Slippin' into Darkness

8:28 A.M.

In the dream Shutterbug is standing before the big drive-in screen during the world premiere of his first movie. Rows of cars stretch into the darkness, each car wedged in tight like a bullet in a full clip, each windshield dappled with a summer’s worth of dead bugs that won’t wash away until fall brings the first heavy rain. And all those eyes behind all those windshields watch Shutterbug. All those eyes see his face through mosaics of dead bugs.

His cricket eyes are as black and round as camera lenses. His yellow-jacket grin is lined with teeth like razors. Cracked antennae warp his perceptions, but that is a natural state of affairs. He is a Shutterbug and he is smiling, and all eyes are trained on him.

It’s wonderful, all that attention.

Until Shutterbug realizes that he is naked.

He’s embarrassed, of course, but not too embarrassed because he can see that the people in the can are naked, too. And April Destino is naked, lying on a pool table parked between a Nova and a Barracuda. She’s naked, smiling a lazy spiked-punch smile and her teeth are little white squares that couldn’t hurt anyone, and Bat and Todd and Derwin and Griz are standing there, dirty jeans swimming around their ankles, and they are smiling but their smiles aren’t at all lazy, and Shutterbug hears April’s tinny moans spilling from the corroded speaker that hangs from one of the corner pockets.

And Shutterbug knows what’s happening up on the screen because he can hear what’s spilling from the speaker. But now it seems that everyone is watching him instead of the movie, staring at his cricket eyes and yellow-jacket teeth and cracked Shutterbug antennae.

Let them watch, he thinks. They’re only ghosts. Their bodies are skinned with shadow, each one as light as the breeze that rides the night air. Shutterbug doesn’t fear them. He sees gravel through the waxed bodies of muscle cars, hot oil settling in black engines. He sees vodka bottles and six-packs of beer hidden in locked trunks, along with guys who snuck in for nothing and who won’t get out for any price.

If he really looks hard, he can see through that Chevy van in the first row. He sees two teenagers locked in a passionate embrace, sees through their skin, their jaws. If he really looks hard, he can see their tongues dancing behind the dead butterfly on the windshield.

They are only ghosts. Shadows. They can’t do anything to him.

And then the first one laughs.

It’s April, sitting up on the pool table, pointing at him, awful laughter rippling over her little white teeth, over lips stained with spiked cherry punch, the sound amplified through two hundred iron speakers.

And then it’s more horrible than Shutterbug imagined because he was so sure that the things in the cars couldn’t harm him. But each chuckle is like a little knife. He can’t stand up to it and neither can his film.

The film breaks, and Shutterbug is bathed in white light. Car horns bleat. Rows of headlights switch on as one, and Shutterbug has to close his eyes and he can see red veins and his eyelids are nothing but dark filters throbbing with blood because the light is so bright.

Just for an instant he can see himself through their eyes. He’s so very black against the very white screen, and his face isn’t insectile at all. It is a face just like Derwin MacAskill’s.

Everyone can see it.

His father yells, “Marvis! Cover yourself!”

But he can’t do that. The light is too bright, so bright that he begins to see through his eyelids. Everything is red and spider-webbed with tiny veins. He sees round bugging eyes in caverns of bone. Ghosts wearing transparent grins, the rows of teeth behind each set of lips sharp and twisted and wolfish.

And April Destino wears the worst grin of all, though her teeth are little and white and square, and Shutterbug recognizes in an instant that she has been hungry for a very long time. April points at him, and he sees the blood racing through her veins, he sees her heart pounding and knows it is a muscle and it is very, very strong stronger than he ever imagined.

April says. You missed the best shot, Shutterbug. But that’s okay. I’m still waiting for you, and this time…I’m ready!

Bright light burned a flat line across Shutterbug’s face. The sound of his own gasp filled the room, and, hiding behind it, he imagined that he heard the dull echo of April’s damning words.

He opened his eyes, squinting at the shaft of morning sunlight that knifed through a crack between the bedroom drapes. His head ached intensely. It didn’t seem possible that sharp rocks had been shoved into his skull in place of his eyes, but that was the way he felt.

He made the mistake of rubbing his eyelids and the pain intensified.

