LOST HARVEST shooting script
Ext. Robertas Bar. Philadelphia Nighttime Dolly Inward Quick Dissolve: Davidson sitting at the bar. Davidson Bill Davidson's cell phone rings Bill Davidson (talking into the phone) He flips the phone closed Davidson (to Bill) Bill Davidson starts walking out One of the cops in the booth
EXT. Philly streets on way to Sophie's House. EXT. Sophies. Night Davidson walks up the sidewalk onto the porch. Knocks on the door. No answer. Another knock. Davidson He dials the phone; the old fashioned phone rings..... Davidson walks to the side of the house and looks in a side window. Davidson He breaks the window and climbs in. He walks around and discovers the dead cat in the sink.... the dripping pipes in the flooded basement.... he goes upstairs and finds the corpses.... the baby skeleton twirling around inside the closet..... He makes another phone call.... Davidson Dissolve: Davidson sitting back at the bar. Davidson Bill Davidson Bill (echo) this ain't the same place at all.... Davidson typing up his resignation letter. Davidson's journey into the night INT.ROBERTAS. DAY Bill Davidson Bill Davidson Bill Davidson Aged Craggy Bulky ExCop He tries slamming his liver spotted fist to the bar for emphasis but it sorta just lands quietly, barely audible above the morning newsbroadcast... none of the glasses or bottles shake on the bar. Davidson had heard enough from this bastard. The thread inside his head snaps and he is across the room inside a flash of anger. He seizes the old man by the throat with both hands and slams the bigger man up against the wall, grabbing his vocal cords with two fingers. Davidson rubs the old man's throat between his index and ring finger. The thread mends itself and Mark is back watching himself from above: ready to kill an old drunk. Shut up, old man or your wife'll be cashing your pension checks, spitting on your grave, 'stead of the other way around, you got that mouth? He releases the guy from his grip, brushing the old guy's jacket with the classical wise guy swipe before sitting back on his stool. He motions to Bob for a drink.
Davidson You got the paper, Bob? The traces of his anger were still palatable. Bob brings the paper up from under the counter and leans in toward our hero to give him some fatherly advice: "Take it easy, eh, Mark? You might give the old guy a heart attack. He's just an old drunk. He's just an old drunk." A few hours later, Davidson was getting out of Philly as fast as the Malibu would take him. Once he gets passed Broad Street's boarded up houses he starts musing on freedoms and having nothing left to lose. A half hour past the city limits, traffic lightens up a bit and the speed limit turns into 55 miles per ... pedal to the metal baby and the engine's 389 cubic inches gets him to a comfortable cruising speed of 80 pretty quickly. The cornfields begin a few minutes later. Getting thru the ExUrbs now. About 40 miles out of Philadelphia he came across an accident scene; traffic quickly slowed and Mark watched a young volunteer firewoman placing flares along the road. He lights a cigarette while he waits. Psychic flashes of the crash that killed Lenny return to him but so what? he asks himself, the car crawling closer to the cause of the jam, he was also having ('psychic flashes', according to the shrink) visions of himself and his relatives running around half naked on ancient plains, ritualistically slaughtering infants to thank ancient and faceless gods for a couple pounds of hamburger and an extra bushel of wheat. There were bleeding pigs scattered about the country road, some were trying to escape slaughter by staggering away on broken legs. A lot of desperate squealing. Then as Davidson's car crawls on through-- its engine rumbling with impatience-- Mark sees the overturned pig truck that was probably just rounding the curve a bit more quickly than the gods allowed it to, thereby creating havoc and a helluva traffic jam. A state trooper stood off to the side, interviewing the overweight Hispanic truck driver who had already wrapped pieces of his undershirt around his bleeding head. The driver was continuously shaking his head as Mark drove by-- finally traffic was moving a bit faster. About ten miles later he looked at the car's fuel gauge: the vehicle may or may not make it Kurtzville on this tank but what the hell-- he was out in the country and the crawl through the crash scene had eaten up a lot of gas. He pulled into the next station to refuel, piss and grab a couple brews from the cooler he kept in the trunk. Pulling into the old filling station, he spotted the young, teenish and plump attendant sitting on an old iron chair under a bare bulb, under which flew about 200 moths. The kid was reading some sort of car magazine. "Nice car, dude," the kid said as he walked toward the Davidson's Malibu, "what can we do for you? fill it up, regular?" " Yep, you guys got a bathroom?" "Around the side, it's open." He went inside the men's room, pissed and checked himself in the dirty cracked mirror, splashing water on his stubble ridden face. A quick scan of the landscape (illuminated by a strong, maybe near full moon) revealed the layout of Lehigh County: green-rolling hills filled with farms. Thousands of crickets chirped. "Little late in the year for crickets isn't it?" "Hadn't thought about it," the kid replied, "but yeah, I guess it is a little late." He shrugged. "You heading up to Jim Thorpe for the race?" "Nah, I'm going to Kurtzville. "What the fuck you going to Kurtzville for?" I'm re-opening an old tavern. The place used to be a roadhouse-- used to be a speakeasy too. I'd say that some parts of your story sound like good fun and all but the I don't think I like the Kurtzville part but me? You ask me I say stay away, cops pull everybody over in Kurtzville-- you drive a mile and a half over the speed limit and they are pulling you over. You can keep Kurtzville all to yourself. Thoughtful nod. The gas nozzle snapped, indicating that the tank was near full, the kid pumped some more in. Too much ... some leaked out. I used to drive in Kurztville, the older guys told me it wasn't worth it but the town's got some good straight stretches of road where a guy can really get some speed going so I didn't pay attention to all those stories about witches and devils and such. Last year, right, I broke down one night and I had to walk back home; man, I heard sounds coming out of the woods that night that I never want to hear again. The kind of Roaring like a lion might make and someone screaming like somebody was trying to murder them.... scream sounded like a person to me but I can't say for sure. I don't know, it may have been the animals. The kid wipes the windshield quickly and says blandly: twelve bucks. Mark walks to the trunk, opens it and removes a couple of beers from the cooler. He gave the kid his Mastercard. You want a few? Sure. He gave the kid four ice cold beers. The kid ran the card through ... it took a few seconds to verify and Mark was back on his way toward the town about which witch and devil rumors had been floating around for nearly three centuries.
