Nineteen

When Max learned script writing, he'd read a lot of Joseph Campbell, whose work documented the story beats in the enduring narrative archetype known as the hero's journey. According to Campbell, this journey through change involves the hero refusing the call to action, followed by him accepting it.

After a long, sleepless night of pacing his empty house, Max had fully committed to his own path of change in a world of supernatural wonder.

He'd always mined inspiration from real life by imagining the absolute worst happening. Blood dripping from the ceiling onto a child's birthday cake. A smiling woman reaching into a Christmas present only to withdraw a squirting stump. A mall scuffle between shoppers over Cabbage Patch Kids escalating into genocide.

He now had the means to never have to rely on imagination again. The chance to live a life of horror rather than make it in his head.

At noon, Max drove his MG downtown to realize his plan's final act.

What's your vision, Max?

To make the perfect horror movie.

He found a parking space and fed coins into the meter. Then he unlocked the trunk. Inside, the Arriflex throbbed against the walls of its plastic cage.

The time had come to take it off its leash for real.

Max knew Jordan's routine. The producer was an early riser. He worked out in his home gym, followed by a breakfast of coffee, bagel, and hard-boiled egg. Then he drove to his office, where he'd be at his desk by nine sharp.

Drinking cup after cup of coffee, Max had stared at his phone and fax.

At ten, the phone rang.

"I didn't know you had it in you," Jordan said. "It turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks. This new treatment for Wishes is the best work you've ever given me. Congratulations."

Max forced a smile. "I guess I needed a little motivation."

"This movie, it's what the people want. Smart, funny, scary, relatable. And making it 3D, that is a bona fide stroke of genius. You know, sometimes, it's actually a pleasure doing business with you."

"We're funded?" he asked.

"Right after this call, I'll authorize the bank to transfer the rest of the money. You might notice a more substantial amount than promised, which should handle the 3D aspect and more. I'm upping my investment to seven fifty."

Max swallowed his first pang of regret. "Thank you, Jordan."

"I was right to trust you. This is gonna be a big one, baby. Stupendous. Janet will fax you when the transfer is done."

"How about we go out for lunch to celebrate?"

"What, today? I've got—"

"We can talk out the treatment and make changes. Punch up its mainstream appeal even more. Think big and go all out."

"You know what? You're on," the producer said. "I have lots of ideas."

They'd agreed on a place and time. The fax machine coughed out a slick sheet of thermal paper confirming his new picture had full funding. Max spent the next few hours drinking coffee and staring at the clock.

Then he prepped his machine and drove downtown.

What's your vision, Max?

To achieve perfection at any cost.

Pedestrians hustled past, ignoring Max as he removed Arthur Golden's occult camera from its case. Cars rumbled on the road. Arguing over how to handle their unruly teen, a couple entered a nearby bakery. A truck rolled out of a parking garage a few doors down.

Showtime.

Planting the sticks, he mounted the camera and took a few deep breaths, forcing air into his lungs. His legs had started shaking.

Then he aimed the Arriflex down the street toward the office building that stood near the end of the block on the west side.

Cars snarled up and down the road. Across the street from the office building, a mid-rise was being renovated in an echoing cacophony of drills, hammers, and heavy construction materials hauled around and banged into place.

The world's full of hazards, Max thought. As the kids say, shit happens.

Shit happened all the time. Acts of God.

You look up at the wrong time, and a lawn dart plops into your eye. You tell a joke at the dinner table, and your heart breaks.

A young couple glanced at him standing behind his camera but really didn't care what he was doing. This was Los Angeles. A movie camera on a sidewalk provided a subject of curiosity but was ultimately no great shakes.

Still, it made him nervous, being watched, like a version of stage fright.

So did the prospect of what he intended. His entire body trembled in its own private earthquake. Sweat trickled from under his bucket hat.

He had the desire to do this. Did he have the will?

The first time Max had used the camera with any intention, he'd been driven by a dark impulse he'd imagined as Arthur Golden directing him. A part of him still hadn't believed it did anything. The whole event had played out like another experiment in imagination. In his ear, he'd heard Raphael scolding him, telling him to quit before anyone got hurt.

This time, he knew exactly what the camera could do.

