+J.M.J.+
The Truman Show: Through the Door in the Sky
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's Note:
I'd better give you a fair warning: this chapter contains some slightly icky
stuff. I didn't realize Montressor was such a creep; I knew he was crooked and
unprincipled, but I didn't know it extended to the stuff he does here. But I did
everything in my power to keep this and subsequent chapters within a PG-13
rating. If some of the details are a little off, I have to admit here that it's
been a while since I saw the movie (although I have seen it twice), and I've
been using the Newmarket Press published version of the shooting script as a
reference.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I.
But first, the imitation movie credits; I wish, I wish…
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 III: The Tender Reunion
Truman and Sylvia separated after a little while, still holding each other loosely.
"Do you still love me?" she asked, looking up into his face.
"I guess…I mean, I do. I do. You're the reason I left…all that behind me. Only you were real. Do you still love me?"
"Yes."
He wanted to kiss her, but he wasn't sure if he should. But he realized he had no reason not to kiss her. He gently took her face in both his hands and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her mouth trembling under his. He released her, not wanting to be too hard. She clung to him and pulled her face from his as she leaned her cheek on his shoulder.
"What led you to get involved with all that, and what made you tell me the truth?" he asked her at length, when they had let each other go.
"I was a kid. I wanted to be an actress. My dad knew people who knew people who could get me a bit part in the 'greatest show on television'." She made quotation marks with her fingers around "greatest show". "So I got on, in a small part, a regular girl named Lauren."
"And then what?'
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know my end of the story probably better than I do, but I don't know yours."
She blushed. "I met the leading man and I loved him."
"You mean fell in love."
"No, that came later. I mean, I looked at you and I thought, 'He's a nice, funny, lovable guy who has a lot going for him, why does he have to be cooped up in this mock-up of Small-town USA where he's just being used by the producers and directors and everything'. Not that small towns are bad, don't get me wrong; I spent my summers growing up, in the little town where my grandmother lived, near San Luis Obispo. But the real thing is better, because it is real."
"So when did you fall in love with me?"
"I can't name a day. It's like it just grew out of the first love."
"So what happened to you after you…got kicked off the show for squealing to me?"
"Cristoff, the man who directed it all, reprimanded me, but that's putting it mildly. He just about took me over his knee and spanked me. I wouldn't have minded so much if he hadn't told the press that I was to blame for the incident, that I was a go-getter with a political agenda."
"Which you weren't, of course."
"No, I was just a young girl, maybe a little wise beyond my years."
"That's terrible, you getting treated so bad, I mean."
"Yeah, it ended my acting career. If you had 'a part on The Truman Show' on your resume, doors would open for you and you had it made in Hollywood. That didn't happen for me. I've worked a lot of nothing doing jobs over the years. Then about five years ago, I got involved with the TLF."
"The what, what, what?"
"The Truman Liberation Front. They worked to free you, to have the show pulled from the network because they exploited you. None of that was spin to me. I worked by their rules: I handed out flyers, took part in rallies, passed out petitions, worked as an office gofer for awhile. I guess I put on an act of sorts. I didn't let on to anyone why I worked as hard as I did. I wrote letters to the network president. One night I even called up Cristoff on that stupid talk show they ran at night while you were sleeping."
"Did you return the favor?"
She dropped her gaze to her hands. "I'm afraid I did. I blew up at him and I wound up blowing my cover. I got too aggressive with him."
"But your work still paid off. I guess you never dreamed I'd just walk out on my own two feet,"
"I'm proud of you for it. You were a real man about it.
* * * * *
Sylvia cooked dinner for them from the odds and ends she found in the cupboards and refrigerator. They prevailed upon Dietrich to join them for dinner.
"I made plenty," she said.
"Besides, we gotta show some gratitude toward the guy who brought us back together after ten years," Truman said.
He gave in, but he later left them alone together; they sat in the living room talking about everything till they both dozed off beside each other on the couch.
* * * * *
Dietrich stayed outside, sitting on the wall under the front windows, smoking his pipe, watching the shadows on the shades. They needed their space, their privacy. They had a lot of catching up to do.
A motor roared nearby. He looked up. Just as he started to drop behind the wall, a black Cadillac roared up the street and screeched to a stop before the house.
Two big men in black jackets got out of the back and approached him.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Dietrich asked, casually.
"You Dietrich Hohenzoller?" one of them asked.
"I am."
The second man drew a semi-automatic from inside his jacket. "You're coming with us," he said. "Mr. Montressor wants to speak with you."
They escorted him to the car and shoved him into the back seat. They got in beside him, one on either side. Someone in the front seat shoved the muzzle of a sawn-off shotgun at his face from over the top of a divider.
He couldn't tell where they went; the windows had been blacked out. But his sense of direction helped him follow the turns of their path; he deduced they ended up at the Burbank Ritz-Carlton Hotel.
His guides threw a coat over his head as they bundled him out of the car and into a building. He guessed they brought him up by a service elevator.
They led him through a door someone opened to them. Only then did his guides take the coat from his head.
He stood in a room with mahogany-dark walls. Black leather and ebony furniture stood arranged on a black and white chessboard pattern carpet.
At the head of the room, in a wide armchair on a small dais sat a small man in a maroon damask dressing gown. He might have been twenty or he might have been seventy; a tuft of white over one eye marred the rich black of his dense hair. The white extended to the skin below, down his high, swarthy forehead to a patch around his right eye, leaving the iris albino red, contrasted with the left, which retained its normal black color. A patch of white skin showed on the back of his left hand, but the other retained his natural swarthiness.
"So, Dietrich, we're sheltering little whelps now," the small man drawled in a gruff but urbane voice. "How long have you been going the charity route?"
"Since I was released from prison five years ago," Dietrich replied.
"And what has it gotten you? How much has it cost you?"
"I choose not to count the cost, as you call it."
The weird creature smiled indulgently. "So, on top of putting on a halo, we've added wings; I hope they can bear you up. You've run to fat the way I always knew you would. Trying to hide your past behind a kindly exterior?"
"I would not call it kindly. As for my actions, I am only doing reparation for my past failings."
Montressor chuckled richly. "You've gone from one extreme to the other: from Adonis to a frump, from snuff film samurai to a saintly soul-saver. If you ever write your memoirs, you could call it just that."
"I'm not doing this for honor; it do it for what it is."
"Are you enjoying it?"
"I cannot deny that it brings joy to my heart."
"I didn't mean that, I mean you must enjoy the company of Cristoff's little curio."
"He is a good young man."
Montressor ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. "I would imagine his company must be delicious. Naivety adds a piquant spice you can't find anywhere else."
"I have also helped him to find his lost love." Dietrich took from his breast pocket the pieced-together photo of Sylvia.
Montressor's hand whipped out and snatched the picture from Dietrich's hand. He held it for a moment in the tips of his talon-like fingernails. Then his hand twitched and he crumpled it. He tossed it to the floor. Dietrich bent to pick it up.
Montressor pounced on him, clasping the big man's neck between his thighs. He leaned over and looked at Dietrich's face upside down, his hands gripping the larger man's lower face.
"Not as swift as we once were, now that we're carrying the extra baggage, eh? I suppose you find her just as delightful."
"There is nothing in this for me; I'm not the man you knew."
"You certainly aren't." Montressor's hands tightened, the nails biting into Dietrich's skin. He leaned his face closer, until Dietrich could smell Montressor's rank breath fanning his face.
"You will bring him to me. You always obeyed me."
"And if I do not?"
Montressor's fingernails dug in harder until Dietrich nearly gasped from the pain.
"You may not live to regret it." Montressor released him and swung down from his neck.
The two men in black entered the room again. "Take him back," Montressor ordered, turning his back to Dietrich.
* * * * *
Sylvia awoke hearing the back door close. She and Truman lay nestled together chastely on the couch, like two puppies or two children. She got up carefully, so as not to awaken Truman and went to the kitchen.
Dietrich leaned over the sink, his shirt off, his suspenders slipped down to his hips, washing his face in the sink. A runnel of blood had jelled on his chin and marks like fingernail scratches showed on the skin of his cheeks.
"Dietrich, what happened to you? Where were you?"
"I had an unexpected appointment," he said.
"What happened to your face?"
"Someone scratched it."
"Who?"
Dietrich looked toward the living room. "Is Truman awake?"
"No, not when I left him."
Dietrich breathed deeply, his hands on the edge of the sink. "Sylvia, there are a few things you need to know about me." He stopped, looking away."
"You can tell me."
"You know the director who wants Truman?"
"That Montressor guy?"
Dietrich gripped the sink ledge until the tendons bulged on his thick fingers. "When I was younger, I worked for him. I acted in his films."
She looked at him. He looked rugged, and world-weariness showed in his eyes and the flecks of gray showing in his golden hair. But how could he…?
He looked at her. "Still rivers run deep."
"And he's trying to get at Truman through you?"
"I would put much emphasis on trying," he said, reassuringly.
"Is that why you're helping Truman?"
"It could be."
"Why do I have a feeling there's much more to this than the little you're telling me?"
Dietrich untucked his undershirt in the back. "I mean not to shock you by this, and it is best that Truman knows as little about this and about me as possible for now, not until he has adjusted to this world."
He pulled the back of his undershirt up to the nape of his neck and turned his back to her.
The whole of his broad back lay exposed, the skin covered with a network of scars and discolorations like old burns.
"What…How…who did this to you?" she cried.
Dietrich smoothed down his undershirt and reached for his shirt. "Montressor did this."
* * * * *
With Sylvia at his heels, Dietrich carried Truman up to the spare room and laid him on the bed. Sylvia loosened his collar and take off his shoes before she tugged the covers over him and leaned down to kiss him chastely.
"Do you need a ride back home?" Dietrich asked as they stood out in the hallway a minute later.
"No, I'm staying here."
"You can have my bed. My room is across the hall."
"Where will you sleep?"