Around 9 p.m., he hit Kurtzville's outskirts. Things pretty much looked the same as they did in 1982 when he was here as a kid; a little town that had shut down for the night. From the look of the place (closed down business and a few abandoned houses) it looks like this town has been dealing with a decades long night. Everything was closed except for the metal foundry, which was banging, clanging and pouring molten steel into huge buckets as Mark drove by. Instinctively, he drifted over toward the part of the Saucony Creek where he used to have good luck trout fishing. NO FISHING signs were posted these days; FISH UNSAFE for HUMAN CONSUMPTION. He decided to head over to the L&M before the old lady that ran the place went to bed and had to be awakened. Main Street was filled with now-closed businesses. "Great place to start a business," he muttered to himself before hitting the gas and making those noises that burning tires make as the screech carries through the quiet autumn night.
As expected the place looks like it looked in 1982-- only now it's older and more weatherbeaten. Mark walks through the open door and into the tiny office that sits in front of her tiny owners' apartment. She takes time moving the 10 feet from her chair and into the office.
The old woman who stood (stooped) behind the Lincoln's desk had rotting teeth and wore a soiled blue robe. Mark remembered her well from his uncle's congregation but for no other reason than the fact that she was regular at his uncle's Sunday sermons (flashback). Tonight she must have been listening to a radio preacher, as that's what was playing in the backroom as Mark walked in. "...and my brothers and sisters," a paternalistic voice cried out, "if we can hold out as brothers and sisters, we could see our way through this dark tunnel and back into the light of prosperity......" "I'd like to check in for the week," Mark requested of the old lady. "Two hundred," the woman said back to Mark. "...times are tough my friends, we know that here at the network as well as anyone; we know you folks are hurtin but you gotta dig deep...." "Do I get a discount if I told you I was related to the Reverend Kurtz?" "Yes, Yes! you are the Nephew-- Eugene's nephew-- Mark?" "Yes I am, how'd you remember, how'd you know?" "Oh, I'm an old country lady. Those are the kinds of thoughts that occur to old country ladies on quiet autumn nights like this. One hundred for the week; good to see you back. "Feels good to be back." The woman smiled like it was the best thing she'd ever seen, his coming back to Kurtzville. "Best room in the place," she said, handing the room key to her new guest. He went to the room briefly, throwing his backpack into the motel room and opening the windows to air it out a little.
Topton is a small town (pop. 2,000) with a small state teachers college (3,000), some sort of candy factory and that's about it; Topton was a quick two mile drive from the Lincoln. He headed over to the Toad Creek Inn, a place that where he and Maureen had been drinking since they were both 16, the summer after Mark had arrived in Kurtzville. The town was built on a couple hills (Toptown ?); a fact Davidson re- noticed as his car lurched forward before the parking brake took hold. He walked down toward the Toad Creek Inn. The Toad Creek was the same as it was in 84: a fine interior for a bar-- a lot of wood, varnished logs as support beams and walls. Country rock blared. "What's happening?" Davidson asked the guy sitting across the bar from him, figuring he was probably a college student: the guy was one of those serious looking Sidney Poitier kind of guys. He was thin, about six-foot and wore the glasses that serious black guys were wearing in the sixties and seventies.
