Jeffery Deaver - Shallow Graves

Meg pushed through the door. Pellam, frowning, looked after her. Moorhouse spit the tape out of his mouth and said, "Trial is set for Monday morning. I know a local lawyer, you want."

Pellam pushed his fists out toward the man's chest. "What I want is the cuffs off. They're a little disruptive."

Pellam sat in the passenger seat as Meg pushed the little car up through the gears and shot out of town.

He casually slipped the seatbelt and shoulder harness on. He noticed the knob on the manual transmission gearshift was twisted and worn from heavy use, the gear position symbol upside down. As if to show him why, she downshifted on a gentle curve and brought the speed back up to about seventy.

It was a forty zone.

Over the roar of the engine, he said, "Thanks. I-"

Meg shook her head.

He didn't know what she meant: that she didn't want him to talk or that she couldn't hear him. The tach was almost redlined.

Pellam looked around. The streets were empty. The parking lot next to a church was full of small trucks and cars. It was classic American religion-a sweeping white steeple and red brick, symmetrical, unchallenging, simple. He wondered what denomination it was, then decided it didn't really matter; religion in Cleary would be pretty much the same whatever church you happened to be in.

"Where's Sam?"

"Sunday school."

"Where's Keith?"

"Some errand then he was going to the factory."

"Oh."

They drove in silence to the house. To her house. In her car.

With her flinty eyes and taut mouth.

When they got there, she left four-foot skid marks in the gravel and climbed out, slamming the thin door with a crash. She walked up on the porch, leaving Pellam in the passenger seat.

She disappeared inside.

He sat.

She reappeared a minute later and said, "You coming inside or not?"

"Well, I guess I-" he said to her receding back.

The house was quiet. A funny thing, an old house like this-huge and warm with a woody-smelling heat coming up from parquet floors-being quiet. A house that ought to have a dozen kids running around in it, raising all kinds of hell, adults doing their weekend tasks. But it was still, completely still.

He followed her into the kitchen. She was setting up a Mr Coffee. She put rolls in the oven. He crossed his arms. She didn't say anything. He leaned against the counter. He unfolded his arms and sat down. He said, "I-"

She slammed the coffee can down, spun to face him. "I've only got one question."

"You got me out of jail to ask me a question?"

"Did Sam get that shit from you?"

He didn't answer.

She looked at him.

Pellam stood up. "If you think that then I'm just going to walk back to your lockup, thanks."

Meg walked over to him and stood inches away. "I want you to say it. I want you to tell me."

"I didn't give him any drugs."

She turned away.

He said, "I thought you knew me… I thought we knew each other better than that."

Then she was digging in her purse, pulling out sheets of paper.

He squinted. His right eye blurred. A renegade bit of dirt from the night before shifted. He wiped tears. Then he was focusing on the sheets of paper, the kind with the holes in the side. She'd printed something out of a computer.

Pellam frowned and leaned forward.

So that was it.

He cleared his throat. Even here. Cleary, New York, population 5800. Even here.

Pellam said softly, "So you know."

Meg pushed the printouts toward him. They were dirty and well read.

Honing in on his eyes, she said, "I thought I'd heard your name. When I was a model in New York I got interested in movies. I used to buy some of the film magazines, the high-brow ones. I knew your name was familiar."

He lifted several of the articles, glancing at newspaper headlines he could recite in his sleep.

Pellam's "Time Out of Mind"-L.A. Film Critics Top Pick for Independents, New Director Pellam Captures Cannes, Sundance. New York Film Festival Must: Pellam's "Sandra's Apartment."

Then the others, with words that often did come to him in his sleep: Film Director Indicted in Drug Death of Star. Pellam Trial Revelation: Drugs "Flowed" on Set. Director, Associate Indicted in Star's OD Death. Death Movie "Central Standard Time" Shelved as Backers Drop Out.

He dropped them on the table. He stood up. "Better be going."

Meg stepped between him and the door. Took his arm, and held it hard.

"No, please. I don't want you to go. I was so scared about Sam. I was so hurt. I didn't think they came from you but I couldn't help but think about these." She touched the articles hesitantly.

She let go of his arm and Pellam walked to the back window, pulled aside the curtain. He said, "I never sold anything. The man who died was my friend. Tommy Bernstein."

Meg said, "He was a wonderful actor. I saw a couple of the movies he was in. They weren't yours, I don't think."

"He never worked for me. Not until that last movie. Central Standard Time. We were just friends. Best friends, I guess you'd say." He laughed. "God, that sounds strange. Adults saying they're best friends." He laughed hollowly. "Well, we weren't very adult."

"What happened?"

"I was directing indies-you know, independent films. Jarmusch, Seidelman. That sort of thing. I met Tommy the first week he got to Hollywood. You're right-he was good. But he got famous real fast, too fast-he never grew a thick skin. He got shook too easily and the only way he could work was high. We wrote Central Standard together-we went out to the desert a couple times and spent the whole day writing. Just the two of us. He was going to star. His first serious film. But the only way he could work was on coke. He wanted a lot and I gave him a lot. And more. He did too much. He had a heart attack and died. He was thirty-one."

Pellam looked at the refrigerator. A construction paper airplane was stuck to the door with magnets. Printed on it: Love you, Mom!!!

"It was so strange. At first nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was like the whole incident vanished. I even got up and went to work, trying to find a new star, looking at rough cuts, seeing what we could salvage. Then, everything fell apart. Me included. I couldn't work, I just didn't care. The financing backed out and I didn't have a completion bond-star insurance. So I lost my savings and my house, the equipment. I did a year for manslaughter; my assistant got suspended."

"But it wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I kept supplying him. It was in the film's budget. Under 'Miscellaneous Cast-related Expenses.'"

"Was that when your wife left you?"

He smiled. "No, it was a little after."

Meg said, "That was six years ago, Pellam. You mean nobody would let you work? I don't mean this bluntly but it wasn't the end of the world."

"Well, it's funny what qualifies for the end of the world. A year in the Q-that's San Quentin. That's one way to define it. Believe me, that's definitely a way to define the end of the world."

"I'm sorry, John." She touched his arm. This was a different touch. Softer. Closer.

His laugh was bitter. "Hell, there were publicists in L.A.'d shake my hand and say, 'Fucking great promotion idea-you kill the star. Isn't a newspaper in the country won't do a story about you.'" He paused, listening to the mumble of the coffee machine. "Sure, I probably could have gotten it together after I got out. I'd lost a lot of contacts but that wasn't the problem. The problem was I just didn't care. I had no desire to direct any more. So I got a job scouting locations."

"I don't know what to say."

He walked away from her. "It's temporary. Things'll get better."