+J.M.J.+
Through the Door in the Sky
By Matrix Refugee
Author's Note:
I'm on a roll with this one. Most of this chapter got drafted a long time ago
when I was playing with ideas for this, but I was still able to salvage much of
it anyway.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I. WARNING: more mild slash (Montressor/Jerry). I did try to avoid
it, but the piebald creep in the sleazy lounging robes had other ideas.
But first, the artificial movie credits; Hey, I'm doing this fic…
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 as Themselves
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare
Directed by Peter Weir
* * * * * *
Chapter V: The Fevered Preparations
'"The allegations that I have dangerous intentions toward Truman Burbank are unfounded",' the voice of Montressor said over the radio in the kitchen.
"Jaaaahhwohl," Dietrich said, in a sarcastic drawl.
"Then how come they rammed Sylvia's car and they chased me through a woods?" Truman sneered.
'Montressor is known in Europe for his controversial films; this new series will be his first network production in the United States, the radio announcer said.
"Not if we can help it," Truman snipped.
"Shh," Sylvia said.
'In other news, a mysterious fire gutted the Plains Box Company factory over which the Truman Liberation Front, a protest group devoted to freeing the star of The Truman Show, had it's headquarters. It's not know what sparked the blaze or if this is related to recent events. The Fire Marshall is still investigating the cause of the five-alarm blaze.'
"Montressor strikes again," Truman said.
"Idt dass zoundt like hiss verk," Dietrich said, clearing his throat.
"Guess we better have that wedding soon," Truman said. He eyed Sylvia sidewise as he added, "I don't known how much longer I can wait."
"We're getting a doctor up here to do a Wasserman test," Tenniel said. "I know a JP who can keep his mouth shut."
"We'd do best to got you out of here as soon as is possible," Dietrich said. "Before Montressor finds out."
"And before I really get stir crazy," Truman said, glumly.
Jerry came into the kitchen with Cristoff at his back.
'Police are now searching for Eugene Cristoff, director and mastermind of The Truman Show. The visionary artist was last seen in his apartment at the EcoSphere, the giant domed soundstage where the show was filmed. OmniCam Corporation president Mose Meyers says Cristoff had been suffering from severe depression following the disappearance of his star, Truman Burbank.'
'"Cristoff looked at Truman almost like a son. He wasn't just an actor in his mind",' said another voice over the radio, presumably that of Mose Meyers.
'Police are asking the public to notify them if they have any information regarding Cristoff's whereabouts. He is described as a tall man about six feet tall, approximately sixty years of age, with a slender but robust build, about one hundred fifty-five pounds, balding grayish-brown hair, gray eyes and metal-rimmed glasses.'
"Well, that's a cheery thing to wake up to," Jerry groaned.
"I guess I'm staying put as well," Cristoff said.
"Hey, you got me into this, maybe it's good you're kinda getting a taste of what is was like for me," Truman said, smiling gently, no hard feelings.
Cristoff only shrugged. "I can't argue that, son."
"That's another thing: don't call me son or boy or anything like that. You aren't my real father," Truman said.
"No, you aren't. That much I know. But the man who played your father was romantically involved with the woman who gave birth to you. We aren't sure, but he might be your real father."
"So that's why he…seemed so real?" Truman asked.
"Yes."
"Wow, this is making the scenario even more schizo than it was before," Truman said.
"Life is full of that, I'm afraid," Cristoff said.
* * * * *
After breakfast, Dietrich and Tenniel went out to fetch Merriweather, the doctor who would perform the Wassermann test on Truman and Sylvia.
Truman paced the back porch nervously, listening to the chatter and clatter from the kitchen as Bettina, Sylvia and Marcus washed the dishes. Jerry sat at the far end of the porch, sharpening a pencil with a jack knife.
"You get nervous with blood tests?" Truman asked.
"Oh yeah, everyone does," Jerry said. "It's thinking about it that does the most harm."
"My dad used to tell me, 'Don't think about the test, think about what flavor ice cream you want me to getcha afterward."
"And what about your Mum?"
"Ugh, she was worse. It'd be 'Oh, that doesn't hurt!' and 'Come now, you're a big strong boy!'"
"Yeah, and come to think of it, she was the artiste of the phony illnesses."
"Figures. She could go on and on, and on and on, and on and on about HER little toe aches, but I couldn't complain if my throat was just about swollen shut."
Sylvia came out on the deck at that point. "What did I hear about ice cream?"
"I was just reminiscing about when I was a kid and I had to have a blood test," Truman said, sharing the memory with her.
"Cool! That's a great idea," she said, darting a significant look at Jerry. "You gonna find a way to oblige us?"
"I'll see what we can do," Jerry said.
Bettina stuck her head out the door. "The doctor's in the house."
"Uh oh, time to start thinking about that ice cream," Truman said, getting up and going in, Sylvia at his side, Jerry behind them.
They found Tenniel and Dietrich in the entryway with a small, fortyish man in a non-descript gray suit. Dietrich was just finishing giving the smaller man a final pat down.
"Is he clean?" Jerry asked.
"Yes, " Dietrich said.
"The big question is, are our two young people clean," the newcomer said, half-humorously. Tenniel quickly introduced him to the rest as Dr. Merriweather.
"So you're the famous Truman Burbank who's caused such a stir lately," Merriweather said.
"Oh, I could live without the famous part," Truman said with a smile.
"That's understood," Merriweather replied. "Well then, let's get this started so we don't prolong it."
He set up the temporary lab at the kitchen table. They stuck two chairs together as a makeshift couch. Truman sat down, rolled up his sleeve and turned his face away as Merriweather set to work.
"What flavor you thinking of?" Sylvia asked.
"Uh…it's a toss-up between orange pineapple and…uhhh!….strawberry cheesecake," Truman replied, gritting his teeth.
"Oh, the ice cream trick! I remember that episode," Merriweather said.
Truman looked up at Tenniel, who stood in the kitchen doorway. "Is he really safe?"
"Yes, he's one of our supporters," Tenniel said.
Merriweather taped up Truman's arm and helped him up.
"My turn," Sylvia said. Truman sat at her feet, keeping his eyes on her face as Merriweather set to work. Her eyes kept straying, but Truman moved a little closer, keeping his eyes on her face, which encouraged her to keep her eyes on his.
"What flavor are you thinking of?" he asked.
"I'm not sure…double chocolate…Uh!"
"With hot fudge?"
"You're torturing me," she said, grinning with delight.
"Hot fudge…and whipped cream…and rainbow jimmies…and a cherry on top."
"Drat you, Truman, you're making me hungry and I just had breakfast,' she said, as Merriweather taped up her arm.
"Now I know what you're gonna want us to bring up for lunch," Jerry groaned.
"No reason you shouldn't, except if you're trying to keep off that Montressor goon's radar," Merriweather said. "Celebrate a little. I'll have the results ready by tonight."
"I'll send someone out to fetch them," Tenniel said. "What time you want me to send the courier?"
Merriweather shrugged. "With my work load, I may not be able to get to it till this evening. Send someone about nine this evening."
"That's Dietrich's watch," Tenniel said.