Dennis Not much... you a cop?" "Good question, I used to be... not no more. I'm an ex-cop here who moved out to the country to open up a bar." Davidson found the waitress and motioned for her to come over. "Another one of these please and-- you want something else? A little step up maybe?" "Schmidts is fine," the serious looking guy replied "Get him a Schmidts." "Cheers," Mark offered, "you a local?" "Hey buddy thanks for the beer, I appreciate it, I really do but if you got some questions for me Mr. Ex-cop, I would appreciate if you would just ask them. I'll probably answer most of them. "A little paranoid?" "Only the paranoid survive, so if you got questions for me I got some questions for you. How do you like those apples?" "I'll back off-, that's fine I'm opening an old bar, over in Kurtzville, out on 737. Relax. There's no trouble here. (PAUSE) Those folks over the hill are your blood relatives, eh? Well, I got news for you-- they're a bunch of fucking racists, they've been giving me ten times my fair share of fucking grief the past couple days. " I had my problems with them in the past, take my word on that, I don't like any of that church bullshit myself. I lived up here after my mom blew her head off-- my uncle, the Reverend Kurtz took me in after the suicide. I stayed here a few years then I left and went to college on one of those cop orphan scholarships. I became a cop after that because it was the easy thing to do; I got my girlfriend killed in a car accident last year. I drink like a fish. Here I am. Pretty much my life story. "I'm here because I thought my brother was here. My wife kicked me out because I'm a drunk and I figured I'd come stay with my brother for a couple weeks. Last I knew he was here making a documentary on the Mennonites and their use of 19th century farming methods. You know, I get here and start asking those idiots over in Kurtzville whether they had recently seen a black guy who looked a little like me with a camera making a little movie. 'Nope, ' "sure haven't", 'can't say I have,' that kind of backwoods ass country bullshit." "Your brother sounds like an interesting guy." Problem is that I really don't know what the fuck I'm going to do after tonight, I can't find my brother, I'm sleeping on some cat's farm-- back behind the treeline so the fucker won't see me but it don't take long in these small towns for them to figure out what you're up to... they always do. "Well, what's your name?" "Dennis Macpherson." "I'm Mark Davidson and that bar I'm opening needs some work; have you ever done any contracting or construction kinda stuff?" "Yeah, full time for more than a decade." "Well, you seem agreeable and competent enough-- you're hired if you want a job. You can live out at the site if you want." "I'm not a real big fan of the locale; I wish I could turn you down but I can't. You got the money to pay me?" "My uncle's estate left a pretty big trust. The stipulation is that the trust is to lend me reasonable sums of money for the purpose of reconstruction. Apparently, it's broadly worded to allow me to get the thing up and going with as little financial difficulty as is possible. It's supposed to be a big trust though the terms of the trust require that its size be kept a secret. " "Hmm ... sounds like the cup is running over my man. Cheers. Maybe momma was right, there's a Jesus after all." You can stay in my motel room if you want tonight; it's supposed to rain. Tonight we get drunk; tomorrow we begin rebuilding the Improper. Dennis sort of smirks.
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Like Davidson told the shrink-- every night, he was dreaming hard. Tonight he's back at the scene of the accidental crash that killed Lenore. There's Lenny's corpse-- some sort of piglike creature with fangs is eating from where her face is supposed to be. What must be some sort of creature that lives under the surface of the pond throws its tentacles out of the water and wrap themselves around the pig, pulling the creature into the water. The pond almost stills with calmness. Whatever's in the water, it's eaten the pig because it then hurls the fanged creature's carcass out of the water in front of Mark's feet. Mark looks over at the side of the hill-- there's a door built into the hill. Someone is groaning from behind that door. A bunch of people are chanting. His mother shows up in his dreams again. she is fat and naked and mentally ill; he can tell by the trancelike state she's in, waving those flabby arms around, begging Mark for a hug. "Tell momma you love her," she says before she blows her head off with the sawed off shotgun that she picks up from the side of the road. A fat, slovenly dressed priest hurries across the road on his way to something interesting at the bottom of the hill, toward the Reverend Kurtz's Church which has been boarded up for almost twelve years now. Momma's and Lenny's headless corpses are lying on the road twitching. The tentacled creature pulls the corpses into the pond and doesn't return them to the surface. Someone is playing ancient drums in the forest behind him. He pulls his revolver from his pants and pulls the trigger, emptying the chamber into the pond but nothing happens except one or two of the bullets ricochet around a bit after bouncing off the water's surface. COME BACK TO US MARK, the chant from behind that door on the hill goes. COME BACK TO US MARK, BRING US BACK MARK. He looks around the forest landscape for the people (or demons?) chanting or the drum player(s)? The result of the demon chant was beautiful and familiar. They must have been drumming on the ancient and hollow logs that dot the Appalachian forests' landscapes. He walks toward the source of the beat, toward the top of the hill that could almost double for a small mountain. Reaching the top he finds he finds the stone altar that's covered in moss. A smiling and naked infant lies on the altar. And a sacrificial blade. And Tessie. "No! " he screams and runs away, down the hill. Out of the dream.
