Phoenix Falling

by Mary Jo Putney

  ACT II

  Cameras Rolling

  Chapter 7

  One of the worst parts of moviemaking was the insanely early hours required. Kenzie yawned, then swallowed another mouthful of scorching coffee. John Randall and his native cavalry rode at dawn.

  All around him, the chilly New Mexican night reverberated with the sounds of recalcitrant horses and tense riders trying to position themselves to the assistant director's satisfaction. Luckily his own mount was a placid beast, specially chosen so as not to risk breaking The Star's neck.

  Rainey, who was buzzing around like a wasp at a picnic, materialized in front of him. Dressed in jeans and the official Centurion show jacket, which was a shade of British military red that had not been chosen to go with her hair, she radiated a mixture of excitement and nerves. "Ready to go, Kenzie?"

  He nodded. "It's nice that my first scene doesn't require me to say a word. I can ease my way into the part." Rainey wore no makeup except for a little lipstick and mascara. The result was very close to the natural bedroom look he'd always liked best. Not the face of the glamorous actress, but his wife.

  The divorce would be final a week or so after they finished shooting her movie.

  She looked anxiously upward. "I hope those clouds don't move in. This is the first morning since we arrived with a decent sky."

  She was poised to dart away when he caught her shoulder. Awareness crackled between them like static electricity. "Relax, Rainey. You've got a great crew and everything that needs to be done is being done. Fussing will just put everyone on edge and increase the chance of mistakes. Have some coffee."

  "More caffeine is hardly likely to make me relax." Nonetheless, she drank deeply. They both liked coffee the same way—scalding hot, milk only. "Thanks."

  She glanced up, and for an instant they were caught in one of the unsettling flashes of intimacy that persisted even though the marriage was over. He was grateful to have the moment interrupted when Josh, his sharp-eyed assistant, rushed up with fresh coffee. Taking the cup, he asked, "Why did you choose this area to stand in for North Africa?"

  "Mostly because it fit my budget. I had some license because the military campaign in Sherbourne's novel is imaginary, though it was inspired by a real campaign in the Sudan that involved angry Arabs who wanted to drive out the Europeans. One of Queen Victoria's messier little wars."

  "The one where the noble General Gordon died at Khartoum a mere two days before a relief army arrived, I presume? One of the famous Victorian military martyrdoms, though I seem to recall that an officer who knew Gordon said the man wasn't worth the camels lost in the rescue attempt."

  She chuckled. "I never cease to be amazed at your memory. Sherbourne's novel specified a remote, desolate setting, and this canyon fits the bill." She gestured at the stark landscape. "I also needed dozens of good riders for the skirmishing between Randall's patrol and the rebels, and it's easy to hire them around here. Since they all wear scarves wrapped around their faces, we don't need real Arabs, just people who look like they were born in the saddle."

  "You got your money's worth. The dailies I saw yesterday are first-rate. Plenty of fierce, chaotic action. When it's cut together, viewers will feel like they're in the middle of the battle. My stunt double did a good job of going down fighting bravely."

  "At this stage of the story, John Randall has the courage of the unimaginative." She checked the lightening sky again. "Almost time. Make sure you don't fall off your horse. We might not have another chance to get this shot right."

  "I shall endeavor to stay on my horse." He handed his coffee cup to Josh, and swung onto his mount. "Don't worry, Rainey. We rehearsed this ride six times yesterday. It will be fine."

  "From your lips to God's voice mail." She jogged over to her Jeep and drove off to join the camera crews on the other side of the hill.

  As Kenzie waited for the signal to start moving, he became John Randall, erect and arrogant, an officer of the empire on which the sun never set. He and his patrol would ride west over the hill, appearing as silhouettes against the rising sun. Though his men were in drab khaki with faces swathed against the dust and heat, Randall wore his regimental uniform. The blood-red blaze of his tunic would be the only color in the dun landscape as they descended the hill to their fate.

  The second assistant director who had been organizing the scene used his radio to announce that all was in readiness. Another two minutes of increasing light passed before the first assistant director's voice crackled back over the radio, "Rolling!"

