The Devil's Due Page 16

  Whatever his reasons, he'd come to work and if they were going to find him, they had to get to Lot Three, which was apparently too far to walk. Sadly, golf carts had not made it to the big time yet. Limited private cars were allowed to drive through the studio and Simon and Elizabeth, as low-level writers, didn't rate. The studio's trolley route wouldn't get them much nearer than they already were. That left one option — bicycles. They were the main source of transportation around the lot and in high demand. Luckily, Mr. Fox and Mr. Owl had offered theirs.

  The bikes were big, clunky beach cruiser types with broad handlebars and fat tires. “You do know how to ride, don't you?” she said with a grunt as she hefted the heavy bike out of its slot in the rack.

  Simon pulled his bike out of the rack without nearly the same effort. “We do have bicycles in England, Elizabeth.”

  “I know, but it's just hard to picture you on one.”

  He got onto the bike and held out his arms. “Behold.”

  He actually looked quite at home, despite the incongruity of wearing a suit.

  Elizabeth's bike was a little too big for her, and worst of all, a man's bike, but there wasn't a choice. She glared at the bike's crossbar and tried to figure out what to do with her skirt. Finally, she hiked it up just enough to fling her leg over the seat and straddle the crossbar, on tiptoes.

  Simon snickered.

  “You try it in a skirt,” she said. She'd ridden bikes all her life, but never one like this and never in a dress.

  Simon smiled and easily pushed off. He rode around in lazy circles while she continued to fumble. Her legs were too short, the seat was too high and the dress was getting in the way.

  “You can always ride,” he offered as he circled past her, “on my handlebars,” he finished with another pass.

  “I can do it.” And she did, just barely. She planted her right foot on the pedal, which she couldn't see because of the flare in her skirt, pushed down and prayed. The bike wobbled beneath her until her left foot found its place and she gave it another pedal. Another pedal and she was fine. Once the bike had forward momentum, it stabilized and she sat down.

  She started down Main Street trying to remember the directions Mr. Fox had given them. She could make it as long as she didn't have to stop. Ever.

  Once they left the main studio lot, which was filled with sound stages, production buildings and offices, they hit the backlot. Or at least one of them. Mammoth Studios was well named. The backlots covered dozens and dozens of acres and were a crazy mishmash of times and places.

  They rode past a Spanish hacienda where, on the steps, men in dashing red and white uniforms fought with swords while bloodied comrades had lunch at a nearby craft services table. There was a replica of somewhere on the left bank in Paris where a couple ran up a cobblestone street under a downpour of rain from a giant sprinkler system above them. A quaint square straight out of small town anywhere USA was empty except for a few people staring up at the clock tower making notes.

  All of the buildings looked genuine enough from the front if you didn't look too closely. It was only as you passed that you saw the beams and struts holding up the façades. It was all sort of dreamlike — snatches of disparate things, images that never really took hold, a living montage.

  They were stopped for filming at one crossroad and Elizabeth barely managed not to tip over. To their right was a long frontage for a New York Street and to the left a long narrow river with sets dressed to look like somewhere in the Netherlands. They passed a Chinese street, a cemetery and two more New York streets before making it to the outskirts of Lot Three and the enormous sets for Alan's ill-fated last film, Through the Dark Continent.

  There were two main sets and several smaller set-ups each designed to look like deepest darkest Africa, or at least Hollywood's version of it. The main village set had several thatched huts in front of a jungle backdrop that consisted of a few native California trees like Eucalyptus with fake vines hung over the branches, large exposed jungle tree roots and lots and lots of large potted banana and palm trees. A few of the “natives” sat around a card table playing poker as they waited for their next scene.

  Most of the focus was on the other major set piece — a forty-foot tall temple, made out of rough-hewn rock carved out of a cliff-face. Elizabeth shaded her eyes against the bright sun as she looked at the set. At various levels of the temple small clusters of natives dressed in leather thongs, feathers, and body paint pounded the staffs of their spears into the rock as they stomped in rhythm and chanted something unintelligible. Two big cats, a lion and a tiger paced the inside of their cages, embedded in the cliff.

