+J.M.J.+
The Truman Show II: Through the Door in the Sky
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's Note:
I wrote this under the influence of the soundtrack for "Lord of the Rings I: The
Fellowship of the Ring", so there is the start of a mild thematic similarity
between this and LOTR I: Truman as a cross between Frodo and Sam; his
mentor/guardian figure as Gandalf; the mysterious goons in the black jackets,
driving around in the big black Caddy might be a modernized, motorized cross
between the Black Riders and Saruman's Uruk-Hai; or it could even be influenced
by The Matrix, with the TLF as the crew of the Neb seeking Neo, Dietrich as
Morpheus, and the thugs in black as the Agents (phones show up quite a bit in
this, too); it's even got "Joey Pants", who played Cypher…but I grossly digress.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I.
First the fake movie credits…only in my dreams…
Paramount Pictures presents
A Scott Rudin Production
A Peter Weir Film
The Truman Show II
Featuring
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law
Joe Pantoliano
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor
And Themselves
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare
Directed by Peter Weir
* * * * * *
Chapter II: The Helping Hand
Cristoff's intercom buzzed frantically, but perhaps the frenzy came from within his own perturbed heart. He got up from his chair and went to answer it.
"Mr. Cristoff, there's an Azor Montressor who wishes to see you," a security guard's voice announced.
"Tell him to go away, I can't talk to him right now."
Something scuffled on the end of the line.
"I will speak to you now…if I may be so bold," said a deep voice with a gruff but urbane tone. "You're the epitome of the artist in his ivory tower, has anyone ever told you that?"
"What do you mean?"
The voice chuckled low in its throat. "You ignored my calls, my letters, my emails. So I thought I'd take a more direct approach."
Cristoff breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind.
"Are we mooning over the little bird that flew away? I can get him back on the airwaves again, if you like."
"Not on your terms, Montressor, not on your terms."
"Why not? Aren't they reasonable enough for you? I put him in my production and we split the earnings fifty-fifty."
"I can't subject him to that kind of work."
"Why? Because your little hothouse flower couldn't stand up to it for a day? That's just the kind of treatment that might do him good, let him see how the other half lives."
"Not the way you suggest. It would kill him."
"What is it, Eugene? Too realistic for you? Wake up, man! We're living in the 21st century. Sweetness and light went out with curbside check-ins at airports."
"Montressor, may I ask you a question?"
"Anything at all, Mr. Frank Capra."
"What were your last show's ratings over in Europe?"
Silence filled with nervous breathing answered him for a moment. "More than they were the season before."
"Give me a figure."
"Not as good as yours, but your show took up a whole network all its own."
"Your line of production can't boast that, can it?"
"They'll come to it when they find it in the TV Guide. They may even flock to it because he's in it."
* * * * *
Hungry and exhausted from walking for well over an hour, Truman dragged himself into a small diner. He found an empty booth in the back and dropped onto the seat. A TV hung from the ceiling near the counter, the new quacking away.
"Truman Burbank, star of television's most-watched, highest rated and longest-running show, may soon return to the airwaves," the anchor's voiceover announced over a short montage of clips from…the show, ending with the open door way. "A spokesperson from OmniCam Corporation says controversial film maker Azor Montressor has offered to hire Truman for a proposed 'Real reality show'."
White print appeared on the screen as a new voice spoke.
"'The new show, which currently goes by the working title "Harsh Zone" will play like an urban cross between the "Survivor" series and "Temptation Island"'," said a deep, gruff but insinuating voice. "It's decidedly NOT for the faint-hearted or the prudish, but in some ways it will play like a continuation of Truman's life…divorced from the imitation small-town setting…and minus the saccharine."
A tall busty waitress came up to his table with a menu. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Uh…milk, please, if you have it," Truman said.
"Hey, Ernie! Squeeze me a cow!" she screeched over her shoulder. As she moved on to the next table, Truman saw her eyes swing from the TV back to him in a discrete double take.
He studied the menu, looking for something at a reasonable price. He almost passed out: the prices were twice as high as they would be for the same items in the diner in Seahaven…not that it was real, either.
He chose a ham and cheese melt sandwich and some cottage fries.
It took a long time for the waitress to bring his order, but the diner was crowded. He started to get concerned that he might pass out, but soon enough she came and set down a heavy plate laden with a good-sized sandwich steaming deliciously, and a basket of fries. First meal in the real world, he thought, digging in.
When he had finished, he called for the check. But then he discovered something:
He didn't have his wallet.
The waitress glanced out the window and then at the TV. "It's on me," she said under her breath.
The door opened and two big guys in knee-length black coats entered, flanking a slightly shorter guy with a balding crew cut. They looked around like they meant business.
"You come with me," she whispered and taking Truman by the arm with her into the back rooms.
"You better run. Those guys work for the Montressor b-----d who's after you. They come in here every week, 'cause they've been up at the studio pesting Mr. Cristoff."
"Who?"
"Oh, that's right…he's the man who thought up The Show."
"So you know who I am?"
The waitress laughed gently. "Sure do! My brother-in-law taped every episode of the show for me." She reached into a recess of her dress and pulled out a small wad of bills. "Here's all I got on me; you need it more."
"I shouldn't, you've been too kind already. I should repay you somehow."
"Bull----!" She looked to the front. "Well, I'll tell you this much; part of me used to fantasize about, well, getting' crazy with you. But a kiss on the cheek 'll do."
He leaned over and kissed her cheek; she tasted of sweat and kitchen grease and Ivory soap, but it didn't bother him somehow.
She touched the spot on her cheek reverently and blushed. "I ain't never gonna wash that spot again," she said. Business-like again, she led him to the back door and opening it, gave him a gentle swat on the behind. "You get going and get yourself a disguise; they'll come looking for you."
He went, out into the alleyway and threaded through the urban crevasse among the buildings.
He found a phone booth on a street corner and paged through the Gs in the white pages, looking for Sylvia's number.
Half the pages had been torn out, including the one that probably had her number on it.
He sighed and kept flipping pages.
"Okay, if you were gonna find someone, where would you look?" he asked himself. Can't all the police, they may be looking for me.
He leafed through the yellow pages, looking for detective agencies.
Half of the page listing "private investigators" had been torn out, but as he started to close the book, his eye fell on one listing:
Hohenzoller, Dietrich, P.I. Lost persons and loved ones found.
He tore out the page and put it in his pocket next to the patchwork picture of Sylvia he had pieced together from clippings he'd torn from fashion magazines.
But he took the waitress's advice: he went to a drug store and bought himself a pair of sunglasses and a canvas slouch hat. He was going to have to ask people for directions.
* * * * *
Sylvia's injuries were minor, nothing that required much more than her wearing a neck brace for a few days unless the pain got worse or she had complications. She called TLF headquarters to tell them what had happened to her.
"I'm sorry, I failed.
"It wasn't your fault," Cole Tenniel, the director said reassuringly. "You did your best. We've got enough eyes to keep a look out for him. You rest up; you'll need your strength. I'll send Jerry over to pick you up, and send Bettina to drive your car home."
"It's totaled. I don't have any insurance."
"We'll see what we can do."
* * * * *
Somehow, Truman found Hohenzoller's office, above a seedy-looking bar. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and went in.
A tall, heavy-built woman in her fifties sat behind the desk, manning a computer.
"Is Mr.…Hohenzoller in?" Truman asked her.
"He's in his office," she replied. "What's your name? I'll buzz him."
"My name is Anderton, Joel Anderton. I'm trying to find my former girlfriend."
She eyed him narrowly over he rimless glasses and reached for the intercom.
"Mr. Hohenzoller, there's a Mr. Joel Anderton who wants to see you about a lost love," she announced. She switched off the intercom and pointed over he shoulder toward the inner door, which stood ajar. "He's in there."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said. He followed her pointing thumb, pushed open the door and stepped through.
He entered a dark room filled with the hum of computers. Indicator LEDs glowed green and amber in the shadows.