Amazing. An amazing colossal hangover. This was all he needed on top of last night. His feet hit the floor-a dull, rubbery sound-and he realized for the first time that he had slept in his shoes and clothes. He had dreamt that he stood naked before his high school class while he’d really been sleeping fully dressed. There was a healthy measure of irony in there somewhere, but Shutterbug wasn’t quite up to finding it.

He made it to the window and fiddled with the drapes, eliminating the nasty slice of light that had tormented him. The last threads of the dream unraveled, and he began to forget about it. He let himself do that; he didn’t want to spend another second in the company of the laughing ghosts.

It wasn’t a dream, anyway. It was a goddamn nightmare.

Every bit the equal of last night. Man, oh man. Last night had been the mother of all nightmares. First those idiots invading his house. And as if that hadn’t been bad enough, he had actually buddied up with them. Now if that wasn’t the ultimate in bad judgment, what was?

What had been wrong with him back in high school, anyway? He had actually wanted to hang out with guys like Bat Bautista and Derwin MacAskill. He’d thought that they were cool. They certainly weren’t cool now. It was a dead solid given that last night was just a glimpse of the crazy things they liked to do. For Shutterbug, that little glimpse was as damning and ugly as the blinding sliver of light that had spilled through his window and given him a nightmare.

Well, he had learned his lesson, and not a moment too soon. He yawned and licked at the rusty tang that had set up housekeeping in his mouth while he slept. He still couldn’t quite believe what Bat and company had done. His memory wasn’t completely clear, but it was clear enough. Going to a busted-down drive-in and projecting your old home movies. Weird enough. Even weirder when your old home movies featured rape and torture.

Just your usual high school hi-jinks.

Amazing.

It had gone that far-and that was too far for Shutterbug-and then it had gone some more. He couldn’t remember what had happened after the visit to the drive-in, and for that he was thankful. The beer had been bad news, and the cocaine had been worse. He had lost all sense of moderation with the stuff, and now he was suffering the consequences. Everything was off just a click; even the smallest movement had an edgy, mechanical feel. He didn’t much like it-puzzling over how to get moving, and what he was going to think of next, and why he was trying to move at all.

Like the ad said: this is your brain on drugs.

Well, a hair of the dog was in order. Shutterbug opened the closet and took a shoebox from the middle shelf.

Opened it.

The wrong box. His money stash box.

He returned the money box to the proper place and found the box that housed his cocaine.

There was nothing in it but a little gold coke spoon.

Where was the coke? He checked his pockets.

Found the Ziploc-its contents considerably reduced in the shadow of the previous evening’s escapades.

Carefully, Shutterbug dipped the spoon into the bag. He didn’t like doing coke in lines. Macho bullshit, that. He thought a coke spoon was much more gentlemanly. It spoke of moderation, of hungers controlled.

One little spoonful for each nostril. He blinked, hardrock eyes smoothing into cool river pebbles. His mind fired.

Let’s get moving, boy.

In the kitchen Shutterbug ground some coffee beans, and that wasn’t a very pleasant task. Even under the best circumstances the whirring Melitta grinder made a sound not unlike a screeching mouse scrabbling against the glass walls of an electric blender. But he managed the task, poured the grounds into a filter, got the pot filled and running without incident. And when the aroma of brewing coffee filled the room, he was convinced that it was indeed the finest smell in the world.

He opened the refrigerator and was glad to see that the A-Squad hadn’t left any beer behind. The Diet Coke he took from the bottom shelf was pleasantly frigid. He halved a lemon and squirted juice into a thick glass. Then he added ice and Coke. A few deep swallows and the rusty tang was evicted from his mouth.

Nothing better for a hangover than a lemon Coke.

Shutterbug felt that he was slowly reclaiming his humanity. Routine of the morning rolling right along. Coffee brewing, a croissant with some butter in a few minutes, maybe an orange if he felt that his stomach could stand more acid on top of the lemon and coffee.

Morning routine, part B: while the coffee brewed, check the video decks in the basement.

Eight VCRs-lights glowing, digital clocks flashing-greeted Shutterbug as he descended the stairs. Each unit was manufactured by RCA. Just like his father, Shutterbug believed in buying American.

He hit the rewind button on a remote. The machines went to work. A few moments later he ejected the tapes and set them on a bench. He would label them later. He had hoped to turn out some serious product last night, but that hadn’t happened. Tonight he’d have to get busy. His distributor in San Francisco was breathing down his neck.