"There's no sleep for me tonight." He headed downstairs.
She got some pillows and blanket from Dietrich's room and made up a bed for herself on the floor of Truman's room. She didn't dare sleep beside him on the bed. All the old feelings had churned up and she didn't trust herself with him.
* * * * *
Dietrich sat awake on the couch, watching the living room windows for movement, harmless or hostile. He doubted Montressor's henchmen would come back, but Montressor could change his mind. He could turn as fickle as he was cruel. They could come back and storm the house, or the night could pass without further incident. But his hands rested on the Schmeisser in his lap. Several ammunition rounds weighted his pockets, if needed.
Toward dawn, he dozed, but later he heard someone—Sylvia— come into the kitchen and set about making breakfast.
He shook the sleep from his head and set aside the rifle. He stretched his cramped body and got up. He went out to the kitchen.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked gently.
"I got what nature needs; I trained myself to need little sleep. I'd better call Peik and Tenniel." He reached into his pocket for the cellphone.
She glanced at the phone on the counter. "Anything wrong with this?"
The phone rang. She reached for it, but he caught her arm gently but firmly. The answering machine picked it up.
"Remember what I said, Amon Tesch, it's either you or the little fellow," said a deep, suave voice. "I have other pairs of eyes."
The answering machine cut out.
"Was that…?"
"Montressor. As soon as he found out it was me, I started suspecting he has a tap on the phone. Which requires me to call on this." He held up the cellphone.
"Wait. Who's Amon Tesch?" she asked.
Dietrich breathed deeply. "That was my name when I worked for Montressor. I changed it to Dietrich Hohenzoller when I was released from prison."
"Why were you in prison?"
"Now is not the time to say."
He dialed the cellphone and waited. "Hello, Peik? Yes, it's Dietrich…Could you get Tenniel on? This is urgent…Hello, Cole? Yes, its Dietrich Hohenzoller…Security has been breached. Montressor knows Truman is here, at my house. I'll have to bring him up today…No, do not do that, under no circumstances. It will look obvious. We shall be there as soon as possible…you're welcome." He hung up.
Truman came in at this point, whistling to himself.
"Good morning. What adventures did I miss?"
Sylvia looked from Dietrich to Truman and back again. "How do we break it to him?"
Dietrich came up to Truman. "We have to get you out of here soon. Montressor knows you're here"
"Man, this guy doesn't quit. How's he doing this?"
"He has his spies. We're going to get you out of their way."
"I guess I better go pack," Truman said, turning back. "I thought I'd finished running for a while."
Sylvia made coffee and toast, which she served with honey and fruit. Dietrich contented himself with a couple cups of coffee which he drank standing up, discreetly watching the window.
They went out to the garage. Dietrich had Truman lie down on the floor of the backseat. Sylvia sat up front with Dietrich.
They took a while driving. Truman got tired from lying in such a cramped position.
"Isn't it about time for the guys in the black Caddy to start chasing us?" he asked.
"That's why he's taking the long route," Sylvia said.
"Well, would it be too much trouble if you took the short version of the long route?" Truman asked. "I'm getting a crink in my back from lying on the hump in the floor."
"We're almost there," Dietrich said.
The car slowed down as they pulled into what Truman guessed was a parking lot. The engine cut out and Dietrich and Sylvia climbed out.
Sylvia opened the rear door and helped Truman out. They stood near the loading dock of a factory building. Sylvia led them inside and up a metal stairway.
She opened a door at the head of the stairs. "I'll go in first and give then the fair warning, so they won't go too hoopy. We have a lot of jokers in this group," she said. She went in and closed the door behind her.
"I could put up with a few jokers now," Truman said. "This is getting way too serious."
"It will get better," Dietrich said.
Sylvia came out to them and let Truman enter first.
He stepped into a large room that looked like a cross between an office and a rec room. The walls were crusted with photographs and banners. Some dusty party decorations and faded crepe streamers hung festooned from the ceiling.
A crowd of people of all ages, mostly not much older than he, encircled them as they entered; some wore TLF tee shirts, but most wore "Free Truman NOW!!!" buttons pinned to regular blouses and shirts. They all started chattering and cheering at once, greeting Truman. Some reached out to shake his hand and clap him on the back. One young girl in a mock simpery voice said, "Oh Truman, you're even better for real than you look on TV! Could I have your autograph? Would you tattoo it on my arm please? Please? Please?"
The young men surrounded him and lifted him up on their shoulders. The crowd cheered and started singing a rowdy rendition of "For He's a Jolly good Fellow" counterpointed with "76 Trombones" and "Stars and Stripes Forever" as they paraded him around the room.
Finally, they set his feet back on the floor.
A tall, well-built man in his fifties with thinning red hair emerged from a back office and made his way through the crowd, accompanied by a sturdy woman with dark skin, and a slender young man with tousled black hair and brilliant green eyes.
"Settle down, everyone, settle down. Don't overwhelm the poor fellow; he's only been in the real world for two days now," the tall man said.
He turned to Truman and said, "My name's Cole Tenniel; I'm the president of the TLF."
Truman took Tenniel's hand. "Uh, pleased to meet you. I hope I didn't spoil your cause the way I escaped.'
"Not at all; I had hoped you'd get out of the EcoSphere on your own power. It would be the more manly thing to do."
"From my understanding, there's still folks who'd rather have me back in there."
"That's why we're here. Our goal was not just to free you and leave you adrift in your new life. However, we've had some unfortunate variables thrown into the mix."
"Yeah, nothing like a monkey wrench thrown into the mix," someone at the back of the crowd said.
"You mean, like Montressor chasing me around?"
"Don't say that name!" someone cried in the crowd. Some of the women, including Sylvia, pretended to faint.
"Death to the demon, Azor Montressor!" the dark young man at Tenniel's elbow cried, waving on fist in the air
"In which case, we'll have to move you again. 'He Who Must Not be Named', better known as 'HE' knows you may already be here, so we'll have to move you to a safe house, in the hills, far from the city."
"As long as it gets me out of HIS way. I'm kinda getting used to this moving around and hiding stuff. Is this part of regular life?" Truman asked, trying to sound shallow.
"Most people have much duller lives," Tenniel said.
"And you haven't exactly had a normal life, up to this point," the dark woman said and held her hand out to Truman. "My name's Bettina Sarkist. Why don't you come back here into the office and out of the crush?"
"Sure, thanks."
Behind them, Tenniel started giving orders.
"We aren't disbanding yet, people, but it's a good idea if you collect some of your personal belongings before you go out. No streaming out like lemming, though; go out in ones and twos. You of the core group, stand by for further orders.
Bettina pushed the door closed. The dark young man had joined them; he wore a baggy gray shirt-jacket over a close-fitting white jersey and khaki pants.
"You want anything, Truman?" Bettina asked. "Coffee? Fruit juice? Water? They're gonna be a while out there, sorting out."
"Oh. I'll have some fruit juice, please," Truman replied.
"Okay, I'll be back."
"If you don't get shanghaied into twenty other errands," the dark young man called after her as she went out.
Truman sat down on an office chair. He looked up at the young man who stood nearby. "Uh, I don't think we've met."
"I'm Jerry, Jerry Peik. Actually it's Jerome, but I hate being called that. Sounds too old."
"So what are you doing in here?"
"It's not official yet, but I'm supposed to be your bodyguard." He lifted the skirt of his shirt jacket, showing a handgun tucked into his waistband.
"Oh boy, is that real?"
"Yeah, I just hope I never have to use it," Jerry replied in a lower voice.
"So, who's Tenniel and what's with this organization?"
"Okay, I'll try to give you the breadbox version." Jerry propped on foot on the seat of a straight-backed chair and leaned over it. "Tenniel is-was an advertising exec—still is to some extent. He used to run the little inset commercials on The Show, or at least he did until one of the OmniCam big shots took him on a discreet tour of the EcoSphere. When he saw how real your former little world seemed, he was shocked. So he pulled out of OmniCam. He did other commercials for other networks, but he couldn't stop thinking about you. So, about fifteen years ago, he started an organization he called the "Free Truman Organization. That fused with another group called Truth in Media, and they've been trying to get you out ever since. You'll have to ask him for the full version, it's more interesting than that."
"So they know what I've been up to my neck in?"
"Better than you know it. Over the years, there've been a few nut cases, besides Montressor, who tried to drag you out of the EcoSphere bodily, but they had nothing to do with us. Tenniel wouldn't stand for that kinda junk. Not good advertising. But, like we've said, you just made all that unnecessary."
"And I thought I was just escaping from a prison I didn't even know I'd been in. World's a much bigger place than I ever expected."
"It's really a very dull place, more often than not. It's just that you've had it different from the rest of us, the way your life has run up to this point—or been run for you, rather."
"I sure hope all this dies down. Part of me is starting to wish I hadn't gone to all this trouble of escaping, if it's gonna cause this much of a rumpus."
Jerry leaned close to Truman. "Hey, you put your hand to the plow. Don't look back, fella, 'cause there ain't no going back. It's either our way to freedom, or back to OmniCam and into Montressor's clutches.
* * * * *
Back at the EcoSphere, Cristoff added a few drops of whisky to his coffee—black. He gazed at the monitor as he drank. The lights had dimmed, but the door still stood open. A few workmen had tried to close it, but he'd got on the PA and shouted them away from it.
The intercom buzzed. He reached for it and answered it.
"Montressor, dammit, I told you I can't talk to you now, and I don't—"
"Cristoff, Walter Moore needs to speak to you," the guard said.
"All right, send him up."
A minute later, the door opened and a middle-sized man with graying brown hair entered the room.
"Walter, I'm sorry about recent events. I thought bringing your character back would make him want to stay—" Cristoff started.
Walter held up a hand. "Cris, this isn't about the show; this about Truman. I think he may be my son."