"Looks like I'm elected," Jerry said, sheepishly.
* * * * *
"It's too quiet," Dietrich said, watching the kitchen window during lunch. Bettina and Marcus had been into town, getting Sylvia's ice cream.
"Yeah, our car didn't get chased or rammed," Bettina said.
"The calm before the storm?" Jerry asked, oddly serious. He looked at Dietrich. "You're scared."
"What makes you say zat?" Dietrich asked.
"You're not eating and your accent keeps popping out."
"Did Cristoff want anything?" Bettina asked, peering into the potato salad container.
"He told me he never eats lunch," Tenniel said.
"So he's continuing to be anti-social," Marcus said.
"He had breakfast with us," Sylvia pointed out.
"Yeah, and I actually didn't fight with him," Truman said.
"That's a step in the right direction," Sylvia said.
"What, towards making friends with him?" Truman said, a little sore.
"You might want to make the most of being around him," Tenniel said. "The way things stand, you might have to do your traveling alongside him. We're having a council this afternoon in the living room."
* * * * *
At three o'clock, they sat assembled in the living room, Truman and Sylvia on the couch, Cristoff in an armchair beside them. Jerry and Dietrich on the window seat. Bettina, Marcus and the rest of the crew (about ten men and ten women) sitting on chairs and boxes and hassocks gathered in a rough circle about the table.
"Okay, here's the plan I drew up with Jerry, Dietrich and Bettina's help. I'm bringing the JP here tomorrow evening about six, which means we can move out about six-thirty. After the ceremony, here's the game plan: Marcus: you, Fred, Conrad, Tom, and Sarah are taking the decoy car. You're heading to LAX. Dietrich: you, Jerry, Truman, Cristoff and Sylvia are going to drive northward to Canada by the back roads," Tenniel said. "Everyone who can use a gun is expected to carry one. Make sure you have enough ammunition. We have plenty stored up ahead of time. I don't care what you take, whether it's a derringer or a musket, as long as it shoots."
"How 'bout one where you pull the trigger and a little sign pops out that says 'BANG!!!' on it?" Truman asked.
Everyone laughed.
"I don't think Montressor would find that amusing," Dietrich said. "It might only annoy him."
"Am I expected to carry a gun, 'cause I've…never actually used one," Truman asked, serious now.
"No, that's why the rest of us are going to be armed. You just worry about getting used to the real world," Tenniel said.
"Can I? My grandmother taught me to shoot rattlesnakes," Sylvia said.
"Sure," Tenniel said.
"Might I be allowed to do my part in the defense?" Cristoff asked.
Tenniel looked at Dietrich. "Based on what Dietrich and you have told me, I wouldn't advise it."
"I promise I won't use it unless it's absolutely necessary," Cristoff said. "I have to do this."
"So now you're gonna play the savior after you played God for so many years," Truman grumbled.
"C'mon, give the guy a chance," Jerry said.
Sylvia put her hand on Truman's. "He only wants to help."
"Yeah, help me over a cliff," Truman sneered.
"Truman, you have my word of honor," Cristoff said, raising one hand.
Truman looked Cristoff in the face, looking deep into the other man's gray eyes. He hadn't noticed the troubled look there before.
"All right, all right, he can do it," Truman relented. "As long as he doesn't try anything else funny."
* * * * *
After the council, the group dispersed to make the last preparations, or to rest up, or to go out and fetch last minute supplies. The "security personnel" headed for the garage to prepare the weaponry.
Later still, towards the evening, when Bettina and a few others had gone out to order pizza (Tenniel's idea: they were still celebrating), Truman made himself go up the stairs to the small room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
He paused at the door, hesitated, then drew in a long breath and rapped on the door. He heard a rustle behind it and it opened.
Cristoff looked out at him, a bit surprised. "What brings you up here?"
"I'd like to know why myself," he said. "But…I'd like to know what you meant by your producers wanting you to do the 'M. Night Shyamalan thing'?"
"They used to call it the Hitchcock thing. You know how Hitchcock used to make a walk-on appearance in all of his movies? Shyamalan takes that one step further: He takes a minor if somewhat pivotal role in his movies."
"So why didn't you do that till the very end? Why didn't you step into the little world of your own making and face me like a man?"
"I always said I wanted to remain emotionally detached. But the very thing I sought to avoid is being forced upon me. I've had to take a role in the drama of your life and I have become emotionally involved.
"But to be honest, I've been emotionally involved anyway. I let myself become so depressed after you left, that I almost suicided. I was ready to blow my brains out last night, but fortunately your friend Mr. Hohenzoller came in at just the right moment and stopped me."
"Yeah, you don't want to argue with a guy THAT big if you know what's good for you."
"More than that. He's got something for you that I'm only just learning. He loves you. He's helped you and he keeps helping you even though it's cost him. He's more of a father to you than I've ever been."
"He's a little young to be a father to me; he's more like an older brother…maybe you just have to work on that. Maybe, when all this is over, I can find my real father."
"I'm afraid you might not be able to attempt that. You're too well known."
"I was afraid of that."
"You were right."
"What?"
"I did mess up your life."
"Well, at least you're admitting it."
* * * * *
Downstairs in the basement, Sylvia was folding clean laundry when she heard someone come down the steps. She looked up.
Jerry stood on the bottom step, hands in pockets, leaning against the end of the banister.
"You know you don't have to go through with this, marrying Truman," he said.
"I know what I want and I know what Truman wants: we want to spend the rest of our lives together," she said.
"But are you sure you can handle the stress?" he asked, stepping down.
"I love him. For his sake, I'll hazard anything as long as we have each other."
He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he quickly closed it.
"But are you sure you're doing the right thing?" he asked at length.
"I'm absolutely sure," she said. "I set this in motion. I chose to tell him what was going on."
"But are you sure you want to go through with this? I know more about Montressor from what Dietrich's told me than you know. I have an idea of what we're getting into. If Montressor's after Truman and if he's as crooked as Dietrich told me, it's reasonable to assume that the goon might have it in for you, too."
"Whatever happens to Truman, wherever he ends up, I want to be there with him."
He stepped up to her, almost toe to toe. "I don't want you to get hurt. Sylvia…I can't say it."
"Say what?" she asked. "What's got into you?" He kept looking away from her; she couldn't meet his eyes dead on. She reached out and grabbed his chin, holding his head still. He tried to slip from her grasp but she got hold of his shoulder with her free hand. Their eyes met for just an instant. She looked into his eyes and found so many emotions there, so snarled up she could barely untangle them: disappointment, longing, stress. Jerry's lips twisted as if he fought to say something or as if he would kiss her.
"Say it," she ordered.
"I can't," he said, with an Anglian "ah".
He broke from her grasp and fled up the stairs.
* * * * *
Later still, Sylvia met Truman on the second floor stairs.
"You okay?" he asked. "You look a little pale."
"Yeah, it's just…Jerry has a crush on me," she said.
"Oh boy, y' know, I was afraid of that. I just got this funny feeling he had something for you, but I didn't let on."
"It's nothing new to me. I knew he'd had something for me before, but I didn't think it would come back. I never did anything to encourage it."