As for Raphael, Max now heard his old friend chuckling with satisfaction. Arthur giving him another slow clap.

He'd given Jordan a chance. He'd offered a clear and simple choice of two movies, one the usual profitable drivel and the other a bold and original vision. The producer had failed the test, but he'd fund the right movie in the end.

If only you'd given me a green light on the movie I wanted to do, Jordan…

Instead, the producer had enslaved Max to do four scary movies that wouldn't scare anyone. Another decade Max would spend doomed to work his ass off toward a definition of success he considered failure.

His creative life wasted making commercial swill. His producer on his back like a fattening parasite, controlling his every decision and draining his essence drop by drop. Devouring what was left of his life. An entirely different but just as brutal form of murder.

Didn't he have a right to defend himself?

What Max planned to do wasn't murder. It didn't really count as self-defense either. No, this was horror movie justice, and he was its agent. Jordan had challenged dark forces beyond his comprehension, and now he'd pay the price.

What's your vision, Max?

To remove anyone who stands in my way.

The only thing that could stop him now was love.

Specifically, a lack of it.

Last night, he'd waved at Sally as she came out the playhouse's stage doors. He'd offered her a ride. Still amped for her aborted performance as Shana, the actor had expressed a dire craving for ice cream.

In a Dairy Queen parking lot, they spooned Blizzards while leaning against the warm hood of his car. Traffic zipped past on the nearby roadway.

"That was so weird," she said. "Dan banged straight out the back exit."

"Very weird," Max said.

"Not out, really. More like through it."

"He doesn't strike me as emotionally stable."

"Oh, he's a freaking basket case," she agreed. "I've just never seen it affect his work. He totally freaked out. Arthur's death threw him for a loop."

Max again thought about his father's passing. "Trauma affects you in ways you don't know until they come to the surface."

"I'm sorry you didn't get to meet him. You being such a huge fan. I was going to try to connect you two."

He smiled. "I'll catch up with him another time."

"Anyway, we all have our issues," Sally said. "My mom came tonight. I saw her on the way out."

"I sat next to her. She gave me an earful about my chosen genre."

"She's pissed at me at the moment."

"For the same reason?"

"Let's just say I'm pissed at her too, and I'm not really speaking to her right now." Sally cocked her head and regarded him. "You know, she said the oddest thing about you before I banged out the door myself."

"Oh? What's that?"

"That she thinks you're dangerous."

Max chuckled. "It sounds like she's learning to appreciate my genre."

"I kinda doubt that. So what did you want to talk to me about?"

"I'm hoping to get some advice," he said. "An acting hypothetical."

"Oh." Her face transformed into steely determination. "Let me have it."

He asked his questions. She answered.

Thus Max learned how to unlock the occult camera's true artistic potential.

Max spotted Jordan walking out of his building.

The producer always parked his Cadillac in the garage across the street. He'd stroll down the sidewalk a bit and pause to light one of his foul cigars. Then he'd jaywalk to complete his own daily hero's journey to his car.

Standing on the hot concrete, Max felt light-headed. Giddy, excited, and nauseous. What he intended to do should not be allowed. It certainly shouldn't be this easy. He wouldn't suffer so much as a parking ticket. His brain had coughed up a sketchy plan in a fit of rejection, and all the pieces had fallen into place.

All he had to do now was cry action and roll.

He zoomed onto his producer and punched the start switch.

Camera speeding. Film rolling.

What a great guy, he thought. He gave me my first real break. No, this isn't me, it's someone I need to be. I'm a director looking for a father figure. I'm—

Max could lie to people like Jordan easily enough, but not to himself. Not willfully, anyway. Otherwise, people lied to themselves all the time.

What was acting, if not lying so convincingly you ended up fooling an audience who showed up knowing they were being lied to? So perfectly that you even fooled yourself?

He'd needed to learn the secret.

"How would you handle a scene where you had to love some guy, but in reality, you can't stand him?" he'd posed to Sally in the Dairy Queen parking lot.

"You have to master the magic what-if," she'd answered.

"What do you mean?"

"What would you do if this person told you he suffered from a terminal disease? If he apologized for being a horrible person and said he behaved badly because you intimidate him? If he asked you straight to your face to be his friend?"

"I see," said Max.