  Kenzie set his horse into motion, letting it choose its own footing in the dim light. Shoulders square, face determined, a man as at home in the saddle as he was in the world. These rough hills held nothing that a true-born Englishman need fear.

  In typical movie fashion, this scene came before the battle scene that had been shot over the previous days. Rainey had set up the schedule to allow him to start as late as possible, in case his previous film ran longer than it was supposed to. It hadn't, though. He'd arrived in New Mexico two days before, using the time to visit the set and take long drives along remote roads.

  The shooting schedule was a tight one. Since John Randall was in almost every scene, from now on he'd be working six days a week. After the battle and capture exteriors were done, the production would move to England for location work. The final phase would be shot on a London sound stage.

  Kenzie crested the hill and rode down toward the cameras, accompanied by the thunder of hooves, the jingle of harness, a trailing haze of dust. Below, Rainey stood with the two cameras and crews recording the approaching riders. One caught the whole scene while another zoomed in for close-ups. Randall and his patrol rode forward steadily, not expecting trouble but ready for any that might show up.

  "Cut!"

  Just short of running over the cameras, Kenzie and his patrol reined in their horses. Rainey called, "Great job! You all looked fantastic against the sunrise. Dramatic. Ominous. Doomed."

  She grinned. "Now get back over that hill as fast as your horses will take you, and we'll do a second take, just in case."

  * * *

  "Cut!" The marker snapped shut on take sixteen.

  Kenzie sighed. They were trying to get the master shot of the first, critical scene between Randall and his charismatic captor, Mustafa, leader of the rebels. It took place moments after Randall was captured, and had to establish the complex interplay between the characters.

  Kenzie prided himself on his professionalism, always knowing his dialogue. Usually he could nail a scene on the first take. Unfortunately, Sharif Asuri, the young Pakistani-British actor playing Mustafa, seemed incapable of walking and talking at the same time. Though Sharif had done well in rehearsal and had the physical presence to play the rebel leader, he'd flubbed every take so far. Tension was rising among the crew, and Sharif was a nervous wreck.

  Rainey was admirably patient. "Take a few deep breaths and we'll try it again, Sharif. Forget the cameras and act like you did in rehearsal."

  Sharif nodded and took his place. Kenzie was lying half-propped against a pile of rocks, wrists tied in front of him, bruises and smudges of blood artistically scattered over his face and hands.

  "Now." Rainey gave the signal to start another take.

  Lithe and cruel as a panther, Sharif knocked aside the spear one of his men was about to drive through Randall's chest. "Don't! This one is an officer." He kicked Kenzie's carefully padded ribs. So far, so good. "I shall find a use for him."

  "You might as well kill me now, because I'll do nothing that might help you," Kenzie spat out. Randall was fiercely defiant at this point, sure he could face death with courage, not knowing that dying would be simple compared to what lay ahead. "Or if you're the warrior you claim to be, cut me loose so we can fight like men!"

  Sharif smiled with vicious anticipation. "There's m-m-m-more..." His words trailed off in a stutter.

  "Cut!"

  The youthful cable puller gave an audible
groan. Sharif flushed violently. Rainey took one look at his face, then whirled and stormed over to the culprit. "You're off the movie. Now!"

  He gasped. "But... but..."

  "It's not your job to judge performances," she snapped. "If you want to continue working in this business, remember that in the future. Now go!"

  The boy left in the midst of paralyzed silence. Even his boss, the head of the sound crew, didn't protest. Rainey was well within her rights to fire the idiot, and she'd proved to the crew she was tough enough to be the boss. But something had to be done to get production back on course.

  Kenzie scrambled to his feet. "Someone take these damned ropes off me. We all need a break."

  Seeing his expression, Rainey said, "Kenzie's right. Take ten."

  As the first assistant director, Bill Meriwether, called the break to the crew, Kenzie said to Sharif, "Let's take a walk. Stretch a few of the knots out of our legs."