Cristoff studied Walter's face. At first he wondered if Walter had come unhinged in light of what had happened, but then he realized something else. His face had always looked better than Truman's goofy good looks, but the faint resemblances showed, most notably their hair, which, for Walter, had been the despair of the hair stylists. The casting directors had chosen Walter for his looks, based on an age progressed photo of the child in utero who would become Truman at birth.
"How is this possible?"
Walter looked over Cristoff's shoulder, a little embarrassed. "Well, I uh, let's just say I had been involved with one of the five women whose unborn kids you had considered adopting for the show. She called me last night and told me I might be Truman's real father."
"So why did you come back?"
"I just want to know if you have any idea where Truman is."
"If you want to know that, go ask Montressor. He seems to have a better idea where he is."
Walter's face paled. "Montressor…you mean that Montressor?
"There's only one Azor Montressor in television."
Walter drew in a long breath. "I don't know as if I want to go to someone who makes that kind of stuff."
Cristoff thought a moment. "The Truman Liberation Front. They're up on Grovedale Ave., above a box factory. They might be able to help."
"Thanks, Cris, you don't know what this means to me."
"You're welcome."
Once Walter had gone, Cristoff reached for the phone, intending to call the TLF. But his eye fell first on the monitor, then on the gun on the end table.
* * * * *
An hour after Dietrich left with Truman and Sylvia, a black Cadillac pulled up into the driveway of his house.
Three men in black leather jackets got out, the shortest leading the way, the other two flanking a fourth man, even shorter than the first.
The taller goons broke down the front door. They penetrated the house and groped around the rooms.
"No sign of 'm, sir," the short, rat-faced dweeb said. "We shoulda swiped 'm last night."
"Sweyk, you never understood the meaning and, more importantly, the necessity of timing," the shortest man said. He took a long pull on his cigarette. A long moment later, he let the smoke out between his lips and re-inhaled it through his nostrils. "Last night was too soon, much too soon."
They ranged about upstairs. They found the room Truman had occupied.
"He slept here," the boss said. He ran his piebald hand over the mattress. "Yes, he slept here, in innocent unconcern. Well, I hope he enjoyed it."
He took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it onto the unmade bed.
"Burning his bridges for him, eh?" Sweyk sniggered.
They left just as the sheets started to smolder.
* * * * *
"I hope that didn't take too long," Bettina said, closing the door behind her. "The phone was ringing and no one would answer it."
"Was it for me?" Truman asked as she handed him his drink. "Thanks."
"No, it was one of our regular supporters, wanted to know if we were disbanding."
"Are you gonna disband? It's not like I'm gonna need help for much longer."
"Not until you've settled," Bettina said, sitting on the edge of a desk. "We're not gonna leave you high and dry, not with that lunatic Montressor watching the town for you. We're not gonna abandon you now."
"Any news?"
"Yeah, OmniCam is considering letting Montressor borrow you for a while, see how well his batbrained idea holds up."
"So of course they must be stepping up the search for Truman," Jerry said.
"Their cash reward for finding Truman is up to one and a half million dollars."
"Sweet. I could pay off some debts with that," Jerry said, whistling.
"Quit that, Jerry, whose side are you on?" She turned to Truman. "Watch out for Jerry, Truman, he's a real joker."
"Aw, I knew he was kidding; I can take a joke. It's just other people that can't take mine."
The door opened and Tenniel came in. "We just sent Dietrich and Sylvia out as a decoy. We'll give them a head start of a few minutes, then we'll go."
"Any more lying in back seats?" Truman asked.
"I'll bury you under the stuff in the back of my Land Rover," Jerry offered.
"Maybe in that case you should go rearrange it?" Bettina suggested.
"Good idea," Jerry said. He went out.
"He's as bats as me," Truman said.
"He only pretends to be," Tenniel said. "That fellow has reflexes like a cat's, which is why I assigned him to be your bodyguard." He looked at his watch. "It's been long enough."
They went down to the loading dock. Jerry had pulled up a battered gray Land Rover and had pulled out several boxes and bags from the back.
"At least Sylvia left her stuff, that'll give you more cover," Jerry said, crawling out of the back.
"How'd the night with her go?" Bettina asked, deadpan.
Jerry grinned viciously. "Oh, what a night! Hope you don't get too jealous, Truman. No, seriously, she slept inside the Land Rover, and I slept on the ground outside. Some thugs passed by, but they took one look at me and fled."
"I would think so, you're pretty terrifying to look at," Truman said, grinning.
"I tougher than I look," Jerry said, flexing one arm. Truman couldn't see much difference.
"Oh, an iron boy."
Jerry backed out of the cargo bay and climbed down. "Get in, your highness."
Truman climbed in and lay down on the floor. As an added touch, he crossed his arms over his chest mummy-fashion. Jerry draped a towel over his head and covered him with shopping bags of stuff. He stuck boxes in next to him to camouflage him.
Truman heard the doors slam. "Can you breathe back there, Truman?" Bettina asked.
"I'll manage," Truman said, muffled.
Fortunately, he lay in a much more comfortable position, so as trip wore on, Truman let himself doze and slowly fall into comfortable, if slightly smothered slumber.
After a while, he felt the stuff on top of him move away. He twitched awake and sat up.
Jerry grabbed him by the ankles and hauled out him bodily, dumping him on the ground none too gently, but with a playful twinkle in his eye.
Truman picked himself up and dusted himself off.
He stood in the circular drive of a country cottage, shaded by spreading trees. Sylvia and Dietrich waited on the porch, Sylvia sitting clasping her knees, Dietrich standing guard. She jumped up and ran down to meet Truman. They hugged as if they hadn't seen each other in years.
"That was too long to be away from you," Truman said, holding her face.
"I was afraid you wouldn't make it," she admitted, clasping her hands behind his head.
"Yeah, you don't know when the goons in the Caddy might come out of the woodwork. But we're together now, till the next time we have to move again."
He leaned down and kissed. Dietrich smiled on them like an indulgent father; Jerry let out a loud gagging sound like an eleven-year-old kid seeing his sister kissing her boyfriend.
Truman and Sylvia broke apart; Sylvia's cheeks glowed pinker than before.
Tenniel stepped up onto the porch and unlocked the door. He let the others enter first.
The air inside the cottage smelled a little stale from disuse, but they opened the windows to let in the cool spring breeze.
"This really isn't my house; it's on permanent loan from one of our wealthier supporters," Tenniel explained. "But what's mine is yours."
He led them upstairs to a small, snug bedroom close to the head of the stairs. He opened the door for them and went in to open the window."
"If you like, this can be your room, the two of you can share it," Tenniel offered.
Sylvia looked from Tenniel to Truman to the one bed in the room. "No, I couldn't. It wouldn't be right."
"What about last night? We fell asleep together."
"That was just falling asleep together."
"We don't have to, like, do anything, not if you don't want to."
She took his hand in hers. "That's just it: I do want to, but now isn't the right time. Not till we're married. If we did anything like sharing the same bed, I don't think I could hold myself back."
"Hey, you can have the bed, Sylv, I'll sleep on the floor," Truman cut in.
"Thanks."
"I hope I didn't offend either of you," Tenniel said. "Not everyone has the same standards."
"It's all right: I've had worse stuff tried on me," Sylvia said.
"All right, I'm putting Peik and Hohenzoller in the room across the hallway. They'll be alternating guard duty shifts, six hours each. A few of the men from the TLF will be up here shortly to patrol the grounds discreetly. But you two just settle in and don't worry about all this: that's my job. You two just work on getting to know each other."
Tenniel went downstairs. Sylvia helped Truman unpack their bags.
"I don't think we could do anything too indiscreet anyway," Truman said, glancing out the door. "Not with guys guarding us. I hope I didn't sound too dumb back there."
"No, we're just different people with different upbringings and we both just need to adjust to our differences."
"The more I think about it, the more I like your standards better. You got guts if you stayed faithful to me, y' know, for this long."
"Thanks."
"I imagine it wasn't easy. I, uh, hope I wasn't the first guy to, y' know, make a misstep around you."
"It's okay, I've had a lot guys try to pick me up over the years and even more guys try to start relationships with me, it wasn't easy, but it's been worth it."
"So I'm the only guy you've ever liked?"
"You're the only one I really loved."
"Wow. That's really something."
"What makes you say that?"
"Oh, Marlon, my best friend—if you could call him a friend and if that was his real name—used to say women didn't know the meaning of being faithful. Not that he was an expert at it, er…"
"Yeah, that sounds like Lou Coltrane."
"That's his real name?"
"Yeah. He played the part good because he literally was Marlon. They modeled the character on him as a person."
"You didn't like him?"
"I didn't hate him, but I didn't like being around him. He had more than a bit a of a roving eye."
"He wasn't a bad sort, but I can see why you wouldn't like him…He wouldn't lie to me."
"What?"
"One of the last things he said to me before I escaped was that he wouldn't lie to me. Well, that whole thing was one big lie."
"We weren't. What we started was real."
He took her wrists in both his hands. "What we have is real."
* * * * *
The house lacked a telephone, as Truman discovered when Sylvia and he went downstairs.
"We'll have more security that way," Dietrich explained.
But they had a radio, which they kept tuned to a news station.
"A bungalow on Wells Street caught fire this morning. Firefighters are still battling the blaze that broke out on the second floor. No injuries are reported; it appears the homeowner, detective Dietrich Hohenzoller was out for the day when the fire broke out."
Tenniel looked at Dietrich; the larger man bore the news with his face set in a mask of patient stoicism.
"Montressor?" Tenniel asked.
"It sounds very like his work," Dietrich said. "Id iss nod ze verst time I haff hadt zreadts." He cleared his throat, "It's not the first time I've had threats. I had an anthrax threat a year ago."
"What was that over?" Truman asked. "Or is that none of my business?"
"No, it was a matter of a girl who suspected her father of being a child pornographer. I had to shadow him for a few days. His actions were worse than mere consumption, which is bad enough: he belonged to a ring of pornographers."