Mark awoke briefly at five o' clock and listened to the rain beat down on the motel roof. At the same time he was coming out of his dream, a vaguely familiar looking fat priest was hiding in the shadows of the ruined Kurtz Church, of which only half the structure still stood. At the same time his victim was moving toward the church's ruins which stood in the middle of his paper route-- where he hid his cigarettes. His father was a certain Kurtzville attorney who we will meet shortly. Every morning, Johnny Binder was able to hold off the craving until he was just about done his deliveries. His father was an evil man who does work for the devil; that was why young first bom Johnny Binder had been targeted by 44 shadowy judges. Father M remembered the judgment delivered to him those many years ago. Johnny hid his bike behind the part of the church's iron gate which still stood. He enjoyed his smoke, listening to the birds chirp around him; he failed to notice the reason why the birds' chirping had grown more frantic. A demon in black was sneaking up behind him with an ironic and silent agility. Johnny didn't see Kurtzville's demons-- just beyond the church walls-- scurrying around the forest, powerless to protect him. This was Johnny's last day as a paper boy and he was about to die. His painful and horrifying death was moments away from being just another volley in an ancient war between competing and decaying churches. None of this occurred to him as he sat against one of the remaining church walls. The demon silently glided in and sat down right next to him. My little lover, come to me and die, the voices inside Father M's head said to him as he struggled with the dim idea that what he was about to do was wrong. He waited for Johnny to finish his cigarette before speaking. "You know what kind of boys smoke, Johnny?" "No Reverend. " "That's Father Johnny." And the painful exorcism began. "May the power of Christ compel the demon from inside you. " He throws the kid against the wall, repeating May the power of Christ compel Satan from inside you. Come out you sneaky bastard, come out and show yourself...... Our point of view must end here, it's too hard to take; c' mon let's get back inside Davidson's head, this stuff is way too hard to watch. But we hear little Johnny's body being tossed away as we fly out of the churchyard backwards-- (After Effects Camerawork: evil dead meets the shining style) The priest, we see from back here in the woods, has built a funeral pyre from the twigs and logs that are laying around everywhere. He lights the kid's corpse on fire and savors the stench. It makes us sick, doesn't it? Doesn't it? (Remember this is a homage to Fritz Lang's "M." and to the ancient rites involving "Molech.") "You little bastard," the fat priest bellows, "there is but one god! He walked away with a limp. The Lord told him to head back to Kurtzville and await her instructions. Walking down Old Kurtz Church Road, visions of unnatural crucifixions danced in his head. All the voices she gave you inside your head, one of the voices inside his head said to him as he walked toward town in an automatized state-- all those voices inside your head and not one of em allows you any choices.... lordy lord lord... (laugh track). He just walked on down Old Church Road and he passed a house-- it was the last house on the route; Father M tossed the paper onto the rotting porch-- quite a bit of blood stained the front page but avoiding detection was not part of Father M's plan- the Shadowy Judges had seen to that. The old lady who always sat by her bedroom window saw the man throw the paper onto her porch, she knew something dreadful had happened and Father Molester knew that she had seen him. Somebody's always watching, Father M's own father used to say to him, somebody's always watching.
********** First thing Davidson notices is that daytime in Kurtzville is slightlier busier than it was the night before-- a few folks are doing some antique business as he drives up the street.
He walks inside Maureen's store. It was a small cramped store-- few pieces in the store were walking out the door with less than a grand going into Maureen's pocket and it didn't take long for Mark to start finding twenty and thirty thousand dollar pieces up there on the shelves. Presumably upon hearing the bell Maureen walked from the small backroom, flashing him a smile that warmed him up right quick. He was home. "I'm glad you're here," she said to Mark. "... I'm definitely glad you're here. " That warm sensation was lingering. "I'm glad to be here. I need a new career. New start." Something a bit more mellow kicking down doors and chasing bad guys. Eh? " I hear you pal. What are your plans for the rest of the day? I'm going to meet your dad's lawyer and then maybe go check out the Improper. I hired a carpenter last night. Oh, yeah, local guy? I met him over at the Toad Creek. The guy seems trustworthy enough. I'm going to meet him over at the bar around two, take a look around to see where we'll begin work. We're going to have a few beers if you or you and Lloyd would like to meet us for a few... Maybe I will, Lloyd's been busy lately and that's just fine with me. How about you go and meet Binder, get that paper signing over with and I'll meet you over at The Improper in a couple hours? Sounds good. How bout fishing? Is there any decent fishing left around here? Oh, I guess if you drive about twenty miles up stream, above Allied Battery, I'd say the fish are safe to eat that far upstream. The big problem around here lately's been rabies. Lloyd's shot a whole bunch of rabid raccoons around here these past couple months; if you see slow moving raccoons in the daytime... shoot em.
