Aftershock (25 page)

“In any event, the concept—the concept as of ten minutes ago”—I half-sneered—“is now to have you star in the docu, and then be the logical candidate for the same role in the more highly stylized ‘based on’ version. If we move quickly enough, then we won’t have to pay some hack writer for the rights to some useless
book. And, be assured,
they
will be flocking to your sister’s trial like pigs to a trough.”

“But I’m not—”

“You don’t have to be prepared for
reality
, Ms. McCoy. Of course, you would first have to play your sister in the docu—we can hardly expect access to some prison. Fortunately, I am told they are not allowing cameras in the courtroom, so we could quite easily work with the transcript. That is, unless she simply pleads guilty. Should that happen, we could write our own ending. They do have the death penalty in this state, I believe?”

“I … I think so. I never really thought about it. I mean, MaryLou …” Her voice trailed off as she burst into sobs. Whatever her future held, it wasn’t going to be a screen career—porn stars faked orgasms better than this nasty little piece of work faked caring whether her sister lived or died.

“Well, think about it
now
,” I said, sharply. “If Wuornos had not been executed, the film would never have gotten the buzz it did. That ‘first female serial killer’ nonsense wouldn’t have mattered—nobody believed her story, anyway, so it had neither the sympathy factor nor the Hannibal Lecter thing going for it.”

“Mr.… Laveque.”

“What?” I snapped, impatient to get started on the “screen test.”

“Age-wise, MaryLou’s actually older than me. I’m so much more intelligent than she is that everyone thinks I’m the older one … but I’m not.”

“How old
are
you?” I asked, dropping the temperature of my voice.

“Fourteen,” she practically squeaked out.

“Mon Dieu!”
I threw up my hands. “What is next? Surely, you realize you cannot sign a contract without your parents’ consent.”

“Oh, that’ll be no problem. And you have to admit, you thought I was nineteen, like I told you I was.”

“I would have believed even older, that is true.”

I took a tiny airplane-sized bottle of Cognac from my fancy aluminum case and slugged it down in one gulp. Easy enough to do when it’s darkened Gatorade. I hit “speed dial” again, tapping my fingers as it rang at the other end.

“Well, you can tell A.A. that this time I’ve got a little surprise for
him
. This girl, yes, she is the sister of that MaryLou McCoy. But she is not an
older
sister, she is the younger of the two.” (Pause.) “Believe me, she looks old enough to play her sister, and I am assured that full parental consent”—looking hard at Danielle as I spoke—“will be forthcoming, notarized and witnessed.”

I paused, as if listening. Then: “
So?
So we would be the only ones with access to the family, the early years, the growing up, the reason why that young lady went berserk that day—everything! What is
that
worth?”

I paused again. Then: “Yes, I thought as much. Very well, we are going ahead now. No matter what the final reason, getting this young woman on tape does not require parental consent—this is hardly some Traci Lords scenario—and if she comes across well, we
must
be first to sign her. Others will have the same idea, and we cannot bind her to an exclusive contract without binding ourselves financially. We must see, and we must see
now
. The camera will either love her, or …”

I slapped the phone closed again, and moved behind the tripod.

That last “or …” had the girl almost paralyzed with fear. She looked at me as if I was holding a Death Row reprieve in my hands. I didn’t even bother to ask if she was ready. Just said, “We start now, yes?”

When she nodded gratefully, I took my shot.

“D
anielle, look at the camera, please.”

She tried.

“Look
only
at the camera! The lens is the eye. The eye sees only what you show it. The eye is a lie detector. This is why the profession is called ‘acting.’ You must act in the sense that you are not, in reality, what you are showing the camera. If the director needs you to be a nun, you must be a nun. If a whore, you must be a whore. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I—”

“Je ne veux pas de discours! Essaye encore: est-ce que tu comprends?”

“Oui.”

“
Parfait
. Now, please throw away that useless script you are holding.”

She flicked her wrist and the script pages went flying about the room.

“Did I tell you to look at the pages?”