"Ugh!" Truman shuddered. "He sent you the anthrax letter?"
"It was only a threat, but it was bad enough," Dietrich said. "The daughter later divorced him to protect her son from him."
"Don't let Deet lead you to believe every case he has is an adventure; he's had a lot of boring ones," Jerry said.
They had to content themselves by lunching off Spam on crackers. Bettina had gone out for supplies—bread and milk and vegetables and other things.
* * * * *
Walter passed by TLF headquarters, but he found it deserted. He left a note on the door, leaving his name and number and a message.
* * * * *
"So did you ever have anything for her?" Sylvia asked as they sat in the shelter of the back porch, Dietrich guarding them.
"Who, her?" Truman asked.
"Her, the new girl, Vivian."
"Oh, that her. I barely saw her long enough to think much of her. Well, she was nicely put together and all that, but she wasn't you. I mean, okay, she looked a little like you and when I first saw her, I almost mistook her for you. But when the office manager introduced us, I got a good look at her and I realized she wasn't you."
"Of course they had to cast someone who looked like me."
"Hey, I'm supposed to say that."
"Okay: say it."
"Of course they had to cast someone who looked like you, just to confuse me and get me all interested. But she wasn't you, so she didn't matter."
"You want to know why they threw her in?"
"Not really, but why?"
"Cristoff wanted you and Meryl to have a baby."
"Ew, gross!" Truman gagged.
"I know. So because Meryl left you—or rather, because Hannah Gill, the actress who played her, decided she'd had enough of the show and enough of you—they sent in Vivan to stand in for her."
"Oh boy. I guess I got out of there in time."
"On top of that, Hannah told the press she honestly thinks you're a eunuch, which is another reason why she left."
"Okay, maybe I hadn't been Casanova to her, but you know how they say you get indigestion when you eat something you don't like? That's how it was with her."
He glanced at Dietrich, who stood leaning against the porch railing, watching the yard.
"Uh, we aren't grossing you out or anything, are we?"
"No, not at all; I respected your privacy: I wasn't listening."
Truman turned back to Sylvia and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "If I were to be a dad, I'd want you to be my kids' mom."
Sylvia blushed, smiling, but a tear showed in her eye. "I'd be honored. I'd be more than honored, I'd be delighted. There's only one man I want my kids to look like. And he's you."
* * * * *
The intercom went off again in Cristoff's apartment. He lay in bed with the pillow over his head, ignoring its insistent buzzing. The noise stopped. He closed his eyes and prepared to slip back into the fitful doze he had settled into for the past few hours.
He heard the door open and someone enter.
"Cris? Are you still alive?" Moses' voice called.
"I'm here," Cristoff mumbled. He pushed back the pillow.
Moses entered the room, a blond young woman at his side. Moses glanced at the monitor at the foot of the bed.
"I hate to break this to you, but we're gonna have to cut transmission of that shot; it's costing us."
"Go ahead, do it. You own everything anyway; you can do what you want. Take it, so long as you leave Truman alone."
"Montressor's no closer to finding him than we are, if that is what you mean."
"You don't know him like I do; he has some brand of second sight. If he latches onto a person, they're never out of the reach of his awareness, even if they are physically just out of arm's reach."
"Cris, you okay? You been drinking?"
"Not much."
"We'll get you a doctor if you think you need one."
"I'll get by." He looked at the woman. "Are you still hanging about, Miss Prewitt?"
"I just wanted to find out if you'd found Truman."
"You know the show has been cancelled."
"I know, I just wondered if I could finish for real what I started."
"You know he's not here. You may as well go to Montressor. Maybe you can talk him out of grabbing at Truman. He might listen to you because you're pretty."
"I'll do what I can, for both of us," she promised.
* * * * *
Claudia knocked on the door of the penthouse apartment of the Burbank Ritz Carlton. No one answered. She almost went away.
The door flew open and a stocky man in black with a rat face grabbed her by the neck. He hauled her into the room and slammed the door behind them.
Gripping her from behind, he pressed the blade of a stiletto to her ribs.
"What's you name?" he asked.
"C-Claudia Prewitt."
"Did Cristoff send you here?"
"He t-told me only M-M-M-Montressor knew where—gick!—Truman was."
"Well, that makes all the difference."
The man dragged her through the foyer and down a dark hallway to a room at the end. He hauled her up a step and up to the door. He listened at it a moment, peered through the keyhole, then knocked on the door with the hand that held the stiletto.
"What is it?" a muffled voice within asked.
"We got a spy from Cristoff. A girl spy."
"Send her in."
Her captor opened the door and yanked her into the room.
A midnight blue brocade curtain separated the room into two halves, the one a sitting room, the other a bedchamber.
Beyond the curtain stood a sumptuous bed with a carved ebony headboard shadowed by a scarlet and gold canopy.
On a heap of black velvet and scarlet satin pillows sprawled a small man perhaps in his fifties, swarthy and saturnine except for a splotch of white flesh that surrounded one eye, red from albinism. The black satin top sheet and the black and violet tapestry coverlets lay pulled away to one side, but he held them over his bare chest. One leg, lean but gracefully muscled, lay flung across the covers, bare to the hip. Something in the shadows on the far side of the bed gasped and whimpered with mingled pain and languor.
"Who are you?" the strange man demanded.
"C-Claudia Prewitt," she said. This outlandish creature must be Montressor.
"And what brings you here?"
"I only wanted to find Truman. Cristoff told me you would know."
Montressor folded his arms behind his head and rubbed the sole of his foot on the bedcovers. "So Cristoff sent you. How do I know he hasn't sent you to find out for him if I've found the whelp?"
"I'm not a spy. I just want to find Truman."
"Oh yes, you're her, you're the little wench they took on to conceive his child. Still hankering for him, eh?"
"Well, no, I wanted to see if he, uh, would want to carry on a real relationship."
"A real relationship, indeed! You tell such delightful fictions, you should be a novelist."
"So where is Truman anyway?"
"I haven't got him hiding under the bed, you must know."
"You don't know?"
"He's dropped off my radar for the moment."
"In that case, I guess I'd better be going."
"Ah, but you only just got here."
The rat-faced man grabbed her by the back of the neck.
"I really—should—go," she gasped. She tried to struggle.
"And beat me to the little morsel? You're not the only one who wants the tender lad. But since you caught me in a good mood, I'll let you off easy. If you promise never to go anywhere near Truman, and if you promise to go out quietly, I'll have Mr. Sweyk here escort you safely back to her apartment."
"If I get out of here, I'm gonna find Truman if it takes me the rest of my life," she grunted.
"Oh, you just made it hard for yourself."
Sweyk pushed her to the foot of the bed. Montressor lunged from the pillows reaching for her. She screamed as he flipped back the bedcovers.
* * * * *
At dinner in the cottage, several other members of the TLF crew joined Truman and his comrades, including Trinidad, their PR woman and Marcus Wang, Tenniel's secretary. Because there were too many of them now to sit comfortably around the kitchen table, Bettina and Sylvia set up a buffet in the kitchen so everyone could shuttle back and forth between it and the living room where everyone had gathered.
"Well, the fire marshal is saying Dietrich's house may have caught fire from a cigarette left burning in the bedroom," Marcus said.
"And I don't smoke cigarettes," Dietrich said.
"Neither do I, Mom whipped my rear something awful the time she caught me with a pack Marlon smuggled to me what I was sixteen," Truman said.
"Watch it with them butts, Sylvia," Jerry said.
"Yeah, right," Sylvia groaned. "Dietrich, are you gonna rebuild?"
Dietrich gazed out the bay window of the living room at the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the tree branches. He shook his head.
"Only if I should survive this task," he said.
"Why, what could happen?" asked Bettina.
Dietrich glanced at his plate. "Each meal could be my last. Montressor could find us out any minute. He has his spies, his ways of finding out. And he will stop at nothing to get what he wants."
"How do you know all this? I thought you were just a detective?" Bettina asked.
Dietrich looked at them all. "I used to work for Montressor, as an actor, many years ago when I was younger…and slenderer, I might add." Serious again, he continued, "I know what he can and will do to get what he wants when he wants it: arson, abduction, seduction, rape, assault, even murder. I once saw him step over the body of a man he'd just shot through the heart, to get at the man's daughter."
Marcus looked at Jerry. "Did you know all this?"
"Well, Deet's always spared me the gory details, but I knew what he'd been through."
Truman turned to Dietrich. "You think he might kill you?" Truman asked Dietrich.
"He would kill any one of us if we stood in his way to you. But he would kill me more outright."
"Why?"
"Because I dared to say no to him. In his eyes, I am already a dead man, killing me would merely be casting out a ghost from the past. He'd kill me with relish."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"Just make sure to stay away from piccalilli then," Jerry said, breaking the somber quiet. Everyone chuckled with relief.
"Yeah, just make sure if you buy a hotdog from a street vendor, you ask him to hold the works. He might be one of Montressor's spies," Truman added.
Sylvia laughed so hard she splatted her drink.
"Nothing like laughter to dispel the shadows," Truman said.
"That's one reason I like you so much," she said, recovering. "You set the room rocking with your laughter. You lit up my life."
He looked at her earnestly. He set aside his plate and got down on his knees before her.
"I know I'm running for my life, and I know we've got a nut on our heels. But before we do anything else or go anywhere else, can I ask one thing of you?"
"Ask anything," she said, looking into his face.
"Sylvia…will you marry me?"
She didn't stop to think, not for an instant. "Yes."
He sat back on his heels, drawing her down onto his knees. She put her arms about his neck. They met in the middle and kissed each other.
A collective sigh mixed with giggles rose from the rose from the rest of the gathering. Everyone around them clapped and cheered.
Truman glanced out of the corner of his eye. One person clapped half-heartedly. He noticed Jerry wasn't smiling.
