Twenty-Six

The storm clouds burst over Los Angeles. No mere storm but a real gale. The rain fell in slanting sheets. Gusting winds bent the palms and sent the stands of oaks along Ventura Freeway into a shuddering frenzy.

In the westbound lanes, Max's roadster growled among glaring brake lights.

"I've still got him," Sally said behind the wheel.

She'd begun to wonder exactly what she'd gotten herself into. The rain lashed the windshield, barely kept at bay by the frantic wipers.

Next to her, Max muttered to himself and hugged his old movie camera. She recognized it as the Arriflex he'd picked up at Arthur Golden's estate sale. His hand petted the machine as if it were his old dog.

He'd taken off his bucket hat with its MORT'S SPORTING GOODS logo. Instead of a single streak of silver in his dark hair running up like a skunk stripe, he now had two radiating from his temples like the bride of Frankenstein. The rain had turned his naturally spiky hair into a pair of thick, curved horns.

"I can do this, Arthur," he mumbled.

A cokehead diva, a Method actor who'd stopped distinguishing between reality and script, an Irish punk rocker, and a horror director who wasted away by the day and might be losing his marbles. This production had it all.

After the wrap, Max asked if she were up for a little adventure. He hoped to acquire footage of a car driving. The kind of thing the second camera unit handled, but he wanted it done right now. The storm being perfect and all.

He'd decided to shoot it himself, but he needed someone to drive his MG.

Could you play chauffeur and help me out?he'd asked her.

Sally had replied with her Bad Girl smile.

I'm always up for everything.

She was starting to regret it this time.

When it came to a fresh weird experience, she was usually the girl who couldn't say no. If horror movies—where dumb decisions always proved fatal—were real, she'd already be dead a hundred times over.

"I'll show you what I can do," the director muttered.

He seemed to be talking to the camera. The old Arriflex unsettled her. She couldn't pin why. Probably because it made her think of the Mary's Birthday massacre, though she suspected something deeper. Then she remembered what Dan said when they'd broken up.

That camera. It's the devil itself.

As for the director, Sally found him disturbing too and for a much clearer reason. Max was acting manic, unpredictable, off the hook.

She shot him a worried glance, and he put on a sheepish smile.

"My apologies," he said. "When I'm really tired, my brain gets too close to my mouth, if you know what I mean. I end up thinking out loud."

Sally reset her gaze on Jim Foster's Chevy Vega, easy to track even in this weather with its bright orange paint job. From what she could tell, Jim had no idea Max was filming him. She found the irony striking, how right now she stalked the man who might be her stalker.

"Sure," she said.

"You know, I was going to get rid of him. Order him off the set."

Her hands tightened on the leather-bound wheel.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you were nailing it," he said.

"You mean the camera rehearsal. I had it perfect before we started shooting."

"No," said Max. "I mean the take. Wanda is broken, but she doesn't have to be the Final Girl to prove she's a survivor. She already survived. Every day, she survives."

Sally bit her lip, mentally chewing what he'd told her.

"You wanted a quiet anger," she said.

"I wanted passion. And you, Sally Priest, have a lot of fire to give. The same fire you showed me at the end of your reading. It's why I cast you."

"But not as the Final Girl."

"That's a whole different story, one I'll have to tell you later. If I shared it with you now, you wouldn't believe a word."

Sally sighed, accepting what he'd said at face value. Max was both directing and producing this movie on a lean budget and tight schedule. He had his own pressures, and frankly, they were none of her business.

"You know, you can just ask me next time. I thought I'd had it perfect."

"I think the more you chase the idea of perfect," Max said, "the easier it is for one little thing to derail it. The harder it is to enjoy what you actually accomplish. Do you think that's accurate?"

"Maybe," Sally conceded.

"You need to be willing to do bad to do good."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Surely, he didn't mean she should be willing to fail, because she couldn't imagine ever abiding that.

"It means reach for the stars and grab the moon. Anyway, you can't control the outcome. You have to trust yourself you'll get it right." Max shrugged. "In the end, what's ultimately good or bad isn't in your control anyway. It's up to the director, who you also have to trust, and the audience."

All true, though Sally didn't like hearing it.

"Is that how you see things?" she asked him. "When you make a movie?"

She already knew the answer to that. The director didn't believe his own sage advice. He was notorious as a raging perfectionist.

Judging by his smile, Max knew it too.

"It's different for me," he said. "It's personal."

"How so?"

Max pointed. "He's exiting for Topanga."

"I got him." Sally followed the orange Vega onto the ramp, driving south toward the canyon and the coastal highway that would bring them to Malibu.

Following the twisty two-lane road, they entered the dark hills.

"I'll tell you something I've never told anyone," Max murmured. "Not any actor, not Jordan either. Not even Raph, the closest thing I had to a friend in this town besides my dog."

She waited for him to go on. The wipers clacked as they swept the rain.

"When I was six years old, my dad died right in front of my eyes."

"Oh my God," Sally said.

