouldn’t be a big deal.

  She just regretted that her first time would be this movie. It was like losing her virginity on a careless one-night stand, to someone she didn’t really like.

  “Let’s do it then,” said Rachel. The show must go on.

  Rachel kicked off the shoes and entered the exposed bathroom. She watched and waited as Stegman, Garon, and Terrance repositioned the lights and the cameras.

  Suck in your tummy, she reminded herself.

  When the scene was ready to roll, Stegman walked over and gave her words of advice in a soft tone.

  “Forget the camera. Just become Betsy, the weary traveler. Let the clothes fall from your body. You’re very tired, so pace it slow. Every muscle aches. The suit peels off gradually, like a second skin. On your face, relief. You are overjoyed to remove this sticky, stale business suit. You feel freedom. Freedom at the end of a long, hard day.”

  “OK, I get it,” she said flatly.

  Stegman turned and headed to his spot behind one of the cameras. “Great! Alright guys, let’s roll!”

  As the cameras rolled, Rachel reached into the shower and turned on the spray. The water hissed loud. She let down her hair and shook it loose. She began undressing. She didn’t look at them, but she could feel three sets of eyes on her body as each item of clothing slid off and struck the floor.

  She stopped at the panties.

  She glanced out at the lights and cameras, squinting in the brightness. “That should be enough, right?”

  “Cut!” said Stegman. He moved out from behind a camera. He came up close to her.

  She folded her arms over her naked breasts.

  “Rachel, honey,” said Stegman. “No one showers in their underwear.”

  “Right, but —”

  “Let’s do it again,” said Stegman, returning to the crew. “All the way this time.”

  She stared after him, wanting to object, maybe offer up some choice profanity; but she bit her tongue. She stayed professional, despite the fact that these people were amateurs.

  She swallowed her pride and told herself, Rachel, just get this nonsense over with.

  “Turn off the shower,” said Stegman. “Put the outfit back on, let’s start from the top.”

  “From the top?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She redressed.

  They filmed the sequence twice more, both times all the way to the end, the white cotton panties sliding down her legs to her ankles, Rachel stepping out with one foot, kicking them away with the other foot, followed by a long, discomforting pause before “Cut!”

  She could feel the three of them leering, Terrance in particular. His eyes coated her body with a filth worse than anything she could accumulate from a long day of business travel.

  As bad as the scene was, the next one was worse.

  The cameras and three-man crew moved closer and they filmed her showering, curtain open. It went on too long. Was this a hygiene documentary?

  “Lather your breasts please,” directed Stegman in a plain tone, as if he was saying walk across the room and open the door. Rachel reached a zone where she refused to think about her surroundings. She simply adapted to the awfulness. It would all be over soon enough, and hopefully no one would ever see this movie.

  Be a true actress and forget everything around you. Forget the mechanics of moviemaking, forget the baggage of the situation, forget these slimy people and just become the character, living inside the moment.

  Finally, Stegman yelled, “Cut! We got it.” Rachel turned off the water, stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a large bath towel.

  “One more scene to go, and it’s the biggie,” said Stegman.

  “Yes,” she said. “Now you kill me.”

  Stegman looked at her, cocked his head and smiled. “Indeed. Now we kill you.”

  “Let’s just get it over with,” said Rachel. “I’m getting soggy.”

  “Maybe we can do this in one take,” said Stegman.

  “That would be nice,” agreed Rachel.

  He put his arm around her again. She clung tighter to the towel to keep it from dropping.

  “Here’s the sequence,” he said. “You’re still showering. However, we’re going to shut the curtain and pull the cameras back so that Terrance can be in the shot. We’ll film a point-of-view shot, over his shoulder, as he steps up to the shower curtain. Then everything will happen very quickly. He will rip the curtain to one side. He will attack with the blade. He will stab you to death.”

  “Cool,” said Rachel.

  Stegman leaned closer to Rachel. He brushed some hair from her cheek. “From you, Rachel, I want full, unmitigated horror. The horror of being confronted by a mad slasher with a blade. The horror of your naked vulnerability, alone and cornered in a strange motel, hundreds of miles from home. Show me the horror of seeing your entire life flash before you as the blade strikes. The horror of realizing you will never see your children or husband again. The horror of unbearable pain and agony as the knife penetrates your bare flesh. The horror of feeling the flow of your own warm blood draining from your body. The horror of death, unexpected, unrelenting, uncompromising. Give me all you got, Rachel Stoller. Give me goose bumps. Make me believe.”

  “I will,” said Rachel.

  “I know,” said Stegman.

  Stegman stepped back to the cameras. He looked to Terrance.

  “Are you ready for your big scene, ‘Boris’?”