“No. But—”

“There is no ‘but.’ There
are
no script pages. They are not merely tossed aside, they are gone. They do not exist.
You
do not exist. Only what the eye of the camera sees exists. Nothing else.
Comprenez-vous?
”

“Oui. Je parle français. Pas comme une française, bien sûr, mais j’ai étudié la langue pendant deux ans et j’ai toujours d’excellentes notes.…”

I threw up my hands, as if asking the gods to help me with an impossible task. “
Je parle français
. How very nice for you. Perhaps it will help you to win a scholarship someday. Is that what you want?”

“No, no. I’m … sorry. I’m just so—”

I glanced at my wristwatch. Not just to tell her that my time was precious, but to remind myself that I had to be as perfectly fake as that watch to make this work. One shot, one kill. Anything less would be leaving the target alive long enough to sound a warning.

“I do not want to hear ‘sorry.’ I do not want to hear anything. I want you to be what I tell you to be. I tell you; you tell the camera. If you cannot do this, you are useless to me. Do not tell me that you ‘understand’ again.
Show
me.”

I stepped away from the camera. “Do not look at me. The camera
is all. The eye of the camera must see truth. It doesn’t matter if that truth is a lie—the audience must believe you. If you can do that, you can be all you wish to be. You have the looks, the voice, even the posture of an actress. But the camera is the ultimate judge. Now, look at that eye!”

She did.

“Remember, you are going to be two people. Two different people. You know what method acting is, yes?”

She nodded, but her eyes never left the camera.

“So, then, we start at the end. You start by being you. If you can do that, you can then become your sister. Even if there is no resemblance, even if your sister doesn’t look a thing like you, it does not matter. That is acting. The method demands we reach inside ourselves and take out some truth, yes? Then we use that truth to make a beautiful lie. A beautiful lie is a
believable
lie. Acting is no more than that. Great acting, I mean. Not some silly teenager being cute—a
woman
, with the strength, the power, the range of a woman.

“When you are ready to try, take the deepest breath you can. Breathe only through your nose. Hold that breath until you
are
whatever you are supposed to be. When that breath comes out, a tiny red dot will show on the front of the camera. You do not look at this light. You look only to the eye.
Through
the eye.

“Initially, you are going to be yourself. The sister of the girl who went insane in school. I will be asking you questions, as if I am a police officer. Not in a uniform, a detective. When you answer, you answer as you—you, Danielle—would. If you can do this, if you can bring Danielle to life for the camera, then we can try the second test.”

She nodded, eyes still glued to the camera.

“I have no time to teach you to be an actress. Either you are one already, or you are not. This is the only direction you will get: be yourself! If you want to move, if you want to cry, if you want to be
seductive, that can all still be you. But do
not
be what you yourself are not—it is not yet time for that.

“So! Now you are to forget the camera. You may look wherever you wish to, whatever feels right for the role. When you are ready, you nod. Nothing more. Then you breathe as I told you. When you let that breath out, there is nothing left in you but Danielle.”

She nodded so quickly I almost missed it.

I took out my latest-model cell phone, opened it, and pushed a button; a robotic voice said, “Disengaged.” That same button activated the tape recorder on Franklin’s side of the wall.

Danielle took a breath so deep her breasts threatened the fabric of her dress. When she expelled the lies, all that was left was herself.

I nodded in satisfaction.

“Danielle,” I said, all trace of French gone from my voice, “my name is Detective Dautrine. I understand you must still be in shock from what … from what you have been told. But we need some answers. The parents of the young men your sister shot need answers. Will you help us?”

She clasped her hands between her breasts, like a whore saying a prayer.

“Yes. I … I don’t know how this could even be happening.”

“All right. Now, tell me, the dead boy was—” I paused and mimed consulting a notebook. “—Cameron Taft. Your sister fired at such close range that our working assumption is he was her intended target. Can you think of any reason why your sister might have wanted to kill him, particularly?”

“It’s kind of complicated. I mean, I can think of a reason, but you’d have to understand the whole picture for it to make sense.”

