Projections From Mrs. Van Gough

A Screenplay by BelAir

A man goes to a familiar city searching for something lost, and discovers something much more.

"Projections From Mrs. Van Gough"

BelAir

CUT TO:

INT. TAXI CAB – DAY

FROM WINDOW: the historical buildings of an UNKOWN CITY unravel in front of us, remodeled and alive with business. The people that walk their sidewalks are the typical coat-and-scarf combination DONOVAN BOONE has seen on every block since coming into the city’s limits.

ABOVE: the sky is ashen gray with coming snow.

BOONE is READING from a black LEATHER-BOUND JOURNAL in his hands, looking up to the city streets occasionally, as:

BOONE (V.O.)

It’s funny . . . She wrote about this

place.

(pauses)

Maybe I’ve been here before, as

a child, on one of those nights when

the world ripped itself apart in front

of me. If so, It still feels like I’m

seeing things for the first time.

INT. CORNER CAFÉ – DUSK -- LATER

CLOSE on a THIN SMEAR OF BLOOD across the back of Boone’s HAND, resting on a SALES CATELOG in front of him on the table. A scarlet streak that he does not notice.

Donovan Boone, a well-put together man in his thirties with green hazel eyes, instead watches out of the CAFÉ WINDOW he is seated next to. Across the street men and women bustle in and out of a BAR, department stores, and other unnamed buildings.

It has just started to snow over the small city. It’s the kind of snow that takes its time, gracefully, innocently. In all of the sense, it’s peaceful and keeps to itself its charm and secrets. The streets and pedestrians hold nothing against it.

CLOSE on Boone’s FACE, as he continues observing the street. His face is weathered, eyes vast and emotionless –they have been searching for something that hasn’t been found, we sense, for a long, long time.

Maybe many things.

His nose is not bleeding now.

BOONE (V.O.)

This kind of scenery could almost make a

man want to stay here, if he got to look

at it even once a year.

TWO WOMEN enter the Café, straightening their hats and the hair beneath them. Hello FIFTIES. Boone does not acknowledge their pretty young faces. He sits alone at his table, with the catalog, and the BRIEFCASE beneath it.

DRINKING a cup of COFFEE, he looks down at it.

BOONE (V.O.)

I have certain memories I have acquired

And they tell me of the importance of

the briefcase sitting in front of me.

It’s what I make my living out of. That

it doesn’t bring in much.

(pauses)

Maybe I do it because I think people

deserve to be tricked every now and then.

PUSH IN on his briefcase, until it is picked up by stranger hands, and the scenery has changed.

MONTAGE:

We follow Boone into a HIGH-ROLLER NIGHTCLUB;

As he opens his case in some of the finest restaurants of LA, surrounded by men;

BOONE (V.O.)

Women’s hair products in New York.

Revels in the most sophisticated elements of a New York DINNER PARTY;

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

Zenith radios in New York

FALSE NAMES AND HAND SHAKES;

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

Men’s shoes in Houston.

COLLECTING MONEY;

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

I had any kind of catalog for any kind of

product you can think of that can be mailed,

probably.

CASHING CHECKS

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

All of them as fake as the next.

(pauses)

His POV: suddenly everything STOPS, LOCKED ON A WOMAN, sitting across the room from him in a smoky BAR, and—

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

And it was almost all over for me in

New Orleans.

NANCY SCOTT is a flawless, silk-skinned beauty, wearing a light, cream-colored party dress. She has dark auburn hair, worn in artificial curls, and a light spray of freckles. A SILVER HEART-SHAPED LOCKET lays in the valley of her chest.

TWO WOMEN sit with her at the table, but the conversation they share is the least of their worries. Her eyes keep returning to Boone, to her drink, and back.

Boone waits until they leave to approach her. He grabs a drink at the bar, bourbon, along the way. She welcomes him to sit, smiling, although we can’t hear her. SM as the two talk, share polite, obligated laughs here and there. AS WE WATCH:

BOONE (V.O.)