Suddenly, one side of the room lit with an eerie half-light. A short figure in shabby clothes lunged out of the shadows, brandishing a gun.
"Back off, or I'll shoot!" the figure roared. He took aim. Truman stood staring, too startled to move. A shot cracked, closely followed by another. The figure dropped, cursing and clutching his arm.
The room grew brighter. Truman looked around.
Behind a computer desk covered with towers and boxes and peripherals stood the biggest man Truman had ever seen. He stood well over six feet tall, wide as a door between his shoulders, barrel-chested and barrel-bellied, but well muscled, even graceful in an elephantine way. His pallid gray-blue eyes scanned up and down Truman, then fixed on his face.
"Mr.…. Anderson?" the big man asked, stepping toward him.
"Uh, yeah, that's me."
The giant extended one huge hand to him, open. "I am Dietrich Hohenzoller," he said, his voice touched with a foreign accent, probably German. Truman cautiously took the detective's hand and shook it.
"But, perhaps I am mistaken, your real name is Truman Burbank."
"You mean…" Truman looked around for a television. The wall behind him, where the gunman had been, now blossomed with a thousand colors, melting and changing. It was a projection screen.
"I was not a regular viewer, but I have some friends who are. And, at their encouraging, I have been following your story since your daring escape this morning."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"For your own good. Before I can help you, I must inform you that you are now at the head of the list of missing persons. Every police unit and investigator, private and public, has been put on the alert for you, in case you should decide to be a good little boy and return to OmniCam, the media conglom that, for all intents and purposes, owns you."
"I'm not turning myself in."
"I know you are not."
"How do you…? What, are you a mind-reader or something?"
"No, I just know your type of man." He pulled up a chair and gestured to it. "Take the burden from your feet; you must be tired."
"Thanks." Truman sat down.
Hohenzoller sat down behind the desk "Now what precisely brings you here?"
Truman reached into his pants pocket and took out the composite picture of Sylvia. "I want you to find her; her name is Sylvia. I went to high school and started college with her…well, I guess I mean, she used to be an actress…"
"On the show? Yes, I've seen some of the important incidents of The Show."
"It's important. I mean, she told me the truth, the real truth. I wouldn't be out here now if she hadn't told me that one little thing that really started all this. And, uh…" He felt his cheeks burning.
Hohenzoller smiled. "And she is the one beautiful woman who means all the world to you. Do you know her last name?"
"No, uh, she went by the name Lauren Garland, so maybe her last name is Garland."
The big man studied the picture and smoothed it out gently with his fingertips. "I will do what I can."
Truman clasped and unclasped his hands. "I, uh, don't have much money. How much will I owe you?"
"No charge."
Truman got up to leave. "Well, uh, in that case, I won't take any more of your time." Hohenzoller rose with him and took his shoulder, firmly but gently, enough to stop him.
"I do not wish to differ with you, Mr. Burbank, but it is unsafe out there, for now."
"What do you mean?"
"There is a price on your head, and someone must see to it that no one pays it or takes possession of the good in question: meaning you."
"I don't understand."
"I mean, you will not find Sylvia unless you go into hiding."
"What? Where? What am I supposed to do?"
"I shall handle the intricacies. I will find a safe room for you until something else can be arranged. You will have to stay put there till then."
"You mean put me under lock and key? I just escaped."
"This is not to keep you in, it would be a temporary arrangement to keep your enemies out. Sort of like the mystery stories where the detective puts the star witness in an anonymous hotel room to keep her enemies from finding her."
"I'm afraid I didn't read those sort of mysteries…but I guess I'm living one."
Hohenzoller reached for the phone and dialed. "Hallo, Maureen? It's Hohenzoller…Yes, I'll need a room for a week…good, good, good, Thank you." He hung up the phone. "Wait here, I'll call a cab."
Hohenzoller got up and went out, leaving the office door ajar. Truman dimly heard him talking to the secretary.
Jumping catfish, I've only been free for a few hours, and I'll be under lock and key again, he thought. But if it keeps the wackos I just escaped from, from coming after me, I guess that's what I gotta do.
A few minutes later, Truman, wearing his sunglasses and the slouch hat, got into a taxicab a few doors down from Hohenzoller's office. Hohenzoller got in beside him and pulled the door shut.
"So, you close the deal with the pickle company?" Hohenzoller asked in a flat American accent.
"Yeah, it's a sweet deal, sweet as their gherkins. Get it?" Truman said, playing along.
They chatted like this all the way to the Motel 6. Hohenzoller paid their fare and they went in.
They checked in and went to the room. Hohenzoller closed the door behind him.
"Do not answer the phone and do not leave this place. I will be back later. Got it?"
"Yes, sir, general sir!" Truman teased.
With that, Hohenzoller went out. Truman plopped down on one of the beds. The wild night and the topsy-turvy day took their effect on him: he fell asleep.
* * * * *
Sylvia waited outside the hospital, sitting on a bench, leaning back against a concrete pillar that supported the carport.
At length, Jerry's beat-to-death Land Rover ground up the drive and pulled up in front of her. Jerry got out, then opened the passenger side door to shove a laundry basket and a box of crackers into the back seat before he helped her into the front seat.
"You do your laundry?" she asked.
"That's from last night. I've been too busy babysitting the phone—amongst other things—to fold it. Not that I have anyplace to put it." Jerry lived out of the Land Rover when he wasn't couch-surfing. Since he'd been evicted for late rent six months before, he'd slept in the apartments or houses of almost every TLF worker and volunteer, including her own.
He got into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut, hard.
"So how's the neck?" he asked.
"It's all right, I just have to wear this brace for a couple days."
"I suppose, when you see Truman again, you can tell him you got these wounds fighting to help him escape the clutches of the henchmen of another evil director who's trying to exploit him?"
"What?"
"You haven't heard the news yet? There's this other director who wants Truman for some show he's doing."
"So you weren't just being a nut about some evil director?"
"No, some creep named Montressor wants to put Truman in some weird, sick reality show, something the exact diametric opposite of The Show."
"I wonder if that car that hit me had something to do with this Montressor."
"It bloody well could, I thought that myself when you called in and told us you'd been whacked going in to the EcoSphere. I've a friend who's a detective; maybe I should call him in to figure this out. He's a good detective, too."
"Maybe you should."
Once they reached her apartment building, he helped her up the stairs to her door on the second floor.
"You want me to stick around and keep an eye on you in case they sniff out where you live?" he offered.
"No, thanks, I'll be all right; they'll be needing you back at headquarters."
He eyed her with concern. "You sure?"
"Yes."
He headed out the door. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."
* * * * *
Much later, someone nudged him awake. He opened his eyes. Hohenzoller stood beside the bed, looking down.
"Sleep well, Truman?"
"Yeah, just plain got worn out." He smelled warm food. On the table stood a couple Chinese take-out boxes; over the chair back hung a plain gray suit about his size, and on the seat lay a few shirts and some other clothes.
"I hope you like Chinese and I hope those things fit you."
"I was about to say 'Hey, you did some shopping!' Thanks, I was thinking I needed something else to wear while this stuff is in the wash." He got up and helped himself to the food. "Uh, you want any?"
"I have eaten already, but thank you." Dietrich took up his position near the door, where he could watch the window.
"So you gonna clue me in on all the hush-hush, or is that part of the plan?" Truman asked.
"It is a long story."
"I got time. I'd like to know what all this is about."
"I know much of the key information, which I learned from some friends of mine, but I do not know all that went on. The show that was built around your life, from the moment of your birth, was the brainchild of an otherwise brilliant director, one Eugene Cristoff. The OmniCam Corporation, a massive media conglomerate which owns several networks all over the world, helped him build it up from a simple little show about a small child, to the complex drama that it was. They funded the construction of the EcoSphere, the complex that you escaped from this morning. They, in a sense, 'own' you, which is why there have been factions at work trying to have the corporation slapped with slavery charges amongst other charges, and have you freed."