To be continued…
The Truman Show: Through the Door in the Sky
By "Matrix Refugee"
Author's Note:
I'd better give you a fair warning: this chapter contains some slightly icky
stuff. I didn't realize Montressor was such a creep; I knew he was crooked and
unprincipled, but I didn't know it extended to the stuff he does here. But I did
everything in my power to keep this and subsequent chapters within a PG-13
rating. If some of the details are a little off, I have to admit here that it's
been a while since I saw the movie (although I have seen it twice), and I've
been using the Newmarket Press published version of the shooting script as a
reference.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I.
But first, the imitation movie credits; I wish, I wish…
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 III: The Tender Reunion
Truman and Sylvia separated after a little while, still holding each other loosely.
"Do you still love me?" she asked, looking up into his face.
"I guess…I mean, I do. I do. You're the reason I left…all that behind me. Only you were real. Do you still love me?"
"Yes."
He wanted to kiss her, but he wasn't sure if he should. But he realized he had no reason not to kiss her. He gently took her face in both his hands and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her mouth trembling under his. He released her, not wanting to be too hard. She clung to him and pulled her face from his as she leaned her cheek on his shoulder.
"What led you to get involved with all that, and what made you tell me the truth?" he asked her at length, when they had let each other go.
"I was a kid. I wanted to be an actress. My dad knew people who knew people who could get me a bit part in the 'greatest show on television'." She made quotation marks with her fingers around "greatest show". "So I got on, in a small part, a regular girl named Lauren."
"And then what?'
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you know my end of the story probably better than I do, but I don't know yours."
She blushed. "I met the leading man and I loved him."
"You mean fell in love."
"No, that came later. I mean, I looked at you and I thought, 'He's a nice, funny, lovable guy who has a lot going for him, why does he have to be cooped up in this mock-up of Small-town USA where he's just being used by the producers and directors and everything'. Not that small towns are bad, don't get me wrong; I spent my summers growing up, in the little town where my grandmother lived, near San Luis Obispo. But the real thing is better, because it is real."
"So when did you fall in love with me?"
"I can't name a day. It's like it just grew out of the first love."
"So what happened to you after you…got kicked off the show for squealing to me?"
"Cristoff, the man who directed it all, reprimanded me, but that's putting it mildly. He just about took me over his knee and spanked me. I wouldn't have minded so much if he hadn't told the press that I was to blame for the incident, that I was a go-getter with a political agenda."
"Which you weren't, of course."
"No, I was just a young girl, maybe a little wise beyond my years."
"That's terrible, you getting treated so bad, I mean."
"Yeah, it ended my acting career. If you had 'a part on The Truman Show' on your resume, doors would open for you and you had it made in Hollywood. That didn't happen for me. I've worked a lot of nothing doing jobs over the years. Then about five years ago, I got involved with the TLF."
"The what, what, what?"
"The Truman Liberation Front. They worked to free you, to have the show pulled from the network because they exploited you. None of that was spin to me. I worked by their rules: I handed out flyers, took part in rallies, passed out petitions, worked as an office gofer for awhile. I guess I put on an act of sorts. I didn't let on to anyone why I worked as hard as I did. I wrote letters to the network president. One night I even called up Cristoff on that stupid talk show they ran at night while you were sleeping."
"Did you return the favor?"
She dropped her gaze to her hands. "I'm afraid I did. I blew up at him and I wound up blowing my cover. I got too aggressive with him."
"But your work still paid off. I guess you never dreamed I'd just walk out on my own two feet,"
"I'm proud of you for it. You were a real man about it.
* * * * *
Sylvia cooked dinner for them from the odds and ends she found in the cupboards and refrigerator. They prevailed upon Dietrich to join them for dinner.
"I made plenty," she said.
"Besides, we gotta show some gratitude toward the guy who brought us back together after ten years," Truman said.
He gave in, but he later left them alone together; they sat in the living room talking about everything till they both dozed off beside each other on the couch.
* * * * *
Dietrich stayed outside, sitting on the wall under the front windows, smoking his pipe, watching the shadows on the shades. They needed their space, their privacy. They had a lot of catching up to do.
A motor roared nearby. He looked up. Just as he started to drop behind the wall, a black Cadillac roared up the street and screeched to a stop before the house.
Two big men in black jackets got out of the back and approached him.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Dietrich asked, casually.
"You Dietrich Hohenzoller?" one of them asked.
"I am."
The second man drew a semi-automatic from inside his jacket. "You're coming with us," he said. "Mr. Montressor wants to speak with you."
They escorted him to the car and shoved him into the back seat. They got in beside him, one on either side. Someone in the front seat shoved the muzzle of a sawn-off shotgun at his face from over the top of a divider.
He couldn't tell where they went; the windows had been blacked out. But his sense of direction helped him follow the turns of their path; he deduced they ended up at the Burbank Ritz-Carlton Hotel.
His guides threw a coat over his head as they bundled him out of the car and into a building. He guessed they brought him up by a service elevator.
They led him through a door someone opened to them. Only then did his guides take the coat from his head.
He stood in a room with mahogany-dark walls. Black leather and ebony furniture stood arranged on a black and white chessboard pattern carpet.
At the head of the room, in a wide armchair on a small dais sat a small man in a maroon damask dressing gown. He might have been twenty or he might have been seventy; a tuft of white over one eye marred the rich black of his dense hair. The white extended to the skin below, down his high, swarthy forehead to a patch around his right eye, leaving the iris albino red, contrasted with the left, which retained its normal black color. A patch of white skin showed on the back of his left hand, but the other retained his natural swarthiness.
"So, Dietrich, we're sheltering little whelps now," the small man drawled in a gruff but urbane voice. "How long have you been going the charity route?"
"Since I was released from prison five years ago," Dietrich replied.
"And what has it gotten you? How much has it cost you?"
"I choose not to count the cost, as you call it."
The weird creature smiled indulgently. "So, on top of putting on a halo, we've added wings; I hope they can bear you up. You've run to fat the way I always knew you would. Trying to hide your past behind a kindly exterior?"
"I would not call it kindly. As for my actions, I am only doing reparation for my past failings."
Montressor chuckled richly. "You've gone from one extreme to the other: from Adonis to a frump, from snuff film samurai to a saintly soul-saver. If you ever write your memoirs, you could call it just that."
"I'm not doing this for honor; it do it for what it is."
"Are you enjoying it?"
"I cannot deny that it brings joy to my heart."
"I didn't mean that, I mean you must enjoy the company of Cristoff's little curio."
"He is a good young man."
Montressor ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. "I would imagine his company must be delicious. Naivety adds a piquant spice you can't find anywhere else."
"I have also helped him to find his lost love." Dietrich took from his breast pocket the pieced-together photo of Sylvia.
Montressor's hand whipped out and snatched the picture from Dietrich's hand. He held it for a moment in the tips of his talon-like fingernails. Then his hand twitched and he crumpled it. He tossed it to the floor. Dietrich bent to pick it up.
Montressor pounced on him, clasping the big man's neck between his thighs. He leaned over and looked at Dietrich's face upside down, his hands gripping the larger man's lower face.
"Not as swift as we once were, now that we're carrying the extra baggage, eh? I suppose you find her just as delightful."
"There is nothing in this for me; I'm not the man you knew."
"You certainly aren't." Montressor's hands tightened, the nails biting into Dietrich's skin. He leaned his face closer, until Dietrich could smell Montressor's rank breath fanning his face.
"You will bring him to me. You always obeyed me."
"And if I do not?"
Montressor's fingernails dug in harder until Dietrich nearly gasped from the pain.
"You may not live to regret it." Montressor released him and swung down from his neck.
The two men in black entered the room again. "Take him back," Montressor ordered, turning his back to Dietrich.
* * * * *
Sylvia awoke hearing the back door close. She and Truman lay nestled together chastely on the couch, like two puppies or two children. She got up carefully, so as not to awaken Truman and went to the kitchen.
Dietrich leaned over the sink, his shirt off, his suspenders slipped down to his hips, washing his face in the sink. A runnel of blood had jelled on his chin and marks like fingernail scratches showed on the skin of his cheeks.
"Dietrich, what happened to you? Where were you?"
"I had an unexpected appointment," he said.
"What happened to your face?"
"Someone scratched it."
"Who?"
Dietrich looked toward the living room. "Is Truman awake?"
"No, not when I left him."
Dietrich breathed deeply, his hands on the edge of the sink. "Sylvia, there are a few things you need to know about me." He stopped, looking away."
"You can tell me."
"You know the director who wants Truman?"
"That Montressor guy?"
Dietrich gripped the sink ledge until the tendons bulged on his thick fingers. "When I was younger, I worked for him. I acted in his films."
She looked at him. He looked rugged, and world-weariness showed in his eyes and the flecks of gray showing in his golden hair. But how could he…?
He looked at her. "Still rivers run deep."
"And he's trying to get at Truman through you?"
"I would put much emphasis on trying," he said, reassuringly.
"Is that why you're helping Truman?"
"It could be."
"Why do I have a feeling there's much more to this than the little you're telling me?"
Dietrich untucked his undershirt in the back. "I mean not to shock you by this, and it is best that Truman knows as little about this and about me as possible for now, not until he has adjusted to this world."
He pulled the back of his undershirt up to the nape of his neck and turned his back to her.
The whole of his broad back lay exposed, the skin covered with a network of scars and discolorations like old burns.
"What…How…who did this to you?" she cried.
Dietrich smoothed down his undershirt and reached for his shirt. "Montressor did this."
* * * * *
With Sylvia at his heels, Dietrich carried Truman up to the spare room and laid him on the bed. Sylvia loosened his collar and take off his shoes before she tugged the covers over him and leaned down to kiss him chastely.
"Do you need a ride back home?" Dietrich asked as they stood out in the hallway a minute later.
"No, I'm staying here."
"You can have my bed. My room is across the hall."