I have these memories of her and I . . .

I felt like I was dreaming even back then,

the night I met Nancy Scott.

(pauses a beat)

In little less than twelve hours she will

commit murder . . . Of course, I don’t

know that now.

INT. JAZZ CLUB – SEVERAL HOURS LATER

A LIVE, SPASTIC SWING BAND plays a rather impressive rendition of THE BIG 18. Countless couples flail to the music in front of the stage.

At their table, as Nancy lights a cigarette and looks at him with curiosity through the drifting layer of smoke:

BOONE (V.O.)

It started with one little question.

NANCY

So what do you do, Donovan?

BOONE

Salesman. City to city traveling.

NANCY

Sounds exciting. Getting to travel, I mean.

What do you sell?

BOONE

Depends. Whatever the man thinks is rising

to taste.

NANCY

So let’s see it, Mr. Boone. I might be

your very next customer.

Boone lifts his briefcase to his knees, opens it, and searches through the stack until he comes to a JEWLERY CATELOG.

Nancy smiles as she flips through it, stopping occasionally. She points to one necklace in particular.

NANCY

My sister has that exact—

As if in answer, a young woman in a silken skirt and button blouse stumbles to the table—one of the women Boone spotted at Nancy’s table at the bar. With blonde hair and blue eyes, a perfect round face, she is the perfect image of American youth. A scrawny, grinning fellow behind her, both drunk. He knows what he’s getting later.

A schmuck.

NANCY’S SISTER (to Nancy)

Are you ready yet?

NANCY

Mr. Boone, my sister.

The sister looks down on him, the catalog.

SISTER

Who’s this?

(then, not waiting)

Nancy, you watch those kind. They try to

make everything sound so good . . . Over-

priced junk, that’s what I say!

She turns to leave and stumbles, her foot catching the table leg. She stables herself on her male friend, who ushers her to the door.

His POV: NANCY STANDS. HESITATES.

BOONE (V.O.)

That locket around her neck . . . she

showed me what was inside.

INT. PREVIOUS BAR – MEMORY FLASHBACK

We see just that, Nancy with the locket in her fingers, and inside, a picture of a dark man in uniform.

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

Her grandfather.

INT. JAZZ CLUB – PRESENT

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

‘I come from a family of strong men,’

she said. And I almost told her,

‘me, too.’

Boone hands her the first thing he can think of before she can leave: the catalog. He’s overly eager, awkward. We sense that dating has never occupied the bigger portion of his bachelor life. That women, in general, haven’t. There is something we see behind Boone’s EYES that looks as if it worships the beautiful women he sees; holds a superior respect to them.

BOONE

If you want—want to do this again or

Get together or something, my number’s here—

NANCY

But you’re visiting, aren’t you?

BOONE

Right. Nevermind. Just call the

Sampson uptown. I’ll be around for a

few days, probably.

Mrs. Scott nods, TAKING UP THE CATALOG with a WINK.

Boone watches her leave . . . the way she walks . . . the music drowning out:

BOONE (V.O.)

Perhaps the best thing of traveling is no

one knows you, knows your past, knows what you are bound to do . . . You are a complete stranger.

A table of ARROGANT DRUNKS. LAWYERS, DOCTORS, EXECUTIVE TYPES.

Boone gets up and walks to them.

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

Let them come up with their own theories

behind you—they’ve got to be more exciting

than what’s really your own.

He butts in, SHAKES HANDS. SITS.

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

Well, sometimes.

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. CORNER CAFÉ – PRESENT – NIGHTFALL

CLOSE on PAINKILLERS, shuffling into Boone’s palm. He swallows them with his coffee and begins gathering his things together. He tucks the journal away safely within his coat.

EXT. MAIN STREET – MOMENTS LATER

Inside, as Boone shuts the café doors gently against the night, we can see women sweeping the floors, cleaning tables.

The street’s buildings are outlined with CHRISTMAS LIGHTS, the trees along the sidewalk draped with the same shining strands. They are placed perfectly under the slackening snow --they give the city a cheap, memorizing enchantment.

