9. THE DECISION

  Once Brendan was able to breathe again, he began to wonder how he was going to be able to get out of this catastrophe. As he collected and stacked the pieces of his solid oak door, he began to wonder if there was a way he could get out of this catastrophe. Of course, he thought, he could go along with it. After all, what did he really have to lose? Marty was gone. His freedom was gone. What else could they take from him? His soul? That had melted away in the L.A. sun years ago.

  Hadn't it?

  Brendan heard his mother's voice, echoing through his skull like an irresistible litany. He was making a terrible mistake. He was a making a terrible mistake. He was making a terrible mistake.

  "So what can I do about it?!" he cried out loud, and threw a block of oak against his wall. It collided with his NYU degree and shattered the glass frame. The degree fell to the floor with a sound of defeat. It was a brief noise.

  If he said no to them, if he said no to the Group, then he would end up in as many pieces as his door. Of this much he was positive. But if he said yes to them, then he was theirs. He was their servant, their maid. He would be taking their orders until he really did make a mistake or until they found a better method of promotion for their cause, whatever that was. And then Brendan would be expendable, and he would finally find out where Marty was.

  He had accepted their deal happily. He had agreed to their terms without a moment's consideration. He had willingly given their necklaces to his actresses. "You're not paying for the cause, Brendan," Madelaine had told him. "You're paying for the effect." Well, he was the cause, and the effect had to end.

  Tomorrow.

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10. THE TRAP

  "That's a wrap," he called out, and the crew began to pack up for the day. His actresses were already in their dressing rooms. Thea had left the set a few minutes earlier, but was now coming back, holding a video.

  "Is that the dailies?" asked Brendan, jotting down a few production notes.

  "It's our advertisement."

  Brendan looked up from his pad.

  "You can edit it in tonight."

  Brendan scratched his goatee. "We can edit it in tonight. I mean, Marty used to help me and I can't do it alone. And you wouldn't want me to make any mistakes with it, would you?"

  Her cell phone chimed. "Meet me in the editing booth at eight o'clock," she said, and walked away. Brendan watched her leave and nervously fished for a cigarette. After all his years of writing bad plots, he just hoped this one, the one he had conceived during the long night, didn't have any holes in it. If he did make any mistakes...

  Only Sophie the make-up artist had asked where Marty was gone. Everyone else was so far into their own worlds that they had not even noticed the change. Madelaine, Debra, and Kara had just exchanged smiles and worked.

  Seven o'clock. Brendan did not have much time. He hopped into his green Porsche and managed to avoid most of the traffic between the studio and his office. Locking the makeshift door the building's maintenance crew had made for him, Brendan clicked on his computer and started up a new, brief message.

Dear Solomon,

  We regret to inform you that we will be unable to film your fantasy. Your credit card will be refunded. We appreciate your business, though, and would still like to work with you in the future.

Sincerely,

  F.G.S. Productions

  But Brendan did not send the message. Instead, he selected a delay, and that the message be sent right before his computer shut off. Then he told his computer to shut off at 8:00 p.m. Then he smoked four consecutive cigarettes, before mustering the strength to get back in his car and return to the studio and his editing booth. By the time he arrived back, it was 8:03.

  Thoughts of Marty kept Brendan grounded as he walked up the steps to the booth. Thea was already there, waiting for him.

  "So," Brendan said, sitting down. "What did you think of today? Have you ever been on a movie set before?"

  "Mr. Dorsey, unlike you, I value my time. How long will it take to include our advertisement with your film?"

  "You know, all business and no pleasure--" He leaned forward.

  She gently shoved him back. "All business. No pleasure. How long will this take?"

  "Not long. Come on. I'll show you how to work the equipment. It's really fascinating."

  And he went through the origin and the function of almost every instrument in the booth, including the light bulbs and the floor mop in the corner. By the time he finished, it was 8:25.

  "I'm not a patient person."

  "Well, you know, patience is a virtue." He lit a cigarette. "And knowledge is--"

  "How well do you respond to bodily harm, Mr. Dorsey? We imagine that you will respond quite well. Let's not test our hypothesis, all right?"

  He nodded. 8:27. "Right. Oh, wait. I forgot to show you how to cut the film."

  "Is this relevant?"

  "It's necessary." He picked up a negative clip from the floor and a straight razor from the table. "It's old-fashioned, but I'm an old-fashioned guy, really. This is the only way you can really control the product yourself, instead of having some machine do it for you. And I believe control is the one thing we cannot sacrifice. Don't you agree, Thea?"

  "Very much."

  "Come here. You've got to lean it to see how precise a cut you've got to make."

  She leaned in, inches from his own face. Had this been different circumstances, had this been any other situation than the dire one he was trapped in, Brendan would have kissed this woman now. Or at least mouthed something poetical. But it wasn't like that, so instead he tightly gripped the straight razor and brought its blade across Thea's throat.

  She tried to scream, but couldn't. Brendan stumbled backward, and watched her swinging back and forth, desperately trying to stop her jugular from spouting. As she stomped about, her leather pumps suddenly burst open, and her nylon stockings split apart. She glared at him and the seams of her suit popped open. But the change only made her bleeding increase, and by the time she had outgrown most of her clothing, and much of the empty space in the small booth, she was on her knees, weakly trembling.

  Then Brendan's watch beeped. 8:30. He gasped, and waited. Thea peered up from the floor at him with those dark eyes of hers, but moments later the darkness was snuffed out, and then there was nothing.

  He would need another assistant.

  Her cell phone rang. And then again. And then again. And then again. And then a fifth time. And then stopped.

  Brendan picked it up and dialed *69. Quickly, a seven digit number appeared in the telephone's electronic display.

  "Hello?" N.'s voice asked. "Thea?"

  Brendan hung up, and then dialed the operator.

  "May I help you?" she asked in a sweet, friendly voice.

  "Yes. I'm trying to find this address of a cousin of mine. I have her phone number, but I can't seem to find the piece of paper..."

  "If you give me the telephone number, I may be able to help you, sir."

  Brendan smiled and gave her N.'s telephone number. And then the operator gave him N.'s address.

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