"Where will you sleep?"
"There's no sleep for me tonight." He headed downstairs.
She got some pillows and blanket from Dietrich's room and made up a bed for herself on the floor of Truman's room. She didn't dare sleep beside him on the bed. All the old feelings had churned up and she didn't trust herself with him.
* * * * *
Dietrich sat awake on the couch, watching the living room windows for movement, harmless or hostile. He doubted Montressor's henchmen would come back, but Montressor could change his mind. He could turn as fickle as he was cruel. They could come back and storm the house, or the night could pass without further incident. But his hands rested on the Schmeisser in his lap. Several ammunition rounds weighted his pockets, if needed.
Toward dawn, he dozed, but later he heard someone—Sylvia— come into the kitchen and set about making breakfast.
He shook the sleep from his head and set aside the rifle. He stretched his cramped body and got up. He went out to the kitchen.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked gently.
"I got what nature needs; I trained myself to need little sleep. I'd better call Peik and Tenniel." He reached into his pocket for the cellphone.
She glanced at the phone on the counter. "Anything wrong with this?"
The phone rang. She reached for it, but he caught her arm gently but firmly. The answering machine picked it up.
"Remember what I said, Amon Tesch, it's either you or the little fellow," said a deep, suave voice. "I have other pairs of eyes."
The answering machine cut out.
"Was that…?"
"Montressor. As soon as he found out it was me, I started suspecting he has a tap on the phone. Which requires me to call on this." He held up the cellphone.
"Wait. Who's Amon Tesch?" she asked.
Dietrich breathed deeply. "That was my name when I worked for Montressor. I changed it to Dietrich Hohenzoller when I was released from prison."
"Why were you in prison?"
"Now is not the time to say."
He dialed the cellphone and waited. "Hello, Peik? Yes, it's Dietrich…Could you get Tenniel on? This is urgent…Hello, Cole? Yes, its Dietrich Hohenzoller…Security has been breached. Montressor knows Truman is here, at my house. I'll have to bring him up today…No, do not do that, under no circumstances. It will look obvious. We shall be there as soon as possible…you're welcome." He hung up.
Truman came in at this point, whistling to himself.
"Good morning. What adventures did I miss?"
Sylvia looked from Dietrich to Truman and back again. "How do we break it to him?"
Dietrich came up to Truman. "We have to get you out of here soon. Montressor knows you're here"
"Man, this guy doesn't quit. How's he doing this?"
"He has his spies. We're going to get you out of their way."
"I guess I better go pack," Truman said, turning back. "I thought I'd finished running for a while."
Sylvia made coffee and toast, which she served with honey and fruit. Dietrich contented himself with a couple cups of coffee which he drank standing up, discreetly watching the window.
They went out to the garage. Dietrich had Truman lie down on the floor of the backseat. Sylvia sat up front with Dietrich.
They took a while driving. Truman got tired from lying in such a cramped position.
"Isn't it about time for the guys in the black Caddy to start chasing us?" he asked.
"That's why he's taking the long route," Sylvia said.
"Well, would it be too much trouble if you took the short version of the long route?" Truman asked. "I'm getting a crink in my back from lying on the hump in the floor."
"We're almost there," Dietrich said.
The car slowed down as they pulled into what Truman guessed was a parking lot. The engine cut out and Dietrich and Sylvia climbed out.
Sylvia opened the rear door and helped Truman out. They stood near the loading dock of a factory building. Sylvia led them inside and up a metal stairway.
She opened a door at the head of the stairs. "I'll go in first and give then the fair warning, so they won't go too hoopy. We have a lot of jokers in this group," she said. She went in and closed the door behind her.
"I could put up with a few jokers now," Truman said. "This is getting way too serious."
"It will get better," Dietrich said.
Sylvia came out to them and let Truman enter first.
He stepped into a large room that looked like a cross between an office and a rec room. The walls were crusted with photographs and banners. Some dusty party decorations and faded crepe streamers hung festooned from the ceiling.
A crowd of people of all ages, mostly not much older than he, encircled them as they entered; some wore TLF tee shirts, but most wore "Free Truman NOW!!!" buttons pinned to regular blouses and shirts. They all started chattering and cheering at once, greeting Truman. Some reached out to shake his hand and clap him on the back. One young girl in a mock simpery voice said, "Oh Truman, you're even better for real than you look on TV! Could I have your autograph? Would you tattoo it on my arm please? Please? Please?"
The young men surrounded him and lifted him up on their shoulders. The crowd cheered and started singing a rowdy rendition of "For He's a Jolly good Fellow" counterpointed with "76 Trombones" and "Stars and Stripes Forever" as they paraded him around the room.
Finally, they set his feet back on the floor.
A tall, well-built man in his fifties with thinning red hair emerged from a back office and made his way through the crowd, accompanied by a sturdy woman with dark skin, and a slender young man with tousled black hair and brilliant green eyes.
"Settle down, everyone, settle down. Don't overwhelm the poor fellow; he's only been in the real world for two days now," the tall man said.
He turned to Truman and said, "My name's Cole Tenniel; I'm the president of the TLF."
Truman took Tenniel's hand. "Uh, pleased to meet you. I hope I didn't spoil your cause the way I escaped.'
"Not at all; I had hoped you'd get out of the EcoSphere on your own power. It would be the more manly thing to do."
"From my understanding, there's still folks who'd rather have me back in there."
"That's why we're here. Our goal was not just to free you and leave you adrift in your new life. However, we've had some unfortunate variables thrown into the mix."
"Yeah, nothing like a monkey wrench thrown into the mix," someone at the back of the crowd said.
"You mean, like Montressor chasing me around?"
"Don't say that name!" someone cried in the crowd. Some of the women, including Sylvia, pretended to faint.
"Death to the demon, Azor Montressor!" the dark young man at Tenniel's elbow cried, waving on fist in the air
"In which case, we'll have to move you again. 'He Who Must Not be Named', better known as 'HE' knows you may already be here, so we'll have to move you to a safe house, in the hills, far from the city."
"As long as it gets me out of HIS way. I'm kinda getting used to this moving around and hiding stuff. Is this part of regular life?" Truman asked, trying to sound shallow.
"Most people have much duller lives," Tenniel said.
"And you haven't exactly had a normal life, up to this point," the dark woman said and held her hand out to Truman. "My name's Bettina Sarkist. Why don't you come back here into the office and out of the crush?"
"Sure, thanks."
Behind them, Tenniel started giving orders.
"We aren't disbanding yet, people, but it's a good idea if you collect some of your personal belongings before you go out. No streaming out like lemming, though; go out in ones and twos. You of the core group, stand by for further orders.
Bettina pushed the door closed. The dark young man had joined them; he wore a baggy gray shirt-jacket over a close-fitting white jersey and khaki pants.
"You want anything, Truman?" Bettina asked. "Coffee? Fruit juice? Water? They're gonna be a while out there, sorting out."
"Oh. I'll have some fruit juice, please," Truman replied.
"Okay, I'll be back."
"If you don't get shanghaied into twenty other errands," the dark young man called after her as she went out.
Truman sat down on an office chair. He looked up at the young man who stood nearby. "Uh, I don't think we've met."
"I'm Jerry, Jerry Peik. Actually it's Jerome, but I hate being called that. Sounds too old."
"So what are you doing in here?"
"It's not official yet, but I'm supposed to be your bodyguard." He lifted the skirt of his shirt jacket, showing a handgun tucked into his waistband.
"Oh boy, is that real?"
"Yeah, I just hope I never have to use it," Jerry replied in a lower voice.
"So, who's Tenniel and what's with this organization?"
"Okay, I'll try to give you the breadbox version." Jerry propped on foot on the seat of a straight-backed chair and leaned over it. "Tenniel is-was an advertising exec—still is to some extent. He used to run the little inset commercials on The Show, or at least he did until one of the OmniCam big shots took him on a discreet tour of the EcoSphere. When he saw how real your former little world seemed, he was shocked. So he pulled out of OmniCam. He did other commercials for other networks, but he couldn't stop thinking about you. So, about fifteen years ago, he started an organization he called the "Free Truman Organization. That fused with another group called Truth in Media, and they've been trying to get you out ever since. You'll have to ask him for the full version, it's more interesting than that."
"So they know what I've been up to my neck in?"
"Better than you know it. Over the years, there've been a few nut cases, besides Montressor, who tried to drag you out of the EcoSphere bodily, but they had nothing to do with us. Tenniel wouldn't stand for that kinda junk. Not good advertising. But, like we've said, you just made all that unnecessary."
"And I thought I was just escaping from a prison I didn't even know I'd been in. World's a much bigger place than I ever expected."
"It's really a very dull place, more often than not. It's just that you've had it different from the rest of us, the way your life has run up to this point—or been run for you, rather."
"I sure hope all this dies down. Part of me is starting to wish I hadn't gone to all this trouble of escaping, if it's gonna cause this much of a rumpus."
Jerry leaned close to Truman. "Hey, you put your hand to the plow. Don't look back, fella, 'cause there ain't no going back. It's either our way to freedom, or back to OmniCam and into Montressor's clutches.
* * * * *
Back at the EcoSphere, Cristoff added a few drops of whisky to his coffee—black. He gazed at the monitor as he drank. The lights had dimmed, but the door still stood open. A few workmen had tried to close it, but he'd got on the PA and shouted them away from it.
The intercom buzzed. He reached for it and answered it.
"Montressor, dammit, I told you I can't talk to you now, and I don't—"
"Cristoff, Walter Moore needs to speak to you," the guard said.
"All right, send him up."
A minute later, the door opened and a middle-sized man with graying brown hair entered the room.
"Walter, I'm sorry about recent events. I thought bringing your character back would make him want to stay—" Cristoff started.
Walter held up a hand. "Cris, this isn't about the show; this about Truman. I think he may be my son."