"But I beat 'em to it."
"Up to this point. Last I have heard, OmniCam has cancelled the show, and is considering turning you over to one of the lesser directors under its aegis, a man called Azor Montressor." Dietrich's face took on a troubled look, but it quickly passed as he continued talking. My understanding, from what I have heard on the news broadcasts, is that Montressor approached Cristoff, looking for you and trying to cut a deal with Cristoff, but he would hardly speak to Montressor. Some of Montressor's…'associates', if you will, went out this morning to escort you to his offices here in the city and thence to his studio in Switzerland."
"I wonder if those were the goons who chased me through the woods this morning."
"They will be looking for you; that is why I am keeping you here."
"Okay, for the heck of it, who is this Montressor dude and why does he want me so bad?"
Dietrich was silent for a moment, except for his breathing, which had grown briefly audible. "He is the last director you should ever have to work for, ever. You know what a snuff film is?"
Truman shrugged. "A movie about powdered chewing tobacco?"
"It is an especially violent, pornographic movie in which the actors are often genuinely injured. Or killed."
Truman almost choked on his mouthful. "Oh, my God. And this Montressor wants to put me in something like…that?"
Dietrich wagged his head sagely. "I cannot say what he has in mind for you, but to guess from the kind of films and TV shows he has produced in the past, I cannot foresee him changing his style for your benefit, especially because, as I understand, he has a great deal of criticism for Cristoff and his work."
"Well, so do I, since he kept me captive for twenty-nine years."
"True, but Cristoff let you live as a man. If you worked for Montressor," he sighed deeply, "You would only be a prop to him."
"How do you know this? I was a prop to Cristoff."
"Not as you would be to Montressor. I know this, because I know Montressor personally. And I am doing what I am doing for you so you will not have to find that out for yourself. I was a prisoner, too, for five years for crimes I did not commit. And so I do this for you, to free you from one prison and prevent you from ending up in another, far more worse."
Dietrich went out later; Truman flipped channels on the cable TV. Every other station was carrying a news report about the grand escape. He finally shut it off.
Dietrich came back with a sheaf of magazines and newspapers, including a few National Geographics. "I will bring by some World Almanacs in the morning, to help you catch up with current events and history," he promised.
"Yeah, I know a plane went down in New York several months back. Did they ever find out why? The news said it was a mechanical failure, but I thought it sounded odd."
"It was a terrorist attack by Muslim extremists based in Afghanistan. The planes were hijacked and crashed deliberately into the World Trade Center Towers."
"Oh dear. I mean, that's awful, like Pearl Harbor."
"It was worse than Pearl Harbor."
"And they kept stuff like this from me. I mean, yeah, it's horrible, but it's the truth, dammit. I got a right to know about it."
"That's why I'm doing this, so you can live in the truth. I know what it is to live a lie."
Once Dietrich had gone for the night, Truman started reading the magazines and newspapers until his eyes grew too heavy to stay open and he switched out the light.
He woke up a few times in the night, once to take care of nature, once to get a drink of water and once because he heard a car door slam. He peeked out the window all three times.
All three times he saw the same black Cadillac parked outside, against the curb, on the other side of the street.
* * * * *
Earlier that evening, a medium-sized, stocky-built guy in a black leather coat entered the hospital where Sylvia had been treated. His round, ugly face had the odd knack of looking thin and rat-like at the same time. He approached the receptionist's desk.
"Did you admit a girl named Sylvia Thomas earlier today?" he asked in a thin, sneery voice. "I'm her uncle Larry, I heard from my sister-in-law that Sylv was in an accident."
"Yes, she was discharged this afternoon. Her injuries were not life-threatening," the receptionist replied.
"Oh, phew! Be still my beating heart! Could you give me her address? I've been out of touch with her for a few years, and I don't have her current address."
"Sure." The receptionist printed out Sylvia's forms and handed them to him."
"Thanks," he said.
* * * * *
Cristoff lay on the bed in his apartment, unable to sleep, his eyes fixed to the monitor at the foot of the bed, which showed the open door in the backdrop. Where are you tonight, Truman? He wondered.
* * * * *
Sylvia had just taken a bath and gotten into her nightgown. She was brushing her teeth, when she heard a loud bang! in the front room. She spat into the sink, switched out the light and cracked the door.
She heard people moving about in the room. A stocky guy in a black coat moved past the door. She pushed it closed. She opened the window and climbed out on the fire escape outside.
"She ain't here, boss," said a man's high, whiny voice.
"You haven't checked the bathroom," replied a deep, harsh but subtle voice.
Someone kicked open the door. She huddled against the bricks of the wall. Don't look out the window, she thought. Don't look out the window, don't look out the window, don't look out the window…
Someone opened the window. She froze.
"Where are you, woman?" the gruff voice crooned. The window banged shut.
A big, black car passed below some minutes later. She lay still until it had passed. She got up and tried to open the window. It was locked. She found a loose brick in the wall and smashed the window to unlock it.
She picked her way over the broken glass and surveyed the rooms. She expected the place to be trashed, but not a thing was out of place.
But a piece of black paper lay in the middle of her table.
We'll be back, girl, it read in lavender ink.
She dressed quickly. She couldn't stay here. She called Jerry.
* * * * *
Jerry slept wrapped in a sleeping bag, stretched out in the back of his Land Rover. Under his pillow lay two things vital to his work: his Luger and his cellphone.
The phone rang. He stirred and pulled it out.
"Hullo?"
"Jerry, it's Sylvia."
He jerked fully awake. "Are you all right?"
"No, someone just broke into my apartment. They left a note saying they'd be back."
"I'll be right over," he said, crawling out of the sleeping back and stuffing the Luger into his belt as he climbed into the front seat.
She had thrown some clothes and necessities and things into a shopping bag when he arrived.
"So where are you staying?" she asked as he drove back toward TLF headquarters.
"Nowhere, I'm afraid. I just parked behind headquarters."
"Well, I can't sleep in here with you."
"You sleep in here; I'll sleep on the ground," he offered. "I'll be fine, it's a nice night."
* * * * *
Cristoff couldn't sleep. His mind still ran wild, thinking of Truman, alone out there in that world. What kind of lies are they handing you? he asked the darkness. The worst possible images panned over his mind's eye: a gang of thugs brutalizing him in an alleyway, predators molesting him, one image of Truman lying dead somewhere.
Did I do wrong in protecting you from the world? Did I 'kill you with kindness as they've accused me of doing? One part of him wanted to resign itself to the reality: Truman had made his choice, and they both needed to live with the outcome. But another part of him wanted Truman back, if only to spare him the world and from Montressor.
It won't be the same, something deep in his soul told him. He realized that even if he could get Truman back, everything could not possibly return to the status quo he and OmniCam and the EcoSphere crew had so carefully maintained. Truman would go made with the claustrophobic world of Seahaven. Once someone has seen the truth, no one, not even he, can make himself un-see it. It would remain indelibly imprinted on his consciousness, on his very being.
He stared at the monitor screen. Per order of Moses Mayr, the studio exec, and one of the OmniCam bigwigs, the set was being torn down. But for as long as he could, Cristoff wanted them to leave the one camera focused on the last place he had seen Truman. Maybe he would see him stumble in through that door, the prodigal returned.
Has Montressor's long arm reached for you yet? Has he cast you in some horrible role in some scenario unfit for even the lowest animal?
The phone on the bedside table rang. Cristoff let the answering machine pick it up.
"We haven't found your little bird yet, Cristoff. If you know where he is, why not make it a lot easier for all of us and tell us where he got to," Montressor's oily voice said. The line cut off.
Cristoff breathed easier.
* * * * *
In the middle of the night, as he lay sleeping in his sleeping bag on the ground near the Land Rover, Jerry heard a heavy engine throbbing nearby. Headlights splashed over him but he lay still, keeping his eyes closed. Car doors opened. Footsteps approached. Someone came close to where he lay.