Boone follows this street until he comes to the shelter of a green awning. PRINTED ACROSS ITS FRONT: THE HOTEL BAKER. The two polished entrance doors are lined with GREENERY.

His POV: through the entrance doors we can see a small dining lobby, where drunks laugh and black-tie waiters try to keep up with business. The tables are polished oak, plates matching china, and the silverware sparkles if moved just right under the hanging chandeliers. As he looks in on them, there is a sense of loneliness to him. Longing.

INT. KITCHEN OF BOONE HOUSE – MEMORY FLASHBACK

A MUTED FLASH:

A WOMAN, being beaten by her husband, as a small boy watches from around a corner. The HUSBAND throws her to the tiled floor again, and then, as the boy’s mouth opens in a scream, he kicks her –

EXT. HOTEL BAKER – PRESENT

The faceless diners, as they are.

INT. HOTEL BAKER LOBBY – CONTINUOUS

Boone goes inside, unnoticed, and slips around the corner to where the front desk is, and farther on, the MAIN ELEVATOR. It’s a cramped, polished wood box, trimmed with the same wood as the corridor. AN OLDER GENTLEMAN, the OPERATOR, dressed in a pressed white shirt, tie, and dress pants, nods his way, closes the door behind him, and pushes the button for the sixth floor.

INT. ROOM 154 – LATER

From OVERHEAD: We’re looking down on a queen-sized bed, as he drifts toward SLEEP, the journal clasped to his chest.

BOONE (V.O.)

I’m still wondering what the hell I’ve

came here for. I guess after a while

of running you will go anywhere that’s

left to hide, right? And she loved it.

The LIGHT from the BATHROOM cracks across his FACE in the dark, revealing something much more INTENSE in his eyes than we are yet familiar with, but not altogether unpleasant. In fact, a very small, barely detectable SMILE moves onto his lips.

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

And then nothing matters as I finally

escape into sleep.

His EYES DROOP CLOSED.

INT. ITAILIAN RESTERAUNT – CONTINUOUS

His POV: watching Nancy from a distance, through a crowd of waiters and diners. It’s a scene he knows all too well. Boone is not overdressed, but fits in nicely with the common wealth.

Nancy leans forward uneasily, rather, to speak to someone across from her, hidden from our view, and just as another body shuffles—

WAITOR #2

Sir? Can I help you?

The waiter eyes him over as he stands at the mouth of the dining area.

BOONE

I’m here to meet a Ms. Scott.

A SUDDEN, WARM SMILE breaks over on waitor #1’s face.

WAITOR #1

Yes, sir, she let us know of your

coming—this way.

He follows, weaving his way toward the table, but wearily.

Red lights.

STUNNING. A green satin dress, v-necked to hint at the creamy-white valley of her breasts, close-knit stockings, heels. The sequined band around her midriff sparkles as she fingers a matching clutch in front of her, not speaking, not smiling. Her curls pulled back tonight. A WORRISOME CREASE across her FOREHEAD.

Boone is crippled by her appearance so much that he almost overlooks the BULKING FIGURE seated across the table.

He stops.

THE JEWERY CATELOG rolled up in his back pocket and bulging against the man’s own suit ill-fit jacket. A COP. He scans the room.

OFFICER #1’S POV: Donovan Boone, ashen-faced in the crowd.

Nancy turns to where Officer #1 is looking, as he RISES, just as Boone spins around to FLEE, SHOVING the diners who have crowded in the short HALLWAY connecting the lobby and dining area.

From behind Boone we HEAR OFFICER #1 YELLING, passerbys SCREAM in surprise, and it’s like he can’t get them out of his way fast enough.

INT. RESTERAUNT LOBBY – CONTINUOUS

The RESTERAUNT WAITORS SHOUTING to each other in their own foreign language of codes, FOUR of them begin to SEAL the front entrance off.

WAITOR #2

(RE: BG yelling)

Sir, we’re not—

Boon manages to knock him onto the floor and grab the door handle before the other waiters move for him. He breaks free, dives again for the door.

