WidowMaker Page 4

  Her footsteps echoed in the foyer as her four-inch heels tapped against the marble floor. Who called a meeting at 7:00 a.m.? Of course, Jill had been on the phone to the East Coast since six, but still. How she wished she’d never heard of Terror in the Trees! Besides the PR nightmare that was several dozen lawsuits regarding audience deaths, Temple Studios had acquired the film for over 400 million dollars. That was Cameron at his best kind of money, yet Temple Studios had laid out all of their available capital on a movie that none of them had actually seen.

  They just had to trust the Baxter brothers. Either this movie made box office history, or … Well, forget her job. Temple Studios would no longer exist.

  Ugh! Jill felt her forehead throb. Sure, she always wanted to be the head of PR on a major motion picture. However, she thought it would be on the next Gone with the Wind, or at the least, a movie similar to The Hurt Locker. But no, because of Terror in the Trees, Jill had zero sleep, and her cell phone wouldn’t stop ringing. As it was, she had twenty-three voice mails waiting for her attention.

  She shifted her coffee to her other hand, checking her watch. 7:01.

  Crap.

  She was late. Tapping her shoe as if it would hurry the elevator, Jill watched the old-style gauge. Just two more floors, and the elevator would be hers.

  Before the car arrived, Jill stole a quick glance at her reflection. A faint shadow framed her blue eyes. They once shined with excitement, but now they were dull with fatigue. Was this what it was like? Selling your soul to hock a horror film whose greatest claim to fame was that it induced paranoid schizophrenia? How much had she sacrificed, and for what? The need for a gallon of under-eye concealer?

  The chime of the elevator startled her. Jill rushed in and hit the “Penthouse” button, and then swiped her employee card to confirm the fact she had access. A card that every publicist in LA—hell—the world, envied. Obviously, Jill really needed to get some rest and clear her head. She was living the dream, right?

  The express elevator whisked her to the top floor in a few moments. She stepped out of the elevator and into the executive offices of Temple Studios. It appeared that not just the inner circle had been summoned this morning, but the entire staff. All of the cubicles were filled with eager twentysomethings. Had they come in early, or had they just not bothered with the whole go- home-and-shower thing and stayed the night?

  As Jill wound her way through the cubicles, not one head looked up to acknowledge her. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, for fear they would draw the attention of Amanda Temple, their boss and the head of Temple Studios. Amanda was a fourth-generation Temple, and the first woman to run the studio. Her family was old Hollywood, but Amanda was a modern-day slave driver.

  Jill paused at the desk of her assistant, Margie. Setting her cup of coffee down, she fluffed her blonde curls and smoothed her Chanel skirt. Of all days to be held up, why did it have to be today?

  “You’d better hurry. The meeting’s already started, and you know WW’s mood,” Margie whispered, using everyone’s code name for Amanda—WW—wicked witch. Margie followed up with the motion of a claw. “Meeeeow!” Then, she handed Jill a portfolio.

  “Thanks. You’re a godsend.” Jill blew her assistant a quick kiss as she raced toward the conference room.

  Adjusting the papers in her hand, Jill eased the double glass doors open. The room silenced as all eyes darted to her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Jill apologized, as she scooted around the long table to the only vacant seat.

  “So glad you were able to join us, Ms. Connor.”

  Jill flinched. How could a person’s tone cut like a knife? But Amanda’s did. She must have taken Cruelty 101 when she topped her class at USC.

  Jill avoided Amanda’s eyes. Like Medusa, one look could turn you into stone.

  “It took me longer than expected to quiet the family in Colorado Springs. The death of their son at Smackdance ...”

  “Isn’t that a matter for our lawyers?” The vice president of Temple Studios, Howie Namer, interrupted. His beady eyes narrowed on Jill before he directed his attention across the table to Wesley Chase, the head of legal.

  “All families of the deceased were served papers. Since we acquired the film after those unfortunate deaths, we are untouchable,” Wesley replied.