"Yep, that's the Land Rover, and that's our girl sleeping in it," said a man's sneery voice. "We take her now, Montressor?"
Silence except the engine noises replied, then a deep voice spoke.
"No, not now, not now. We have a witness."
"Who?" Sneer asked.
"Look on the ground."
"Aaaw, wookit sleepin' beauty."
"Particularly the beauty part. He's as cunning as he's pretty. He was watching us under his lashes. Hand me the bull's-eye light."
Jerry felt more light, brighter than the headlights, on his face. He lay still, but it took an act of the will to keep his face from squinching.
"You're tougher than you look, little fella," Deep Oily remarked.
"If he's a witness, shouldn't we do 'm?" Sneer asked.
"No, something like him you don't smash unless he's used up. He's got a lot of life in him, this one."
The footsteps retreated. The doors slammed. The tires screamed past, just a foot from where Jerry lay.
When the trespassers screeched away into the distance, Jerry crawled under the Land Rover.
* * * * *
Early the next morning, Truman woke up. Dietrich hadn't come back yet; he went into the bathroom to shave.
"So, Mr. Burbank, does the real world appeal to you?" he said into the mirror, doing a pretend interview.
"Well, so far, Phil, so good. I must admit the welcoming party in the black leather coats and the Caddy was a bit terrifying, but if that's the way you do things around here, I can get used to it. 'Man gets used to anything, the beast'." He said the last in a lugubrious drawl.
"What do you plan to do with your life?"
"Right now, I'm trying to find Sylvia Garland, or whatever her last name is. After that, I'll figure something out for work. There's gotta be decent jobs out here."
"But what about Meryl? I mean, she was your wife. Why not try getting her out into this world?"
"Why should I? Now that I'm in my right mind, she appears every bit as fake to me as that world I just escaped. I mean, how many people really have chirpy conversations about Bolivian Cocoa beans?"
At this point someone knocked on the hall door. Truman went to check who it was. Dietrich stood there, waiting to be let in. Truman opened the door to him.
"Pack up your thingks, vee are gettingk oudt," Dietrich said, his accent heavier than usual. He threw a suitcase on the bed. Truman saw a holster strapped to the bigger man's thigh, under the lappet of his coat.
"What's up?"
"Ziss," Dietrich drew a folded newspaper from under his coat and threw it on the table. Truman looked at the headline.
TRUMAN SPOTTED! blared the headline. Underneath was a photo of Truman and Dietrich entering the office of the Motel 6.
"Uh oh," Truman said.
* * * * *
Three minutes later they checked out. Dietrich made Truman get into the back of his sedan, lie down on the floor, and threw his coat over him.
He stayed still in that cramped position until the car stopped moving in half-light. The rear door opened and Dietrich helped him out, into a garage.
"A door leads to the kitchen, you won't have to go outside," Dietrich said, leading the way down a short hallway, then through a door into a spare, but well-lit kitchen.
He cooked breakfast for the both of them; he wasn't bad for someone who was clearly a bachelor. No curtains on the windows, just vertical blinds, that was how Truman could tell.
"So, Dietrich, what about you?" Truman asked afterward.
"What about me?"
"Well, who are you? Where did you come from?"
Dietrich smiled mysteriously, the corners of his mouth barely lifted. "It is best for all if you know little about me."
"Why not? You got some secret past you're hiding from the world?"
Dietrich wagged his head. "Perhaps there exists a part of me that wishes to keep it from myself even."
"Oh, c'mon, you can tell me. I'd like to know a little about the guy who's keeping me away form my enemies."
"There is little worth telling. I immerse myself in my cases, my work. It is more than a livelihood for me: it is my service, my way to reclaim the ground my youth has lost. I wanted to enter the police force, but they could not take me, since I carry more than my share of woes."
"You got a wife? A girlfriend?"
Dietrich laughed humorlessly. "I am afraid not. I am homosexual."
Truman tried not to stare. He'd dimly heard about such things, mostly horror stories. He caught himself backing away from Dietrich, scooting back in his chair until he bunched up in a corner. Don't show fear, he told himself.
"You have nothing to fear, Truman. I know what you need." As Dietrich said this, his hand went to his shirt pocket, where he'd put the picture of Sylvia.
* * * * *
Dietrich showed him the rest of the house. "I barely use the upstairs, so you can have it to yourself, but feel free to roam. Just stay away from windows."
Once Truman had settle, Dietrich left him. He investigated the bookshelves in the living room and the desktop computer in a windowless office nook in the back of the house. He found a program called Internet Explorer and opened it.
A window opened and spread itself over the screen. He'd read about "the Web" in one of the books Dietrich had left with him, so he wanted to investigate it.
There seemed to be an awful lot of news items about his disappearance. OmniCam had put out a reward of $750,00 for his safe return to the EcoSphere, but this Montressor dude had a reward of his own: $1,000,000.
* * * * *
Dietrich stepped into the garage, took out his cellphone and dialed his contact.
"Hullo?"
"Peik, this is Hohenzoller. I've found him."
"Is he alive?"
"Yes, pass the word to the others."
"Shall we bring him to the Chief?"
"No, not yet. The smoke has to settle, plus I have something else to clear away."
* * * * *
Truman found a White Pages online and typed "Garland, Sylvia" into the search box. He hit enter and waited.
A page came up with a name and an address. He printed it out as Dietrich came back to the room.
"I might have found her," Truman announced, handing him the paper.
Dietrich scanned it in silence. "I could call her for you, perhaps arrange for her to come here. It's not safe for you to go out.
"I'd appreciate that."
Dietrich reached for the phone on the desk and dialed. He waited several seconds
"Hallo, is there a Sylvia Garland there? This is Dietrich Hohenzoller, private investigator. Did you, by any chance, play the part of Lauren on the Truman Show about ten years ago?…No? Very well, I'm sorry to disturb you. Goodbye." He hung up.
"Wrong person?" Truman asked.
"I'm afraid so."
"Well, we can't say we didn't try."
Dietrich bent his head, his eyes thoughtful. "There is another way. I have a friend who worked on The Show about ten years ago. Perhaps he would know about her."
"And hope he's kept up with what's going on."
"Oh, he's kept up with it." Dietrich lifted the receiver again.
* * * * *
Jerry was washing his hands in the sink of the unisex bathroom of TLF headquarters when his cellphone rang.
"Hello?"
"Peik, it's Hohenzoller again. I don't mean to bother you again, but could I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Do you know a Sylvia Garland who played Lauren on The Show ten years ago?"
"Not in real life, but I know a Sylvia Thomas."
"Could you bring her to my house?"
"It might be safer if you came here and picked her up; her apartment got broken into, so she came here to find shelter; but then last night, when she was sleeping in my truck and I was sleeping on the ground, these thugs came by and were peeking at her. They ended up more interested in me, if you know what I mean."
"Did you see them? Could you describe them?"
"No, I was playing possum."
"I will come by later, then and fetch her here. Truman wants to see her."
"Okay, well, I'll give her the fair warning and tell her you called looking for her."
Jerry hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. He leaned his hands in the sink ledge and breathed deeply, trying to regain his composure so he could pass the message on to her.
* * * * *
"Truman?" Dietrich's rich voice called from the kitchen, later that evening.
"Yeah?" Truman called back.
"Come down here. There is something for you."
Truman got off-line and went to the kitchen. Is this another false alarm? He wondered.
He walked into the kitchen. A woman sat at the table.
Lauren…?
No! Sylvia!
Golden-brown hair, blue-green eyes, delightfully uneven brows, face slightly heart-shaped.
"Lauren?" Truman asked, dry mouthed from nerves.
She smiled, tears in her eyes. "No, it's Sylvia," she said. She stood up. He opened his arms awkwardly, but she walked into his embrace.
Dietrich, standing in the doorway to the garage, watched them for a moment. Then he turned and went out on some fictitious errand. They have some catching up to do, he told himself.