  Looking like a lamb on the verge of being sacrificed, Sharif nodded. Kenzie fell into step beside him and headed away from the trucks and cameras. In the desolate canyon, it took only a dozen paces to start feeling alone in the wilderness.

  Sharif had his head down as if he was walking through a minefield. Despite his height and a splendid beard that made him photograph older, Sharif was quite young, Kenzie realized. Early to mid-twenties, which explained a great deal. "Is this your first movie role?" he asked conversationally.

  "Yes, sir. I graduated from the Central School of Speech and Drama last spring. I've done several small television and stage parts, but nothing like this." Though he used an accent for Mustafa, his natural speech was as crisply British as Kenzie's.

  Central was one of London's top drama schools, so Sharif obviously had ability and good training. While Kenzie was wondering what might get him to relax, Sharif blurted out, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Scott. I thought I had my lines down perfectly, but..." He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  "Being in a Hollywood movie terrifies you."

  "That's part of it." Sharif swallowed. "And... and it's also you, sir. I saw you play Romeo at Stratford. The way you made him come alive... You lit up the whole stage. That's when I knew I had to become an actor."

  Ah. As a RADA student, Kenzie had once shared a stage, in a very minor role, with one of the great men of the British theater and he'd almost expired from awe. Though he was only a dozen or so years older than Sharif, an idol was an idol. "So I'm your hero?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Kenzie swung around and faced the younger man. "I'm not your hero," he snarled. "I'm a son-of-a-bitch Englishman who knows I'm superior to you and your whole filthy country."

  Sharif stared at him, shocked. "What... why are you saying that? I was born in Birmingham and I'm as English as you are."

  Kenzie pushed harder. "My people have better guns and a better God, so that makes us a better race. You miserable heathen savages should be grateful that a Christian nation even bothers with you."

  "You arrogant Pommy bastard." Sharif's British civility vanished in a surge of fury.

  As the younger man's fists clenched, Kenzie balanced on the balls of his feet so he could dodge if necessary. Then Sharif caught his breath, rage vanishing into understanding. "I see, sir. You mean I should stop being distracted by heroes and Hollywood and just do the job. Be Mustafa instead of a nervous actor."

  "Right. But I'm not 'sir.' I'm a swine. An arrogant unbeliever—and I definitely don't belong on a pedestal."

  "Yes, si... Sir Swine." Sharif smiled. From now on, he would regard Kenzie as a fellow actor, not a paragon.

  Kenzie clapped the young man on the shoulder. "Let's go back and try it again, and this time, send chills through John Randall's unimaginative heart."

  Take eighteen was filmed without a hitch.

  Chapter 8

  After the final scene of the afternoon, Rainey rolled her tight shoulders. It had been a long day, but a good one. After filming the close-ups of Randall's first meeting with Mustafa, they'd gone on to an earlier scene where Randall risked his life to save one of his men from a poisonous snake.

  Kenzie had been wonderful—tight-lipped, fearless, utterly competent. She hoped there would be room for the incident in the final cut because it demonstrated Randall's courage, his marksmanship, and his dedication to his men. Since Randall's rigid world view might be hard for modern audiences to relate to, it was important to show that by the standards of his day, he was an exemplary officer.

  Walking up to Kenzie, she said, "You're doing great."

  Looking tense and tired, he unbuttoned his heavy red wool uniform tunic, revealing the very modern white T-shirt underneath. "This is only my first day. It's going to be a long couple of months." Rubbing at the red marks left by his tight collar, he headed for his trailer.

  She followed, stretching her steps to match his. "Thanks for settling Sharif down. Since you talked to him, he's been terrific."

  "He's very talented. The perfect blend of danger and disturbing appeal."

  "The tension between the two of you is complex enough to make everything that happens later believable."

  She was about to say more when Kenzie paused, tall and intimidating in his uniform. "Is there a good reason why you're following me around?"

  Rainey stopped in her tracks, flushing scarlet. "As... as your director, I wanted to see how you're doing."