EXT. ADJOINING STREET – CONTINUOUS

Boone pumps faster, free of his hat, his suit jacket. COUPLES DODGE out of his way, and somewhere farther off we can HEAR the men still yelling, CARS BLARING their HORNS as he dashes ACROSS the STREET and keeps running through several MORE.

EXT. ALLEYWAY – CONTINUOUS

Boone comes into the alleyway -- the classic crime-chase diversion we have only seen a thousand times, and so has Boone – and, realizing the danger of this act, TURNS BACK, out of breath, toward the STREET, and PAUSES.

His POV: the OFFICER, at the mouth of the alley.

Before he can make any kind of a decision, the officer’s FIST is SLAMMING into his face dead-on, taking Boone’s feet from under him, back-to the pavement . . . HEAD FALLS

BACK . . . STRIKING the ground . . .

BLACK

EXT. ALLEYWAY – SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

In the BLACKNESS, we hear a WOMAN’S VOICE, UNCOMPREHENSIBLE, YELLING to us . . . trying to waken us.

SMASH CUT TO:

WOMAN’S blurred figure FLEEING around the corner of the alley, dress flying out behind her.

SIRENS arise in the night.

His POV: the street. Two POLICE CRUISERS block the alley, EMPTY. LITTERED around them, FOUR OFFICER’S bodies, perhaps more.

Boone lowers his eyes. A REVOLVER lies beside him, forgotten.

The sirens. He has to move. Boone stumbles upward to his knees, cradling his hot stomach. He cries out against the pain, but manages to get to his feet.

EXT. ANOTHER NEARBY STREET – CONTINUOUS

TOMMY DORSEY PLAYS from one of the warmly lit homes he passes along the sidewalk.

The Woman is ahead of him, not too far along, as he turns onto a neighboring street—a green blur in the distance.

BOONE

STOP! Hey—stop!

PEDESTRAINS are stopped, watching, as he unslings his tie from his neck, running as well as he can while holding his stomach as if birthing an infantile weight of infected intestines.

From here the street curves into a DEAD-END, and the two dart between two houses and start making their way UP-HILL onto another street. Boone grabs the Woman by the heel, unsuccessful, when she KICKS back into his face, and FALLS in spite of it.

His POV: the terrified face that looks back into ours is that of NANCY SCOTT.

He grabs her before she can flee again, trapping her against the back of a worn, brick building.

BOONE

I’m not going to hurt you, all right?

. . . But if you tell on me, I tell on you.

Nancy tugs her wrist loose from his grip, looking toward the street. From the light that breaks between buildings, we see tears pushing into her eyes. The BLOOD tracing the bottom hem of her dress . . . the slip, fallen into view beneath.

BOONE

We should go now when we’re ahead of them.

We’ll split a fare and go as far as it’ll

take us and each of us will go from there.

SHAKING HER HEAD, CRYING now.

Erupting, Boone grabs her by the arm.

BOONE

For God’s sake, you’ve got hundreds of

witnesses back there. Do you think

they’ll just let it go?

(pauses a beat)

How much money do you got?

Shakes her head again.

Feeling down into the pocket of his pants, he finds his wallet, and inside, a TWENTY-DOLLAR BILL.

EXT. STREET – CONTINUOUS

Nancy follows Boone onto the street slowly, FIXING the SLIP as she goes, as he begins the ever-irritating task of WAVING down A CAB. His face is hardly more than a purple pulp, with a slit enough for one eye to peek out of.

MOMENTS LATER, a CAB pulls to the curb.

Nancy opens the passenger door and leans inside. Her cheeks are still sodden from crying. THE CAB DRIVER listens to her, PUZZLED.

NANCY

Can you help us, sir? My—my husband, he

was attacked, while we were walking home,

and lost all our money—

Boone FALLS against the CAB, and stables himself, over-dramatically. She reaches out to wrap her arms around his waist.