  Terrance nodded without a word. He held up the knife. Rachel looked at her assailant and his weapon. The knife blade glistened in the light.

  From behind one of the cameras, Stegman called out, “Back into the shower, Ms. Stoller, and please close the curtain.”

  Rachel reached in and turned the water back on. During filming, the spray had turned from hot to lukewarm. Now the heat was gone entirely.

  “It’s cold,” she
said, feeling the icy spray on her hand.

  “We’ll film quickly.”

  “I mean really cold.”

  “I’m sorry. We can’t do anything about that. Please get in the shower. We need to get rolling.”

  She examined the tub for a moment, which was a mistake, because she got a good look at the mold spores and rusted soap tray.

  After this shower, I’m going to need a shower, she told herself.

  “Please, Rachel!” said Stegman.

  Rachel dropped the bath towel to the floor and stepped into the tub, under the spray.

  She let out a small shriek as the freezing water struck her.

  She heard one of the men giggle.

  She hated them.

  She shut the shower curtain. The blue curtain lit up from the glare of the halogen lights.

  Stegman cried out, “We are filming in five...in four...three... two...and action!”

  Rachel grimaced under the cold spray and reached for the bar of soap. She ran the soap up and down her arm several times, the same motion, wishing the deadly assault would hurry up.

  Terrance’s shadow approached the shower curtain. She could see the dark outline of his arm and the knife.

  The shadow grew larger and larger until it nearly engulfed the shower curtain.

  Any second now...

  As the anticipation mounted, Rachel felt a wave of genuine fear ripple through her body.

  The curtain ripped open with a loud whoosh.

  She dropped the soap and delivered a scream, throwing up her hands.

  Terrance, wild eyed, thrust the knife at her.

  She felt an immediate, unexpected sting — a burst of pain in her forearm —and staggered off balance — this isn’t supposed to hurt — he’s going to leave a bruise —

  Then she saw the blood.

  Rachel’s screams exploded.

  The knife came at her again, and it was for real.

  Rachel twisted to get out of the way, and the sharp blade caught her hip, cutting deep, sending huge shockwaves of pain —

  — and she stumbled back into the tile shower wall, hitting it hard, catching a glimpse of her blood joining the water spraying at her feet —

  — and Terrance came at her again with the knife, missing this time, hitting the empty space between her arm and side —

  — and Rachel struck his face, a large and wet slapping sound; but he didn’t flinch, stabbing again with the knife; and she jumped as she saw the blade come at her, but there was nowhere to go —

  — and it scraped across her stomach, a thin line of red, the bloodied blade retreating, then returning, and she screamed with everything in her —

  — and then the top of Terrance’s head exploded.

  48

  Harry stood inside Room 10 of the Stardust Motel, his arm straight and steady, his gun still aimed at the precise location where Terrance had been standing seconds earlier.

  He swung his arm and aimed for Garon next.

  Garon stepped back from his camera, hands up, palms out.

  Harry turned and aimed for Stegman.

  Stegman spread out his arms —halfway between a surrender and a greeting. “Harry...?” “I’m not done,” said Harry. “If either one of you moves, I’ll kill you next.”

  Harry’s appearance stunned them all. He had pulled into the Stardust Motel lot minutes earlier, unsure of where the filming was taking place. His frantic search didn’t last long.

  Rachel’s screams identified the room.

  Harry had stopped her assailant in mid-attack. But now, as she shut off the water and staggered out of the shower, Harry could see that her face was covered in blood.

  “Oh my God,” said Harry. “Rachel.”

  “It’s OK,” sputtered Rachel. “Most of it is his blood.”

  She wiped herself with bath towels and held a washcloth to the worst wound, the cut on her hip. It bled through. Her left forearm seeped blood, and there was a slight but long red slash on her stomach.

  “You’ve been cut...” said Harry, stepping toward her, alarmed.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, voice shaking. “Whatever you do, don’t take your gun off them.”

  “Get dressed and we’ll get the police,” said Harry. “We’ll get you to the hospital.”

  She found her jeans and pink T-shirt. She put the pants on slowly, cringing as the denim rubbed past the gash on her hip.

  “Very heroic, Harry,” said Stegman. “Very Hollywood.”

  “Shut up,” said Harry.

  “No. I mean it. This is just like a movie. The hero arrives in the nick of time to save the girl. I cannot underestimate your intuition for dramatic turnabout and plot points. It’s the scriptwriter in you.”

  “Maybe we need more violence,” said Harry. “What’s to stop me from shooting you next?”

  “Because the threat is over,” replied Stegman. He held out his arms. “Look at me. I’m defenseless. You hold all the cards. A true hero would never shoot an unarmed man.”