  Simon whispered in her ear and pointed toward a small group of intrepid adventurers as they made their way up a twisty path that led to the top level of the temple. Alan was at the head of the group of explorers and just about to greet a skinny old tribal chieftain with a ridiculously enormous headdress.

  If there were thirty people on the set there were easily twice as many behind the cameras. Some held cables and other equipment, while others stood by lights and reflective panels. A half dozen men stood on a ten-foot wooden platform with a camera mounted at the top and at least a dozen more centered around a large camera crane that rose up nearly thirty feet in the air.

  “Come on, natives, you can give me more than that!” a man with a bullhorn yelled. “Chant harder for God's sake!”

  The natives did.

  “Keep going, Alan, good! You're nearly there!” the man yelled again. “Get ready, Morty!”

  Alan, dressed as the great explorer Stanley, reached the top level of the temple. He took off his pith helmet and bowed.

  “Now, Morty!”

  The little old chieftain raised his hands to the sky and joined in the chant. Alan staggered back a step as a five-foot long ape hand rose up from behind the mountain. The chanting got faster, louder. The chief turned to greet the giant beast and his headdress fell off.

  “Cut!”

  Instantly, the chanting stopped. The little old man shrugged and tried to put the headdress back on. Another man popped out from behind the giant ape hand to see what was going on.

  “Damn it. Wardrobe!”

  Alan laughed and clapped the old man on the back. Then, he turned and shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun as he waited for direction.

  Someone whispered in the director's ear. He held up his megaphone. “That's lunch!” He stormed off with a retinue of people apologizing in his wake.

  Several men scrambled up the rock and helped the natives and adventurers navigate the dangerous climb back down. Once he was on terra firma again, Elizabeth called out to Alan.

  He waved back and met them just in front of the main camera rig. “Well, hello,” he said with a broad smile. There was no hint of the morose man they'd left the other night or the one she'd spoken to on the phone yesterday. “What do you think?” he said waving at the emptying set.

  “Amazing,” Elizabeth said, feeling a tingle of excitement. It was all so absurd and wonderful.

  Simon on the other hand…

  Alan noticed his frown. “Something wrong?”

  “Well,” Simon said. “Tigers are not indigenous to the African continent.”

  Alan put a hand on his shoulder. “Neither are fifty foot apes, my dear fellow.” He turned him toward the long line of picnic tables. “Now, how about lunch?”

  A long buffet had been set up under tents adjacent to the set. With the precision of a Roman legion the caterers fed over one hundred members of the cast and crew. Elizabeth, Simon and Alan joined the other members of his “expedition” at a table in the shade of a large oak across the dirt street from the set. Alan regaled the group with stories of his early pictures.

  After lunch was over, she and Simon took him aside. For a man with hours to live, Alan seemed undisturbed, even happy. He was acting like it was just a normal day. Elizabeth was filled with a mixture of awe and concern. If she thought she had one day to li
ve, she's pretty sure she wouldn't spend it at work as though nothing were wrong. But, then again, UCSB was a far cry from Mammoth Studios.

  “What should I do?” Alan said as he leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette. “This,” he said through an exhale, “is who I am.”

  “You could leave here,” Elizabeth said. She hated to run from anything, but sometimes getting the heck out of Dodge was the best choice. “Maybe if you can get away from him…”

  “My dear,” he said with a sad smile. “An actor never leaves Hollywood behind. Hollywood leaves him.”

  “All right, let's try it again!” the director yelled through his bullhorn.

  “Try not to worry,” he said, gently touching her cheek. “I've had a good run.”

  Elizabeth's heart sank at his words.

  “That damn head-thing better stay on this time!” the director cried. “Alan!”

  Alan crushed out his cigarette and started for the set. “Come by the house at six!” he called over his shoulder before turning around. “And put on your best. We're going out tonight!”