"Run through the what-ifs and pick the one that resonates. Then lean into it. Draw on experiential memory to re-create a feeling. Imagination and experience, working together. That's how I'd do it."

"You've done this before? Told a lie so real it convinced you?"

"My entire life," Sally said sourly. "You could say it started the day I was born."

He gave her a questioning look, but she shook her head. Whatever she'd alluded to, she didn't care to elaborate.

Instead, she added, "The thing is, once you become aware of one big lie, you start to notice all the little ones."

Max nodded. That last sentence described his recent experience with Hollywood perfectly.

Sally went on. "If the what-if isn't enough, get to know the other person. Ask them questions and find out about their life. In real life, everyone seems like a flat, secondary character until you get to know them. Once you do, they become a complex character. And even if you hate someone, there is something about them you would probably connect with and like. Find it, and again, lean into it…"

As she went on talking, he glanced at her and found it impossible to look away. Leaning against the hood of his car, she lectured about acting while digging through the remains of her Blizzard. So effortlessly beautiful.

For the first time in his life, the black hole in his soul faded.

Then flared back to life.

I can't cast you as the Final Girl, he realized.

Sally's mother had been right about him.

I forgive you, Max thought as he tracked Jordan with the camera. I'm so sorry you have only six months to live. Bone cancer, how awful.

He'd spent half the night practicing Sally's techniques. It wasn't working now, however. Jordan reached the point where he would cross the street. Per his habit, he paused to prep a cigar and light it first.

Face glued to the coaxial viewfinder, Max kept at it.

Oh, you want to will me all your money to produce my new picture, and give me final cut? It's superb of you to recognize my—

After taking a few puffs from his cigar, the producer glanced both ways and stepped onto the road.

I love you. I love you, I love you—

Pouring sweat, Max sucked in his breath. If anything was going to happen, it'd be here and now. A truck roaring with failed brakes. A steel beam tumbling from a dizzy height. A decapitating pane of glass like in The Omen.

I freaking love you, brother—

Nothing.

Not a car in sight. The renovating mid-rise too far away. Even the usually busy lunchtime pedestrian traffic had dwindled to nothing. The whole block seemed eerily deserted.

The perfect chance. But still nothing happened.

Max was starting to develop a whole new respect for actors. How did they do it? Dig deep enough to become someone else so authentically? Pretend so convincingly they fooled themselves?

I'm a horror director with a camera that creates horror, and I can't use it. Christ, maybe Jordan's right: I am a hack.

Even now, he heard the audience chortling in his ear, rolling over him like canned TV studio laughter.

He let out a disgusted snort. This wasn't going to happen.

Honestly, it was probably for the best. The whole plan had been crazy from the get-go. A part of him now actually rooted for the man to safely cross the road.

Screw it, he thought.

The new If Wishes Could Kill wouldn't be the worst thing ever to hit the silver screen, and Jordan wasn't evil for liking it. It wouldn't realize the genre's true potential or Max's original vision, but it'd be fun.

He'd direct it, and then he'd direct Jack the Knife IV. He'd go on directing movies, and he'd go on fighting Jordan over creative decisions.

It was how things worked and how they'd always worked. It was how they were meant to be. It was the machine of Hollywood, wicked but charming, something one fought and subverted but never actually caused harm.

Or perhaps this presented a sign for Max to throw in the towel altogether. If the game proved so rigged the only way to play it right required resorting to actual murder, maybe it wasn't worth playing at all.

Perhaps he'd start up his own theater company. If he liked it real, well, it didn't get any realer than live theater, tears and sweat poured out on stage every night.

Max Maurey presents the return of the Grand Guignol, blood and madness five nights a week, a doctor in the house at all hours in case anyone faints.

You can make it, Jordan—

A muffled roar. The ground moved.

The earth jolted under his feet.

The same instant, the manhole cover under the producer's feet exploded upward in a gust of smoke like a vertical cannon shot.

Two hundred fifty pounds of solid cast iron rocketed into the sky along with another two hundred pounds of Hollywood producer. Both defied gravity in three hundred feet of rapid ascent.

Jordan had vanished as if he'd never been there.

Staggering from the tremor, Max tumbled onto his back. High above him, a human-size rag doll flew between the buildings along with a black dot that might have been a shoe or maybe a pair of mirrored shades.

