WidowMaker (6 page)

“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.

“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.

“Hey, Elmore!” Mitchell said, plopping down next to him.

Elmore’s chair flew back. “Damn it, Mitchell! Don’t you ever knock?”

“Not if I get reactions like that!” Mitchell pushed the chair toward Elmore. God, one more reason that he loved horror. “Is this really it? Really a copy of
Terror in the Trees
?”

Elmore scrunched up his face as he lowered himself into his chair. “Honestly, Mr. Dixon. I had more respect for you than that.”

“What?” Mitchell asked, checking out the titles on the pile of reels.

“You could have picked any film for your thesis,” Elmore scolded, his hands flying around agitated. “Any film in the history of theater. Take
Citizen Kane
, for example.”

Mitchell rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Me and eighteen million other students.”

“Then there’s
The French Connection
...”

“Hey. Just because it’s old and won an Oscar doesn’t mean—”

“Fine.
Fargo
.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Mitchell pulled a chair over and sat next to Elmore, certain that proximity would get his point across.

“Obviously not,” Elmore said, shaking his head. “Horror is the equivalent of mental masturbation.”

“But—”

“Okay. Even if we stick to horror, you could have picked Romero’s
Night of the Living Dead
. A classic.”

“I don’t do zombies. They give me the creeps.”

It was true. Dead people just shouldn’t walk around. Period. End of statement. Now, trees that came to life—those Mitchell was totally down with. And the fact that this film could possibly be created to cause mass hysteria. But how? That was what Mitchell was here to find out.

“Come on, Elmore, you must at the least be intrigued by the urban myth? A movie that scares people to death? You gotta love it.” Mitchell itched to tell Elmore the truth about his real fascination with the film, but was afraid to come out and tell Elmore his theory. What if Elmore didn’t buy it? What if he got Mitchell’s internship revoked? Crap. He needed to tread lightly.

Unaware of Mitchell’s internal struggle, Elmore just chuckled as he scrolled forward to a new scene and stopped on the image of a girl frozen in mid-scream, her eyes wide and terrified.

“I've watched this film backward and forward. It’s no different than a thousand other teen slasher flicks.”

Okay, here goes. Ease into it gently. “Ah, but you seem to forget the retro use of black and white film. The dynamic camera angles. ...”

“The lack of plot? The clunky dialogue?” Elmore countered.

“Listen. In the last ten years ... no, make that thirty or forty. What film has altered the public’s consciousness like
T.I.T.
?”
Literally
altered it?

“Tit? Jesus. Is that what they’re calling it now? Kids these days.” Elmore turned back to his computer and played the film.

“Exactly my point! The directors, the Baxter brothers, have grabbed the nation’s consciousness by the short hairs.” Mitchell seldom used such language, but darn it, if there was a time, it was now. If he could only get Elmore on his side, so that maybe he could see the validity of his findings. He really needed more than clippings. He needed access to the whole film.

“Obviously, the public has never seen the damn thing,” Elmore stated as he pointed to the screen. “The effects are so bad that you can practically see the strings. Look at this.”

The movie scrolled forward until it stopped on a woman whose arms and legs were strapped to the ground by vines. A root wound its way around her throat, popping her head off. In typical Baxter fashion, bright red blood flowed across the screen.

“Whoa! That was so gross!”

“Yeah. I know. I’m gonna have to edit that one down to get an R rating from the MPAA.” Elmore shifted in his seat and rewound the footage. “But did you
really
watch the scene?” Frame by frame passed over the screen. “During the course of the decapitation, the woman’s hair changed lengths. They didn’t even bother matching the mock-up head to the actress.”

“Come on. Look at their budget! Thirty thousand dollars? We’re lucky that they could afford a mannequin head, let alone—”

“I don't know about you,” Elmore stated, “but I still feel that a film, any film, should be a form of art. Not even horror should be allowed to insult our intelligence like this.”

Was he kidding?
The Blair Witch Project
was loaded with factual and continuity errors. Yet, its gross box office earnings kicked everyone’s asses. And maybe it wasn’t about the quality of the film for the Baxter brothers. Maybe it was about getting their message out there. They spent their money somewhere other than the special effects department.

Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, arms braced on his knees. “So, where are you going to start the edit?”

“I might as well work on the decapitation scene. I have no qualms about leaving such atrocious effects on the cutting room floor.”

“Hey, do you think I can get copies of those snippets?” Mitchell said a silent prayer to Stephen King. Please, let the entire film be altered. Otherwise, the odds of his clips containing mind-blowing evidence were slim.

“Not only can you have them, you can burn them in effigy, for all I care.” Frame by frame, the movie crept across the screen. “I'll just show a bit of red,” Elmore explained. “Letting the audience know the branch is cutting into her. Then jump-cut to a few frames of her head being dragged away.” Elmore stopped. Cut. Moved a few frames. Cut. “Just a glimpse is all that’s needed. Someone should have taught these filmmakers that less is more.”