To be continued…
The Truman Show II: Through the Door in the Sky
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's Note:
I wrote this under the influence of the soundtrack for "Lord of the Rings I: The
Fellowship of the Ring", so there is the start of a mild thematic similarity
between this and LOTR I: Truman as a cross between Frodo and Sam; his
mentor/guardian figure as Gandalf; the mysterious goons in the black jackets,
driving around in the big black Caddy might be a modernized, motorized cross
between the Black Riders and Saruman's Uruk-Hai; or it could even be influenced
by The Matrix, with the TLF as the crew of the Neb seeking Neo, Dietrich as
Morpheus, and the thugs in black as the Agents (phones show up quite a bit in
this, too); it's even got "Joey Pants", who played Cypher…but I grossly digress.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I.
First the fake movie credits…only in my dreams…
Paramount Pictures presents
A Scott Rudin Production
A Peter Weir Film
The Truman Show II
Featuring
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law
Joe Pantoliano
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor
And Themselves
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare
Directed by Peter Weir
* * * * * *
Chapter II: The Helping Hand
Cristoff's intercom buzzed frantically, but perhaps the frenzy came from within his own perturbed heart. He got up from his chair and went to answer it.
"Mr. Cristoff, there's an Azor Montressor who wishes to see you," a security guard's voice announced.
"Tell him to go away, I can't talk to him right now."
Something scuffled on the end of the line.
"I will speak to you now…if I may be so bold," said a deep voice with a gruff but urbane tone. "You're the epitome of the artist in his ivory tower, has anyone ever told you that?"
"What do you mean?"
The voice chuckled low in its throat. "You ignored my calls, my letters, my emails. So I thought I'd take a more direct approach."
Cristoff breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind.
"Are we mooning over the little bird that flew away? I can get him back on the airwaves again, if you like."
"Not on your terms, Montressor, not on your terms."
"Why not? Aren't they reasonable enough for you? I put him in my production and we split the earnings fifty-fifty."
"I can't subject him to that kind of work."
"Why? Because your little hothouse flower couldn't stand up to it for a day? That's just the kind of treatment that might do him good, let him see how the other half lives."
"Not the way you suggest. It would kill him."
"What is it, Eugene? Too realistic for you? Wake up, man! We're living in the 21st century. Sweetness and light went out with curbside check-ins at airports."
"Montressor, may I ask you a question?"
"Anything at all, Mr. Frank Capra."
"What were your last show's ratings over in Europe?"
Silence filled with nervous breathing answered him for a moment. "More than they were the season before."
"Give me a figure."
"Not as good as yours, but your show took up a whole network all its own."
"Your line of production can't boast that, can it?"
"They'll come to it when they find it in the TV Guide. They may even flock to it because he's in it."
* * * * *
Hungry and exhausted from walking for well over an hour, Truman dragged himself into a small diner. He found an empty booth in the back and dropped onto the seat. A TV hung from the ceiling near the counter, the new quacking away.
"Truman Burbank, star of television's most-watched, highest rated and longest-running show, may soon return to the airwaves," the anchor's voiceover announced over a short montage of clips from…the show, ending with the open door way. "A spokesperson from OmniCam Corporation says controversial film maker Azor Montressor has offered to hire Truman for a proposed 'Real reality show'."
White print appeared on the screen as a new voice spoke.
"'The new show, which currently goes by the working title "Harsh Zone" will play like an urban cross between the "Survivor" series and "Temptation Island"'," said a deep, gruff but insinuating voice. "It's decidedly NOT for the faint-hearted or the prudish, but in some ways it will play like a continuation of Truman's life…divorced from the imitation small-town setting…and minus the saccharine."
A tall busty waitress came up to his table with a menu. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Uh…milk, please, if you have it," Truman said.
"Hey, Ernie! Squeeze me a cow!" she screeched over her shoulder. As she moved on to the next table, Truman saw her eyes swing from the TV back to him in a discrete double take.
He studied the menu, looking for something at a reasonable price. He almost passed out: the prices were twice as high as they would be for the same items in the diner in Seahaven…not that it was real, either.
He chose a ham and cheese melt sandwich and some cottage fries.
It took a long time for the waitress to bring his order, but the diner was crowded. He started to get concerned that he might pass out, but soon enough she came and set down a heavy plate laden with a good-sized sandwich steaming deliciously, and a basket of fries. First meal in the real world, he thought, digging in.
When he had finished, he called for the check. But then he discovered something:
He didn't have his wallet.
The waitress glanced out the window and then at the TV. "It's on me," she said under her breath.
The door opened and two big guys in knee-length black coats entered, flanking a slightly shorter guy with a balding crew cut. They looked around like they meant business.
"You come with me," she whispered and taking Truman by the arm with her into the back rooms.
"You better run. Those guys work for the Montressor b-----d who's after you. They come in here every week, 'cause they've been up at the studio pesting Mr. Cristoff."
"Who?"
"Oh, that's right…he's the man who thought up The Show."
"So you know who I am?"
The waitress laughed gently. "Sure do! My brother-in-law taped every episode of the show for me." She reached into a recess of her dress and pulled out a small wad of bills. "Here's all I got on me; you need it more."
"I shouldn't, you've been too kind already. I should repay you somehow."
"Bull----!" She looked to the front. "Well, I'll tell you this much; part of me used to fantasize about, well, getting' crazy with you. But a kiss on the cheek 'll do."
He leaned over and kissed her cheek; she tasted of sweat and kitchen grease and Ivory soap, but it didn't bother him somehow.
She touched the spot on her cheek reverently and blushed. "I ain't never gonna wash that spot again," she said. Business-like again, she led him to the back door and opening it, gave him a gentle swat on the behind. "You get going and get yourself a disguise; they'll come looking for you."
He went, out into the alleyway and threaded through the urban crevasse among the buildings.
He found a phone booth on a street corner and paged through the Gs in the white pages, looking for Sylvia's number.
Half the pages had been torn out, including the one that probably had her number on it.
He sighed and kept flipping pages.
"Okay, if you were gonna find someone, where would you look?" he asked himself. Can't all the police, they may be looking for me.
He leafed through the yellow pages, looking for detective agencies.
Half of the page listing "private investigators" had been torn out, but as he started to close the book, his eye fell on one listing:
Hohenzoller, Dietrich, P.I. Lost persons and loved ones found.
He tore out the page and put it in his pocket next to the patchwork picture of Sylvia he had pieced together from clippings he'd torn from fashion magazines.
But he took the waitress's advice: he went to a drug store and bought himself a pair of sunglasses and a canvas slouch hat. He was going to have to ask people for directions.
* * * * *
Sylvia's injuries were minor, nothing that required much more than her wearing a neck brace for a few days unless the pain got worse or she had complications. She called TLF headquarters to tell them what had happened to her.
"I'm sorry, I failed.
"It wasn't your fault," Cole Tenniel, the director said reassuringly. "You did your best. We've got enough eyes to keep a look out for him. You rest up; you'll need your strength. I'll send Jerry over to pick you up, and send Bettina to drive your car home."
"It's totaled. I don't have any insurance."
"We'll see what we can do."
* * * * *
Somehow, Truman found Hohenzoller's office, above a seedy-looking bar. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and went in.
A tall, heavy-built woman in her fifties sat behind the desk, manning a computer.
"Is Mr.…Hohenzoller in?" Truman asked her.
"He's in his office," she replied. "What's your name? I'll buzz him."
"My name is Anderton, Joel Anderton. I'm trying to find my former girlfriend."
She eyed him narrowly over he rimless glasses and reached for the intercom.
"Mr. Hohenzoller, there's a Mr. Joel Anderton who wants to see you about a lost love," she announced. She switched off the intercom and pointed over he shoulder toward the inner door, which stood ajar. "He's in there."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said. He followed her pointing thumb, pushed open the door and stepped through.
He entered a dark room filled with the hum of computers. Indicator LEDs glowed green and amber in the shadows.
