The Cutting Room Floor (27 page)

No. This can’t be happening.

I’m trapped in a chokehold.

But not for long. I’m not going to go down like this.

I feel the python’s breath on my neck.

“Desmond. Fucking. Brandt,” a familiar voice hisses. “You’re not supposed to be here tonight.”

My head tries to place the voice of this asshole while my body squirms in his grip, searching for a way out of the hold. “Where is she? Where’s Riley?”

“You fucking idiot. You have no idea what you just walked into. You’ve made a huge mistake, friend. Huge.”

What has he done with her?

Reaching around my neck, I feel my way to his head. He must be wearing a ski mask—I grab a handful of hair through it and pull, jerking his skull from side to side.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.

“Let me go, asshole, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

I’m able to get a grip on his neck and I lock in. I flip him around my body and when I do, his feet fly out from under him. And there they are.

The shoes.

It’s the killer. It has to be.

But why is he here?

He recovers and slams me against the counter. Still, I advance, pulling back my arm and clenching my fist.

I connect with his masked face, and can tell by his eyes that my connection was good. I lean across him, dropping my weight on his chest.

“Riley,” I call out again. “Riley, it’s okay, I’ve got him.”

I try to pull the ski mask off but the guy is wild—he shakes his head and tries to buck me off.

You’re going to have to do better than that.

I tighten my grip and almost have the mask off. But in moments, my arms fall away—there’s an explosion in my head. When I look up, the asshole is holding a bottle of wine.

I’m falling, reaching for him to steady myself. I grab hold of the back of his mask. It slides down to the floor with me.

I see his face.

Oh, shit.

That’s the last thing I remember before he strikes me with the bottle again.

RILEY

When I come to, I feel the painful pounding deep in my skull. I’m sprawled out on Dad’s leather recliner, desperate to see what’s going on around me. It hurts to move. I reach up to feel my head and realize my hands are taped together. I run them through my hair—it’s wet and sticky. I’m stiff, so I try to stretch my legs but they’re taped together too. I open my eyes and see more tape around my middle, securing me to the chair. I blink, over and over again, until I can focus. Though the room is dim, I can still make out a figure in the chair across from me.

I try to scream, but it comes out strained and hoarse. Dez shakes his head.

Oh my God. What the hell is going on?

“Don’t say anything,” he whispers. “Everything is going to be okay.” His eyes dart around the room and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

He sits there, not moving. His eyes meet mine. They narrow like he’s trying to tell me something.

“Why are you doing this, D—? ”

Before the words are even out, I see that Dez is also tied to the chair.

I let out a silent cry that ripples through my body.

In the shadows, another figure appears.

A boy I know.

Marcus.

“Let her go, Marcus,” Dez says, thrashing in his chair.

Marcus backhands Dez and a loud crack echoes in the room. “I told you. No talking.”

Dez’s face reddens and his lip starts to bleed.

“Next time, I do it to her,” he says.

DEZ

“You really fucked this up, Desmond.” Marcus paces around the living room. My eyes don’t meet his. I focus on Riley. Her face is pale and her head is bleeding. I can see her hands shake. I try to calm her with my eyes, but she no longer trusts me.

My heart squeezes at the thought.

“It’s Riley I want, not you,” Marcus says. “Shit.” He runs his gloved hand through his hair—back and forth.

My eyes move to him now and I take him in. He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans. The ski mask sticks out of his back pocket and he holds a huge pair of scissors down by his side.

Stop.

Rewind.

Again, my eyes move down his body to the scissors.

Pause.

I close my eyes and see Ms. Dunn’s crime scene photo again. I see the printed report. The report I shouldn’t have been looking at.

Multiple stab wounds to the victim’s torso.

Wounds measure one inch in length.

I open my eyes, back to the scissors, and realize Marcus is holding the murder weapon.

I pray Rye doesn’t see it.

What does he want with her?

“So, Riley,” Marcus says. “I suppose Emma’s already been to see you. Hmm?”

Riley doesn’t move, but I see her eyes travel down to the scissors in his hand. Her eyes are full of horror and I see her swallow.

“I asked you a question, you little dyke!”

Riley shudders. “No,” she squeaks out. “Emma hasn’t been here.”

“It seems she wants you back.” He flicks the scissors at her.

“No.” Riley shakes her head.

“Don’t lie, Riley.” Marcus’ eyes are wild, scanning the doors and windows. “I really hate liars. You know she dumped me for you.”

Rye shakes her head again.

“Oh, yes she did. Things were going great, and then she dumps me out of the blue. Says she can’t be without you. What a lying tease. You’re all the same.”

He moves closer to Rye and my adrenaline kicks in. I pull at the duct tape, but it just digs into my skin. “Who are all the same?” I ask, trying to divert his attention.

Come over here, asshole.

“Women, Dez.” He laughs but his hand is shaking. “They tease and lie.”

“Yes.” I try to keep him talking, keep him from moving toward Rye. “Yes, they do. Why? Who else teased you?”

“Rachel.” He laughs again. “That’d be Ms. Dunn to you. Or,
was
Ms. Dunn. Yeah, dude, I had the hots for teacher.”

Riley lets out a whimper. I will her to keep quiet but she lets out another.

Now she’s done it.

Marcus flashes Riley a warning glare and then looks back at me.