NANCY (CONT’D, SOBBING)

This man, he was a big, bulging man, in

a green coat, and I just turned back to

go inside for a—

CAB DRIVER

It’s okay, darling, just get in.

Nancy guides Boone to the door and lets him slide in first.

CAB DRIVER

Damn, missus, you gotta keep your man

outta trouble. Men down here fight dirty

like teenage boys sometimes . . . You

sure you don’t want me to drop you

by a hospital?

NANCY

No, no, just home.

(a beat)

Can you go as far as Gonzales? Just on

the outskirts, and, sir, I hope you know

we mean to pay you back for this. If you—

if you could give us an address . . .

CAB DRIVER

That’s all right—just remember what I

said about men down these ways.

The STREETLIGHTS move past them quickly now – too fast; they streak past them in two NEON RIBBONS . . . SIGNS, CARS, everything is moving too fast.

His POV: ILLUMINATED in their chaos, Nancy, watching the landscape unfold, next to him.

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. ROOM 154 – CONTINUOUS

He jerks out of the memory. THE BATHROOM LIGHT, still on, is a comfort on his face, only . . . the room is brighter than before—the door is open wider, flung back on its hinges to the wall. Dismissing it, Boone closes his eyes. At least until the ROOM DOOR CLICKS CLOSED abruptly.

Boone TRUNS.

His POV: the SHADOW of FEET at the bottom of the DOOR.

SITS up, still watching them.

As they start to move away, Boone throws back the bedding and RUNS for the door, to the PEEK HOLE. NOTHING, but we can hear the thump of quick FEET in the HOTEL CORRIDOR.

INT. CORRIDOR – CONTINUOUS

THROWS the door open. At the end of the hall, we can vaguely see a LARGE FIGURE turning the corner where the ELEVATORS are located. He TAKES OFF RUNNING, CHASING the FIGURE.

There’s the RATTLE of the elevator doors as he runs, and as Boone turns the corner of the corridor, they have already closed. He could call another, but he has been DISTRACTED by something much more . . . interesting.

His POV: A DARK-HAIRED WOMAN, middle-aged, older than Boone himself, SITS in one of the polished, tall-back chairs beside the elevator, a small, (wary?), smile on her face. She is NAKED, legs crossed, long hair draped over her breast, showing nothing.

FROZEN, Boone looks to the elevator, back to her—as if wondering if this WOMAN in front of him could have been the culprit. He hopes so.

She is a fit woman for her age, and knows it. The expensive kind, that spends every morning while her husband is gone, making her money, lonesome on a treadmill. Palates. Aerobics. Swimming pools. Always afternoons in the California sun.

She rises slowly, revealing herself to him, a goddess from an adolescent dream.

Is he still dreaming?

She moves farther down the hall, and Boone follows, dumbfounded, until the two reach the door to an empty ROOM.

INT. HOTEL ROOM – MOMENTS LATER

STANDING AT THE DOOR.

The room is filled with a THIN, MYTHICAL-LIKE MIST.

She goes to the bed and spreads across it, waiting.

INT. ANOTHER HOTEL ROOM – TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI – MEMORY FLASHBACK

CLOSE on Nancy Scott’s face, head in her hand, as she lays fully-clothed on a hotel bed, looking at us. There is a NEWSPAPER in front of her with an obvious, bold HEADLINE:

SIX SLAIN IN NEW ORELANS SHOOTING.

Boone sits on the end of the bed, face still far from healed.

BOONE

Why aren’t you gone yet?

NANCY

I need your money.

BOONE

You should have taken it a long time ago.

NANCY

That’s what you would of done, isn’t it?

BOONE (grinning)

Yes, ma’am.

INT. HOTEL ROOM – PRESENT

Boone crawls to her on the bed, over her. His mind is somewhere else.

INT. HOTEL ROOM – CLEAVELAND, OHIO – MEMORY FLASHBACK

Nancy and Boone, MAKING LOVE. There is an innocent sweetness to it, a divine honesty and purity.

