Video Kill

1


Eleven Months Later

Sunday, July 4





“Hi, Mr. Brother. It’s good to see you again.”

Christie Jensen, the pretty brunette at the ticket counter, smiled as she greeted the man at the front of the line. Working the Fourth of July matinee was a drag, but now she was glad she’d agreed to come in. Mr. Brother was her favorite regular. The other guys in line often asked her for dates, and she politely explained that it was against company policy. But Christie knew that she’d say yes to Mr. Brother without a second’s hesitation.

Mr. Brother was far from what her younger sister termed “to die for” or “terminally handsome.” He was of medium height with light brown hair which was thinning a bit on the top. His body was lean and well muscled even though he didn’t seem the type to play tennis or jog, and this afternoon he was wearing tan slacks and a matching sports shirt, open at the neck, no tie, topped by a well-cut, brown tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Christie could tell that Mr. Brother’s clothes were expensive.

Christie had spent hours trying to identify exactly what it was she found so attractive about Mr. Brother. She admitted that his apparent wealth might have something to do with it. After all, he drove a beautiful tan Mercedes, and she’d never ridden in a car that expensive. Or perhaps it was his courteous, almost old-fashioned manner. He had the slightest trace of an accent, something European, Christie thought. He reminded her of the cultured aristocracy she read about in her favorite romance novels. Mr. Brother was friendly enough, he never failed to greet her by name, but he kept an aloof distance. And there was an air of subdued mystery about him that Christie found intriguing.

“Good afternoon, Christie. One ticket please, for the matinee.”

Christie looked into Mr. Brother’s darkly intense eyes and wished she could think of some bright, witty thing to say, but her mind had gone perfectly blank and the rest of the line was growing restless. She knew there’d be complaints if she delayed too long with one customer, so she settled for giving him her best smile as she handed him the computerized receipt that read BIJOU MATINEE ADULT. The whole encounter had taken less than a minute and then he was walking away. Christie knew she’d blown her chance again, and she turned to the next person in line with obvious reluctance.

Brother strode through the archway that led to the center aisle. This was his place of refuge, a private hideaway where he could be alone to think. It was a great relief to slip out, like a snake shedding its confining skin, and become Little Brother again.

He moved past the empty seats to the very center of the back row, where he could stretch out his legs and no one would be likely to bother him. The smell of popcorn was overpowering, and Brother suspected it was deliberately funneled in through the air conditioner vents to attract customers to the concession stand in the lobby. Theater owners were using every marketing truck they could devise to make money in an industry that was slowly dying, bled dry by DVDs and television. If the number of matinee tickets sold this afternoon was any indication, the battle was lost.

As the lights dimmed and the movie began, Brother gazed around him and smiled. The Bijou, in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, was a crazy quilt of architectural styles. The cognoscenti called it a monument to bad taste, but Brother had always felt comfortable here. Soft pink lights twinkled from the top of stark Corinthian columns, Romanesque arches were decorated with Moroccan tiles, and a Chinese lacquered balustrade ran the length of the balcony. It had been a center for entertainment in its day, but now the huge interior was practically empty.

Three elderly ladies, dressed in a style that had been fashionable years ago, were the sole occupants of the middle section. They had probably come inside to escape the heat, lured by the theater’s senior citizen discount. The left section housed two middle-aged couples and a man slumped in his seat near the back, gently snoring his way through the feature. Predictably, the current crop of teenagers had taken over the balcony, huddled so closely together in pairs they reminded him of the two-headed freaks on county fair posters.

The front four rows of the theater were filled with the one group that had turned out in full force. At age twelve and under, half price, the prepubescent children were more interested in throwing popcorn and poking each other than in the movie being shown. Brother couldn’t blame them. Triumph of the Jubees was a thinly plotted tale of extraterrestrials with bright pink fur and sickeningly sweet mannerisms. The only reason Brother had chosen to see it was to admire Lon Michaels’s brilliant cinematography. Through some miracle, Lon had managed to turn this perfectly idiotic concept into a quality film. It was a pity that Cinescope didn’t give him something more deserving of his talents.

Brother sighed and imagined his own film completed, projected on the giant screen at the Bijou. No one would snore, or throw popcorn, or giggle through his film. There would be public acclaim and glowing reviews. Critics would applaud him for having the courage to make a statement so radical, so daring, that not even the greatest filmmakers in history had attempted it.

When the film was over and the credits rolled on the screen, Brother got to his feet and left the theater. It was almost four o’clock, and his standing dinner reservation was at five. Since his mother had died last year, Brother took all of his meals out. Preparing meals for himself seemed a waste of his time, and he could well afford restaurant prices. Dinner would be at Le Fleur, as usual. A private table in the rear dining room was reserved for him.