“And she was hot for me,” he continues. “Well, she was before she got cold feet. Just like Emma. But you know”—Marcus stalks over to Riley, this time waving the scissors in front of her face—“I did learn something from that brief love affair.”

I endure his story. I hear his words, but they become muffled and sound almost as if he’s underwater. It’s because my mind is drifting, going into protection mode. I see the murder scene play out in front of me. One element at a time.

Marcus’ gloved hands.

The blades of the scissors. Opening and closing. Opening and closing. They let out that squeaky sound, whining for something to cut.

“See,” Marcus goes on. “
I
was the only one who suffered when I killed Rachel. She didn’t know any better. She was dead. And I was left living without her. Seeing her face wherever I went. It was a stupid move on my part. This time I won’t be as foolish.”

I feel a faint sense of relief. At least he doesn’t plan on killing us.

“Yeah,” he adds. “Instead of killing Emma, I’ll kill the person she loves the most.”

I cough, choking on my own saliva. I’m going to be sick.

“If you’re gone, Riley, then it’s Emma who’ll suffer. But she’ll get over it … and I’ll be waiting when she does. I can be very patient.”

At this point, it’s clear. This is not a stunt. He came here for one reason: to kill Riley. My mind races, searching for something, trying to form a plan. I can’t think. I can’t do anything. I’m stuck. Impotent. Weak. I’m helpless and I start to slip away. My eyes get fuzzy, like it’s a dream sequence in a movie.

A new song begins to play in my head. My soundtrack has switched from Chris Isaak to Stealers Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle with You”—the song in that twisted ear-cutting scene from
Reservoir Dogs.
I’m caught up in a fucking Quentin Tarantino movie.

I break out of it. The fuzziness gives way and Marcus comes back into focus. Still, I hear Stealers Wheel, singing about an eerie feeling that something isn’t right.

Marcus is poking the side of his leg with the scissors. It’s like he’s in a trance, keeping time with the music in my head.

Then he looks at me and shakes his head. “You, my friend, are a victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He lets out a little chuckle, turns his back on me, and stalks over to Riley. I squirm and twist my body, trying to loosen my bindings. They only cut deeper into my wrists and ankles.

I close my eyes and flip back to
Reservoir Dogs
playing in my mind. The infamous Mr. Blonde commands the screen. He walks across the warehouse—the hideout for a bunch of thugs after a robbery goes bad. Mr. Blonde has taken a police officer hostage. The cop sits bound to a chair—much like I am right now. Blonde turns on the radio. “Stuck in the Middle with You” is ringing through the speakers.

Mr. Blonde’s next movements are set to the music, perfectly. He lifts his black cowboy boot and rests it on a chair. His hand reaches inside the boot and pulls out a switchblade. He opens it slowly and runs it along his five o’clock shadow. Mr. Blonde is intimate with the blade—just like Marcus is with his metal shears.

Mr. Blonde sings along with the words, dances to the tune, while the cop struggles in his chair. Again, like me.

Mr. Blonde then rips a piece of duct tape from the roll and slowly wraps it around the cop’s mouth. He’s calm and cool as can be when he leans over the cop and says he’s going to torture him.

I stop the movie in my mind and order my eyes to open. They land on Marcus. He’s talking to Riley. A deep red pattern blooms on his pant leg, from his jabs with the scissors.

The fucked-up song about losing control continues in my head, a fitting track for the real-life nightmare playing out in front of me.

“Marcus,” I yell. “Marcus.”

He leaves us and dashes into the kitchen. Riley squeezes her eyes shut.

“Rye,” I beg. “Rye!” I need her to look at me. We’re running out of time.

In seconds, Marcus is back. I stare into his eyes but they’re vacant now. He’s looking right through me.

“Marcus,” I stutter as the panic courses through my veins. Behind my eyelids, I see Mr. Blonde take his blade to the cop’s ear.

He begins slicing.

The camera jerks to the ceiling but I can hear it.

I hear it all.

The struggle and pain and … torture.

The camera moves back to Mr. Blonde. He’s now holding the cop’s ear he just hacked off with the switchblade. He flips it around in his hand. The cop screams and groans.

In the real world, the room spins.
Fuck, can this be the real world?

Yes, it can. It is.

But then Quentin Tarantino takes the reins. He takes over this real world. He takes over my
life
.

Desmond Brandt Death Scene:
Take one.

DEZ continues to look at RILEY. The camera moves back and forth between them in uneasy, choppy movements. The song “Stuck in the Middle with You” continues to play.

CUT TO:

CLOSE UP: DEZ

DEZ’S eyes water. He’s shaking, pleading with MARCUS. The camera pulls out, framing the profiles of DEZ and MARCUS.

DEZ
Please. Don’t do this. Don’t do it, man.

TAKE AUDIO FULL:

SONG PLAYS: Please … . Please …

MARCUS
Sorry, Dez. I have no other option.

In a flash, MARCUS’ hand is at DEZ’S face. MARCUS pulls down DEZ’S bottom lip, cranks open his mouth, and stuffs a dishrag inside. DEZ chokes and gags. We watch as his body shudders.

DEZ lets out a gasp and Riley explodes in sobs.

RILEY

Groans escape from Dez. They start deep in his throat but are stifled by the dishtowel stuffed in his mouth. His guttural pleas rise and fall. Everything inside me tightens.

It is the most frightening sound I’ve ever heard.