Maybe he would stop off at Blockbuster and rent a couple machines-he enjoyed doing that because Blockbuster refused to rent X-rated movies, and it was a kick to turn out his product on their equipment. But Shutterbug decided against it. Not because he didn’t want to spend the money, but because the quality of his tapes would suffer-Blockbuster’s machines didn’t hold a candle to his own.

Shutterbug believed in quality control. It was the single principle that set him apart from his competitors. Most of the other guys who operated on the fringes of the erotica industry were just cheapjack jokers. They didn’t have the talent to do straight fuck movies, so they did the dangerous stuff because it was their only ticket to the big bucks. With Shutterbug it was different. Sure, he was in it for the money. But there was that old familiar thrill, too, the one that came from ignoring the rules.

He broke open a new brick of blank tapes, peeled the plastic wrappers, and fed the hungry duping decks. Cued up the master tape. Sent the mechanical beasts to work with the press of a single button.

Talk about your easy money. But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. This was just one end of the deal. The other end, that was the tough part. He turned from the dingy metal table and the metal shelves stacked with VCRs and photographic chemicals that never seemed to make the short trip to his shop, and he stared at the other end of the room.

The plush carpet started halfway across the cement floor. Red carpet, and a bed covered with black silk sheets, because white skin looked magnificent against black sheets. Nice rattan furniture for an exotic look. An open picture window on the false wall that stood a few feet short of the cement wall of the basement, which was covered with a mural-sized photo that pictured a beach scene on the isle of Maui.

That was Shutterbug’s set, at least the one he was using now. He had previously used an Aspen ski chalet scene and a New York penthouse scene. He had even built a prison set for some teenybopper-in-the-pen stuff early on in his career.

Now it was Maui, and it was almost real. The bed, the window, the beach. The air would be warm and the sand would be soft and the trades would be gentle.

Shutterbug grinned. He needed a vacation.

He glanced at the VCR and monitor, saw the black wires spreading out from the master machine like the tentacles of a big octopus, saw his latest teeny-bopper protege on the octopus’s black face. Shelly Desmond was wearing one of April Destino’s cheerleading sweaters and nothing else. She was playing with herself. Dressed in the sweater, wearing just a touch of makeup, she looked just right, almost as good as one of the teen queens mounted on his bedroom wall.

The cheerleader’s sweater had been a good deal. It added that little touch of authenticity that his customers appreciated. Fifty bucks in April Destino’s hand, and the sweater was his. He was only sorry that with April dead he wouldn’t have a chance to add some of her other cheerleading outfits to Shelly’s wardrobe.

Damn. Shutterbug stared at the teendream, at the VCRs, and he thought about the money stowed in the upstairs closet. He had almost told those four idiots about his operation; he’d almost started bragging. Christ, that would have been a mistake. Tell some mouths like that, and before he knew it the FBI would be pounding on his door.

Four idiot jocks. Shutterbug was glad that he had outgrown such morons.

He had come a long, long way.

From doing what others wanted to doing things his own way.

From Todd Gould’s basement to his own.

From 16mm to the age of video.

With the last thought, Shutterbug’s grin faded and was replaced by a thin frown. He hurried upstairs. Frantically, he searched the house. He opened the front door and checked the porch, the driveway, even the bushes.

Where was the 16mm projector?

And, more importantly, where was the little loop of film?

Shutterbug tapped his shirt pocket. Jesus. There it was. Right there. Laughing, he fished the plastic reel from his pocket, and a shard of film whipped against his wrist.

The laughter died in his throat. He shouldn’t be looking at the film itself. He should be looking at the white leader. Hurriedly, he unspooled a coil of 16mm and held it up to the light.

He saw Griz Cody leaning over April. But that wasn’t the beginning of the film. He pinched the first frame of film and let the reel drop. It slipped free of the film and rolled across the floor. The film unspooled in a straight line, a line that was less than five feet long.

Shutterbug swore. He’d made the mistake of an amateur. All that damn beer and cocaine had muddled his thoughts. They hadn’t watched the whole movie. The film had broken when Griz Cody tossed the projector. Not realizing that the film was split into two parts on two reels, Shutterbug had grabbed only one. He had less than five feet of a fifty foot film. The rest was on the collection reel.

