Every House Is Haunted (30 page)

John put down his paper and picked up the ringing phone.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Dad, how ya doing?”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to say thanks for sending the cops over to my place. I really appreciated that. It’s a good thing I’m an honest citizen. Too bad for you, though. I imagine the file they got on you has a nice little stamp at the bottom of it. Something about the boy who cried wolf.”

John clenched the receiver so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“I thought I might drop by some night. Have us a man-to-man chat. You know, seeing as I’m the guy boning your little girl.”

“Fuck you, you little shit.”

John slammed the phone down.

John didn’t sleep well that night. He stumbled through a series of dark dreams in which he found himself entering various rooms in his house, and every time, in every room, he came upon Kris Dunn. Sitting in his chair in the living room. Reading the newspaper in the kitchen. Sitting on the toilet in his and Brenda’s en suite.

Hey, Dad, just thought I’d stop by for that man-to-man chat.

He woke up sweaty in a tangle of sheets. He went downstairs to the kitchen, half-expecting to find Kris Dunn sitting at the table. But the kitchen was empty. The first faint glow of dawn was coming in through the window over the sink. John put on coffee and started back to the hallway to fetch the paper off the stoop. Then he stopped.

He looked over his shoulder at the back door. He went over to it. Opened it. Looked down.

He looked for a long time.

The police came to the house again, but this time they brought the circus.

Brenda was upstairs with Sally in her bedroom. John was in the living room, going over his story for about the thousandth time. How he had woken up, come downstairs, and found Kris Dunn on the back porch.

Most of him, anyway.

John recalled standing in the doorway, staring down at the ragged, bloody mess that used to be a human being. His gaze had drifted over to the bottom of the steps where a trio of worms were lying in the grass. Not worms, he realized. Fingers. He wouldn’t have recognized them as such if not for the silver ring on one of them. With an eerie sense of clarity he saw there was blood on the ring’s fangs.

The police asked John about his “confrontation” with Kris Dunn a few days earlier. That was their word for the encounter. John did his best to explain, and under other circumstances they might have shown more suspicion toward him. But there was the state of the body to consider. And the preliminary findings of the coroner.

John overheard the man talking to a pair of detectives in the hallway.

“An animal of some kind,” he proclaimed. “Something small, I’d wager, from the size of the teeth and claw marks. Maybe rabid, I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for the blood work to know for certain.”

John didn’t think anything would be known for certain. He had an idea the results would be inconclusive. Kris Dunn certainly wouldn’t be talking.

You could say a cat got his tongue.

“I don’t know what you’re crying for,” John said. “That kid was bad news and you know it.”

“You didn’t know him!” Sally screamed.

“I know he was dealing drugs.”

His words were like a slap in the face.
And I didn’t even have to lay a hand on her
, John thought.

They were upstairs in Sally’s room. John wanted to talk to his daughter privately, away from the police. Away from Brenda.

Sally sniffled and said nothing.

“Yeah, I know about that,” John went on. “The police were at Kris Dunn’s house this morning. You know what they found? The setup for a meth lab. It turns out the police knew someone in the neighbourhood was cooking drugs; they just didn’t know who. I told them to check out Kris Dunn’s house a few days ago. Did you know that? They didn’t find anything that time, though. Why do you think that is, Sally? Why didn’t they find that stuff the first time?”

Sally remained silent.

“Did you tell that son of a bitch I called the police?” John took a step toward her. “Did you tip him off?”

Sally glared at him blackly, then turned and faced the window, arms crossed.

John sighed and went back downstairs. The cat was sprawled across his newspaper. He stared down at the cat and prayed it was all over now. He hoped that with Kris Dunn dead, Sally would clean up her act. He worried about what would happen if she didn’t.

He knew he couldn’t protect his wife and daughter from everything in the world, but there was someone else in their family who was more than capable of picking up the slack.

Joe Courtney was sitting in the office of his agent, Barton Collins, discussing all the work he wasn’t getting.

“I’m getting you work,” Bart said defensively.

“Porno work, Bart.”

“That’s work!”

“I don’t want to be in porno. It’s greasy. Once you do porno, you can never go back.”

“Yeah, but think of the chicks.”

“I’m thinking of the venereal diseases.”

“You’re a pessimist, Joe. You’ve gotta look at the upside.”