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Me love you long time, Me love you long time... Me love you long time... an Asian chick on the radio sang the rap song built from sampling that kept repeating itself on the Goat's radio as Mark was pulled into the Improper's gravel parking lot. He noticed immediately that the roadhouse would do a good patio business: the view of the Hawk Mountain Valley was beautiful--the entire valley was gonna be positively mystical at sunrise and sunset. It was time again to open the Improper in order for it to sell its particular brands of down home country. A couple beers watching the sun rise at five and six a.m was going to be pleasant; a real alcoholic fantasy, he thought to himself as he parked the car. As he walked from his car toward the old inn, he looked up at the top floor corner window that provided a view of Hawk Mountain. Binder's Astrovan was parked in the bar's lot, there was an angry looking pit bull pacing back and forth in the rear caged portion of the van-- the dog's mouth foamed with rabies. Mark figured Binder must've been inside doing something. He admiringly glanced out over the view of the Lehigh Valley just before he poked his head inside, calling "Binder, Ernie Binder are you here?" "Yeah, yeah I'm upstairs and I'm on my way down," called out a voice that started out disembodied but by the time he finished the sentence, Binder was walking down the steps that led one from the hotel portion of the Improper to the tavern part of the building. "I saw you at your uncle's funeral a couple months ago.... I meant to introduce myself to you but just like that, you were gone." "Yeah, it was reminding me too much of my fiancee's funeral. I left and took off on the road for a three week bender. When I got back, the captain wanted to put me in rehab or fire me. I asked him to suspend me for a week which he did and I finished off that drunk." "Good, good, you made a good choice. This place was an excellent location for this sort of business and with most of the surrounding towns turning into those yuppie latte towns that are so fashionable these days, it looks like this is good ground for a bar or roadhouse to open again. I can give you the quick tour but I'm afraid it will have to be a short one, I have a lot of work to take care of today. We can take care of the paperwork at the county office anytime; let me show you around your inheritance." "If it's the dog you're worrying about, I can shoot the dog for you," he said, pulling his pistol from his pants." "Can't chance it getting away, big parts of Beck County's woods are filled with crazy animals." "Maureen's told me about the rabies (pause) and the fishing and I heard some guys in the bar the other night talking about crop rot, but only in Beck County. Is that why uncle left me the place... because he couldn't sell it?" "Quite contrary, he thought a man with your leadership qualities is the kind of guy that could bring life back to this area.... Yep, out here one guy can still make a bit of a difference." "You ready for a beer?" Mark reached into the cooler (which we know is always stocked full of beer) and pulled out half a six pack. "No thanks, I haven't had a drink in six years. Stuff began driving me crazy, you know beatin' the wife and all but that was before your uncle and his church came into my life. Eugene could handle his liquor boy. Did you know he was a real bigshot bootlegger back in the day?" "I know a little bit of the story." "He liked brewing it, he liked selling it and boy did he like drinking it. I'm sure you'll find all kinds of old bootlegging equipment up on the mountain-- I bet some of those stills would still work fine if a man put his mind to it. Back in the 50s, when the church was still active, a bunch of academics got some newspaper space criticizing your uncle's philosophies-- saying the only thing his religion had in common with Christianity was its thirst for drink. C' mon, let's go inside." The pit bull watched them go inside. They entered through the basement. She closed her eyes, a long sleep was near. She wanted to move on; she needed to get away from this diseased portion of the earth. As her mind hovered in a fog, it sensed the demons who were lurking about Kurtzville. The demons were watching her, they were masquerading as the huge flies that were flying around her, waiting to devour her soon to be bacterial soul.
MANSON LIVES was spraypainted on the first wall Mark saw as he walked into the Improper's basement. The place was bright. He immediately noticed another passageway toward the back of the cellar; it was covered by cement. But it could be little else, he figured, but a doorway-- about the size of a garage door. It was probably bricked behind the cement. "What's behind there?" "That used to be a bootlegging tunnel," Binder answered as a matter of factly. "Your uncle used it back in his bad old prohibition days, he based the tunnels on the Cat'lics catacombs; they run for hundreds of yards back in the hills in a bunch of different directions. He used to brew the stuff up in the hills and either transport it using the tunnels or float them down the creek. Even after prohibition was repealed he avoided taxes by sneaking the stuff around the same way. He had them cemented in the early 70s after the same hippy clowns who painted the Manson stuff were here. They were doing all sorts of unclean stuff back in the tunnels." "I wasn't around for the disappearances of those hippy kids, what do you think happened to them?" "I wasn't here for that either; that case was handled by my father. I was drinking beers in a frat house when all that went down What I can tell you is that some hippy kids from Topton U. were hanging out, camping, right around here for the summer, getting back to nature and such-- a couple of them saying real loud that they had a right to do so and such. One night they disappeared, the four of them. It was a classic case of no witnesses, nobody had seen anyone last; they'd been in these hills for a month before they disappeared-- no one knows if it was day or night..." "Except for the people who did it," Binder parroted back. "Anyway,they were a little loud but Eugene and Grenden didn't really care; they said it reminded them of the Jazz Age and all the fucking and sucking that was going on then. Just a lot more different drugs around to find your way-- they had a lot of stuff to play with in the 20s but to my knowledge they did not have that LSD that the hippies had. A little ergot maybe but no LSD. Folks say Kurtzville was the last place the kids were known to have been. A couple of feds poked around here for a few weeks but nothing came of it-- not a trace of those kids was found 'round here. I think Eugene felt real bad bout what happened to those kids; a lot of the talk round here was that the kids took off for the west or Alaska or something like that.... guess no one'll ever know... " "Except the people who did it." "Whoever did it knows. Not that I really care one way or the other about what happened to some hippies almost 30 years ago." They walked up the rotting stairs.
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They went upstairs to what formerly doubled as an eight room hotel. Some of the old beds with iron box springs were still there. "Well, that's it," Binder said. "I accept, thanks." A few moments later Binder and the dog were on their way to the death chamber and Mark was on his way to see Maureen.
chapter The roads winded something fierce around here but the curves were wide enough that you could fishtail and still manage to avoid tumbling off. When he got there he saw no one was home as promised. The key was under the lion statue, just like Maureen said. The living room bar was well stocked. Just like her father had kept it. He made himself a Bourbon Presby and stared into the empty (save for the iron log rack) fireplace. About an hour later, Maureen pulled her Bronco into her driveway. She entered the house and was a sight for the sorest of eyes. She kissed him; this time she lingered and played. "I missed you Mark," back to lingering before it went French. It was becoming increasingly clear: once again Mark Davidson and Maureen Kurtz were holding themselves out as kissing cousins. "I missed you too," he replied. She broke away to make herself a drink. "How's yours?" she asked. "Fine," he said watching her fix her favorite: gin and tonic.