Suddenly, one side of the room lit with an eerie half-light. A short figure in shabby clothes lunged out of the shadows, brandishing a gun.
"Back off, or I'll shoot!" the figure roared. He took aim. Truman stood staring, too startled to move. A shot cracked, closely followed by another. The figure dropped, cursing and clutching his arm.
The room grew brighter. Truman looked around.
Behind a computer desk covered with towers and boxes and peripherals stood the biggest man Truman had ever seen. He stood well over six feet tall, wide as a door between his shoulders, barrel-chested and barrel-bellied, but well muscled, even graceful in an elephantine way. His pallid gray-blue eyes scanned up and down Truman, then fixed on his face.
"Mr.…. Anderson?" the big man asked, stepping toward him.
"Uh, yeah, that's me."
The giant extended one huge hand to him, open. "I am Dietrich Hohenzoller," he said, his voice touched with a foreign accent, probably German. Truman cautiously took the detective's hand and shook it.
"But, perhaps I am mistaken, your real name is Truman Burbank."
"You mean…" Truman looked around for a television. The wall behind him, where the gunman had been, now blossomed with a thousand colors, melting and changing. It was a projection screen.
"I was not a regular viewer, but I have some friends who are. And, at their encouraging, I have been following your story since your daring escape this morning."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"For your own good. Before I can help you, I must inform you that you are now at the head of the list of missing persons. Every police unit and investigator, private and public, has been put on the alert for you, in case you should decide to be a good little boy and return to OmniCam, the media conglom that, for all intents and purposes, owns you."
"I'm not turning myself in."
"I know you are not."
"How do you…? What, are you a mind-reader or something?"
"No, I just know your type of man." He pulled up a chair and gestured to it. "Take the burden from your feet; you must be tired."
"Thanks." Truman sat down.
Hohenzoller sat down behind the desk "Now what precisely brings you here?"
Truman reached into his pants pocket and took out the composite picture of Sylvia. "I want you to find her; her name is Sylvia. I went to high school and started college with her…well, I guess I mean, she used to be an actress…"
"On the show? Yes, I've seen some of the important incidents of The Show."
"It's important. I mean, she told me the truth, the real truth. I wouldn't be out here now if she hadn't told me that one little thing that really started all this. And, uh…" He felt his cheeks burning.
Hohenzoller smiled. "And she is the one beautiful woman who means all the world to you. Do you know her last name?"
"No, uh, she went by the name Lauren Garland, so maybe her last name is Garland."
The big man studied the picture and smoothed it out gently with his fingertips. "I will do what I can."
Truman clasped and unclasped his hands. "I, uh, don't have much money. How much will I owe you?"
"No charge."
Truman got up to leave. "Well, uh, in that case, I won't take any more of your time." Hohenzoller rose with him and took his shoulder, firmly but gently, enough to stop him.
"I do not wish to differ with you, Mr. Burbank, but it is unsafe out there, for now."
"What do you mean?"
"There is a price on your head, and someone must see to it that no one pays it or takes possession of the good in question: meaning you."
"I don't understand."
"I mean, you will not find Sylvia unless you go into hiding."
"What? Where? What am I supposed to do?"
"I shall handle the intricacies. I will find a safe room for you until something else can be arranged. You will have to stay put there till then."
"You mean put me under lock and key? I just escaped."
"This is not to keep you in, it would be a temporary arrangement to keep your enemies out. Sort of like the mystery stories where the detective puts the star witness in an anonymous hotel room to keep her enemies from finding her."
"I'm afraid I didn't read those sort of mysteries…but I guess I'm living one."
Hohenzoller reached for the phone and dialed. "Hallo, Maureen? It's Hohenzoller…Yes, I'll need a room for a week…good, good, good, Thank you." He hung up the phone. "Wait here, I'll call a cab."
Hohenzoller got up and went out, leaving the office door ajar. Truman dimly heard him talking to the secretary.
Jumping catfish, I've only been free for a few hours, and I'll be under lock and key again, he thought. But if it keeps the wackos I just escaped from, from coming after me, I guess that's what I gotta do.
A few minutes later, Truman, wearing his sunglasses and the slouch hat, got into a taxicab a few doors down from Hohenzoller's office. Hohenzoller got in beside him and pulled the door shut.
"So, you close the deal with the pickle company?" Hohenzoller asked in a flat American accent.
"Yeah, it's a sweet deal, sweet as their gherkins. Get it?" Truman said, playing along.
They chatted like this all the way to the Motel 6. Hohenzoller paid their fare and they went in.
They checked in and went to the room. Hohenzoller closed the door behind him.
"Do not answer the phone and do not leave this place. I will be back later. Got it?"
"Yes, sir, general sir!" Truman teased.
With that, Hohenzoller went out. Truman plopped down on one of the beds. The wild night and the topsy-turvy day took their effect on him: he fell asleep.
* * * * *
Sylvia waited outside the hospital, sitting on a bench, leaning back against a concrete pillar that supported the carport.
At length, Jerry's beat-to-death Land Rover ground up the drive and pulled up in front of her. Jerry got out, then opened the passenger side door to shove a laundry basket and a box of crackers into the back seat before he helped her into the front seat.
"You do your laundry?" she asked.
"That's from last night. I've been too busy babysitting the phone—amongst other things—to fold it. Not that I have anyplace to put it." Jerry lived out of the Land Rover when he wasn't couch-surfing. Since he'd been evicted for late rent six months before, he'd slept in the apartments or houses of almost every TLF worker and volunteer, including her own.
He got into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut, hard.
"So how's the neck?" he asked.
"It's all right, I just have to wear this brace for a couple days."
"I suppose, when you see Truman again, you can tell him you got these wounds fighting to help him escape the clutches of the henchmen of another evil director who's trying to exploit him?"
"What?"
"You haven't heard the news yet? There's this other director who wants Truman for some show he's doing."
"So you weren't just being a nut about some evil director?"
"No, some creep named Montressor wants to put Truman in some weird, sick reality show, something the exact diametric opposite of The Show."
"I wonder if that car that hit me had something to do with this Montressor."
"It bloody well could, I thought that myself when you called in and told us you'd been whacked going in to the EcoSphere. I've a friend who's a detective; maybe I should call him in to figure this out. He's a good detective, too."
"Maybe you should."
Once they reached her apartment building, he helped her up the stairs to her door on the second floor.
"You want me to stick around and keep an eye on you in case they sniff out where you live?" he offered.
"No, thanks, I'll be all right; they'll be needing you back at headquarters."
He eyed her with concern. "You sure?"
"Yes."
He headed out the door. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."
* * * * *
Much later, someone nudged him awake. He opened his eyes. Hohenzoller stood beside the bed, looking down.
"Sleep well, Truman?"
"Yeah, just plain got worn out." He smelled warm food. On the table stood a couple Chinese take-out boxes; over the chair back hung a plain gray suit about his size, and on the seat lay a few shirts and some other clothes.
"I hope you like Chinese and I hope those things fit you."
"I was about to say 'Hey, you did some shopping!' Thanks, I was thinking I needed something else to wear while this stuff is in the wash." He got up and helped himself to the food. "Uh, you want any?"
"I have eaten already, but thank you." Dietrich took up his position near the door, where he could watch the window.
"So you gonna clue me in on all the hush-hush, or is that part of the plan?" Truman asked.
"It is a long story."
"I got time. I'd like to know what all this is about."
"I know much of the key information, which I learned from some friends of mine, but I do not know all that went on. The show that was built around your life, from the moment of your birth, was the brainchild of an otherwise brilliant director, one Eugene Cristoff. The OmniCam Corporation, a massive media conglomerate which owns several networks all over the world, helped him build it up from a simple little show about a small child, to the complex drama that it was. They funded the construction of the EcoSphere, the complex that you escaped from this morning. They, in a sense, 'own' you, which is why there have been factions at work trying to have the corporation slapped with slavery charges amongst other charges, and have you freed."