  "As your soon to be ex-husband, I find too much proximity exhausting."

  She felt as if she'd been slapped. "I... I thought we were getting along pretty well. I'd hope we could work together as friends."

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Friends. A woman's idea of a good solution and a man's nightmare. You are not my friend, Rainey. You are my wife, at least for now. While you're thinking amiability, I'm thinking how much I enjoyed sleeping with you. I can't help it, I'm a man and we're made that way. Usually we hide our base natures, but when I'm making a movie, I haven't much energy left over for maintaining a civilized facade. Not where you're concerned."

  "You think only men obsess about sex?" she retorted. "How very retrograde."

  His brows arched. "Is that a declaration of interest?"

  "It's a declaration of memory." She sighed. "We both knew this would be difficult. I didn't mean to make it worse by following you around. I'm just worried. About you, the movie, everything."

  He gave her a wintry smile. "A little worry is useful, but too much is destructive. Don't overdose on anxiety before we even get to England."

  "You're right, of course, but relaxation is hard to do on command." She saw a gleam in his eye and belatedly wondered if he was going to suggest that sex was a famously effective stress reliever—one that he'd used with her in the past when she was tied in knots.

  A memory seared through her of the two of them lying in bed together after making love, a pine-scented candle burning on the bedside table. She couldn't even remember where they were—an inn on the coast of Brittany, maybe, because waves had been crashing on the headlands outside. But she remembered how she'd felt: utterly tranquil, her busy brain almost still. So this is peace, she had thought with wonder.

  Kenzie had been equally relaxed, his arm around her and his face buried in her hair as he molded her against his body. There had been no need to talk. They had fit together so well it was impossible to imagine anything ever separating them.

  She swallowed as she realized she was staring at the thinly covered chest visible under his open tunic. Wrenching her mind back to business, she asked, "Do you feel any better about doing this story?"

  "No," he said bluntly. "I feel worse because it's becoming more real in all its awfulness. But don't worry. I'll do my best."

  "I know that. I'll see you tomorrow morning." She turned and walked back to the shooting area, where equipment was being broken down and stored for the night. Time to return to the small, off-season ski resort where the cast and crew were staying, so she could spend the evening working.

  If she worked hard eno
ugh, maybe her sleep wouldn't be haunted by dreams of Kenzie.

  * * *

  After removing his makeup and changing into his own clothes, Kenzie collected the rented SUV that was one of his few perks on this production, and roared away from the desolate canyon where they were shooting. How the devil was he going to survive two months of this? A single day had gone by, and already his nerves were frayed to the point where it was hard to be civil to Rainey. He would continue because he'd given his word—but he hated to think what kind of shape he'd be in by the end of shooting.

  Driving through the open countryside soothed him. Since arriving in New Mexico several days earlier, he'd spent every spare moment exploring, from rugged mountain peaks to hidden lakes, solitary meadows to dramatic ski slopes that teemed with people during the snow season. He'd stopped for coffee in a truck stop with an espresso machine, visited Indian ruins and modern pueblos. He'd even found a bed-and-breakfast establishment carved into a rocky escarpment, like the homes of ancient cliff dwellers. The place had so intrigued him that he'd booked it for Saturday night, so he'd have the experience of sleeping inside stone.

  He wanted to absorb everything, because New Mexico spoke to him, even the barren canyon where they were filming. He'd visited areas of Arizona that looked similar, but they'd felt different. New Mexico had a spare, clear energy unlike anything he'd ever experienced. If forced to describe his reaction, he'd have to say this land touched his soul. A pity the whole movie wasn't being shot here.

  About two more hours until dark. That should be enough to get him into balance, at least for tonight. He turned right onto a minor road, hardly more than a trail.

  Which was worse, playing John Randall or being around Rainey? At the moment, Rainey was worse, he decided. For a novice director, she was doing well, authoritative without being intimidating, and clear about what she wanted. She was also an actor's director, inviting comments and collaboration when a scene was being developed. Her earnestness and passionate commitment entranced him as they always had.