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He pulled into the L&M. The parking lot was still empty. There was someone knocking on Mrs. Kutz's office door; it was a fat priest who was probably looking for a room Mark thought to himself. He quickly tried to unconcern himself about what the guy was up to-- sometimes you get a bad feeling from a person and this guy was reeking of things to get bad feelings about. Mark's room was six rooms down from the owner's office, a slight breeze carried the heavy stench of gasoline. "Looking for a room, Father?" Mark asked politely. "Uh, Mrs. Kurtz, there's a man out here looking for a room." The man looked up from the door he was knocking on with a pair of the emptiest, blackest eyes Mark had ever seen. "You break down Father? You need some help with your car?" The guy shook his head, "No car, no car, no car..." "Uh, Ms. Kurtz, are you in there?" "Tell him to go into town and talk to Grenden, over at the Condon Hotel... in town...." called Mrs. Kurtz from her office/home, "down at West Side Variety, he'll be able to give him a room. There's renovations going on here. We're all booked up for a couple weeks...." Well, there you go buddy. Sounds like they're all booked up for a little while. The guy grunted what sounded like a thank you and walked away. Mark went into his room, closed the door behind him and watched through the curtain as the guy walked down the road. Mark grabbed his army jacket and some work tools. He took off out of the parking lot, wondering if the guy who smelled like gasoline had gotten into town alright.
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"My brother was here" were the first angry words out of Dennis's mouth as Mark neared the Improper's entrance. He was more than half-drunk, maybe a dangerous state of mind to be in this town where people occasionally disappear (most likely courtesy of the civic minded locals). "You have a few drinks today?" "The excop likes asking cop questions. Yeah, I'm a little drunk. I had seven or eight beers. I'm all drunked up yeah well that's too bad. Let me tell you another thing: I was a little drunk when I took a walk through town a few hours ago. That asshole who, runs the variety store in slipped a few questions as to my 'business' in town. Anyway that ancient-looking prick starts with the 'how's it going routine' with some kind of tucked up sounding German accent. 'How's it going?" he asked, his voice dripping with suspicion. Tilting his head like this," he said tilting his head. Like the way an old lady does when she wants you to know she's not going to believe a word you say. I tell him things are going fine... " "Grenden," Mark said interrupting, "the old guy's name's Grenden. I know who he is. He was Beck County's sheriff for forty years or so. Good friend of my uncle's. I've always thought he was an asshole. Authoritarian type." "Ie., KKK type." "Quite frankly I think him and my uncle both were capable of killing or otherwise making people disappear ..." "So this Grenden character starts asking me what I did for a living; I proudly told him I worked for you and he tried lightening up his attitude but I saw him trembling... "Could be Parkinson's... ol Grenden's hands were starting to shake when I was up here in the 80s." "I figured I'd try taking advantage of Grenden's good nature and ask him a question or two; I pulled my brother's picture from my wallet and I ask him if he'd ever seen Ray. The guy said no and that's all I needed to know that he was a liar. Ray was-- is-- a newspaper freak and I know goddamned well he would've bought papers and lottery numbers almost every goddamned day. Starts giving me answers like: 'Hard to tell with so many people coming into town for the antique shows and all, who knows.-- that kind of crap. I knew I had my answer right then, you know just an intuition thing, my brother looks like me, that Grenden looked like he just saw a ghost. Ray was here. I know that now." Davidson silently considered Dennis's version of the facts; he knew damn well that the guy had just pieced together a half decent scenario, particularly coupled with Mark's knowledge of Eugene's and Grenden's probable prior bad acts of 12 and 30 years ago. "My cousin invited me and you to dinner, you want to go?" "What's she cooking?" "I didn't ask." "Sounds good to me, I'm a little interested in meeting your cousin." "Oh, I don't know, I'm betting that your brother is around here somewhere. We'll turn something up. These folks round here might be a little like our southern brothers but I'm pretty sure I remember my uncle telling me that they stopped lynching people around here before the First Civil War. And they were generally witchcraft executions, not racial stuff. I remember my uncle telling about someone burning a witch around here in the Year 1650 or so," Mark said, pointing to the Historical Society. "Burned by her relatives." "Speaking of witches," Dennis said, "I called my wife this morning. She wants nothing to do with me except for me signing a divorce agreement; she let me charge a call to what's soon to be her house through to Penn State. They told me they haven't heard from my brother in a month and a half; the people in the anthro department are getting a little worried. The secretary told me that they're beginning to think about looking for a replacement for him for next semester. He's supposed to teach a class." "Have you voiced your suspicions to anyone?" "Nope." "That's probably good." Mark thought that this place had probably followed the formerly time honored tradition that includes driving the undesirables to the edge of town with instructions to keep on walking. But kill the undesirable? Murder the outsider? The anecdotal evidence was beginning to build up; underneath that thinnest of sheens-- hope and bad reasoning-- Mark knew in his soul that murder was indeed possible round here. They sat and started drinking beers and looked out into the valley. "We'll get to work on this dump tomorrow." "Sounds good to me." "We'll find your brother."