He didn't need to see the man come back down to know how it turned out.

He gasped, "Never call me a hack."

No one laughed now. The audience haunting his head had at last been shocked into an awed hush. They didn't even breathe.

And as for Max, he felt—

Remorse and triumph.

Good then bad.

The biggest itch he'd ever had. Oh, he'd scratched it.

If only to reach the even bigger itch underneath.

Yes, he'd go all the way now. In for a penny, in for all of it.

The moment he'd cradled Arthur Golden's infernal camera in his arms and learned how it fed, a part of him knew it would come to this. It had always been a question of time before he answered its siren call. A matter of fate, really.

After all, they proved a match made in hell. The camera's need joined to his creative ambition, both of them free at last to realize their true potential. And he would, because he knew he could never bury the camera again. If he was damned, damnation offered a distinct upside in that it freed him to follow his desires. Like Al Capone said, if you're gonna steal, steal big.

Regardless of his conflicted feelings, Max had higher powers to serve, namely, horror and art and his image of himself as a horror artist. With this occult machine, he had the power to break the ultimate boundary and set a new standard for what was possible in filmmaking. The artistic equivalent of being the first man to smash the sound barrier or step onto the moon.

He owned a camera that produced its own spectacular real effects. With it, he could make the perfect horror motion picture. A film not only seen but experienced. Not only experienced but studied. Not only studied but feared as physically dangerous. A film that would forever endure.

As for the cast he'd feed to the machine as human sacrifice, well, this was Hollywood, a dog-eat-dog town, a world of predator and prey. From a utilitarian perspective, one might argue a handful of actors sacrificed to make a perfect film offered a net moral positive. And as the camera pretty much guaranteed an afterlife, it's not like they were really dying anyway.

Hell, they should thank him for the opportunity he was about to give them. With this film, their names were destined to live on forever, and they too would live forever to enjoy their posthumous celebrity.

In any case, the cast wouldn't suffer alone. Max would share in their sacrifice. Once the bodies were carried off the set, he'd face manslaughter if not murder charges. The victims' families would probably hit him with a lawsuit. At a minimum, he'd be kicked out of the Directors Guild and never work as a movie director again, a creative if not physical death. And the censors at the Motion Picture Association of America ratings board, already prejudiced against the less moneyed indies, would refuse to rate the film, limiting distribution.

Max would do his part and welcome it all. He'd happily suffer too.

Better to make one perfect movie than a lifetime of schlock. One perfect terrifying film instead of a slew of movies about as frightening as costumed children trick-or-treating on Halloween. A beautiful swan song for an enviable career. A film that would make the mouth of the most jaded horror fan, the pimply kid who thinks he's seen it all and giggles through it, drop open like a Venus flytrap. A horror movie that would imprint itself on the American psyche.

And if no one ever watched the movie except him, Max would still know he'd created it. Like Sally said, make the movie you alone are dying to see.

I'm proud of you, Arthur Golden said.

"Thank you," Max said.

You're a real artist now, answerable to no one but your vision. But even now, even after going all the way, you're still willing to compromise.

"I can't cast Sally."

Not as the Final Girl, at least. It'd be hard enough to convince himself he carried tender feelings in his bosom about five needy actors without also forcing himself not to care about Sally.

Because he did care about her. More than he ever had about anyone. He wouldn't shoot the Final Girl with the cursed camera, but having Sally anywhere near it was too great a risk.

You should cast her. I was right about Jordan, wasn't I? I'm right about this too. She of all people will understand. If you really do have feelings for her, you'll give her this shot at fame. She'll live forever. You owe her that. She wants it.

"No," said Max.

Not as the Final Girl. Not in any other role. He'd invite her to the casting call, and then he'd find a way to let her down with as little harm as possible.

Keep her as far from If Wishes Could Kill as possible.

Good art requires suffering. Great art demands sacrifice.

"Don't ask again," he growled. "I'm the director, not you."

The voice went silent.

At the distant howl of police sirens, he sat up. A pall of smoke and dust hung over the road. He wondered if he should say any final words for Jordan Lyman. Something appropriate. Then it came to him.

Max said, "Now, that is how you make a killing, baby."

Arthur Golden cackled along with him.