  Like a piece of paper was going to stop the families from expressing their distress over the loss of their sons and daughters. “Perhaps ... but nothing is stopping them from going to the press about our plans to wide-release the movie. Luckily, I was able to talk the Valenz family into venting their grief in private.” Take that, Mr. Chase.

  “You stopped them?” Amanda shrieked. Her hands fluttered around her in distress. Her red-tipped nails pointed like talons. “The premiere is tonight! We need any piece of press—bad or good. What were you thinking?”

  “I just ...”

  “Jill, maybe you don’t understand,” Howie explained in that condescending tone of his. “Everything rides on this film.”

  No kidding, Jill thought. After a string of bombs over the last few years since Amanda fully took over acquisitions, Temple Studios was at an all-time low. But what were they thinking? A sci-fi musical with homophobic overtones?

  “I know, but—”

  Amanda interjected, “This studio has invested its entire working capital into Terror. I won’t let some sentimental little public relations—”

  Jill pushed herself to her feet. “You stole me away from Miramax for a reason, Ms. Temple. And this is why.”

  Jill glared at each face around the table as she pressed home her point. “Free press, even negative press, is usually welcome. But not this time.” Jill opened her file and tossed pictures of the Valenz family across the table. A prom photo, a father with his arm around his son, a mother hugging her son in a cap and gown.

  “Show a grieving mother and a distraught father, and you’ve transformed a thriller into a tragedy. The public’s sympathy will swing toward the family and against the film. That is not the type of press we want.” Jill watched all eyes revert to Amanda, waiting for her response.

  “Perhaps, but we need ...”

  “We need events like the film being stolen. That’s a PR person’s wet dream. Thief risks imprisonment to view the director’s cut of Terror in the Trees. That I can use to drum up the proper hype. But not if the media is focused on distraught families.” Jill looked around the room for approval. She found none. No one would venture an opinion until Amanda told them what theirs should be.

  “What about the FBI investigation?” Wesley asked.

  “Bring ’em on.” Jill stated. “More fuel for the fire.”

  “I admire your ... pluckiness, Ms. Connor,” Amanda stated, her smile not reaching her eyes. “But I still want those families blabbing to anyone who will listen. As a matter of fact, we should encourage them to organize a boycott. Now that’s publicity. Must I do your job for you?”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Jill’s words hung in the air like a noose, while the meeting attendees exploded in gasps. Blotches of red burst on Amanda’s cheeks, her red lips pinched in outrage.

  “A stunt like that will scare away the celebrity whom I’ve just made arrangements for in order to attend our LA premiere.” Jill stated as everyone in the room probably started making wagers on how fast she was about to get fired.

  “The theater is going to be packed with Hollywood’s elite. For God’s sake, Jack Nicholson is on the waiting list. What difference is your celebrity going to make?” Amanda sneered.

  “You’re right. I guess I'll just call the president and first lady of the United States and tell them not to show.”

  Everyone in the room vibrated with questions.

  “The president?” Wesley asked, his pen paused in mid-stroke.

  “While he’s out for the Democratic fund-raiser, a little Tinseltown exposure helps him as well as us. How many movie studios can say that the president attended their movie premiere? But
I can guarantee you that he won’t cross a picket line of sobbing middle-American voters. So make up your mind.”

  Speechless, Amanda blinked several times, and then slammed her iPad cover closed and stormed out of the conference room. Everyone in the room sat stunned. Sure, people stormed out of the conference room all the time, but never Amanda. She was always the one to stay behind and gloat. Jill challenged the room, “Now, would anyone else like to criticize my PR campaign?”

  Soft murmurs circulated around the conference table as each head shook no in response.

  Wesley set his pen on the table and stood with his hand extended toward Jill. “Well, let me be the first to congratulate you, Jill. Well done. Well done, indeed.”

  Soft applause accompanied the handshake, followed by another. Everyone but Namer rose to his feet.

  Ding, dong! The witch is dead, and all.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  The theme music for the movie Halloween chimed from Mitchell’s phone, but his eyes were glued to the real thing up on the forty-six-inch plasma screen in front of him.