“I’ve got all the time you need, Danielle. Do you want some water?” I said, pointing to the minibar.

She licked her lips as if testing them for dryness. “No,” she said, “I’m fine.”

I sure am
played inside my head.
And I’m making damn sure you see it
.

“Start wherever you feel comfortable,” I told her.

She wiggled in her chair, as if getting as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

What’s next, a striptease?

Satisfied that she had called sufficient attention to her assets, Danielle said, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Tiger Ko Khai Society?”

“Pretend that I haven’t. The more facts we have, the more we can fill in the picture.”

“Well, it’s like a society. A very exclusive society. Every boy in school wants to be a member, but they only pick a few each year.”

“Is it only for athletes, or—”

“No, no. None of that silly school stuff. It’s … Well, the only way I know how to put it is that it’s for the coolest kids. It doesn’t matter if you’re a football player, or get straight A’s, or what kind of car you drive, or how you dress. What you need, it’s a special … quality, I guess you’d call it.”

“Can you think of what that might be?”

“It’s different for each boy. And I’m not a boy”—
in case you haven’t noticed. Christ!
—“so I couldn’t really be more specific. I don’t actually know how they pick the boys they do.”

“Do they wear any kind of identification? I mean, do they distinguish themselves by the way they appear?”

“Well, except for the jackets …”

“Tell me about the jackets.”

“They’re silk. Fine silk. Black, with dark-red raglan sleeves.”

“Raglan?”

“Like those varsity jackets. The sleeves go all the way to the neck.”

“So—no collars?”

“No, they do have collars, leather ones. On the left sleeve, there’s a patch. A black patch. Inside the patch, there’s Japanese writing, in red.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“Oh, they are.”

“So only the rich kids—?”

“No, that doesn’t matter. They have boys who don’t have a dime to their names. I don’t know how they afford their jackets. But I think, maybe, you don’t buy your jacket—it’s, like, awarded to you.”

“That’s interesting. Do you know what the writing stands for?”

“I think it’s just Japanese for ‘tiger.’ ”

“I didn’t think they had tigers in Japan.”

“It’s not the animal; it’s the spirit.”

“Like school spirit?”

“No-oh,” she said, smirking. “This is an international society. They have chapters all over the world.”

“What do they do?”

“Do?”

“Well, any club—”

“Society,” she interrupted to correct me.

“All right, society. There must be more to it than wearing fancy jackets.”

“There is. But, like I said, I’m not a boy, so I don’t know anything about what they do.”

“Couldn’t one of them tell you?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t do that. That would be … just wrong. That’s something only for members to know.”

“All right, we know something about the boy who was killed. But why him in particular? You’re saying it couldn’t have anything to do with their … society, is that correct?”

“I’m
not
saying that. I’m saying I don’t know.”

“MaryLou is your sister. Your big sister. Sisters are sometimes very close, so perhaps she confided in you?”

“In me? Forget that! MaryLou was this star softball player, but she looks like a lumberjack. And she’s gay. So we’d never talk about anything to do with boys. The only one she liked was this retard, Bluto.”

“Bluto?”

“Well, his real name is Franklin, I think. He’s this huge dummy. The only reason he got through school is that he could play football.”

“Athletics are a big thing at your school?”

“Of course. But ‘big’ and ‘cool’ aren’t exactly synonyms.”

I’m not just sexy as hell, I’m smart, too
.

“You mean ‘cool’ in the way this society is?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you saying that your sister was one of those … uh … women who hate men?”

“No. MaryLou only cared about her stupid softball. The reason she killed Cameron is because her jealousy just went all out of control.”

“Jealousy?”

“Of me,” Danielle said, as though stating the blatantly obvious.

“Well, you’re certainly a very pretty young lady. And I know you got top grades in school. I guess I could see your sister being jealous of those things, maybe. But why kill this Cameron boy? What would he have to do with jealousy?”

“Tiger Ko Khai is the most special group in school. And Cam wasn’t just a member, he was the leader.” She paused for a dramatic couple of seconds. “And he was my boyfriend.”