Truman slipped his arms about her waist. "I know you wouldn't." He leaned her head against his chest.
And to speak of the devil, as Truman looked over Sylvia's shoulder, he spotted Jerry approaching the stairs. "Hey, you loverbirds, there's a party with your names on it about to start in the living room," Jerry called up to them.
"Can't miss our own pre-wedding reception," Truman said, releasing Sylvia and leading her downstairs
* * * * *
The group spent much of the evening sharing crazy stories. Even Cristoff, whom Tenniel had prevailed upon to come down, related a few hysterical behind the scenes anecdotes.
"So, Peik, what inspired you to join the TLF?" Cristoff asked at length.
"Aw, you don't want to hear it, and just about everyone else knows it," Jerry said.
"Aw c'mon, be a sport," Truman coaxed. "If you're gonna be keeping an eye on me during this little road trip, I'd like to know whether or not you're really an axe murderer."
"It's a good story anyway," Tenniel said. "Tell it, Peik."
"Well, since the Chief ordered me by my last name, I'd better tell it," Jerry said.
"Ten years ago, I had just finished acting school in Vancouver and done a few bit parts in the theatre and a few commercials. Everyone said I had the makings of a big star, what with my good looks and all—"
"Modest, isn't he?" Dietrich sneered, grinning.
"I'm only telling the truth. One of the casting directors for The Truman Show spotted me and asked me to audition for the part of Dick Legis, a student at Sea Haven High School and later at Sea Haven Community College and the boyfriend of sorts to Lauren Garland."
"Okay, I'm remembering one bit besides the tipping boat incident: You were the goon dancing with Lauren—I mean, Sylvia—and I kept cutting in, and you kept giving me those 'How dare you!' glares," Truman said.
"I remember that—I also remember how hard a character Dick was. I kept trying not to make him too cartoonish, y' know, the atypical rich, handsome young snob."
"Actually, the snobbery was intentional. Part of the back-story on Legis was that his family was having financial troubles and they were trying to maintain their upper class image in the face of losing what was left of the family fortune," Cristoff said.
"Hey, who's telling the story?" Truman cut in.
"Well, after the incident in the college library when Truman and Sylvia almost started something—" Jerry started to say.
"They DID start something!" Sarah, one of the others, yelled from the back of the room.
"Let Jerry tell the story," Tenniel said patiently.
"Well ANYWAY, Cristoff gave me this scene next day in the college cafeteria, where I was supposed to bawl out Truman for trying to take Lauren, aka. Sylvia away from me."
"Oh yeah, and you didn't get very far because I took your glass of tomato juice and poured the whole thing into your lap," Truman said.
"So, not knowing what else to do, I stormed out of the caff in a huff."
"Yeah, and you bumped into Marlon or what's his face on the way out, and he comes to my table and says to me, 'Hey, what's the matter with Dick? He find out about you and Lauren?' So I said he had. So what's his face asks, 'Well, whatcha do? Attack him with a chainsaw?' And I said, no, I poured tomato juice on him. And he says, 'Wow, you oughta get a medal for bravery. His father owns half the county'."
"So anyway," Jerry resumed. "Mose Meyers wanted to do a dramatic scene where Dick and some of his cronies were to jump Truman and clobber him. And Cristoff thought this sounded like a good idea. But I didn't like it one bit. I actually told him I couldn't do it because it didn't seem in keeping with the character. I'd actually defied Cristoff a bit, I'd developed my character a little so that he was really in love with Lauren, and that he was just pretending he really wanted her as just an ornament for his arm. Needless to say, Cristoff was displeased with me, so even though my contract was still good, he ordered me off the show, explaining away my character's disappearance by saying my father had taken me out because he was displeased with my marks."
"What was really happening was that you were swaying certain areas of the audience away from Truman, and we wanted to avoid needless competition," Cristoff said.
"Simply put: the female viewers were losing interest in Truman and they drooling over Dick Legis," Tenniel said.
"That, alas, was my last major acting role. If you displeased the guy in charge of the till now largest, longest running network show, the mighty TV god Criss Toff, your resume is toast. Burnt toast. I've had bit parts in a few low-budget movies since then, but nothing major. I worked as a security guard in a few warehouses, which is how I met Dietrich. We worked in the same neighborhood; I got a job at the Plains Box Company factory, which also put me in contact with the people of the TLF. Tenniel told me they needed a big, strong guy to work as a bodyguard if they ever got Truman out, so I told them I knew one guy who'd fit the bill. So that's how Dietrich came to join the gang.
"I've been in and out of apartments—mostly out, hence why I was living out of my truck for a while. California prices are bad, but they're nothing compared to Canada prices. You think stuff is priced high here compared to the way things are priced in 'Sea Haven'? Wait till we get to Canada and you see the prices there. You'll know you're in the real world."
The group fell thoughtfully silent for several long minutes.
"Y' know, I don't know if I'm just making my brain dizzy, but I got to thinking: y' know how when you're a kid and you have that funny thought that your life is like a TV show, that there's something bigger than your world out there, watching your every movement?" Truman said.
"That's probably what starts some people on the road to finding God," Tenniel said. "But in your case, it was different."
"Yeah, it turned out to be literal, not just a metaphor," Truman said. "Weird… It just makes me think: all the memories that I've got, y' know, growing up. They're all fake. I mean…who am I? Where did I really come from? I'm nobody."
"No. you're somebody. And even if those memories weren't really real, they still affected who you are and who you became. You're much more than the sum total of your memories," Tenniel said.
Sylvia got up. "I need some fresh air. You want to come out with me, Truman?"
"Sure. Of course," he said, following her towards the door.
Jerry looked at Dietrich. "Who's watch is it?"
"It's mine," Dietrich said, following the young couple out. "You have that courier job to do."
"Right. Well, I'll just get my other jacket and walk out with the three of you," Jerry said. He went for the coat closet and came back with a long black leather jacket similar to Dietrich's except it was smaller.
* * * * *
"You worried about tomorrow? You seem nervous," Sylvia said as she and Truman walked hand in hand in the darkened back yard. Dietrich followed them at a discrete distance, close enough to intervene when necessary, but not so close that he overheard them.
"I think it's just reality has really set in," Truman said. "I mean, is my name really Truman Burbank? Is my notoriety gonna compromise us when we get to Canada? What's gonna happen next?"
"Tru, we'll worry about that when we have to. Right now, we've got a future together to look forward to. We're getting married. We'll take it one step of the way at a time."
"That's all we can do anyway," he admitted, slipping his arm around her.
* * * * *
Merriweather's house blazed with lights when Jerry pulled his truck into the drive. Every light in the house must have been on. Something wasn't right.
He went up to the front door and found it ajar. He drew his gun from the waistband of his trousers and went in, walking quietly and scanning the entryway with both eyes and ears.
Someone had ransacked the house. Tables lay overturned, papers scattered about, bookcases emptied, pictures pushed askew on the walls. He went down to the basement, where Merriweather had a small lab.
This at least appeared unravaged. The door was still locked. Jerry picked the lock with a length of wire in his pocket, then pushed open the door.