  “Douche, answer your phone!” his roommate, Craig, barked.

  But how could he? The best part was coming up. Besides, it was probably just his mom anyway. Eighteen, with a masters degree, and she still checked up on him, making sure he ate his oatmeal. It took some creative manipulation for her to allow him to even live in the dorms. She would not be pleased with their current plan to cut class and have a horror marathon until the witching hour of Halloween. Moms—they just didn’t get it.

  “Mitch, pass the chips,” TJ requested, while lounging on the corner of Mitchell’s bed.

  “Are you kidding me? The last time you came over, I found pizza crust under my blanket.”

  TJ threw a pillow at Mitchell, knocking his glasses off. “Don’t be such a pussy,” TJ said, motioning across the room. “I bet Craig hasn’t changed his sheets since school started.”

  Ugh! TJ couldn’t be more correct. As a matter of fact, Mitchell would bet that Craig hadn’t showered since his lacrosse practice, and that was on Tuesday. Clods of dried mud and grass punctuated Craig’s side of the room. Of course, on the upside, Craig had eaten that stale pizza crust. There really was no need for a trashcan in the room with Craig in the house.

  “H-e-e-e-re’s Johnny!” Jack Nicholson's voice came out of Mitchell’s cell phone, indicating that he had a text message. Yikes! He snatched up his phone. His mom hadn’t figured out how to text yet.

  Thank God.

  He scanned the text. “Mitchell, if you want to see the full version of Terror in the Trees, then get your ass to the studio before I start chopping.”

  It was from Elmore Taylor, lead editor at Temple Studios.

  Mitchell glanced up from his phone, eyes bulging. Ho..ly guacamole! Terror in the Trees!

  He fisted his right hand and pulled it back. Yes! The unedited version of Terror! He looked at the text again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Could he really be going to view the uncut version of the film that his doctoral thesis was based on? Horror—A Societal Necessity?

  But as the real-life body count stacked up, Terror was no longer just about getting his PhD. No, it went way further than that. Mitchell had done hundreds of hours of research into the film, the deaths, and even the film’s directors, the Baxter brothers.

  And he had a theory. A theory that he hadn’t even been able to put into writing yet about the phenomenon. He thought he would have to wait for the theatrical release, but now? To be able to get his hands on the raw film to analyze? To finally test his theory? Ho..ly shit!

  Dear God! Did he have a pressed shirt ready?

  Mitchell jumped out of his chair and opened his closet, relieved that his mom had hung his starched shirts there. He chucked off his “I liked my father’s Star Trek” T-shirt and put on the crisp shirt. His worn chinos were going to have to do. His mom only did pants on Fridays.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” Craig asked, cramming a fistful of popcorn in his mouth.

  “Sorry, gotta jet,” Mitchell said as he put his MacBook Air into its neoprene sleeve.

  “Mitchell, are you serious?” Craig asked. “We’re just on the first Halloween. We’ve got, like seventeen, to go.”

  “I gotta get to the studio,” Mitchell said as he sifted through papers on the desk and tossed Craig’s underwear on the floor. “Have you seen my keys?” he asked.

  TJ snorted. “It’s a damn internship. You don’t even get paid.”

  “Doctoral theses don’t get granted without some sacrifices,” Mitchell said absently as he rattled a Red Bull can. You never knew.

  “Paging Dr. Dixon. Dr. Dixon,” Craig said, laughing, using his hand as a megaphone.

  “Not that kind of doctor, dumbass.” Seriously, how did TJ and Craig make it through their SATs? They were like the guys in Dumb and Dumber, only, well … more intellectually challenged.

  “I still don’t see why you have to run off like a little girl.”

  “It's Terror in the Trees.” All heads spun to Mitchell, mouths hanging open. “No way, dude. Seriously?” Craig asked, popcorn spilling from his open mouth.

  Mitchell’s grin widened. Little girl, huh?

  “But the douche isn’t going because it will be the most wicked horror movie ever,” TJ said with a sneer. “He is going to prove his stupid theory.”