Brother redeemed his Mercedes from the lot and pressed down on the automatic door lock button. There were plenty of junkies and street gangs in the downtown area, and an expensive car like his sometimes attracted trouble. As he rounded the corner, he saw a bag lady pushing a Vons shopping cart containing all of her belongings.

The downtown area was a schizophrenic mixture of conflicting styles and cultures. Urban renewal had left high-rise buildings and sparkling new mini-malls in its wake. Shiny, modern architecture was interspersed with the original downtown, now an impoverished skid row. In the daylight hours businessmen in three-piece suits and fashionably dressed women claimed the area, but as the sun went down, they picked up their calfskin attaché cases and Gucci purses and headed for home. That was when the night shift came out. Drug dealers sold their wares in plain sight on street corners, ethnic gangs roamed the area searching for confrontations, and the homeless huddled in doorways and slept miserably on bus stop benches. People who drove through the downtown area after dark did so with great dispatch, their car doors locked and their windows rolled up tightly.

As Brother turned west on Sunset Boulevard, he saw the copper dome of the Griffith Observatory gleaming over his right shoulder. The traffic was light, and Brother drove a bit faster. Most people had vacated the city for picnics at the beach or barbecues in suburban backyards. They’d be clogging the freeways to return to their homes later tonight, but right now the streets were virtually deserted.

In no time at all Brother was entering the Sunset Strip, an area flanked by offices, designer boutiques, and expensive restaurants. The Hollywood Hills rose steeply to the right. Homes clung tenaciously to the side of the hill, reinforced by pylons driven deep into the bedrock. The hills had once been a prime real estate area for the stars of the silver screen. Brother knew that if he drove a bit farther down Sunset and purchased a tourist map of “Famous Movie Stars’ Homes,” a significant number of them would be in the Hollywood Hills.

Le Fleur’s bright green canopy beckoned at the end of the block, and Brother negotiated the narrow driveway. A valet parker, sitting on a stool in front of his kiosk, rushed to assist him. Brother got out of his car and relinquished his keys, and another uniformed man hurried to open the restaurant’s front door for him.

“Good evening, sir. Your table is ready. Happy Fourth of July.”

The maître d’ smiled, a flash of white in the dimly lighted interior, and Brother was seated immediately. While he was waiting for his cocktail, he again considered his project. He had begun his preparations over a year ago by making a detailed study of Lon Michaels’s work, copying the expert lighting techniques and camera angles until he felt he was reasonably competent. Of course, Lon had no idea that he had taught Brother all he knew about cinematography.

The waiter delivered his Manhattan, straight up, no twist. Brother removed the miniature American flag that had been used to decorate it and took a generous swallow. He would direct and produce his masterpiece himself, in the tradition of the true auteur. His film would be presented as a fait accompli, and the credit would be his, alone. He had already written the shooting script and purchased the equipment he needed. He had even gone through the Players Directory and cast the actress he needed for the first segment. He was ready to shoot immediately, but he would have to rush to complete his cinema verité in time for a Christmas release. Would it be wiser to delay shooting for a few months and plan on a definite summer debut?

Brother pondered the question as he finished his appetizer. The waiter had just served his entrée, the aroma was exquisite, when he reached a decision. Summer release, winter release, it made no real difference. The strength of his concept would guarantee its success.

An hour later Brother was at home, in his mother’s five-bedroom, two-story, Queen Anne–style home, which sat on a choice lot in Beverly Hills. He still lived and worked in the “children’s wing” upstairs, a bedroom, a bath, and a huge playroom-turned-office, which his mother had designed for him thirty years ago. The downstairs had been his mother’s domain, and the housekeeper still cleaned it regularly, dusting the delicate china figurines and polishing the expensive antique furniture. Nothing had been altered since the day of his mother’s death, and Brother kept entirely to his own section of the house. The children’s wing had a separate entrance, and it was perfectly adequate for his needs.

Brother sat at his desk and sipped a small cognac. He had checked his equipment and everything was ready. A video camera was tucked into his carrying bag, along with a shooting script for the first scene. The Academy Players Directory lay open on his desk, and brother felt a surge of excitement as he examined the picture of his actress again. She was an unknown, but she was perfect for this first, starring role. Sharee Lyons might not realize it, but she would earn her place with the immortals tonight.





It was past eleven at night when the crosstown bus dropped Sharee Lyons at the stop on Sunset Boulevard. Sharee, who had “startling sea-green eyes” and “shining hair the color of pale moonlight” according to her, sat down on the slatted bench and switched to old tennis shoes for the eight-block walk to her apartment. Then she tucked the gold, spike-heeled sandals she’d borrowed from a girl in her acting class into her tote bag and dashed across the busy intersection.