The lab looked untouched, eerily so, at first glance. He looked around for anything that looked like the lab results.
He found splashes of fresh blood on the floor. On one of the workbenches stood a computer monitor on standby, the tower missing.
Oh God, where was Merriweather? Where were the results?
He noticed a framed photo on the wall, of Merriweather and his late wife. It hung slightly crooked, not slung askew, but just out of plumb with the wall. Jerry took it down.
A business-sized envelope stuck out of the back of the picture. He pulled it out and opened it.
Lab results: Burbank, Truman
Lab results: Thomas, Sylvia
Jerry breathed a sigh of relief and stuck the results into his pocket. Then he had a second thought. He took the envelope out and unzipped the lining of his jacket. He slid the envelope in and rezipped the lining. The leather creaked when he moved, no one would notice any extra rustles.
He was just stepping outside, onto the stoop, down to the flagstone path, when two figures lunged out of the bushes and grabbed him. Someone threw a heavy leather coat over his head. Someone else held a gun to his spine.
"Don't struggle and we won't plug yah," said a man's sneery voice close to his ear.
They dragged him toward a waiting vehicle and shoved him into the back seat. They didn't remove the coat from his head, but he still heard the clink of someone aiming a gun at him, probably from the front seat.
"Who are you? Where are you taking me?" he asked.
"The less you talk, the better," Sneery voice said next to him.
They traveled a zigzag course he could barely trace. At length, they stopped. Still keeping the coat over his head, his captors led him out and up a winding staircase.
They entered a room and passed along a hallway. His guards stopped. Still holding him, they yanked the coat from his head.
He stood in a richly appointed bedroom, a boudoir really. Purple hangings covered the walls. A black and silver brocade curtain separated the boudoir from the bedroom proper, but it hung pulled back slightly, revealing one carven post of a richly appointed bed.
Before the curtain stood a low-slung divan covered in purple brocade on which gracefully sprawled a small man in a scarlet damask dressing gown, open almost to his waist. An Asian girl knelt at his feet, buffing his toenails.
The stranger raised his eyes to Jerry and his guards. The thin skin just covering the bones beneath his too-thin face had an olive cast to it, but a patch of dead white skin surrounded his right eye, the iris of which was red, contrasting with the other, which was jet black, like his hair except for one tuft over his albinist eye.
Other patches of dead white skin showed on his flesh: on the back of the hand that lay on the arm of the divan, on one thigh, which showed through a slit in the skirts of his robe. Most of his naked breast had the same deathly pallor, except for a large reddish black birthmark shaped almost like a knife wound in the exact center of the albino patch, over his heart.
"Ngila, if you're finished, you can get you kit and your derriere out of here," the strange creature said. The girl collected her things and went out without raising her eyes. The stranger regarded them without blinking. "Well done, Sweyk. You brought him here in one piece. Just borrow the gun he's hiding."
The two gorillas at Jerry's sides tore off his jacket so hard one of the buttons flew off. The one on the left, the one with the sneery voice, yanked Jerry's gun from his belt and stuffed it into his own pocket.
"The rest of you get going," the weird creature said. "I need to have a private moment with Mr. Jerry Peik."
The goons went out submissively, leaving Jerry alone with the other.
"Who do you think you are?" Jerry snapped.
"Temper, temper! It's as nippy as it's beautiful," the stranger drawled. "I'm the famous demon Azor Montressor whose death you've yelled for."
"What do you want of me?"
Montressor leaned forward. "Information. Merriweather was of no help to us. He conveniently died of the heart attack his own doctor had been warning him about, right when my gentlemen were asking him a few simple questions. Perhaps you could assist me."
"So?"
"Where is Truman Burbank? Where are you hiding him?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Can't or won't, there is a difference beyond mere semantics."
"What's it to you?"
"It means everything to me, Peik. Come now, make it easy for us and tell us where he is. I don't want to have to damage you to get the information out."
"Okay, tell me this: what did you do to Merriweather?"
Montressor laughed a harsh laugh like a knife dragged over stones. "Do you expect me to tell you that?"
"I'd just like to know your methods. Simple enough."
"Then we'll just have to show you how we do it," Montressor snarled.
The door burst open behind him. Before Jerry could turn, something like a small explosive cracked. A stinging pain shot into his spine. He had just enough time to realize he'd been shot with a tranquilizer gun when the drug started to take effect. His legs went weak of a sudden and he collapsed into an armchair nearby. His head started to ache, then it grew light. The lights in the room softened and turned fuzzy. Sounds echoed, muffled, as if they came through water. His eyelids went slack over his eyes and fell shut. He lifted them, but it took an act of the will to fight the heightened pull of gravity on them. His will fighting to keep his tongue still in his head, his body surrendered to the drug. He slid into a weird, sensuous sleep which seemed to last for hours.
A colorful shadow he realized was Montressor hovered over him balanced on the arm of the chair. The parti-colored shadow sank over him, covering him, just touching him.
"So beautiful when he's woozy," Montressor murmured. "Like the first time I ever saw you…Is it ready yet? No? Hurry up; he's coming around. Must have a better metabolism than we thought."
Why isn't he asking me any questions? Jerry thought, closing his teeth on his tongue to keep from saying this thought out loud.
Montressor's face hovered just millimeters over his. "Young man, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"
"Don't know…maybe yes," Jerry mumbled.
"Good. If you didn't know, you'd be of no use to me. It adds spice to your nature." The creature's face moved in. He felt Montressor's hot breath fan the side of his face. The weird creature suddenly thrust the tip of his tongue into his ear. Jerry shuddered with discomfort, stifling a moan of disgust in his throat.
Montressor retracted. "What was that? Pain? Or something else?" He moved away. "All right, put it back on him."
Jerry slid back into that strange sleep. He heard sounds and he smelled scents, the heady, lush scents of incense, roses and patchouli in Montressor's chambers, the rank, animal smell of the coat thrown over his head, but he sense little else.
He awoke after what felt like hours, finding himself in the front seat of the Land Rover, still parked in Merriweather's driveway. His back ached, but he could feel his legs again. He moved them tentatively. It was as if nothing had happened.
His Luger. It wasn't in his belt.
It lay on the dashboard in front of him, a note on black paper written in lavender ink lay under it.
Here's your trinket back, gorgeous. Can't imagine a pretty little thing like you making use of it on anyone, though.
Take care of yourself,
A. M.
He checked the car, made sure nothing was missing. He felt his jacket, making sure he could still feel the envelope there. He even took it out and checked to make sure it hadn't been disturbed. The lab results were intact.
He started the truck and headed back to the cottage by a circuitous route. At first he was afraid the drug would have some adverse effect on his driving, but it was as if it had never happened.
Tenniel met him at the door to the cottage. "What took so long? Did Merriweather get chatting?"
"No, worse," Jerry said. "Montressor must have kidnapped Merriweather: the doctor wasn't there. But Montressor's goons still were. They jumped me, tried to kidnap me, tried to get me to talk, but I didn't."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not sure of anything: they stuck me with something, but I think it just made me woozy. My head's clear already."
"Go get some sleep. I'll take your watch," Tenniel said.