Cristoff studied Walter's face. At first he wondered if Walter had come unhinged in light of what had happened, but then he realized something else. His face had always looked better than Truman's goofy good looks, but the faint resemblances showed, most notably their hair, which, for Walter, had been the despair of the hair stylists. The casting directors had chosen Walter for his looks, based on an age progressed photo of the child in utero who would become Truman at birth.
"How is this possible?"
Walter looked over Cristoff's shoulder, a little embarrassed. "Well, I uh, let's just say I had been involved with one of the five women whose unborn kids you had considered adopting for the show. She called me last night and told me I might be Truman's real father."
"So why did you come back?"
"I just want to know if you have any idea where Truman is."
"If you want to know that, go ask Montressor. He seems to have a better idea where he is."
Walter's face paled. "Montressor…you mean that Montressor?
"There's only one Azor Montressor in television."
Walter drew in a long breath. "I don't know as if I want to go to someone who makes that kind of stuff."
Cristoff thought a moment. "The Truman Liberation Front. They're up on Grovedale Ave., above a box factory. They might be able to help."
"Thanks, Cris, you don't know what this means to me."
"You're welcome."
Once Walter had gone, Cristoff reached for the phone, intending to call the TLF. But his eye fell first on the monitor, then on the gun on the end table.
* * * * *
An hour after Dietrich left with Truman and Sylvia, a black Cadillac pulled up into the driveway of his house.
Three men in black leather jackets got out, the shortest leading the way, the other two flanking a fourth man, even shorter than the first.
The taller goons broke down the front door. They penetrated the house and groped around the rooms.
"No sign of 'm, sir," the short, rat-faced dweeb said. "We shoulda swiped 'm last night."
"Sweyk, you never understood the meaning and, more importantly, the necessity of timing," the shortest man said. He took a long pull on his cigarette. A long moment later, he let the smoke out between his lips and re-inhaled it through his nostrils. "Last night was too soon, much too soon."
They ranged about upstairs. They found the room Truman had occupied.
"He slept here," the boss said. He ran his piebald hand over the mattress. "Yes, he slept here, in innocent unconcern. Well, I hope he enjoyed it."
He took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it onto the unmade bed.
"Burning his bridges for him, eh?" Sweyk sniggered.
They left just as the sheets started to smolder.
* * * * *
"I hope that didn't take too long," Bettina said, closing the door behind her. "The phone was ringing and no one would answer it."
"Was it for me?" Truman asked as she handed him his drink. "Thanks."
"No, it was one of our regular supporters, wanted to know if we were disbanding."
"Are you gonna disband? It's not like I'm gonna need help for much longer."
"Not until you've settled," Bettina said, sitting on the edge of a desk. "We're not gonna leave you high and dry, not with that lunatic Montressor watching the town for you. We're not gonna abandon you now."
"Any news?"
"Yeah, OmniCam is considering letting Montressor borrow you for a while, see how well his batbrained idea holds up."
"So of course they must be stepping up the search for Truman," Jerry said.
"Their cash reward for finding Truman is up to one and a half million dollars."
"Sweet. I could pay off some debts with that," Jerry said, whistling.
"Quit that, Jerry, whose side are you on?" She turned to Truman. "Watch out for Jerry, Truman, he's a real joker."
"Aw, I knew he was kidding; I can take a joke. It's just other people that can't take mine."
The door opened and Tenniel came in. "We just sent Dietrich and Sylvia out as a decoy. We'll give them a head start of a few minutes, then we'll go."
"Any more lying in back seats?" Truman asked.
"I'll bury you under the stuff in the back of my Land Rover," Jerry offered.
"Maybe in that case you should go rearrange it?" Bettina suggested.
"Good idea," Jerry said. He went out.
"He's as bats as me," Truman said.
"He only pretends to be," Tenniel said. "That fellow has reflexes like a cat's, which is why I assigned him to be your bodyguard." He looked at his watch. "It's been long enough."
They went down to the loading dock. Jerry had pulled up a battered gray Land Rover and had pulled out several boxes and bags from the back.
"At least Sylvia left her stuff, that'll give you more cover," Jerry said, crawling out of the back.
"How'd the night with her go?" Bettina asked, deadpan.
Jerry grinned viciously. "Oh, what a night! Hope you don't get too jealous, Truman. No, seriously, she slept inside the Land Rover, and I slept on the ground outside. Some thugs passed by, but they took one look at me and fled."
"I would think so, you're pretty terrifying to look at," Truman said, grinning.
"I tougher than I look," Jerry said, flexing one arm. Truman couldn't see much difference.
"Oh, an iron boy."
Jerry backed out of the cargo bay and climbed down. "Get in, your highness."
Truman climbed in and lay down on the floor. As an added touch, he crossed his arms over his chest mummy-fashion. Jerry draped a towel over his head and covered him with shopping bags of stuff. He stuck boxes in next to him to camouflage him.
Truman heard the doors slam. "Can you breathe back there, Truman?" Bettina asked.
"I'll manage," Truman said, muffled.
Fortunately, he lay in a much more comfortable position, so as trip wore on, Truman let himself doze and slowly fall into comfortable, if slightly smothered slumber.
After a while, he felt the stuff on top of him move away. He twitched awake and sat up.
Jerry grabbed him by the ankles and hauled out him bodily, dumping him on the ground none too gently, but with a playful twinkle in his eye.
Truman picked himself up and dusted himself off.
He stood in the circular drive of a country cottage, shaded by spreading trees. Sylvia and Dietrich waited on the porch, Sylvia sitting clasping her knees, Dietrich standing guard. She jumped up and ran down to meet Truman. They hugged as if they hadn't seen each other in years.
"That was too long to be away from you," Truman said, holding her face.
"I was afraid you wouldn't make it," she admitted, clasping her hands behind his head.
"Yeah, you don't know when the goons in the Caddy might come out of the woodwork. But we're together now, till the next time we have to move again."
He leaned down and kissed. Dietrich smiled on them like an indulgent father; Jerry let out a loud gagging sound like an eleven-year-old kid seeing his sister kissing her boyfriend.
Truman and Sylvia broke apart; Sylvia's cheeks glowed pinker than before.
Tenniel stepped up onto the porch and unlocked the door. He let the others enter first.
The air inside the cottage smelled a little stale from disuse, but they opened the windows to let in the cool spring breeze.
"This really isn't my house; it's on permanent loan from one of our wealthier supporters," Tenniel explained. "But what's mine is yours."
He led them upstairs to a small, snug bedroom close to the head of the stairs. He opened the door for them and went in to open the window."
"If you like, this can be your room, the two of you can share it," Tenniel offered.
Sylvia looked from Tenniel to Truman to the one bed in the room. "No, I couldn't. It wouldn't be right."
"What about last night? We fell asleep together."
"That was just falling asleep together."
"We don't have to, like, do anything, not if you don't want to."
She took his hand in hers. "That's just it: I do want to, but now isn't the right time. Not till we're married. If we did anything like sharing the same bed, I don't think I could hold myself back."
"Hey, you can have the bed, Sylv, I'll sleep on the floor," Truman cut in.
"Thanks."
"I hope I didn't offend either of you," Tenniel said. "Not everyone has the same standards."
"It's all right: I've had worse stuff tried on me," Sylvia said.
"All right, I'm putting Peik and Hohenzoller in the room across the hallway. They'll be alternating guard duty shifts, six hours each. A few of the men from the TLF will be up here shortly to patrol the grounds discreetly. But you two just settle in and don't worry about all this: that's my job. You two just work on getting to know each other."
Tenniel went downstairs. Sylvia helped Truman unpack their bags.
"I don't think we could do anything too indiscreet anyway," Truman said, glancing out the door. "Not with guys guarding us. I hope I didn't sound too dumb back there."
"No, we're just different people with different upbringings and we both just need to adjust to our differences."
"The more I think about it, the more I like your standards better. You got guts if you stayed faithful to me, y' know, for this long."
"Thanks."
"I imagine it wasn't easy. I, uh, hope I wasn't the first guy to, y' know, make a misstep around you."
"It's okay, I've had a lot guys try to pick me up over the years and even more guys try to start relationships with me, it wasn't easy, but it's been worth it."
"So I'm the only guy you've ever liked?"
"You're the only one I really loved."
"Wow. That's really something."
"What makes you say that?"
"Oh, Marlon, my best friend—if you could call him a friend and if that was his real name—used to say women didn't know the meaning of being faithful. Not that he was an expert at it, er…"
"Yeah, that sounds like Lou Coltrane."
"That's his real name?"
"Yeah. He played the part good because he literally was Marlon. They modeled the character on him as a person."
"You didn't like him?"
"I didn't hate him, but I didn't like being around him. He had more than a bit a of a roving eye."
"He wasn't a bad sort, but I can see why you wouldn't like him…He wouldn't lie to me."
"What?"
"One of the last things he said to me before I escaped was that he wouldn't lie to me. Well, that whole thing was one big lie."
"We weren't. What we started was real."
He took her wrists in both his hands. "What we have is real."
* * * * *
The house lacked a telephone, as Truman discovered when Sylvia and he went downstairs.
"We'll have more security that way," Dietrich explained.
But they had a radio, which they kept tuned to a news station.
"A bungalow on Wells Street caught fire this morning. Firefighters are still battling the blaze that broke out on the second floor. No injuries are reported; it appears the homeowner, detective Dietrich Hohenzoller was out for the day when the fire broke out."
Tenniel looked at Dietrich; the larger man bore the news with his face set in a mask of patient stoicism.
"Montressor?" Tenniel asked.
"It sounds very like his work," Dietrich said. "Id iss nod ze verst time I haff hadt zreadts." He cleared his throat, "It's not the first time I've had threats. I had an anthrax threat a year ago."
"What was that over?" Truman asked. "Or is that none of my business?"
"No, it was a matter of a girl who suspected her father of being a child pornographer. I had to shadow him for a few days. His actions were worse than mere consumption, which is bad enough: he belonged to a ring of pornographers."