  And just like that he joined the rest of the cast as they took their places for another take.

  Simon's arm wrapped around her waist. “There's nothing more we can do, Elizabeth.” His voice was comforting, but resigned.

  Why was everyone so ready to just give up? She looked back up at Alan climbing to the top of the set. Stanley didn't give up and she wasn't going to either. “There's one thing we haven't tried.”

  “What's that?”

  “Thorn.”

  ~~~

  Simon wished, and not for the first time, that he could throw Elizabeth over his shoulder and carry her away to somewhere safe. Of course, he couldn't and, the longer he spent with her, the more he realized that when it came to Elizabeth, nowhere would be safe enough. Certainly though, going to see Thorn was just about as far from safe as he could imagine.

  When Thorn's secretary told them that he wasn't in today, Simon felt the relief of a last reprieve. That was until Elizabeth asked for and was given Thorn's home address.

  If Thorn hadn't shown an interest in Elizabeth, Simon might have almost willingly gone along with her foolish plan. Under the current circumstances, it was unthinkable. There was a difference, he pointed out, in seeing a lion in a cage at the zoo and walking out into the jungle and sticking your damn head in its mouth. It was madness. At that, he drew the line, and Elizabeth promptly stepped over it.

  She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as they walked up the front steps to Thorn's Beverly Hills home. Simon looked down at her in wonder. Perhaps she was the one with mind control powers.

  Of course, she'd been right. They'd come all this way, risked everything so far; they had to at least try to confront Thorn. It was, he hated to admit, the right thing to do. Not just right in the sense of helping Grant, but in the grander scheme. She'd seen their place in that plan long before he had. It was, no doubt, her openness to the world that let her see it. And, it was, he felt with no joy in the irony, her openness that worried him the most.

  He'd always been a man who lived behind walls, first at Grey Hall and then of his own creation. She'd managed to find a way inside them. However, as much as she'd like to think she had, she hadn't torn them down. He'd merely rebuilt them with her inside. Of course, that didn't last, couldn't last. Elizabeth saw to that.

  “Ready?” she asked as she reached for the doorbell.

  He wasn't; they weren't, but it wasn't for lack of trying. When he'd finally reluctantly agreed to see Thorn, he'd done so on the condition that she learn mental techniques to try to keep Thorn at bay.

  Elizabeth had said something about Occlumency and some Professor Snape. He'd merely nodded, not having any idea what she meant, and instructed her on the few methods he'd come across in his studies. Primarily, they were ways of focusing the mind on positive things - an anchor for thought and emotion. None of them were designed for whatever it was Thorn might be doing, but it was the only defense they had. Assuming, of course, as Elizabeth pointed out, he wasn't an agent of the dark lord. Then, all bets were off.

  Simon heard footsteps approaching from behind the door and held on to Elizabeth's hand a little more tightly. A butler in full dress opened the door and invited them to wait in the front parlor.

  Thorn's home was elegant and tasteful. Simon wasn't sure what he'd expected. Heads mounted on the wall? A necklace of ears? In an odd way, that might have been more comforting than the beautiful, far too normal home they'd stepped into. It would have been preferable to see Thorn for the monster he was. This veil of charm was more dangerous than fangs.

  After a few moments, the butler returned. “Mr. Thorn is waiting for you in his office.”

  “Remember your focus point,” Simon said, tapping his chest, as they were led through the foyer. “Everything will be all right.”

  She smiled up at him. “I know.”

  Thorn sat behind a large mahogany desk. He lifted his head and smiled in a way that made Simon rethink his abandoned, throw-Elizabeth-over-his-shoulder strategy.

  “Come in,” Thorn said. “I've been wondering when you might stop by.”

  He rose from his chair and came around the desk to greet them. Simon and Elizabeth didn't walk too far into the room. They stayed on the far edge of the Persian rug, sure to keep some distance between Thorn and them.

  Thorn gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please?”