To be continued…
Through the Door in the Sky
By Matrix Refugee
Author's Note:
I'm on a roll with this one. Most of this chapter got drafted a long time ago
when I was playing with ideas for this, but I was still able to salvage much of
it anyway.
Disclaimer:
See Chapter I. WARNING: more mild slash (Montressor/Jerry). I did try to avoid
it, but the piebald creep in the sleazy lounging robes had other ideas.
But first, the artificial movie credits; Hey, I'm doing this fic…
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 as Themselves
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare
Directed by Peter Weir
* * * * * *
Chapter V: The Fevered Preparations
'"The allegations that I have dangerous intentions toward Truman Burbank are unfounded",' the voice of Montressor said over the radio in the kitchen.
"Jaaaahhwohl," Dietrich said, in a sarcastic drawl.
"Then how come they rammed Sylvia's car and they chased me through a woods?" Truman sneered.
'Montressor is known in Europe for his controversial films; this new series will be his first network production in the United States, the radio announcer said.
"Not if we can help it," Truman snipped.
"Shh," Sylvia said.
'In other news, a mysterious fire gutted the Plains Box Company factory over which the Truman Liberation Front, a protest group devoted to freeing the star of The Truman Show, had it's headquarters. It's not know what sparked the blaze or if this is related to recent events. The Fire Marshall is still investigating the cause of the five-alarm blaze.'
"Montressor strikes again," Truman said.
"Idt dass zoundt like hiss verk," Dietrich said, clearing his throat.
"Guess we better have that wedding soon," Truman said. He eyed Sylvia sidewise as he added, "I don't known how much longer I can wait."
"We're getting a doctor up here to do a Wasserman test," Tenniel said. "I know a JP who can keep his mouth shut."
"We'd do best to got you out of here as soon as is possible," Dietrich said. "Before Montressor finds out."
"And before I really get stir crazy," Truman said, glumly.
Jerry came into the kitchen with Cristoff at his back.
'Police are now searching for Eugene Cristoff, director and mastermind of The Truman Show. The visionary artist was last seen in his apartment at the EcoSphere, the giant domed soundstage where the show was filmed. OmniCam Corporation president Mose Meyers says Cristoff had been suffering from severe depression following the disappearance of his star, Truman Burbank.'
'"Cristoff looked at Truman almost like a son. He wasn't just an actor in his mind",' said another voice over the radio, presumably that of Mose Meyers.
'Police are asking the public to notify them if they have any information regarding Cristoff's whereabouts. He is described as a tall man about six feet tall, approximately sixty years of age, with a slender but robust build, about one hundred fifty-five pounds, balding grayish-brown hair, gray eyes and metal-rimmed glasses.'
"Well, that's a cheery thing to wake up to," Jerry groaned.
"I guess I'm staying put as well," Cristoff said.
"Hey, you got me into this, maybe it's good you're kinda getting a taste of what is was like for me," Truman said, smiling gently, no hard feelings.
Cristoff only shrugged. "I can't argue that, son."
"That's another thing: don't call me son or boy or anything like that. You aren't my real father," Truman said.
"No, you aren't. That much I know. But the man who played your father was romantically involved with the woman who gave birth to you. We aren't sure, but he might be your real father."
"So that's why he…seemed so real?" Truman asked.
"Yes."
"Wow, this is making the scenario even more schizo than it was before," Truman said.
"Life is full of that, I'm afraid," Cristoff said.
* * * * *
After breakfast, Dietrich and Tenniel went out to fetch Merriweather, the doctor who would perform the Wassermann test on Truman and Sylvia.
Truman paced the back porch nervously, listening to the chatter and clatter from the kitchen as Bettina, Sylvia and Marcus washed the dishes. Jerry sat at the far end of the porch, sharpening a pencil with a jack knife.
"You get nervous with blood tests?" Truman asked.
"Oh yeah, everyone does," Jerry said. "It's thinking about it that does the most harm."
"My dad used to tell me, 'Don't think about the test, think about what flavor ice cream you want me to getcha afterward."
"And what about your Mum?"
"Ugh, she was worse. It'd be 'Oh, that doesn't hurt!' and 'Come now, you're a big strong boy!'"
"Yeah, and come to think of it, she was the artiste of the phony illnesses."
"Figures. She could go on and on, and on and on, and on and on about HER little toe aches, but I couldn't complain if my throat was just about swollen shut."
Sylvia came out on the deck at that point. "What did I hear about ice cream?"
"I was just reminiscing about when I was a kid and I had to have a blood test," Truman said, sharing the memory with her.
"Cool! That's a great idea," she said, darting a significant look at Jerry. "You gonna find a way to oblige us?"
"I'll see what we can do," Jerry said.
Bettina stuck her head out the door. "The doctor's in the house."
"Uh oh, time to start thinking about that ice cream," Truman said, getting up and going in, Sylvia at his side, Jerry behind them.
They found Tenniel and Dietrich in the entryway with a small, fortyish man in a non-descript gray suit. Dietrich was just finishing giving the smaller man a final pat down.
"Is he clean?" Jerry asked.
"Yes, " Dietrich said.
"The big question is, are our two young people clean," the newcomer said, half-humorously. Tenniel quickly introduced him to the rest as Dr. Merriweather.
"So you're the famous Truman Burbank who's caused such a stir lately," Merriweather said.
"Oh, I could live without the famous part," Truman said with a smile.
"That's understood," Merriweather replied. "Well then, let's get this started so we don't prolong it."
He set up the temporary lab at the kitchen table. They stuck two chairs together as a makeshift couch. Truman sat down, rolled up his sleeve and turned his face away as Merriweather set to work.
"What flavor you thinking of?" Sylvia asked.
"Uh…it's a toss-up between orange pineapple and…uhhh!….strawberry cheesecake," Truman replied, gritting his teeth.
"Oh, the ice cream trick! I remember that episode," Merriweather said.
Truman looked up at Tenniel, who stood in the kitchen doorway. "Is he really safe?"
"Yes, he's one of our supporters," Tenniel said.
Merriweather taped up Truman's arm and helped him up.
"My turn," Sylvia said. Truman sat at her feet, keeping his eyes on her face as Merriweather set to work. Her eyes kept straying, but Truman moved a little closer, keeping his eyes on her face, which encouraged her to keep her eyes on his.
"What flavor are you thinking of?" he asked.
"I'm not sure…double chocolate…Uh!"
"With hot fudge?"
"You're torturing me," she said, grinning with delight.
"Hot fudge…and whipped cream…and rainbow jimmies…and a cherry on top."
"Drat you, Truman, you're making me hungry and I just had breakfast,' she said, as Merriweather taped up her arm.
"Now I know what you're gonna want us to bring up for lunch," Jerry groaned.
"No reason you shouldn't, except if you're trying to keep off that Montressor goon's radar," Merriweather said. "Celebrate a little. I'll have the results ready by tonight."
"I'll send someone out to fetch them," Tenniel said. "What time you want me to send the courier?"
Merriweather shrugged. "With my work load, I may not be able to get to it till this evening. Send someone about nine this evening."
"That's Dietrich's watch," Tenniel said.