"But I beat 'em to it."
"Up to this point. Last I have heard, OmniCam has cancelled the show, and is considering turning you over to one of the lesser directors under its aegis, a man called Azor Montressor." Dietrich's face took on a troubled look, but it quickly passed as he continued talking. My understanding, from what I have heard on the news broadcasts, is that Montressor approached Cristoff, looking for you and trying to cut a deal with Cristoff, but he would hardly speak to Montressor. Some of Montressor's…'associates', if you will, went out this morning to escort you to his offices here in the city and thence to his studio in Switzerland."
"I wonder if those were the goons who chased me through the woods this morning."
"They will be looking for you; that is why I am keeping you here."
"Okay, for the heck of it, who is this Montressor dude and why does he want me so bad?"
Dietrich was silent for a moment, except for his breathing, which had grown briefly audible. "He is the last director you should ever have to work for, ever. You know what a snuff film is?"
Truman shrugged. "A movie about powdered chewing tobacco?"
"It is an especially violent, pornographic movie in which the actors are often genuinely injured. Or killed."
Truman almost choked on his mouthful. "Oh, my God. And this Montressor wants to put me in something like…that?"
Dietrich wagged his head sagely. "I cannot say what he has in mind for you, but to guess from the kind of films and TV shows he has produced in the past, I cannot foresee him changing his style for your benefit, especially because, as I understand, he has a great deal of criticism for Cristoff and his work."
"Well, so do I, since he kept me captive for twenty-nine years."
"True, but Cristoff let you live as a man. If you worked for Montressor," he sighed deeply, "You would only be a prop to him."
"How do you know this? I was a prop to Cristoff."
"Not as you would be to Montressor. I know this, because I know Montressor personally. And I am doing what I am doing for you so you will not have to find that out for yourself. I was a prisoner, too, for five years for crimes I did not commit. And so I do this for you, to free you from one prison and prevent you from ending up in another, far more worse."
Dietrich went out later; Truman flipped channels on the cable TV. Every other station was carrying a news report about the grand escape. He finally shut it off.
Dietrich came back with a sheaf of magazines and newspapers, including a few National Geographics. "I will bring by some World Almanacs in the morning, to help you catch up with current events and history," he promised.
"Yeah, I know a plane went down in New York several months back. Did they ever find out why? The news said it was a mechanical failure, but I thought it sounded odd."
"It was a terrorist attack by Muslim extremists based in Afghanistan. The planes were hijacked and crashed deliberately into the World Trade Center Towers."
"Oh dear. I mean, that's awful, like Pearl Harbor."
"It was worse than Pearl Harbor."
"And they kept stuff like this from me. I mean, yeah, it's horrible, but it's the truth, dammit. I got a right to know about it."
"That's why I'm doing this, so you can live in the truth. I know what it is to live a lie."
Once Dietrich had gone for the night, Truman started reading the magazines and newspapers until his eyes grew too heavy to stay open and he switched out the light.
He woke up a few times in the night, once to take care of nature, once to get a drink of water and once because he heard a car door slam. He peeked out the window all three times.
All three times he saw the same black Cadillac parked outside, against the curb, on the other side of the street.
* * * * *
Earlier that evening, a medium-sized, stocky-built guy in a black leather coat entered the hospital where Sylvia had been treated. His round, ugly face had the odd knack of looking thin and rat-like at the same time. He approached the receptionist's desk.
"Did you admit a girl named Sylvia Thomas earlier today?" he asked in a thin, sneery voice. "I'm her uncle Larry, I heard from my sister-in-law that Sylv was in an accident."
"Yes, she was discharged this afternoon. Her injuries were not life-threatening," the receptionist replied.
"Oh, phew! Be still my beating heart! Could you give me her address? I've been out of touch with her for a few years, and I don't have her current address."
"Sure." The receptionist printed out Sylvia's forms and handed them to him."
"Thanks," he said.
* * * * *
Cristoff lay on the bed in his apartment, unable to sleep, his eyes fixed to the monitor at the foot of the bed, which showed the open door in the backdrop. Where are you tonight, Truman? He wondered.
* * * * *
Sylvia had just taken a bath and gotten into her nightgown. She was brushing her teeth, when she heard a loud bang! in the front room. She spat into the sink, switched out the light and cracked the door.
She heard people moving about in the room. A stocky guy in a black coat moved past the door. She pushed it closed. She opened the window and climbed out on the fire escape outside.
"She ain't here, boss," said a man's high, whiny voice.
"You haven't checked the bathroom," replied a deep, harsh but subtle voice.
Someone kicked open the door. She huddled against the bricks of the wall. Don't look out the window, she thought. Don't look out the window, don't look out the window, don't look out the window…
Someone opened the window. She froze.
"Where are you, woman?" the gruff voice crooned. The window banged shut.
A big, black car passed below some minutes later. She lay still until it had passed. She got up and tried to open the window. It was locked. She found a loose brick in the wall and smashed the window to unlock it.
She picked her way over the broken glass and surveyed the rooms. She expected the place to be trashed, but not a thing was out of place.
But a piece of black paper lay in the middle of her table.
We'll be back, girl, it read in lavender ink.
She dressed quickly. She couldn't stay here. She called Jerry.
* * * * *
Jerry slept wrapped in a sleeping bag, stretched out in the back of his Land Rover. Under his pillow lay two things vital to his work: his Luger and his cellphone.
The phone rang. He stirred and pulled it out.
"Hullo?"
"Jerry, it's Sylvia."
He jerked fully awake. "Are you all right?"
"No, someone just broke into my apartment. They left a note saying they'd be back."
"I'll be right over," he said, crawling out of the sleeping back and stuffing the Luger into his belt as he climbed into the front seat.
She had thrown some clothes and necessities and things into a shopping bag when he arrived.
"So where are you staying?" she asked as he drove back toward TLF headquarters.
"Nowhere, I'm afraid. I just parked behind headquarters."
"Well, I can't sleep in here with you."
"You sleep in here; I'll sleep on the ground," he offered. "I'll be fine, it's a nice night."
* * * * *
Cristoff couldn't sleep. His mind still ran wild, thinking of Truman, alone out there in that world. What kind of lies are they handing you? he asked the darkness. The worst possible images panned over his mind's eye: a gang of thugs brutalizing him in an alleyway, predators molesting him, one image of Truman lying dead somewhere.
Did I do wrong in protecting you from the world? Did I 'kill you with kindness as they've accused me of doing? One part of him wanted to resign itself to the reality: Truman had made his choice, and they both needed to live with the outcome. But another part of him wanted Truman back, if only to spare him the world and from Montressor.
It won't be the same, something deep in his soul told him. He realized that even if he could get Truman back, everything could not possibly return to the status quo he and OmniCam and the EcoSphere crew had so carefully maintained. Truman would go made with the claustrophobic world of Seahaven. Once someone has seen the truth, no one, not even he, can make himself un-see it. It would remain indelibly imprinted on his consciousness, on his very being.
He stared at the monitor screen. Per order of Moses Mayr, the studio exec, and one of the OmniCam bigwigs, the set was being torn down. But for as long as he could, Cristoff wanted them to leave the one camera focused on the last place he had seen Truman. Maybe he would see him stumble in through that door, the prodigal returned.
Has Montressor's long arm reached for you yet? Has he cast you in some horrible role in some scenario unfit for even the lowest animal?
The phone on the bedside table rang. Cristoff let the answering machine pick it up.
"We haven't found your little bird yet, Cristoff. If you know where he is, why not make it a lot easier for all of us and tell us where he got to," Montressor's oily voice said. The line cut off.
Cristoff breathed easier.
* * * * *
In the middle of the night, as he lay sleeping in his sleeping bag on the ground near the Land Rover, Jerry heard a heavy engine throbbing nearby. Headlights splashed over him but he lay still, keeping his eyes closed. Car doors opened. Footsteps approached. Someone came close to where he lay.