“I can get chicks, Bart. That’s not my problem. Paying my rent is the problem.”

“Porno pays, man. Porno pays well.”

“I’m not doing porno! Get me a real acting job!”

Joe hesitated, then picked up a slip of paper sitting on his otherwise empty desk. “Well, I have something. It’s not much, but . . .”

“I’ll take it.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Is it porno?”

“No, it’s . . .”

“I don’t care. At this point I’ll take anything.”

The address was for a soundstage Joe had never been to before, which he found a little strange. In the seven years he had been working as an actor, Joe figured he had been to every soundstage in Toronto.

Once inside he saw this one was no different from the others. Half a dozen furnished sets, big lights mounted on tripods, cameras on dollies—the usual. There were people running around looking busy, others lounging near the craft service table drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups. And none of them were naked, Joe noted.

He saw a woman who wasn’t wearing a headset or racing around like she had a job to do. A fellow actor, he assumed. He got himself a coffee and wandered over. She was reading a script. Joe hadn’t seen one yet, didn’t even know what the movie they were shooting was called.

“Hi there.”

The woman looked up and smiled shyly. “Hello.”

“I’m Joe.”

“Sarah.”

They nodded at each other in lieu of shaking hands.

“You’re an actor?”

“Most days,” Sarah said, with a laugh. “The rest of the time I’m a mild-mannered temp. My older sister calls it my secret identity. Sort of like Batman, except the pay is shittier.”

“I don’t think Batman gets paid for fighting crime.” Joe shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “If it makes you feel any better.”

Sarah smiled. “It kind of does, actually. I bet Batman doesn’t get medical coverage, either.”

“Nope. Which is a shame, because he probably needs it more than us. He’s always getting into fights.”

“That happens on set, too,” Sarah pointed out.

“True enough. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll keep my monstrous ego in check if you promise not to drive over me with your Batmobile.”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t have a Batmobile. Just an old Chevette.”

“You have my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Joe nodded at the script. “So, what are we shooting today? My agent didn’t give me any details.”

“Oh, the usual. More footage that will never see the light of day.”

Joe frowned. “Direct-to-video?”

“Nooo, it’s a deleted scene.” Sarah tilted her head to the side and gave him a curious look. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Have you done cut work before?”

“Cut work?” Joe said, confused.

“Deleted scenes,” Sarah said. “You know, the stuff they remove from the final cut of a movie. Usually it’s done to speed up the pacing, or cut down the run-time, but there are all kinds of reasons why a scene might get chopped.”

“I know what a deleted scene is,” Joe said. “What I don’t get is how we can be shooting one. How does the director know the scene we’re about to do is going to be cut? And if he knows, then why the hell are we shooting it in the first place?”

“Those are production questions,” Sarah said in a dismissive tone. “I don’t concern myself with that stuff. You’d have to talk to the director.”

Joe sighed and looked around the set. He spotted a woman wearing a headset and a laminated I.D. badge that identified her as Sharon Biggs. She was directing a pair of men who were lugging a tall piece of lighting.

“Excuse me.”

The woman gave him a quick, impatient look. “Yes?”

“Hi. I’m Joe Courtney. I’m an actor.”

“Congratulations,” Sharon Biggs said coolly. “What do you want?”

“I understand we’re shooting a . . . deleted scene?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“So it’s true.”

“What?”

“We’re really shooting a deleted scene?”

“Yes.”

“A scene that won’t be in the final film.”

Sharon stared at him for a moment. “That’s what a deleted scene is, slick.”

“So what we’re doing here won’t be seen by anyone.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why are we doing it?”

“Talk to the director, guy. I’ve got a set to light.”

Joe started to ask where the director was, but Sharon was already barking orders at the two workmen.

He went back over to Sarah. There was still about half an hour before shooting began. He wasn’t very good at small talk so he ended up asking that question which is the fallback of every actor.

“So, have I have seen you in anything?”

Sarah shook her head. “Oh, no.”

“So this is your first gig?”

“No, I’ve shot deleted scenes for lots of films.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “I was in
Passing Lane
,
Black Thursday
,
13 Shades of Night
.” She smiled. “Well, I wasn’t actually
in
them, because . . .”

“They were deleted scenes,” Joe finished.

“Right.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”