Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Why are you so exasperating,” Courtney said.
“It’s time for you to learn that you’re not acting in your own best interests.”
“I don’t have to listen to this crap.” She turned away from him.
“You’d do yourself a favor if you took what I’m saying seriously,” he said. “You can’t help yourself if you don’t first recognize that you need help.”
Courtney started to walk away. Over her shoulder, she called back to him.
“Screw you,” she said.
“My point exactly,” he said.
41
It was early Monday evening when Jesse pulled up in front of the Community Services Building. He made his way to William Goodwin’s office.
Ida Fearnley greeted him warily.
“He’s waiting,” she said.
She ushered him inside, where he found Goodwin standing at his desk. Beside him stood Oscar LaBrea, pointing a short-barreled Ruger .45-millimeter automatic pistol at Jesse.
Ida remained in the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it.
“Aw, hell,” Jesse said.
“In case you’re wondering, I know how to use it,” Oscar said. “Put your gun on the commissioner’s desk.”
Jesse sighed.
He took the Colt from his shoulder holster, turned it so that the handle was facing Goodwin, and placed it on the desk. Then he sat down.
“What’s this about,” he said.
“You’ve flown too close to the flame,” Goodwin said.
“Quit talking in metaphor.”
“Are you aware of what the people of Massachusetts are getting away with? Have you any idea how much they’re receiving for so little?”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“People are being given the bargain of their lives, and they neither appreciate nor respect it. I tried for years to get them to listen. No one cared. As a result, we continue to squander our most important natural resource. Every time someone takes a piss and flushes the toilet, one and a half gallons of clean water flushes away with it. What’s wrong with this picture?”
He began to pace the room. His already high-pitched voice continued to rise with his anxiety level.
“This despicable behavior has to stop.”
Goodwin sat down, weary from the energy expended on his diatribe.
“Unbeknownst to them, however, the citizens of Paradise have been personally funding the water facilities of the disenfranchised. Thanks to our efforts,” Goodwin said, with a nod to Oscar and Ida, “hundreds of thousands of dollars have been anonymously contributed to help cure the world’s water ills. We are singlehandedly changing the planet, drop by drop.”
“Illegally,” Jesse said.
“What?”
“Regardless of whatever good you think you may be doing, you’re breaking the law. You’ll be held accountable for it.”
“Accountable to whom,” Goodwin said.
“To the citizens of Paradise.”
“Who’s going to tell them?”
“I am,” Jesse said.
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” LaBrea said, stepping closer to Jesse. “You won’t be alive to tell them.”
Jesse turned to LaBrea, whose pistol was still trained on him.
“I’m going to shoot you, you bastard,” LaBrea said.
42
The second week of filming was devoted entirely to night work.
The crew had been called for the late afternoon and had completed their prep by sunset. Now they waited for darkness to fall.
At magic hour, those final moments of the good natural light of day, the cast and crew were on set, blocking the scene they were about to shoot. The scene took place on the back porch of the cottage.
As night began its slow descent, bringing with it wisps of cloud and a hint of fog, the director rehearsed the actors, placing them in the various positions that the scene required.
The cinematographer stood alongside the director, noting the actors’ movements during the rehearsal.
A camera assistant placed different-colored strips of masking tape on the floor, to indicate the marks the individual actors would need to hit during the scene.
Other crew members delivered props to the set, hung and focused lights, and laid dolly track for the smooth movement of the camera mount. Wardrobe personnel carried costumes and accessories.
Craft service employees brought trays of sandwiches and beverages to a specially laid table located within easy access of the set. Bowls filled with fruit and plates full of cakes and cookies were already on the table. As were jars filled with candy. This allowed members of the cast and crew to grab a snack or a drink without having to venture far from the action.
A group of extras stood at the ready, waiting to be selected by one of the assistant directors for inclusion in the background activity of the scene. Extras were hired by the day, depending on the dictates of the screenplay.
As this was a night shoot, the number of extras was held to a minimum. On this night, only eight of them were in attendance. Later in the evening, when the action moved to the front of the house, they would be called on to appear either on the street or in passing vehicles. As of now, they were gathered near the set, watching the proceedings.
Unnoticed by cast and crew in his beard and wig was Ryan Rooney. He had left the commandeered cottage at nightfall, emboldened by the pipeful of Shabu he had smoked.
He felt great. He felt strong. He was ready.
He walked with purpose to the set. In the organized chaos of working in partial darkness, nobody paid him any mind.
He stood within sight of Marisol, but for all intents and purposes, he was invisible.
—
Ryan watched as the director finished blocking the scene.
He saw Marisol being accompanied to the makeup trailer by a large man who appeared to be Native American. The man seemed fit, and his movements were lithe and economical. Ryan presumed he was either her assistant or her bodyguard. Or both.
He waited.
She emerged from the makeup truck in the company of the Indian and went to her personal trailer, which was parked a few feet from the set.
He waited.
She soon emerged, in costume and full makeup, ready for work. The Indian led her to the set and the nearby row of canvas-backed director’s chairs. One of them had her name embroidered on it.
Marisol sat in her chair and was soon joined by another woman, who Ryan recognized as Frankie Greenberg, whom he remembered from Tomorrow We Love.
She sat down next to Marisol, a leather-bound script in her hand.
It was dark, and when Frankie opened her script and turned to a specific page, she held a flashlight over it. Marisol studied the page, the two women chatting quietly.
Ryan noticed Marisol signaling to the Indian, pointing to Frankie’s script and shrugging her shoulders as if to suggest that she wanted her own copy.
The Indian nodded his understanding and stepped over to Marisol’s nearby trailer.
He stopped for a moment before going inside. He looked around. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he opened the door to the trailer and went inside.
Ryan pulled the .38 from his pocket and quickly moved to where the two women were sitting.
Marisol looked up as he approached, no recognition in her eyes. Then she knew.
“Oh my God,” she said.
That was when Ryan shot her.
Frankie stood and started toward him.
That was when he shot her.
Ryan immediately put the gun in his pocket and walked into the darkness.