"He told a joke at the dinner table. A second later, he was dead. There he was, the biggest thing in my world, and then poof, he died and the world stopping making sense. He was so big and indestructible, and then there was just empty space. A few unreliable memories. A long lack. I've spent a lifetime processing it. Studying and trying to understand it. How unfair it was. How it could be possible. I mean, since then, I found out about it. Heart attack. A defect he'd been born with had finally caught up to him. I have the same defect. Every day might be my last. Borrowed time. But I've still never understood how it was possible."

She didn't know what to say. "I'm so sorry, Max."

It certainly explained the shadow that seemed to follow him around.

"Horror is what you feel when it happens," the director went on. "But Dorothy's right; it's also what you feel when you ask why it happened, and you have no answer. It's a shock that nags to be repeated until it's either understood or loses its power. When I make a horror picture, I revisit that night again and again. When I strive for perfection, I'm trying to replicate that feeling for everyone. Every day, I look around and see America living in a comfortable dream. I want to wake people up, make them understand. The horror is always there, and it demands respect."

"Wow," Sally said. "That's a hell of a personal drive."

Though she shuddered instinctively against it. She'd always shied away from dwelling on the truth of human mortality. Even at Raphael's wake, she'd strayed from Jordan's house as far as possible while still officially attending.

Max had his art, but she suspected what he really needed was a therapist.

"Tell me yours," Max said.

"Oh, it'll sound silly compared—"

"I'd honestly like to know."

"Okay, well, for me, acting is life."

Sally shot him a sharp look as if he'd already made fun of her. Max, however, said nothing. Waiting for more.

"Every time I perform, it feels more real than my actual life. And in my real life, I live to the fullest so I have a full range of experience to draw on. I've done hang gliding, bungee jumping, water skiing, and cross-country racing on a BMX. Last night, I almost dove headfirst into a mosh pit at a punk concert. Tons of odd jobs. I've acted my way into and out of more weird scenes and jams than you can count. Someone like Jim, he uses the Method to become someone else. Me, my goal is to use it so I can be anyone at any time."

Like creative reincarnation, as an actor she lived many lives playing out in overall communion with the creative everything. And if she proved talented enough to become a star, she might live forever.

Barring that, she'd at least live life as her fullest self.

Max said nothing. Sally pursed her lips. The traffic started to clear, and the MG resumed its steady pursuit of Jim Foster.

"I told you it's dumb," she said.

"Not at all," said Max.

What she'd said wasn't enough, though. She decided to spill all of it.

"I recently found out my dad isn't my biological father. My biological dad is most likely some Hollywood executive from the golden era. My mom lied to me my whole life and expects me to be someone I'm not so she can be a star through me. When it comes to my family, I've been playing a role since I came out of the womb. When I got into the industry, I took on a whole new role." She released a bitter little laugh. "Sometimes, I think the one role I can't play is the real me."

One of the only true things she'd said all day.

"We're quite different, you and me," Max observed.

Sally snorted. "Yeah, you could say that."

Though she appreciated the intimacy, enjoyed getting to know this eccentric man who'd worked his way up to become something of a titan on the horror scene.

"We're also alike in some ways. And one big way. What we do is who we are."

"It's in the blood," she said.

The same drive to win. The same passion.

"In the blood," he agreed. "Ah. Yes. Perfect."

The road snaked between slanting canyon walls, mottled brown and tan sandstone furred with scrub and chapparal. A lightning strike bleached the scene to white. The thunder's boom arrived seconds later, startling even though she expected it. The wind roared down the canyon like an angry and powerful spirit.

Max raised the Arriflex and peered into the eyepiece.

The camera whirred to life.

"Get home safe," he murmured. "Little Niro is waiting for you."

"What?" asked Sally.

Get home safe.She looked for hazards and spotted more than a few. On the right, the canyon sloped up. On the left, the northbound lane was protected against a sudden drop into a rocky ravine by a guardrail. The road curved into menacing blind spots. Rain and wind blasted the scene, which had suddenly and eerily emptied of traffic, like a setup in a horror movie.

She wondered what kind of footage Max was getting. A lot of out-of-focus raindrops and sweeps of the wipers, probably. Geniuses didn't always make sense.

Max whispered, "I have a little dog too. Her name is Lady Susan."

Sally shot him another anxious glance. He ignored it this time, talking to himself again, appearing at the edge of tears.

"She loves to play," he said. "Her favorite is a toy giraffe named Roger Ebert."

The orange Vega fishtailed.

Sally gaped through the windshield at Jim fighting for control of his car, which either hydroplaned or swerved along an oil patch.

"Holy—"

At last, Jim stomped the brakes and skidded to a halt. She did the same.

Max kept filming, muttering something like an incantation.

Sally finally breathed. "Oh, thank God, he's okay—"

The hill above the Vega bulged with a wave of mud that rolled down the rocky slope to slam into the car.

The metal frame shuddered at the impact and traveled sideways to the other side of the road, as if floating. Straight toward the guardrail.

Where the old Chevy slid until it bumped the rail and stopped.

The mud thinned as it flowed around the tires.

Sally sucked air into arrested lungs.

Jim's hazard lights blinked on.