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It was just after dark when they pulled into Maureen's driveway; it looked like the whole gang was here. Lloyd's black sheriff's Bronco was parked in the driveway and so was Binder's Astrovan. Maureen rushed out of the house and toward the two men as they walked to the entrance. They stood under one of those older hand made tin bare bulb lamps that are installed on the outsides of so many of the USA's farmhouses. "There's been a murder ... Tommy Binder's son's been found dead mutilated and burned out in the old churchyard. Before they took the corpse to Reading to be examined... I saw it for a few seconds, it was the most horrible thing I've ever seen." She looks at Mark. (Terror's been following you around lately bro....) "How bout your friend, Mark?" called the Old Man Grenden's familiar and gravelly voice. An old small and worried looking man stepped from the shadows-- he was rubbing his thin. Grenden had always given Mark the creeps. Maybe it was the way he opened his mouth: like a lion baring his teeth. Thing was, when he opened his mouth all he really showed off was an old mouth that had maybe two or three teeth left. He looked the same as he did 15 years ago, like he was living on time he borrowed from someone. "Your friend got a place he can pin himself to this morning?" "Oh man! What the fuck!" Dennis exclaimed, pacing about nervously until it started looking frantic. Mark thought for a second that Dennis was going to run. "Natural, very fucking natural, this bullshit around here never ends!" "He was with me until I left the motel at 10: 15 a.m." "Then that settles that," Grenden said, "No big deal. Lloyd and I got a child murderer running around our county so I ask a stranger who's living in the woods what he was doing at the time of the murders, Mark. Is that unreasonable, Mark? Even if it's just an old, outdated country sheriff doing the questioning?" Lloyd and Binder came out of the house and joined everyone on the stone porch in front of the house. Binder nodded a greeting Mark's way. ("Hey, Mark how are you?") The harvest moon rose behind the fantastic looking line of oak trees that surrounded the Kurtz property. Lloyd was obviously in over his head, Mark thought to himself, but Grenden was a shrewd violent man; this was his ballpark. Grenden was in his element: taking of care things around Kurtzville. "Any suspects?" Mark asked, "any leads?" "A few leads," Grenden said, "you see any strange looking folks in town, Mark?" "I sure did," he replied, "a fat guy dressed as a priest, smelled like gasoline." "Well, we got that fat boy sitting down at the station right now if you're interested in helping us out; do you want to question him a little. Lloyd will deputize you right here, then we'll go do some dirty work and we'll have you back here in an hour and a half. " No, I'm done with law enforcement. I'm sorry guys but my job is pouring beers. I don't think there's anything I can bring to the table that you folks can't do as your team stands. here before me. "Very well, no problem. I expected that sort of response but I figured I'd give it a try anyway," Grenden said. "Alright gang, let's go we got some work to do down at the station. " Grenden, Lloyd and a weeping Binder got into Lloyd's Bronco and took off. "I burned the chicken with all this going on. I know, how metaphoric but it's still edible. Or we can go get a pizza. " The three of them ate. "Like manna from Heaven," Dennis said, "this is the best meal I've had in a month." It was quiet, dead kids can damper conversation apparently.
This chapter concludes with: What are you doing after you're done here?" Mark asked Maureen who was stacking dishes by the sink while Dennis was in the other room listening to the radio. "Me and Dennis were heading over to the Improper, you interested in sitting out in the woods with and getting drunk?" "With Lloyd in town, I should hang out here. How bout tomorrow?" "Sounds good. " "Say, eh, Maureen my buddy Dennis out there is looking for his brother, that's the main reason he's here. You ever see this guy?" he asked, pulling out Ray MacPherson's photo. "Nope." "You sure?" "Yep." "He would've been around here with a video camera," Mark offered, hoping to jog her memory. "Never saw him." The drive to the Toad Creek was a silent meditation.
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The Toad Creek was quiet but maybe it would pick up. The bartender was a man in his early 20s; he looked like a college student the way he was studying and talking on the phone, occasionally going to the trouble of serving one of the bar's five customers a cheap beer or drink. There were three rough looking types from over the foundry drinking after work beers. Grease and dirt covered their faces; the result of a hard day's worth of doing whatever these types do these days to gather a little coin, probably work at a lumber mill or something. Exterminate the fucking brutes. Dennis drank one beer before deciding he'd had enough for the night. Mark was glad to hear it: Dennis would be in better working condition tomorrow than he was going to be when they were supposed to measure rooms and start tearing stuff out. The Improper was only a mile away, no big walk. Dennis covered his glass with a goodbye napkin and walked out the door. The door swung shut, Mark ordered another Bourbon Presby and began to brood. He thought about calling Maureen but as usual he was thinking about Lenny.