"Ugh!" Truman shuddered. "He sent you the anthrax letter?"
"It was only a threat, but it was bad enough," Dietrich said. "The daughter later divorced him to protect her son from him."
"Don't let Deet lead you to believe every case he has is an adventure; he's had a lot of boring ones," Jerry said.
They had to content themselves by lunching off Spam on crackers. Bettina had gone out for supplies—bread and milk and vegetables and other things.
* * * * *
Walter passed by TLF headquarters, but he found it deserted. He left a note on the door, leaving his name and number and a message.
* * * * *
"So did you ever have anything for her?" Sylvia asked as they sat in the shelter of the back porch, Dietrich guarding them.
"Who, her?" Truman asked.
"Her, the new girl, Vivian."
"Oh, that her. I barely saw her long enough to think much of her. Well, she was nicely put together and all that, but she wasn't you. I mean, okay, she looked a little like you and when I first saw her, I almost mistook her for you. But when the office manager introduced us, I got a good look at her and I realized she wasn't you."
"Of course they had to cast someone who looked like me."
"Hey, I'm supposed to say that."
"Okay: say it."
"Of course they had to cast someone who looked like you, just to confuse me and get me all interested. But she wasn't you, so she didn't matter."
"You want to know why they threw her in?"
"Not really, but why?"
"Cristoff wanted you and Meryl to have a baby."
"Ew, gross!" Truman gagged.
"I know. So because Meryl left you—or rather, because Hannah Gill, the actress who played her, decided she'd had enough of the show and enough of you—they sent in Vivan to stand in for her."
"Oh boy. I guess I got out of there in time."
"On top of that, Hannah told the press she honestly thinks you're a eunuch, which is another reason why she left."
"Okay, maybe I hadn't been Casanova to her, but you know how they say you get indigestion when you eat something you don't like? That's how it was with her."
He glanced at Dietrich, who stood leaning against the porch railing, watching the yard.
"Uh, we aren't grossing you out or anything, are we?"
"No, not at all; I respected your privacy: I wasn't listening."
Truman turned back to Sylvia and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "If I were to be a dad, I'd want you to be my kids' mom."
Sylvia blushed, smiling, but a tear showed in her eye. "I'd be honored. I'd be more than honored, I'd be delighted. There's only one man I want my kids to look like. And he's you."
* * * * *
The intercom went off again in Cristoff's apartment. He lay in bed with the pillow over his head, ignoring its insistent buzzing. The noise stopped. He closed his eyes and prepared to slip back into the fitful doze he had settled into for the past few hours.
He heard the door open and someone enter.
"Cris? Are you still alive?" Moses' voice called.
"I'm here," Cristoff mumbled. He pushed back the pillow.
Moses entered the room, a blond young woman at his side. Moses glanced at the monitor at the foot of the bed.
"I hate to break this to you, but we're gonna have to cut transmission of that shot; it's costing us."
"Go ahead, do it. You own everything anyway; you can do what you want. Take it, so long as you leave Truman alone."
"Montressor's no closer to finding him than we are, if that is what you mean."
"You don't know him like I do; he has some brand of second sight. If he latches onto a person, they're never out of the reach of his awareness, even if they are physically just out of arm's reach."
"Cris, you okay? You been drinking?"
"Not much."
"We'll get you a doctor if you think you need one."
"I'll get by." He looked at the woman. "Are you still hanging about, Miss Prewitt?"
"I just wanted to find out if you'd found Truman."
"You know the show has been cancelled."
"I know, I just wondered if I could finish for real what I started."
"You know he's not here. You may as well go to Montressor. Maybe you can talk him out of grabbing at Truman. He might listen to you because you're pretty."
"I'll do what I can, for both of us," she promised.
* * * * *
Claudia knocked on the door of the penthouse apartment of the Burbank Ritz Carlton. No one answered. She almost went away.
The door flew open and a stocky man in black with a rat face grabbed her by the neck. He hauled her into the room and slammed the door behind them.
Gripping her from behind, he pressed the blade of a stiletto to her ribs.
"What's you name?" he asked.
"C-Claudia Prewitt."
"Did Cristoff send you here?"
"He t-told me only M-M-M-Montressor knew where—gick!—Truman was."
"Well, that makes all the difference."
The man dragged her through the foyer and down a dark hallway to a room at the end. He hauled her up a step and up to the door. He listened at it a moment, peered through the keyhole, then knocked on the door with the hand that held the stiletto.
"What is it?" a muffled voice within asked.
"We got a spy from Cristoff. A girl spy."
"Send her in."
Her captor opened the door and yanked her into the room.
A midnight blue brocade curtain separated the room into two halves, the one a sitting room, the other a bedchamber.
Beyond the curtain stood a sumptuous bed with a carved ebony headboard shadowed by a scarlet and gold canopy.
On a heap of black velvet and scarlet satin pillows sprawled a small man perhaps in his fifties, swarthy and saturnine except for a splotch of white flesh that surrounded one eye, red from albinism. The black satin top sheet and the black and violet tapestry coverlets lay pulled away to one side, but he held them over his bare chest. One leg, lean but gracefully muscled, lay flung across the covers, bare to the hip. Something in the shadows on the far side of the bed gasped and whimpered with mingled pain and languor.
"Who are you?" the strange man demanded.
"C-Claudia Prewitt," she said. This outlandish creature must be Montressor.
"And what brings you here?"
"I only wanted to find Truman. Cristoff told me you would know."
Montressor folded his arms behind his head and rubbed the sole of his foot on the bedcovers. "So Cristoff sent you. How do I know he hasn't sent you to find out for him if I've found the whelp?"
"I'm not a spy. I just want to find Truman."
"Oh yes, you're her, you're the little wench they took on to conceive his child. Still hankering for him, eh?"
"Well, no, I wanted to see if he, uh, would want to carry on a real relationship."
"A real relationship, indeed! You tell such delightful fictions, you should be a novelist."
"So where is Truman anyway?"
"I haven't got him hiding under the bed, you must know."
"You don't know?"
"He's dropped off my radar for the moment."
"In that case, I guess I'd better be going."
"Ah, but you only just got here."
The rat-faced man grabbed her by the back of the neck.
"I really—should—go," she gasped. She tried to struggle.
"And beat me to the little morsel? You're not the only one who wants the tender lad. But since you caught me in a good mood, I'll let you off easy. If you promise never to go anywhere near Truman, and if you promise to go out quietly, I'll have Mr. Sweyk here escort you safely back to her apartment."
"If I get out of here, I'm gonna find Truman if it takes me the rest of my life," she grunted.
"Oh, you just made it hard for yourself."
Sweyk pushed her to the foot of the bed. Montressor lunged from the pillows reaching for her. She screamed as he flipped back the bedcovers.
* * * * *
At dinner in the cottage, several other members of the TLF crew joined Truman and his comrades, including Trinidad, their PR woman and Marcus Wang, Tenniel's secretary. Because there were too many of them now to sit comfortably around the kitchen table, Bettina and Sylvia set up a buffet in the kitchen so everyone could shuttle back and forth between it and the living room where everyone had gathered.
"Well, the fire marshal is saying Dietrich's house may have caught fire from a cigarette left burning in the bedroom," Marcus said.
"And I don't smoke cigarettes," Dietrich said.
"Neither do I, Mom whipped my rear something awful the time she caught me with a pack Marlon smuggled to me what I was sixteen," Truman said.
"Watch it with them butts, Sylvia," Jerry said.
"Yeah, right," Sylvia groaned. "Dietrich, are you gonna rebuild?"
Dietrich gazed out the bay window of the living room at the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the tree branches. He shook his head.
"Only if I should survive this task," he said.
"Why, what could happen?" asked Bettina.
Dietrich glanced at his plate. "Each meal could be my last. Montressor could find us out any minute. He has his spies, his ways of finding out. And he will stop at nothing to get what he wants."
"How do you know all this? I thought you were just a detective?" Bettina asked.
Dietrich looked at them all. "I used to work for Montressor, as an actor, many years ago when I was younger…and slenderer, I might add." Serious again, he continued, "I know what he can and will do to get what he wants when he wants it: arson, abduction, seduction, rape, assault, even murder. I once saw him step over the body of a man he'd just shot through the heart, to get at the man's daughter."
Marcus looked at Jerry. "Did you know all this?"
"Well, Deet's always spared me the gory details, but I knew what he'd been through."
Truman turned to Dietrich. "You think he might kill you?" Truman asked Dietrich.
"He would kill any one of us if we stood in his way to you. But he would kill me more outright."
"Why?"
"Because I dared to say no to him. In his eyes, I am already a dead man, killing me would merely be casting out a ghost from the past. He'd kill me with relish."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"Just make sure to stay away from piccalilli then," Jerry said, breaking the somber quiet. Everyone chuckled with relief.
"Yeah, just make sure if you buy a hotdog from a street vendor, you ask him to hold the works. He might be one of Montressor's spies," Truman added.
Sylvia laughed so hard she splatted her drink.
"Nothing like laughter to dispel the shadows," Truman said.
"That's one reason I like you so much," she said, recovering. "You set the room rocking with your laughter. You lit up my life."
He looked at her earnestly. He set aside his plate and got down on his knees before her.
"I know I'm running for my life, and I know we've got a nut on our heels. But before we do anything else or go anywhere else, can I ask one thing of you?"
"Ask anything," she said, looking into his face.
"Sylvia…will you marry me?"
She didn't stop to think, not for an instant. "Yes."
He sat back on his heels, drawing her down onto his knees. She put her arms about his neck. They met in the middle and kissed each other.
A collective sigh mixed with giggles rose from the rose from the rest of the gathering. Everyone around them clapped and cheered.
Truman glanced out of the corner of his eye. One person clapped half-heartedly. He noticed Jerry wasn't smiling.
To be continued…