"Yes. He's okay." As if double-checking.

The actor opened the passenger side of his car and leaned out to inspect the muddy carpet oozing across the road.

Another flash of lightning. In its sudden burst of light, Sally spotted the boulder come hurtling down with the rain.

Pried loose by the mud, the massive rock had slid down the hill, sailed off the nearby cliff, and now plummeted toward the road like a meteor.

Again unable to breathe, she followed its progress.

Then closed her eyes. Pressed her hands against them just to be sure.

Sally could still hear it, though, the sickening metallic crunch.

After a few moments, she found her voice. It came out a childlike whimper.

"Is he okay?"

"Actually, he is," Max said.

He sounded strangely disappointed.

Peeling her hands away from her face, she saw the boulder had nearly caved in the Vega's roof before rolling off.

She almost laughed. She couldn't believe this man's luck, both good and bad.

The guardrail had cracked. The heavy vehicle slowly drifted through it. Steadily sliding in the mud until the left-hand tires left the incline and touched space.

"Oh, shit," she yelled.

Jim tumbled out onto the muddy road as the Vega disappeared.

Sally gawked at the scene.

"What the hell…?"

"Oh, come on," said Max, still filming the whole thing.

"I'm going to offer him a ride."

The director frowned. He let out a resigned sigh.

"Fine—"

Yellow light haloed at the bend.

Jim picked himself up and frantically waved his arms.

Oh, thank God, Sally thought. Someone is stopping to help.

Horn bleating, the truck smashed into him with a nerve-shattering BANG.

The impact sent the body flying in a cartwheeling arc. It flickered in Sally's peripheral vision to land somewhere on the road behind her. Still honking, the truck howled past to brake in a long, slippery stop and sat idling.

Right before it finally slid to a halt, the tires thumped over something.

The film snapped in the camera.

If this were a movie set, the operator would yell, Roll, out! Signaling he needed time to load a fresh roll.

But this wasn't a movie. This actually happened.

She'd just witnessed Jim Foster getting run over by a speeding vehicle.

"Maybe he's…"

Max gazed out the back window.

"No." His voice sad and even more resigned. "This time, he most definitely is not."

Sally gripped the wheel as if to anchor herself.

"HOLY SHIT, MAX."

"I know." Max inspected his camera with something like awe.

"SERIOUSLY."

"I said, I know, Sally. You're okay."

"THIS IS NOT OKAY."

He reached over to squeeze her knee hard.

"Ow!" She slapped his hand away. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You were in shock," he said.

"Fine! Just don't be creepy about it." She sucked in a long, shuddering breath and let it out slow. "So what do we do now?"

"Keep driving," Max told her.

Sally stayed frozen. Irrational thoughts flew through her head. She'd somehow caused the accident, and she was in hot water with the entire state of California. If she started driving, she might be picked off next by a random and violent universe.

She asked, "Shouldn't we call someone?"

"We need to find a phone to do that."

"So, we find a pay phone, and we—"

"No," Max said. "We drop you home, and then I'll handle it. Unless you want to see your name in the gossip rags along with plenty of speculation as to what you were doing driving around these hills with your director."

"Oh." He was right. She had far more rational things to fear at the moment.

"They'll destroy you," he warned.

"Okay! You take the wheel, though. Right now, I don't trust… anything."

They traded seats. Sally buckled up and let out a shriek as something tapped the rain-streaked window next to her.

A pale face appeared in the dark. The man rapped again with his knuckles and mimed rolling down the window.

"Are you guys okay?" he shouted.

"It's the truck driver," Sally said. "I'm going to—"

Max upshifted and floored it, leaving the man in a spray of mud. They drove in silence for a while. Then the director spoke.

"I never thanked you, Sally."

"Huh? For what?"

"For teaching me the secret of acting. It really does work."

Sally shrugged, her mind on heftier things. Things like seeing Jim Foster mowed down by a truck and left as roadkill.

That horror Max had talked about, he hadn't been kidding.

Shocking, sickening, and grotesquely absurd. A powerful event, though it hadn't been cinematic. Instead, it had looked sadly mundane.

"I'm glad if something I said helped," she said in a daze.

"Oh, it helped," the director said. "It's making all this possible. It's helping me realize my dream. We're all serving something far bigger than ourselves."

How, exactly, he refused to elaborate.

It pissed her off to hear him talk like this. That he could drive the speed limit, go back to talking shop, and otherwise act like this was any another day. She regarded him and his horrible camera with a sudden and intense loathing.

"Jim is dead, Max."

"You're wondering what it means."

"Something like that." In any case, she struggled to process it.

He chuckled. "In the big scheme, it doesn't mean anything."

"Ugh." She clapped her hands over her ears. "Please stop."

"Now you know horror like I do."

If it was horror, it wasn't the fun kind.

"The kind of horror you live with," she said. "It doesn't belong in a movie."

"Which," said Max, "is precisely why it does. Whether we like it or not."

Sally stared at the director's satisfied profile, and for the first time, she suspected that deep down, he might not just play the monster but actually be one.