  Craig groaned. “Ugh! Never mind. I’d rather see it in 3-D at Grauman’s, rather than listen to you babble on about audio frequency interference.”

  Finally, Mitchell found his keys in a discarded donut wrapper. He headed out the door. Craig and TJ were already engrossed in the movie again.

  Clearly, the Cro-Magnons couldn’t comprehend the depth of his studies, or how explosive his findings might be. If he was right, the headlines would read … “Movie Geek Unravels Killer Film.”

  Mitchell wouldn’t need his doctorate. He’d be a millionaire.

  * * *

  Derek clenched and unclenched his fingers on the wheel of his SUV. At 7:30 a.m., traffic was already bumper-to-bumper, and he’d only made it as far as Orange County. The day looked to be a long one.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, supposedly to make sure that the car behind him was not creeping up his tailpipe. But while he was there, Derek checked his hair. That damn cowlick at the part was acting up. He fidgeted with it until he heard a honk. Sure enough, traffic had moved forward. A whole two feet.

  Sighing, he released the brake and let the SUV roll forward.

  There? Happy now?

  But Derek would have been on edge anyway, with or without the traffic. What the hell was up? He could do this investigation in his sleep. He just had to deliver a couple of reels, ask a few questions, and make sure that the president didn’t claw his own eyes out. No big deal.

  But the big deal was that he had to do all of that with Jill—the chick who had broken his heart, and then stomped on it with her high heels. The chick he dreamed about nearly every night.

  They were supposed to be states apart. A world between him and her.

  Hadn’t that been the entire crux of their problem? He wanted to go to D.C., and she had wanted to take that job up in Vancouver with the Film Commission? Their relationship was already strained with his undercover work. He disappeared for weeks at a time. Jill had refused to be a work widow all the way across the country. Why couldn’t he take a job in the Seattle office?

  That was a good question. Three years ago, Derek hadn’t even entertained the thought of sidelining his career up in the Northwest. But now look at him. Doing White Collar in San Diego. And here Jill was in Los Angeles.

  He’d tossed and turned all night. What would he say? What would she say? Nary a thought had been about the stupid film, or its stupid special effects.

  Derek reached down, grabbing the brown Styrofoam cup and went to swig more coffee, but he only got sludge. He was out … and only in Orange County.

  Like he said. A long
-ass day.

  * * *

  Mitchell made his way down the basement hallway. Editing bays needed to be completely dark, and isolated from external sound. So why bother having them upstairs in the shiny, Art Deco world of Temple Studios? Editors truly were the unsung heroes of Hollywood.

  But even down here in the subterranean lair, small nods to Temple’s former glory still lurked. Instead of caged lights, the wall sconces were stained glass with pewter fixtures. Before he could scribble a few notes onto his iPad about his pre-viewing experience, EW was going to want an exclusive about his journey into the heart of the beast, an agonized scream came from down the hall.

  As he made his way to the editing bay, Mitchell heard the same scene rewound and replayed. The screams repeated over and over again. Careful not to make a sound, Mitchell entered the room, and then quietly clicked the door closed. The studio wasn’t all that big, but Elmore liked to have everything within an arm’s reach. A cart of movie reels was stacked against the wall. A sign above three huge monitors read “No Food or Beverages Allowed.”

  Mitchell stood behind Elmore, Temple Studios’ editor extraordinaire. He was one of the last old-school editors. And this was one of the last few horror films to be shot on real film. Everyone was going digital. Just one more reason Mitchell had chosen this film as his doctoral thesis. Little did he know what he was getting himself into.

  Elmore was so engrossed in the black and white scene playing across his monitors that he didn’t seem to hear Mitchell’s entrance. Mitchell watched the scene play out.

  A teenager ran through a dark forest until a branch burst through his chest. Bright red blood splattered across the screen. Nice. Mitchell loved the contrast of the blood against the black and white of the film. The Baxter brothers were pure genius. But Mitchell was pretty damn smart himself, and felt within inches of cracking their little mystery wide open.