"Yep, that's the Land Rover, and that's our girl sleeping in it," said a man's sneery voice. "We take her now, Montressor?"
Silence except the engine noises replied, then a deep voice spoke.
"No, not now, not now. We have a witness."
"Who?" Sneer asked.
"Look on the ground."
"Aaaw, wookit sleepin' beauty."
"Particularly the beauty part. He's as cunning as he's pretty. He was watching us under his lashes. Hand me the bull's-eye light."
Jerry felt more light, brighter than the headlights, on his face. He lay still, but it took an act of the will to keep his face from squinching.
"You're tougher than you look, little fella," Deep Oily remarked.
"If he's a witness, shouldn't we do 'm?" Sneer asked.
"No, something like him you don't smash unless he's used up. He's got a lot of life in him, this one."
The footsteps retreated. The doors slammed. The tires screamed past, just a foot from where Jerry lay.
When the trespassers screeched away into the distance, Jerry crawled under the Land Rover.
* * * * *
Early the next morning, Truman woke up. Dietrich hadn't come back yet; he went into the bathroom to shave.
"So, Mr. Burbank, does the real world appeal to you?" he said into the mirror, doing a pretend interview.
"Well, so far, Phil, so good. I must admit the welcoming party in the black leather coats and the Caddy was a bit terrifying, but if that's the way you do things around here, I can get used to it. 'Man gets used to anything, the beast'." He said the last in a lugubrious drawl.
"What do you plan to do with your life?"
"Right now, I'm trying to find Sylvia Garland, or whatever her last name is. After that, I'll figure something out for work. There's gotta be decent jobs out here."
"But what about Meryl? I mean, she was your wife. Why not try getting her out into this world?"
"Why should I? Now that I'm in my right mind, she appears every bit as fake to me as that world I just escaped. I mean, how many people really have chirpy conversations about Bolivian Cocoa beans?"
At this point someone knocked on the hall door. Truman went to check who it was. Dietrich stood there, waiting to be let in. Truman opened the door to him.
"Pack up your thingks, vee are gettingk oudt," Dietrich said, his accent heavier than usual. He threw a suitcase on the bed. Truman saw a holster strapped to the bigger man's thigh, under the lappet of his coat.
"What's up?"
"Ziss," Dietrich drew a folded newspaper from under his coat and threw it on the table. Truman looked at the headline.
TRUMAN SPOTTED! blared the headline. Underneath was a photo of Truman and Dietrich entering the office of the Motel 6.
"Uh oh," Truman said.
* * * * *
Three minutes later they checked out. Dietrich made Truman get into the back of his sedan, lie down on the floor, and threw his coat over him.
He stayed still in that cramped position until the car stopped moving in half-light. The rear door opened and Dietrich helped him out, into a garage.
"A door leads to the kitchen, you won't have to go outside," Dietrich said, leading the way down a short hallway, then through a door into a spare, but well-lit kitchen.
He cooked breakfast for the both of them; he wasn't bad for someone who was clearly a bachelor. No curtains on the windows, just vertical blinds, that was how Truman could tell.
"So, Dietrich, what about you?" Truman asked afterward.
"What about me?"
"Well, who are you? Where did you come from?"
Dietrich smiled mysteriously, the corners of his mouth barely lifted. "It is best for all if you know little about me."
"Why not? You got some secret past you're hiding from the world?"
Dietrich wagged his head. "Perhaps there exists a part of me that wishes to keep it from myself even."
"Oh, c'mon, you can tell me. I'd like to know a little about the guy who's keeping me away form my enemies."
"There is little worth telling. I immerse myself in my cases, my work. It is more than a livelihood for me: it is my service, my way to reclaim the ground my youth has lost. I wanted to enter the police force, but they could not take me, since I carry more than my share of woes."
"You got a wife? A girlfriend?"
Dietrich laughed humorlessly. "I am afraid not. I am homosexual."
Truman tried not to stare. He'd dimly heard about such things, mostly horror stories. He caught himself backing away from Dietrich, scooting back in his chair until he bunched up in a corner. Don't show fear, he told himself.
"You have nothing to fear, Truman. I know what you need." As Dietrich said this, his hand went to his shirt pocket, where he'd put the picture of Sylvia.
* * * * *
Dietrich showed him the rest of the house. "I barely use the upstairs, so you can have it to yourself, but feel free to roam. Just stay away from windows."
Once Truman had settle, Dietrich left him. He investigated the bookshelves in the living room and the desktop computer in a windowless office nook in the back of the house. He found a program called Internet Explorer and opened it.
A window opened and spread itself over the screen. He'd read about "the Web" in one of the books Dietrich had left with him, so he wanted to investigate it.
There seemed to be an awful lot of news items about his disappearance. OmniCam had put out a reward of $750,00 for his safe return to the EcoSphere, but this Montressor dude had a reward of his own: $1,000,000.
* * * * *
Dietrich stepped into the garage, took out his cellphone and dialed his contact.
"Hullo?"
"Peik, this is Hohenzoller. I've found him."
"Is he alive?"
"Yes, pass the word to the others."
"Shall we bring him to the Chief?"
"No, not yet. The smoke has to settle, plus I have something else to clear away."
* * * * *
Truman found a White Pages online and typed "Garland, Sylvia" into the search box. He hit enter and waited.
A page came up with a name and an address. He printed it out as Dietrich came back to the room.
"I might have found her," Truman announced, handing him the paper.
Dietrich scanned it in silence. "I could call her for you, perhaps arrange for her to come here. It's not safe for you to go out.
"I'd appreciate that."
Dietrich reached for the phone on the desk and dialed. He waited several seconds
"Hallo, is there a Sylvia Garland there? This is Dietrich Hohenzoller, private investigator. Did you, by any chance, play the part of Lauren on the Truman Show about ten years ago?…No? Very well, I'm sorry to disturb you. Goodbye." He hung up.
"Wrong person?" Truman asked.
"I'm afraid so."
"Well, we can't say we didn't try."
Dietrich bent his head, his eyes thoughtful. "There is another way. I have a friend who worked on The Show about ten years ago. Perhaps he would know about her."
"And hope he's kept up with what's going on."
"Oh, he's kept up with it." Dietrich lifted the receiver again.
* * * * *
Jerry was washing his hands in the sink of the unisex bathroom of TLF headquarters when his cellphone rang.
"Hello?"
"Peik, it's Hohenzoller again. I don't mean to bother you again, but could I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Do you know a Sylvia Garland who played Lauren on The Show ten years ago?"
"Not in real life, but I know a Sylvia Thomas."
"Could you bring her to my house?"
"It might be safer if you came here and picked her up; her apartment got broken into, so she came here to find shelter; but then last night, when she was sleeping in my truck and I was sleeping on the ground, these thugs came by and were peeking at her. They ended up more interested in me, if you know what I mean."
"Did you see them? Could you describe them?"
"No, I was playing possum."
"I will come by later, then and fetch her here. Truman wants to see her."
"Okay, well, I'll give her the fair warning and tell her you called looking for her."
Jerry hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. He leaned his hands in the sink ledge and breathed deeply, trying to regain his composure so he could pass the message on to her.
* * * * *
"Truman?" Dietrich's rich voice called from the kitchen, later that evening.
"Yeah?" Truman called back.
"Come down here. There is something for you."
Truman got off-line and went to the kitchen. Is this another false alarm? He wondered.
He walked into the kitchen. A woman sat at the table.
Lauren…?
No! Sylvia!
Golden-brown hair, blue-green eyes, delightfully uneven brows, face slightly heart-shaped.
"Lauren?" Truman asked, dry mouthed from nerves.
She smiled, tears in her eyes. "No, it's Sylvia," she said. She stood up. He opened his arms awkwardly, but she walked into his embrace.
Dietrich, standing in the doorway to the garage, watched them for a moment. Then he turned and went out on some fictitious errand. They have some catching up to do, he told himself.
To be continued…