MIDNIGHT The brighter part of the bar was still empty. He was drunk, the blue collars were drunk and an old, fat (but strong looking and red faced) farmer had come in and sat down next to him. He was drinking glass after glass of cheap tap beer, always ordering a Presby for Mark when he ordered himself a beer. Mark was trying his full blown alcoholic best to keep up with the guy but the guy was still a drink ahead of him. No matter how hard Mark drank. The guy muttered to himself in a Parkinson's fit every once in a while; Mark sat there tipping his bourbon glass to and fro. He balanced it with his index finger before he let it go, watching it crash to the bar. It went down in slo mo, as if gravity was lessened around here. The tip of the glass broke off upon contact, causing the bartender to look up from his phone conversation. Mark looked at him-- in the eyes. That's key he learned during that 62 day bender he went on after Lenny's death; you gotta look the bartender straight in the eyes, especially when the barkeeper knows that you had one or twenty too many. Like the ref in a boxing mismatch, the barkeep's looking for some kind of response in the chump fighter's eyes. You got to have some life left in those eyes. You got to have some life left in those eyes or the fun's over for the night. "You guy's got a clock in here?" Davidson asked. The bartender ignored him, wiping up the liquor that ran across the bar. "Sorry," Mark repeated, "you guys got a clock in here?" The condescending bastard was doing his best to ignore him. A smart ass smirk was written all over his face. This guy didn't feel like putting up with any sloppy burnt out drunks tonight. The three blue collars were eyeing him up from across the bar, like they were thinking about rolling him in the alley. It was up to the old muttering farmer; he was the only fight judge left that was even going to think about letting this one continue. "Excuse me," Mark said, addressing the old man; careful drunken courtesy spilled from his lips. "Excuse me buddy, you know what time it is?" Liquor's beautiful brain effect had kicked in again. (you gotta understand barkeep, I have evil dreams that tell me I am an evil person. you gotta understand I'm getting too scared to sleep, my dreams tell me things. just let me sit here, the shit won't get too deep; I'll be good. I gotta do some thinkin'; let me stay, let me stay and do some thinking and drinking; I just wanna sit here and think and drink. I promise I'll be no more trouble) "Sir, do you know what time it is?" That must have been the funniest question the guy had heard in a long time because the guy looked up from his beer and smiled the most beatific smile Mark had ever seen. Then the guy broke into a loud Germanic celebratory song. While singing, the old man began showing off his SteamMachine Mouse watch; it was an old rusting thing. He stopped singing; "My boy, my boy," the old farmer said, "this watch stopped the day my sweetheart died. It's a piece of junk, I won it at a movie theater in the 40s; my beautiful wife died in her 20s and I never remarried. It's a piece of junk really, it helps me remember better times. I don't remember the beginning of this conversation. I don't remember picnics with my baby. Age is robbing me of all my memories. I only have a future and the present, which I quickly forget ... you know what I mean?" "Yeah. " This was a touching moment, the kind of moment that screamed out for a toast- It was time for a Benedictine & Brandy (tm) toast. "A round for the house!" Davidson screamed, "some ambrosia even for the brutes across the bar! Barkeep, we need some B&B!" He leaped off his stool like a celebratory madman. "Sorry, man, can't serve you; you've been too fucked up to drive for awhile now; now you're just too fucked up. Okay?" "Okay, yeah okay," Mark said, looking over at the old man who was now crying, his face bright red as were his bloodshot crying eyes. And the moment of drunken clarity revealed itself at last: (welcome back Mark. Welcome home. He listened to the congregation's choir singing ancient chant. It came from inside him. A chill crawled up his spine) "Hey, man, you think I'm too fucked up? They're thinking about stopping the fight." He leaned in toward the old man, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Do you think I'm too fucked up? If you do," he said, appealing to his new friend, "they'll likely stop the fight." " Yo man!" yelled one of the foundry workers, "leave him the fuck alone! Or you're gonna get your ass kicked. " "Oh yeah," Mark slurred, "what the fuck are you going to do about it?" He started toward the guy then quickly ducked under the bar, moving toward the expensive stuff. He went to the top shelf and grabbed the B&B, splashing a couple quick shots into his mouth. The bar lights mixed with the liquor that had gotten into his eyes; he was gagging a little from the first sip. The second gulp went down like paradise was involved. The foundry guys had had enough of this clown and they were off their stools moving toward Mark. That's when Mark pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the little gang. "Four on 1; I'd even try kicking 2 of your asses-- but 4? no way.... i need this gun.... sorry...Don't worry, it only goes off when I want it too." He kept the gun pointed at the guy and took another swig of the sweet liquor then decided he'd better buy it. He threw four twenties on the bar for the liquor. "And for your troubles barkeep; come to think about it buy the bright boys a couple, the good stuff. G' night old man. "Night!" the old man replied, smiling. Mark backed out the front door (but not before taking a last look around; even this hammered he knew he was 86'd at least for "awhile"); his gun was still drawn. Once he was outside and quickly walking toward his car, he put the gun back in his pants. He got into the car and quickly took off, heading into the woods. Who are you kidding, pal, he thought to himself, stunts like this get you 86'd forever and ever.
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