The Last Story (3 page)

In a sense, Bob is asking them to destroy one another.

As the water rises to the deck, the opportunity to fix the holes passes and Susie and Randy bolt for the raft.

They are in it and ready to push off through the surrounding fins when Carl jumps in with them. Ironically, he accidentally knocks his girlfriend into the water.

Susie's screams rend the air as the sharks tear her to pieces. Horrified, Carl blames Randy for her death, and the two get into a shoving match. In the end, of course, they both end up falling into the water and get eaten alive.

Now there are only three left: Daniel, Kathy, and Mary.

They shove off in the lifeboat just as the mother sailboat goes under, but they do not head straight for shore.

Something is bothering Daniel.

"Bob has planned this so carefully," he says, "that he must know if even one of us survives, he will go to jail for the rest of his life. There must be another level to his revenge. He emphasized how we have a compass, plenty of gasoline. But I'm certain if we head straight for shore we won't make it. He'll be waiting for us somewhere between here and there, and he has a gun."

Daniel convinces the others that Bob must be just out of sight, watching them through binoculars to see what they're going to do. Daniel advises them to head away from shore. The girls immediately consent because what Daniel says makes sense. But Daniel knows the change in course will not solve their problems. When Bob sees what they're doing, he'll come after them.

For that reason, once they are clear of the school of sharks, Daniel has them cut speed while he hangs out of sight over the side of the lifeboat, in the water. Even though Bob must be watching them through binoculars, it will be hard for him to tell how many of them left the boat in the raft.

It is Daniel's intention to swim under both rafts when Bob appears and attack him from behind. It is their only hope, he says.

Daniel has analyzed the situation well. The girls are hardly a mile from the sunken sailboat when Bob roars into sight. He has the more powerful motor; he catches up to them quickly. While he toys with their minds, pointing his gun at their heads and quizzing them about how the others died, Daniel swims under the rafts. At the last second Bob guesses Daniel's plan and spins around, catching Daniel in the sights of his gun. To save her new love, and her own life, Kathy dives across the space that separates the two rafts. A struggle ensues and Kathy is shot in the shoulder. She sags over the side of Bob's lifeboat and her blood drips into the water.

Daniel does manage to climb back on board but is held at bay by Bob's gun. Daniel can only watch as Bob tries to shove the wounded Kathy into the water. But Bob makes the mistake of placing his own arm too close to Kathy's dripping blood, too close to the water. A shark rises from below and grabs hold of Bob's arm. Screaming, Bob begs Daniel to save him. Daniel, however, is not in the mood and he allows the shark to drag him under.

The evil villain reaps his just reward by becoming fish food.

The others head back to shore, Kathy recovering in her boyfriend's arms.

"I like it," I said to Jo when I finished rereading the summary. "But I don't love it."

Jo waved away my comment. "You're too close to it. You've been over the story too many times. It's great."

"It seems too simple to me."

"Most successful thrillers are. That's why they work. There's motive. There's a crime. The hero catches the bad guy. Everybody is happy." Jo glanced over at me. "You're not thinking of writing out my part, are you?"

Jo was to play Susie, the pain-in-the-ass cheerleader.

Jo could look as young as a high school kid.

Most of the cast were about twenty-one. I sat back and frowned.

"I often think I should be making another of my books into a movie," I said. "One of the spiritual ones."

"You can do that next. After you make twenty million on this one."

After splitting up the shares with the investors and Henry and our crazy director, I still owned a

REMEMBER ME 3: THE LAST STOKT

third of the film. If the movie did modestly well, I would make twenty million, what with domestic and video and foreign rights. I had already considered what Jo was saying. Make what would sell before making what I wanted. First to Die was a huge best-seller. More people associated it with my name than any other book. Yet the reasoning didn't satisfy me. I wanted to work on what was important to me now. Actually, I wanted to make Remember Me into a movie.

I suggested that to Jo.

She almost drove off the road.

"You will never make that book into a movie," Jo said. "It's too esoteric. It has a sad ending. You die."