  “This isn’t the movies,” said Harry, but he knew that Stegman was right. He couldn’t do it now. The danger had ended.

  “Rachel,” said Harry. “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Call the police.”

  “Right.” She stepped toward a small table and picked up her purse. As she reached for the phone, a voice called out from outside the motel room.

  “Harry!”

  Rachel froze.

  Everyone looked at one another.

  “Who said that?” said Rachel.

  A stretch of silence followed. Then, a second time, the voice cried out, “Harry!”

  “Somebody’s looking for you, Harry,” said Stegman.

  “Who would be looking for you here?” Rachel asked Harry.

  Harry heard the voice a third time, much closer, and the realization hit him. He had been followed. “Paul?” he said.

  Paul Jacobs burst into the motel room, out of breath, his tie askew. He walked halfway into the room, stopped in his tracks and gasped. His eyes took in the bizarre and gory scene: the crude movie set with the exposed bathroom and blood-splattered wall, bloodied Rachel, Harry holding out the gun, Terrance’s dead body, Stegman and Garon.

  Paul’s expression shifted through a series of bewildered reactions as he fought for words, finally landing on, “What the hell is going on here?”

  Harry stepped toward him. “Paul, don’t —”

  “Harry look out!” shrieked Rachel.

  But it was too late. In the moment of confusion, Harry had turned his back on Garon, a huge mistake. Garon lunged at him, grabbing Harry’s wrist and slamming him into the wall. Harry lost control of the gun and it fell from his hand.

  Garon kneed Harry in the stomach, doubling him over. He grabbed the gun. He pointed the weapon at Harry’s head. Then he aimed it at Paul, and then at Rachel, instructing her to drop the purse.

  Stegman beamed. “Thank you, Garon. And thank you, Mr. Jacobs, for that bit of distraction. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but your entrance was much appreciated.”

  “My God,” said Paul. He looked at Harry. “Do you mind telling me what in heaven’s name this is all about?”

  “You want to know what this is all about?” said Stegman, stepping back, finding his center stage. “A long story, to be sure. But I can explain. Do you have a minute? Well, of course you do. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Garon slammed the motel room door and secured the bolt.

  Stegman walked over to Harry and threw his arm around him. Harry squirmed and Stegman tightened the grasp. “Mr. Jacobs. Ms. Stoller. Now that I have your undivided attention, I have an important announcement to make. This man, Harry Tuttle, whom you admire so much, is a fraud. He’s a loser. His talent, his recent success —it’s all one big lie. Why don’t you tell them, Harry? Tell them the truth about Deadly Desires?”

  Harry said nothing, refusing to look at Stegman.
/>   “All right then,” said Stegman. “I will tell them. You see, Harry Tuttle’s popular little movie, Deadly Desires, wasn’t created by Harry Tuttle at all. No sir. It was all me. Writing, directing, production. I made the picture and then sold it to him —at his request —for a very large sum of money to help boost his sagging ego. The only contribution he made to that film was a new set of credits. It was our little secret, wasn’t it, Harry?”

  Harry quickly spoke up and elaborated. “What I didn’t realize was that this lunatic had spliced a real-life murder into the film. He’d killed a woman named Nora Hurley on camera in Mexico, and made it appear as part of the storyline. Then he killed Walter Wiggins when Wiggins became suspicious about the picture.”

  “I didn’t kill Walter Wiggins,” said Stegman. “I believe it was a fellow by the name of Oscar.”

  Harry ignored the comment and kept talking. “He dumped Wiggins’ body in my house. He did it to frame me so I wouldn’t go to the police. I freaked out. As I was getting rid of the body, I lost my watch. The police found it. That’s what you heard on the radio, Paul.”

  Paul, dazed and overwhelmed, said, “This is way too weird.”

  “Now he’s killing people for his next movie,” said Harry. “He was going to make Rachel his next victim. When I found out they were filming today, I got here as fast as I could to stop him.”

  “And that brings us up to date,” said Stegman. “I’m so glad we’ve had a chance to air this all out. Harry, I’m happy that your closest friends now know the truth, that you are a no-good fraud and phony. All the praise you have received is bullshit. You have no real talent. And they can take that information with them to the grave. Garon, the time has come to dispose of the troublemakers. The truth stays in this room.”

  Garon nodded and stepped forward with the gun. “Shoot them?”

  “Yes, all three. Cleanly. Quickly. Execution style would be nice.”

  “You got it.”

  Paul said, “Wait a minute...”

  Rachel begged, “Please...”

  Harry said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the nearby video camera locked down on a tripod. He could see the movement, hear the faint whirring. He stared hard and confirmed the feeling riding high in his gut. He knew this equipment well, and one thing was for sure.