"Looks like I'm elected," Jerry said, sheepishly.
* * * * *
"It's too quiet," Dietrich said, watching the kitchen window during lunch. Bettina and Marcus had been into town, getting Sylvia's ice cream.
"Yeah, our car didn't get chased or rammed," Bettina said.
"The calm before the storm?" Jerry asked, oddly serious. He looked at Dietrich. "You're scared."
"What makes you say zat?" Dietrich asked.
"You're not eating and your accent keeps popping out."
"Did Cristoff want anything?" Bettina asked, peering into the potato salad container.
"He told me he never eats lunch," Tenniel said.
"So he's continuing to be anti-social," Marcus said.
"He had breakfast with us," Sylvia pointed out.
"Yeah, and I actually didn't fight with him," Truman said.
"That's a step in the right direction," Sylvia said.
"What, towards making friends with him?" Truman said, a little sore.
"You might want to make the most of being around him," Tenniel said. "The way things stand, you might have to do your traveling alongside him. We're having a council this afternoon in the living room."
* * * * *
At three o'clock, they sat assembled in the living room, Truman and Sylvia on the couch, Cristoff in an armchair beside them. Jerry and Dietrich on the window seat. Bettina, Marcus and the rest of the crew (about ten men and ten women) sitting on chairs and boxes and hassocks gathered in a rough circle about the table.
"Okay, here's the plan I drew up with Jerry, Dietrich and Bettina's help. I'm bringing the JP here tomorrow evening about six, which means we can move out about six-thirty. After the ceremony, here's the game plan: Marcus: you, Fred, Conrad, Tom, and Sarah are taking the decoy car. You're heading to LAX. Dietrich: you, Jerry, Truman, Cristoff and Sylvia are going to drive northward to Canada by the back roads," Tenniel said. "Everyone who can use a gun is expected to carry one. Make sure you have enough ammunition. We have plenty stored up ahead of time. I don't care what you take, whether it's a derringer or a musket, as long as it shoots."
"How 'bout one where you pull the trigger and a little sign pops out that says 'BANG!!!' on it?" Truman asked.
Everyone laughed.
"I don't think Montressor would find that amusing," Dietrich said. "It might only annoy him."
"Am I expected to carry a gun, 'cause I've…never actually used one," Truman asked, serious now.
"No, that's why the rest of us are going to be armed. You just worry about getting used to the real world," Tenniel said.
"Can I? My grandmother taught me to shoot rattlesnakes," Sylvia said.
"Sure," Tenniel said.
"Might I be allowed to do my part in the defense?" Cristoff asked.
Tenniel looked at Dietrich. "Based on what Dietrich and you have told me, I wouldn't advise it."
"I promise I won't use it unless it's absolutely necessary," Cristoff said. "I have to do this."
"So now you're gonna play the savior after you played God for so many years," Truman grumbled.
"C'mon, give the guy a chance," Jerry said.
Sylvia put her hand on Truman's. "He only wants to help."
"Yeah, help me over a cliff," Truman sneered.
"Truman, you have my word of honor," Cristoff said, raising one hand.
Truman looked Cristoff in the face, looking deep into the other man's gray eyes. He hadn't noticed the troubled look there before.
"All right, all right, he can do it," Truman relented. "As long as he doesn't try anything else funny."
* * * * *
After the council, the group dispersed to make the last preparations, or to rest up, or to go out and fetch last minute supplies. The "security personnel" headed for the garage to prepare the weaponry.
Later still, towards the evening, when Bettina and a few others had gone out to order pizza (Tenniel's idea: they were still celebrating), Truman made himself go up the stairs to the small room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
He paused at the door, hesitated, then drew in a long breath and rapped on the door. He heard a rustle behind it and it opened.
Cristoff looked out at him, a bit surprised. "What brings you up here?"
"I'd like to know why myself," he said. "But…I'd like to know what you meant by your producers wanting you to do the 'M. Night Shyamalan thing'?"
"They used to call it the Hitchcock thing. You know how Hitchcock used to make a walk-on appearance in all of his movies? Shyamalan takes that one step further: He takes a minor if somewhat pivotal role in his movies."
"So why didn't you do that till the very end? Why didn't you step into the little world of your own making and face me like a man?"
"I always said I wanted to remain emotionally detached. But the very thing I sought to avoid is being forced upon me. I've had to take a role in the drama of your life and I have become emotionally involved.
"But to be honest, I've been emotionally involved anyway. I let myself become so depressed after you left, that I almost suicided. I was ready to blow my brains out last night, but fortunately your friend Mr. Hohenzoller came in at just the right moment and stopped me."
"Yeah, you don't want to argue with a guy THAT big if you know what's good for you."
"More than that. He's got something for you that I'm only just learning. He loves you. He's helped you and he keeps helping you even though it's cost him. He's more of a father to you than I've ever been."
"He's a little young to be a father to me; he's more like an older brother…maybe you just have to work on that. Maybe, when all this is over, I can find my real father."
"I'm afraid you might not be able to attempt that. You're too well known."
"I was afraid of that."
"You were right."
"What?"
"I did mess up your life."
"Well, at least you're admitting it."
* * * * *
Downstairs in the basement, Sylvia was folding clean laundry when she heard someone come down the steps. She looked up.
Jerry stood on the bottom step, hands in pockets, leaning against the end of the banister.
"You know you don't have to go through with this, marrying Truman," he said.
"I know what I want and I know what Truman wants: we want to spend the rest of our lives together," she said.
"But are you sure you can handle the stress?" he asked, stepping down.
"I love him. For his sake, I'll hazard anything as long as we have each other."
He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he quickly closed it.
"But are you sure you're doing the right thing?" he asked at length.
"I'm absolutely sure," she said. "I set this in motion. I chose to tell him what was going on."
"But are you sure you want to go through with this? I know more about Montressor from what Dietrich's told me than you know. I have an idea of what we're getting into. If Montressor's after Truman and if he's as crooked as Dietrich told me, it's reasonable to assume that the goon might have it in for you, too."
"Whatever happens to Truman, wherever he ends up, I want to be there with him."
He stepped up to her, almost toe to toe. "I don't want you to get hurt. Sylvia…I can't say it."
"Say what?" she asked. "What's got into you?" He kept looking away from her; she couldn't meet his eyes dead on. She reached out and grabbed his chin, holding his head still. He tried to slip from her grasp but she got hold of his shoulder with her free hand. Their eyes met for just an instant. She looked into his eyes and found so many emotions there, so snarled up she could barely untangle them: disappointment, longing, stress. Jerry's lips twisted as if he fought to say something or as if he would kiss her.
"Say it," she ordered.
"I can't," he said, with an Anglian "ah".
He broke from her grasp and fled up the stairs.
* * * * *
Later still, Sylvia met Truman on the second floor stairs.
"You okay?" he asked. "You look a little pale."
"Yeah, it's just…Jerry has a crush on me," she said.
"Oh boy, y' know, I was afraid of that. I just got this funny feeling he had something for you, but I didn't let on."
"It's nothing new to me. I knew he'd had something for me before, but I didn't think it would come back. I never did anything to encourage it."