"I die at the beginning."

"Yeah. But you're still dead at the end. And you couldn't put in that part about how you came back.

No one would believe it."

I laughed. "You believed it. You believe I'm here."

"Only because you are here," Jo said. "And because I'm crazy. Look, Shari, don't rock the boat on First to Die—no pun intended. Make the movie and make tons of money. Sell out—it's the American way. Then save the world. You'll have plenty of time—and cash—to do it."

"I guess you're right," I muttered.

"How are you and Peter getting along?" Jo asked.

"All right."

"Just all right? The two soulmates are not in constant ecstasy?"

"We're close. We're just not soulmates. Actually,

I don't believe there are such things. The Rishi said it was a distorted concept. It comes from searching outside yourself for completeness." I paused.

"How are you and Jimmy getting along?"

Jo smiled slyly. "Jim and I are fine."

"You never hold hands in public."

"We make up for it in private."

"Are you really screwing my brother?" I asked.

Jo acted shocked. "We are getting personal, aren't we?"

"You openly brag about the great sex you two have."

"Then you have no need to ask. Just believe."

"I don't believe you," I growled.

Jo saw it was time to change the subject. "How's Carol doing?"

Carol Dazmin, Jean Rodrigues's best friend and now my buddy as well—was not doing well.

For the last two years she had fought heroin addiction.

She would clean up her act, but then meet some crazy guy or girl and start shooting up again.

Recently she had gotten off the junk only to end up in the hospital with hepatitis—the serious kind.

Her liver was inflamed and she was the color of a spoiled lemon. The doctors thought she could live but would die for sure if she went back on drugs.

Her addiction caused me a lot of pain. I had returned to Earth in Jean Rodrigues's body to try to help people, and I couldn't even help someone close to me. I told Jo what was happening and she was sympathetic.

"It's that neighborhood she lives in," Jo said.

"It's crawling with drugs."

"It's not the neighborhood. It's Carol. Besides, I told her she could come live with me if she wanted.

She doesn't want to. She'd rather get high." I sighed. "I have nothing genuine to offer people.

Just stories."

"Your stories inspire people."

"Inspiration goes only so far."

Jo was concerned. "What's bothering you, Shari?"

My headache had returned.

"Something," I whispered thoughtfully. "I'll know it when it comes to me."

But I was wrong.

CHAPTER

III

JLJL ENRY WEATHERS'S HOUSE was a castle built as a symbol of the good life. High on a hill above the sprawling town of Malibu, it commanded north and south views of the coast that stretched forever on clear days. There was a marble fountain out front, a pool in the back large enough to double as a small lake. Yet he had bought the place for a modest sum thirty years earlier from an actor who had gone from being number one at the box office to appearing as a host on game shows. Henry was good and frugal with money, a quality you want in a producer.

We didn't plan to spend all ten million the investors had given us on First to Die, but decided to split it between two films. For that reason, how we used every penny counted.

Henry met Jo and me at the door. He was a short man with a six-course belly. Eating was one of his great pleasures in life—he loved hamburgers in particular, by the half dozen.

Sixty-five years old,

he softened his wrinkles with special effects makeup and dyed his hair the color of motor oil—then had the nerve to say it was his natural color. The thing that had struck me most about Henry when we first met was the twinkle in his eye, his goodness.

He loved the movie business, even when it didn't always love him. He seemed to have a special affection for me. He had a daughter my age, Rico.

She wanted to be in our movie, but her father said no, she was too plain for the part she wanted.

Henry could be objective, when necessary, and that was another quality that I liked about him.

"Good news," he said as we went through the doorway. "We have a place to dump our sharks and tie our boat."

"Universal's going to let us use their pool?" I asked, relieved.

"Not unless we pay them a fortune." I started to freak out and he raised his hand to silence me. "It doesn't matter. I found a place out in the valley where we can dig our own pond."

"But that'll cost a fortune," I complained.