As Sharee turned down a side street, she clutched her beaded evening bag tightly to her chest. There was a crisp hundred dollar bill inside, her tip for serving canapés and displaying her perfectly capped smile at a producer’s party in Beverly Hills. It had been a lucrative evening, and the producer had given her an ounce of caviar, a bottle of domestic champagne, and an invitation to come to an audition tomorrow for a small part in the series he was currently taping.

Firecrackers rattled in the distance as Sharee hurried past the once-stately apartments south of the boulevard. The Fourth of July was going out with a bang. There had been a huge display of fireworks at the party, but Sharee had been too busy serving hors d’oeuvres to see much of it. If she did well at the audition tomorrow, she might be attending the same party next year as a bona fide guest.

The Regency Palms was at the end of the block. Sharee cut through the deserted courtyard and took the crushed gravel walkway that led to the middle building. Plastic potted palms lined the narrow path at four-foot intervals, and she was careful not to brush up against the thick layer of grime that covered their fronds. Her gold lamé blouse was also borrowed, and she’d have to pay a dry cleaning bill if she got it dirty.

There was a sack of garbage on the bottom step, which Sharee dropped in the Dumpster before she climbed the concrete stairs to her second-floor apartment. She could hardly wait to get into some comfortable clothes and practice the scene the producer had given her. For once she didn’t have to worry about being quiet while she rehearsed. Her neighbor in 19B was traveling for a week with his band, and the young actress on the other side was spending the three-day holiday with her boyfriend in Malibu.

Sharee unlocked the door to her apartment and pushed it open. Darkness greeted her, and she fought down her childish fear. While she no longer believed in monsters or ghosts, she still had to gather her courage to step into the dark apartment and lock the door behind her.

Heart pounding, Sharee ran across the living room to snap on the light. Then she heard the shower running in the bathroom. She’d been in a hurry when she left for the party, and she must have forgotten to turn it off.

Sharee tossed her tote bag on the couch and hurried down the hall. Clouds of steam rolled out to meet her as she opened the bathroom door. She was just reaching for the knob to turn off the shower when she saw a man in a black executioner’s hood standing at the far corner of the room. Steam swirled around him, and he looked as if he’d just materialized from a horror movie.

At first Sharee was too startled to scream. Then she spotted a video camera on a tripod next to the shower. Sharee’s mind clicked into action again, and she laughed as her earlier fears evaporated. She knew who owned that brand of camera. The man in the executioner’s costume was Bob Beauchamp, a colleague from her acting class, and he was filming another of his surprise projects.

“Bob! You rat!” Sharee faced him squarely with her hands on her hips. “How did you get in here? And where did you rent that ridiculous costume?”

There was no reply, and Sharee’s smile faltered. Her green eyes showed a tiny flicker of fear as the executioner stood silent and unmoving, watching her through the eyeholes of his mask. Sharee felt her throat go dry, and she swallowed with difficulty. It wasn’t like Bob to carry a joke this far. Surely he could tell she was frightened.

“Come on, Bob. That’s enough! I brought home a bottle of champagne from the party. If you stop recording, I’ll share it with you.”

Silence filled the room, and suddenly Sharee realized that the executioner was at least four inches taller than Bob. Terror swept across her face, making a parody of her beauty. She willed her frozen body to move, and with what seemed like agonizing slowness, she turned to run. The executioner’s arms were like steel cables, reeling her back, and Sharee clawed at him in a frenzy, kicking and twisting and biting to get away.

Sharee’s long, polished nails raked deeply, and for one brief moment she had the advantage. But before she could recover her balance, he had her again, his grip even tighter this time. Sharee thrashed wildly as she felt herself lifted. She struggled blindly against the inevitable, like the butterflies her older brother used to pin in his collection box, but the executioner shoved her roughly forward, under the stream of scalding water.

A thin, high, inhuman scream punctured the haze of her panic. The sound grew louder, bouncing off the white tiles, and Sharee dimly realized that it was coming from her own throat. As the knife slashed downward, her scream reached a crescendo, tapering off into deafening silence.

A puzzled expression crossed Sharee’s face as she crumpled, her hands sliding against the wet, slick tiles. There was no pain, only bone-chilling cold as the knife rose and fell. And through the steam and the gathering cold, she saw the gleaming eye of the camera as her blood colored the water pink and then red until it disappeared down the gurgling drain.

Brother left his star in the shower, lifeless green eyes staring up into the spray. One last shot of her crumpled body with a slow pan to her beautiful untouched face, and it was finished. He picked up his equipment and stepped out into the warm summer night, secure that he had captured the first segment, exactly as he had intended.

A string of firecrackers rattled in the distance as Brother walked across the silent courtyard. At first he was startled, but then he remembered the date and smiled at its significance. Today was the Fourth of July, a perfect time to start his production. The birth of the nation and the birth of his masterpiece. People would remember them together for years to come.