Truman slipped his arms about her waist. "I know you wouldn't." He leaned her head against his chest.
And to speak of the devil, as Truman looked over Sylvia's shoulder, he spotted Jerry approaching the stairs. "Hey, you loverbirds, there's a party with your names on it about to start in the living room," Jerry called up to them.
"Can't miss our own pre-wedding reception," Truman said, releasing Sylvia and leading her downstairs
* * * * *
The group spent much of the evening sharing crazy stories. Even Cristoff, whom Tenniel had prevailed upon to come down, related a few hysterical behind the scenes anecdotes.
"So, Peik, what inspired you to join the TLF?" Cristoff asked at length.
"Aw, you don't want to hear it, and just about everyone else knows it," Jerry said.
"Aw c'mon, be a sport," Truman coaxed. "If you're gonna be keeping an eye on me during this little road trip, I'd like to know whether or not you're really an axe murderer."
"It's a good story anyway," Tenniel said. "Tell it, Peik."
"Well, since the Chief ordered me by my last name, I'd better tell it," Jerry said.
"Ten years ago, I had just finished acting school in Vancouver and done a few bit parts in the theatre and a few commercials. Everyone said I had the makings of a big star, what with my good looks and all—"
"Modest, isn't he?" Dietrich sneered, grinning.
"I'm only telling the truth. One of the casting directors for The Truman Show spotted me and asked me to audition for the part of Dick Legis, a student at Sea Haven High School and later at Sea Haven Community College and the boyfriend of sorts to Lauren Garland."
"Okay, I'm remembering one bit besides the tipping boat incident: You were the goon dancing with Lauren—I mean, Sylvia—and I kept cutting in, and you kept giving me those 'How dare you!' glares," Truman said.
"I remember that—I also remember how hard a character Dick was. I kept trying not to make him too cartoonish, y' know, the atypical rich, handsome young snob."
"Actually, the snobbery was intentional. Part of the back-story on Legis was that his family was having financial troubles and they were trying to maintain their upper class image in the face of losing what was left of the family fortune," Cristoff said.
"Hey, who's telling the story?" Truman cut in.
"Well, after the incident in the college library when Truman and Sylvia almost started something—" Jerry started to say.
"They DID start something!" Sarah, one of the others, yelled from the back of the room.
"Let Jerry tell the story," Tenniel said patiently.
"Well ANYWAY, Cristoff gave me this scene next day in the college cafeteria, where I was supposed to bawl out Truman for trying to take Lauren, aka. Sylvia away from me."
"Oh yeah, and you didn't get very far because I took your glass of tomato juice and poured the whole thing into your lap," Truman said.
"So, not knowing what else to do, I stormed out of the caff in a huff."
"Yeah, and you bumped into Marlon or what's his face on the way out, and he comes to my table and says to me, 'Hey, what's the matter with Dick? He find out about you and Lauren?' So I said he had. So what's his face asks, 'Well, whatcha do? Attack him with a chainsaw?' And I said, no, I poured tomato juice on him. And he says, 'Wow, you oughta get a medal for bravery. His father owns half the county'."
"So anyway," Jerry resumed. "Mose Meyers wanted to do a dramatic scene where Dick and some of his cronies were to jump Truman and clobber him. And Cristoff thought this sounded like a good idea. But I didn't like it one bit. I actually told him I couldn't do it because it didn't seem in keeping with the character. I'd actually defied Cristoff a bit, I'd developed my character a little so that he was really in love with Lauren, and that he was just pretending he really wanted her as just an ornament for his arm. Needless to say, Cristoff was displeased with me, so even though my contract was still good, he ordered me off the show, explaining away my character's disappearance by saying my father had taken me out because he was displeased with my marks."
"What was really happening was that you were swaying certain areas of the audience away from Truman, and we wanted to avoid needless competition," Cristoff said.
"Simply put: the female viewers were losing interest in Truman and they drooling over Dick Legis," Tenniel said.
"That, alas, was my last major acting role. If you displeased the guy in charge of the till now largest, longest running network show, the mighty TV god Criss Toff, your resume is toast. Burnt toast. I've had bit parts in a few low-budget movies since then, but nothing major. I worked as a security guard in a few warehouses, which is how I met Dietrich. We worked in the same neighborhood; I got a job at the Plains Box Company factory, which also put me in contact with the people of the TLF. Tenniel told me they needed a big, strong guy to work as a bodyguard if they ever got Truman out, so I told them I knew one guy who'd fit the bill. So that's how Dietrich came to join the gang.
"I've been in and out of apartments—mostly out, hence why I was living out of my truck for a while. California prices are bad, but they're nothing compared to Canada prices. You think stuff is priced high here compared to the way things are priced in 'Sea Haven'? Wait till we get to Canada and you see the prices there. You'll know you're in the real world."
The group fell thoughtfully silent for several long minutes.
"Y' know, I don't know if I'm just making my brain dizzy, but I got to thinking: y' know how when you're a kid and you have that funny thought that your life is like a TV show, that there's something bigger than your world out there, watching your every movement?" Truman said.
"That's probably what starts some people on the road to finding God," Tenniel said. "But in your case, it was different."
"Yeah, it turned out to be literal, not just a metaphor," Truman said. "Weird… It just makes me think: all the memories that I've got, y' know, growing up. They're all fake. I mean…who am I? Where did I really come from? I'm nobody."
"No. you're somebody. And even if those memories weren't really real, they still affected who you are and who you became. You're much more than the sum total of your memories," Tenniel said.
Sylvia got up. "I need some fresh air. You want to come out with me, Truman?"
"Sure. Of course," he said, following her towards the door.
Jerry looked at Dietrich. "Who's watch is it?"
"It's mine," Dietrich said, following the young couple out. "You have that courier job to do."
"Right. Well, I'll just get my other jacket and walk out with the three of you," Jerry said. He went for the coat closet and came back with a long black leather jacket similar to Dietrich's except it was smaller.
* * * * *
"You worried about tomorrow? You seem nervous," Sylvia said as she and Truman walked hand in hand in the darkened back yard. Dietrich followed them at a discrete distance, close enough to intervene when necessary, but not so close that he overheard them.
"I think it's just reality has really set in," Truman said. "I mean, is my name really Truman Burbank? Is my notoriety gonna compromise us when we get to Canada? What's gonna happen next?"
"Tru, we'll worry about that when we have to. Right now, we've got a future together to look forward to. We're getting married. We'll take it one step of the way at a time."
"That's all we can do anyway," he admitted, slipping his arm around her.
* * * * *
Merriweather's house blazed with lights when Jerry pulled his truck into the drive. Every light in the house must have been on. Something wasn't right.
He went up to the front door and found it ajar. He drew his gun from the waistband of his trousers and went in, walking quietly and scanning the entryway with both eyes and ears.
Someone had ransacked the house. Tables lay overturned, papers scattered about, bookcases emptied, pictures pushed askew on the walls. He went down to the basement, where Merriweather had a small lab.
This at least appeared unravaged. The door was still locked. Jerry picked the lock with a length of wire in his pocket, then pushed open the door.