  “No, thank you,” Simon said. They wanted to stay alert and focused.

  Thorn shrugged diffidently and leaned back against the front of his desk. “As you wish. Although,” he said turning his attention to Elizabeth, “you can't really appreciate my collection from there.”

  He drew their attention to a large case mounted on the wall behind his desk. Behind the glass, pinned to black velvet were dozens of butterflies, their iridescent wings open as if caught in midflight.

  “Aren't they beautiful?” he said, almost lovingly. “These are a few of my favorites.”

  Simon looked down at Elizabeth and saw the anger and disgust in her eyes. He squeezed her hand. “We're here to discuss Alan Grant.”

  Thorn didn't look away from his collection. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “We want you to release him from his…contract.”

  Thorn chuckled. “Do you?” He eased off the desk, walked back around it and sat down again. “Surely, that's a matter between Grant and the studio.”

  “That isn't what she meant,” Simon said.

  Thorn placed his palms on the edge of the blotter on his desk and pushed himself back more deeply into his chair. “No?”

  Elizabeth started forward, but Simon's touch on her arm kept her where she was. “You know what we're talking about.”

  “I'm sure I don't,” Thorn said. “Why don't you tell me?”

  “Your agreement with Grant,” Simon said sharply. “Whatever coercion you used, it won't work in the end.”

  “Coercion? Is that what he told you?” Thorn steepled his fingers in front of him and looked at Simon in a way that felt as though the man was seeing right through his soul. Simon's hand slid down Elizabeth's arm and gripped her hand tightly. Focus.

  Thorn touched his index fingers to his lips. “No, I don't think he did. He told you the truth.”

  Simon tamped down his growing feelings of unease. “What he thinks is the truth.”

  “And you're unconvinced.” Thorn leaned forward. “It might be fun to convince you,” he said more to himself than to them.

  “Whoever,” Simon said, struggling to keep his mind clear, “whatever you think you are, it doesn't matter to me.”

  “Oh, but it does,” Thorn said with a soft laugh. “So much, so very much.” His eyes shifted to Elizabeth.

  Simon's heart stuttered and then raced. He could feel his control slipping away. He gripped Elizabeth's hand even more tightly and clenched his other hand into a fist. This man standing in front of him was flesh and
blood, he told himself. This was no devil he was talking to. Just a man. “Your lies won't work on us.”

  “The only lies I need are the ones you tell yourself,” Thorn said. “You're quite adept at that aren't you, Cross?”

  The tension in Simon's muscles intensified until he could hear the rapid thrumming of his own heart.

  “I can give you what you want,” Thorn said, and then he glanced at Elizabeth. “I can keep her safe.”

  The sound of his own blood rushing through his ears was white noise against the world.

  Simon.

  The voice sounded like it was underwater — distant and muffled, but insistent. “Simon…Simon!”

  He felt her tug on his arm and, still dazed, he turned to look at her. Elizabeth's eyes were wide with worry. “Focus,” she said, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look into her eyes. “Remember? Focus on me.”

  Simon felt the clouds begin to part, and Elizabeth turned to Thorn. She pulled herself to her full five foot four and met Thorn's gaze with a calm assurance Simon envied. “Our souls are not for sale.”

  Despite the confidence in her declaration, Thorn didn't seemed convinced, but didn't press the matter. “We'll see.”

  Elizabeth didn't relent. “We're here about Alan Grant.”

  Thorn grew instantly bored and waved a dismissive hand in the air. “There's no point in that. His contract has nearly been fulfilled.”

  Simon pushed the last bit of haze from his mind. “We'd like to see it. The contract.”

  “I'm afraid only the contract holder has the right to ask that.”

  “That's convenient,” Simon said. “A contract no one else can see.”

  “I assure you, they are quite legitimate. I went to great lengths to ensure my contract was drawn up according to the laws of man. Jurisdictional issues and all.” Thorn smiled. “In my line of work, you become well acquainted with quite a few attorneys.”

  “What do you get out of it?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.

  Thorn shrugged. “Their souls.”

  “Assuming that's possible,” Elizabeth continued. “Why?”