"It will cost us a quarter of a million when you include the backdrops and the support for the boat set. I know that's a lot of money but we'll have more freedom on our own set. We can shoot the hours we want."

"How long will it take to dig?"

"A day. It's just a huge hole in the ground. I have three bulldozers heading out to the spot tomorrow. We'll dye the water green-blue—it'll

look like the Caribbean. And the backdrops can be painted by Andy's boyfriend or be computergenerated."

Andy was our insane director. "This is a huge change of plan," I said. "It makes me nervous."

"Welcome to the movie business," Henry said.

"Shari, trust me on this."

"All right, but I want to go out to the spot tomorrow."

"I'll go with you. Now we have something else to discuss." He glanced at Jo. She took the hint.

"I'll go wait by the pool," she said quickly.

When she was gone, Henry continued. "I think I've found a replacement for Darren."

Darren was our cocaine-snorting star. Personally I couldn't stand the guy but he was talented, and I didn't want to make such an important casting change so late. I told Henry as much.

"You're going to give me a heart attack," I said.

"At least with Darren we know what we've got.

Let's keep him."

Henry got up on his toes, which he did when his sense of dignity had been offended.

"Darren knows we're going to start shooting in two days and he's using the situation to demand three times the salary we agreed on or he says he'll walk. Also, he wants half of it in advance—this evening. I told him that's just not done and he laughed in my face.

He thinks he has us over a barrel. But no one talks to me like that—I don't care how talented he is."

"Who's the new guy?" I asked wearily, knowing Darren probably wanted the money for drugs. The

five million we were spending on the film didn't belong to me, but I felt like it did, and I refused to squander any of my investors' funds.

Henry brightened. "His name's Roger Teller. An agent at CAA sent him over this morning after Darren issued me his ultimatum. This kid—I can't tell you how good he is. Andy loves him as well. He says he's better than Darren. Honestly, it was as if Roger was born to play Daniel. He's in the backyard.

Do you want to hear him read?"

"Right now?"

"Yes. We have to decide in the next hour, one way or the other."

"OK, let me see him. How old is he?"

"Your age—twenty-one."

I made a face. "And he's a kid?"

Henry patted me on the shoulder. "You're all babes in the woods next to me. I'll bring him into my study. He can read for you there."

"Alone?"

"Yes. He won't bite you."

"OK."

Henry's study was piled full of screenplays rather than books. Henry had taught me a lot about the art of screenplay writing. It was easier than novel writing yet it made demands that were unique to the form. The main one was the limitation of space.

Every word had to count, whereas in a novel I could go on about whatever happened to suit my fancy. Another thing about writing scripts I found maddening was that—with only dialogue to work with—I was unable to give my story a tone. First to Die was a straight-forward thriller, however, in book form, I had managed to give it a haunted feeling, which was probably why it had become so popular. Now I had to rely on Andy to capture that same feeling. Andy, who was known to sleep with his film before he shot it—just to warm it up.

Roger Teller came into the study.

He was a babe. No question about it. Wow.

No problem. He can have the job.

I should never have been put in charge of casting.

"Are you Ms. Cooper?" he asked.

"Shari, please. Yes." I stood to shake his hand.

"Come in. Have a seat."

"Thank you."

He plopped down opposite me on a wine-colored love seat. I sat cross-legged in an overstuffed chair.

His face was perfection, molded in paradox. He appeared both strong and vulnerable. His eyes were large, dark; his intelligence shimmered behind them like reflections of the moon at night. He was broad shouldered but thin; his large hands reminded me of Peter's—before Peter died, the first time. When he was tall and blond. Roger didn't look like he would ever die. He had the handsomeness of eternal youth; the world would give him only good things, and take nothing away. In another age he would have been considered royalty. His expensive slacks were soft gray flannel, his dress shirt white. He wore a gold watch.

"Henry tells me you're a great actor," I said.

When he didn't respond, I added, "What do you think?"

"I went to your signing this afternoon," he replied. "I watched as those teenagers told you what a great writer you were. I noticed you didn't know what to say to them."