The lab looked untouched, eerily so, at first glance. He looked around for anything that looked like the lab results.
He found splashes of fresh blood on the floor. On one of the workbenches stood a computer monitor on standby, the tower missing.
Oh God, where was Merriweather? Where were the results?
He noticed a framed photo on the wall, of Merriweather and his late wife. It hung slightly crooked, not slung askew, but just out of plumb with the wall. Jerry took it down.
A business-sized envelope stuck out of the back of the picture. He pulled it out and opened it.
Lab results: Burbank, Truman
Lab results: Thomas, Sylvia
Jerry breathed a sigh of relief and stuck the results into his pocket. Then he had a second thought. He took the envelope out and unzipped the lining of his jacket. He slid the envelope in and rezipped the lining. The leather creaked when he moved, no one would notice any extra rustles.
He was just stepping outside, onto the stoop, down to the flagstone path, when two figures lunged out of the bushes and grabbed him. Someone threw a heavy leather coat over his head. Someone else held a gun to his spine.
"Don't struggle and we won't plug yah," said a man's sneery voice close to his ear.
They dragged him toward a waiting vehicle and shoved him into the back seat. They didn't remove the coat from his head, but he still heard the clink of someone aiming a gun at him, probably from the front seat.
"Who are you? Where are you taking me?" he asked.
"The less you talk, the better," Sneery voice said next to him.
They traveled a zigzag course he could barely trace. At length, they stopped. Still keeping the coat over his head, his captors led him out and up a winding staircase.
They entered a room and passed along a hallway. His guards stopped. Still holding him, they yanked the coat from his head.
He stood in a richly appointed bedroom, a boudoir really. Purple hangings covered the walls. A black and silver brocade curtain separated the boudoir from the bedroom proper, but it hung pulled back slightly, revealing one carven post of a richly appointed bed.
Before the curtain stood a low-slung divan covered in purple brocade on which gracefully sprawled a small man in a scarlet damask dressing gown, open almost to his waist. An Asian girl knelt at his feet, buffing his toenails.
The stranger raised his eyes to Jerry and his guards. The thin skin just covering the bones beneath his too-thin face had an olive cast to it, but a patch of dead white skin surrounded his right eye, the iris of which was red, contrasting with the other, which was jet black, like his hair except for one tuft over his albinist eye.
Other patches of dead white skin showed on his flesh: on the back of the hand that lay on the arm of the divan, on one thigh, which showed through a slit in the skirts of his robe. Most of his naked breast had the same deathly pallor, except for a large reddish black birthmark shaped almost like a knife wound in the exact center of the albino patch, over his heart.
"Ngila, if you're finished, you can get you kit and your derriere out of here," the strange creature said. The girl collected her things and went out without raising her eyes. The stranger regarded them without blinking. "Well done, Sweyk. You brought him here in one piece. Just borrow the gun he's hiding."
The two gorillas at Jerry's sides tore off his jacket so hard one of the buttons flew off. The one on the left, the one with the sneery voice, yanked Jerry's gun from his belt and stuffed it into his own pocket.
"The rest of you get going," the weird creature said. "I need to have a private moment with Mr. Jerry Peik."
The goons went out submissively, leaving Jerry alone with the other.
"Who do you think you are?" Jerry snapped.
"Temper, temper! It's as nippy as it's beautiful," the stranger drawled. "I'm the famous demon Azor Montressor whose death you've yelled for."
"What do you want of me?"
Montressor leaned forward. "Information. Merriweather was of no help to us. He conveniently died of the heart attack his own doctor had been warning him about, right when my gentlemen were asking him a few simple questions. Perhaps you could assist me."
"So?"
"Where is Truman Burbank? Where are you hiding him?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Can't or won't, there is a difference beyond mere semantics."
"What's it to you?"
"It means everything to me, Peik. Come now, make it easy for us and tell us where he is. I don't want to have to damage you to get the information out."
"Okay, tell me this: what did you do to Merriweather?"
Montressor laughed a harsh laugh like a knife dragged over stones. "Do you expect me to tell you that?"
"I'd just like to know your methods. Simple enough."
"Then we'll just have to show you how we do it," Montressor snarled.
The door burst open behind him. Before Jerry could turn, something like a small explosive cracked. A stinging pain shot into his spine. He had just enough time to realize he'd been shot with a tranquilizer gun when the drug started to take effect. His legs went weak of a sudden and he collapsed into an armchair nearby. His head started to ache, then it grew light. The lights in the room softened and turned fuzzy. Sounds echoed, muffled, as if they came through water. His eyelids went slack over his eyes and fell shut. He lifted them, but it took an act of the will to fight the heightened pull of gravity on them. His will fighting to keep his tongue still in his head, his body surrendered to the drug. He slid into a weird, sensuous sleep which seemed to last for hours.
A colorful shadow he realized was Montressor hovered over him balanced on the arm of the chair. The parti-colored shadow sank over him, covering him, just touching him.
"So beautiful when he's woozy," Montressor murmured. "Like the first time I ever saw you…Is it ready yet? No? Hurry up; he's coming around. Must have a better metabolism than we thought."
Why isn't he asking me any questions? Jerry thought, closing his teeth on his tongue to keep from saying this thought out loud.
Montressor's face hovered just millimeters over his. "Young man, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"
"Don't know…maybe yes," Jerry mumbled.
"Good. If you didn't know, you'd be of no use to me. It adds spice to your nature." The creature's face moved in. He felt Montressor's hot breath fan the side of his face. The weird creature suddenly thrust the tip of his tongue into his ear. Jerry shuddered with discomfort, stifling a moan of disgust in his throat.
Montressor retracted. "What was that? Pain? Or something else?" He moved away. "All right, put it back on him."
Jerry slid back into that strange sleep. He heard sounds and he smelled scents, the heady, lush scents of incense, roses and patchouli in Montressor's chambers, the rank, animal smell of the coat thrown over his head, but he sense little else.
He awoke after what felt like hours, finding himself in the front seat of the Land Rover, still parked in Merriweather's driveway. His back ached, but he could feel his legs again. He moved them tentatively. It was as if nothing had happened.
His Luger. It wasn't in his belt.
It lay on the dashboard in front of him, a note on black paper written in lavender ink lay under it.
Here's your trinket back, gorgeous. Can't imagine a pretty little thing like you making use of it on anyone, though.
Take care of yourself,
A. M.
He checked the car, made sure nothing was missing. He felt his jacket, making sure he could still feel the envelope there. He even took it out and checked to make sure it hadn't been disturbed. The lab results were intact.
He started the truck and headed back to the cottage by a circuitous route. At first he was afraid the drug would have some adverse effect on his driving, but it was as if it had never happened.
Tenniel met him at the door to the cottage. "What took so long? Did Merriweather get chatting?"
"No, worse," Jerry said. "Montressor must have kidnapped Merriweather: the doctor wasn't there. But Montressor's goons still were. They jumped me, tried to kidnap me, tried to get me to talk, but I didn't."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not sure of anything: they stuck me with something, but I think it just made me woozy. My head's clear already."
"Go get some sleep. I'll take your watch," Tenniel said.
To be continued…