Shutterbug paced. In the living room, he stepped over the turntable that Griz Cody had destroyed. He stepped on the white scratch left on the pine floor by the stereo needle and reversed direction. The heavy aroma of fresh-brewed coffee in the kitchen did not cheer him, and the buttery smell of warmed croissant wafting from the oven did not stir his hunger.

He remembered the drive-in. Standing there in front of all those people. Seeing through his eyelids. Seeing through their flesh.

No. That was the nightmare. Get it straight.

Okay. They watched the movie. Griz tossed the projector. And he picked up one of two reels. He didn’t pick up the broken projector itself, but maybe someone else did. And then after that…after that-

• they visited the cemetery. Right. That wasn’t part of the dream. They visited the cemetery- • and found a hole in the goddamn ground! An empty grave! It was April’s grave, and someone had stolen her body. Shutterbug wanted to hide from that, but the memory came flooding back, bringing with it a horror which frightened him in a way that no mere nightmare ever could.

He had stared into an empty grave. April’s corpse was gone. But someone had grabbed him, a man…a man who was-

– dead?

No. Not dead. This wasn’t a dream.

Bleeding, then. A man who was injured, perhaps on the brink of death…

Jesus. It really had happened. It hadn’t been part of his crazy nightmare.

But the projector, and the reel that held the rest of the movie.

Maybe they were in Griz Cody’s truck.

And maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were still at the drive-in, lying there on a gravel mound like so much junk.

Or maybe they were at the cemetery. Lying next to an open grave.

Lying next to the body of a dead man.

Shutterbug sat in his Jaguar, staring at the fuchsia-colored police tape twisting and flexing in the warm morning breeze. The projector wasn’t here. There was nothing here but a hole in the ground and a sea of tombstones. He could see that, even from the car. But even if the film had been here, it certainly wouldn’t still be here in the wake of a police search.

So, the projector wasn’t at the cemetery, and Griz Cody wasn’t answering his telephone. Maybe… hopefully…Griz had the film. But if Griz didn’t have the film, and the police didn’t have it, it was most likely at the drive-in, which was conveniently located just across the road.

Shutterbug keyed the old Jaguar’s engine. He could have driven a brand-new Testarossa, but he didn’t. He could have lived in a big city, but he didn’t. He could have lived an entirely different life, but that too was something he hadn’t done.

He had no time to spare for regrets. He pulled from the well-maintained cemetery drive onto the pitted road that separated Skyview Memorial Lawn from the old drive-in. He made the sharp turn onto the gravel road that Griz Cody had followed the night before. Ahead, the chain-link gate stood open, the top section of the right gate hanging unhinged and ready to collapse.

Cody’s truck had done a thorough job.

Shutterbug drove into shadow. Tall pines overhung the road, their branches scraping the car doors. Shutterbug glanced at the rearview to make sure that no one had followed him.

No one behind him.

Branches whispered against Jaguar fenders. He saw himself in the mirror for the first time since getting out of bed, saw the red scratches scoring his butterscotch skin. The window of the car was rolled down just an inch, and the sour, licorice smell of skunk cabbage and the dry scent of dead pine filled his nostrils. He suddenly remembered the ghost that had sent him screaming into a tangle of dead pines.

April Destino’s ghost.

No. The ghost…the trees had been in his dream.

But there were scratches on his face.

It was just another part of the dream. That was all. Nothing more.

Forget it, he told himself. Just get through this, and worry about the rest of it later.

Gravel spit from under the Jaguar’s wheels. Shutterbug advanced through the gate and made a quick left. The Jaguar climbed the first gravel hump and passed the first line of leaning, speakerless poles.

A gold-and-white police car was parked beneath the huge screen. The contrast made the car look small, but not at all insignificant.

Shutterbug’s foot mashed the brake pedal. The policeman stood near the trunk of his cruiser. Dark blue clothes and mirrored sunglasses.

And there, at the cop’s feet, lay the projector.

The cop was staring at it.

Shutterbug slammed the gearshift into reverse. He backed up, stirring a hail of gravel and a thin cloud of dust. The cop looked his way. Couldn’t possibly see him, but had to see the car, the license plate…

No, the cop couldn’t have seen that. Not from such a distance. Not with the morning sunlight filtering through the dead trees behind the Jaguar. Not with the dust rising.

A heavier cloud mushroomed behind the Jaguar as Shutterbug shifted into second and passed through the drive-in gates.

Pine boughs whipped the Jaguar.