PUSH IN: on Nancy, as she begins to SOB under him.

Boone stops, STARTLED, looking down at her.

Then Nancy, CLINGING to him. Her words are just barely understandable, muttered into his chest.

NANCY (still sobbing)

I killed those men, Boone . . . I

killed them . . .

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL ROOM – PRESENT – CONTINUOUS

The woman above him.

The lighting in the room is all wrong. Intense.

The FOG is growing thicker around their ecstasy. It covers the woman’s face and dances across her torso.

When it PARTS, it is no longer the woman’s face we see, but that of Nancy Scott’s.

LIGHTING, the light bulbs HUM with energy.

Her face again, mouth open, NANCY, herself, NANCY. Boone shuts his eyes in horror, as the LIGHTS BLOW OUT.

BLACK

INT. ROOM 154 – MORNING

OPENS his eyes. Clear renewed green.

INT. BRATHROOM – MOMENTS LATER

ANGLE from outside the shower: Boone’s naked body is silhouetted through the fogged shower door. He washes himself as if still in dream-like slowness.

BOONE (V.O.)

Any other man would have been proud of

such a dream. Honored.

It becomes apparent he is studying his body, and has discovered something worth interest on his abdomen.

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

But there’s something telling me it might

not have been that at all.

CLOSE on Boone’s fingers, tracing the bruised, moon-shaped indents in his sides, quite clearly left by fingernails.

INT. HOTEL CORRIDOR – LATER

Boone, freshly dressed, briefcase in hand, passes down the long hall and turns the corner. He pauses, headed into an elevator, C***S an EYEBROW at the now-empty chair, and, smiling to himself, goes inside.

BOONE (V.O.)

I don’t know it now, but my day’s about

to get even stranger.

INT. CORNER CAFÉ – DUSK – LATER

Dead today.

He sits reading at his usual table, the journal.

BOONE (V.O.)

Not for the first time I find I can’t

tear away from the damned thing.

One MAN mops the floor, while three other Women visit together behind the front counter.

ONE peeking over the shoulder of another; she shoots him an irritated eye, as though wondering why he hasn’t hit the road yet.

To the STREET. It’s much more comfortable there. Until something catches his attention.

His POV: a WINDOW, GLOWING with a soft, rich LAMPLIGHT over the bar across the street. A WOMAN passes it, out of view.

The warm, beating heart of this bleak city.

Boone stares inside, unable to help it – WANTING to be there, as another person.

His POV: the Woman appears again, this time observing the street. She has THICK, BLONDE hair. It is not apparent whether she speaks or not.

CLOSE on Boone’s face in the glass window.

Another figure approaching him.

CASHIER (V.O.)

Sir, we’re closing in ten. Would you

like anything more to go?

Jerked into reality, Boone begins collecting his things: his coat, hate, briefcase, the journal.

BOONE (distractedly)

No, thank you.

CASHIER

Certainly.

TURNS to go.

BOONE

Ma’am?

CASHIER

Yes?

BOONE

Do you know who lives there, above the bar?

Any idea?

The cashier’s brows draw together in a queer, puzzled look. Suspicious, even.

CASHIER

No, I don’t.

She looks him over again, and, as she is leaving toward the counter:

CASHIER (CONT’D)

Closing in ten.

Boone watches her for a moment, then STANDS to slip his coat on, his gaze itself slipping to the café window.

The woman is there still – she leans BACK-TO the window, BLOTTING out most of the light. Her HANDS FLY in frustrated CONVERSATION before her, and one final throw of them in the air. He sees her move, try to, as a MAN shows in front of her, SHOVING her back into the window. Even from where he stands Boone can quite clearly see the way her head connects with the GLASS, how she FALLS, revealing the Man further. Boone cannot move. Blink. Swallow. He cannot do anything more than watch in horror as the Man bashes down onto her with CLOSED FISTS, keeping on for a full minute or more. Then he backs up, smoothing his hair into its normal place.

LOOKS UP.

Boone, WIDE-EYED, seems to meet his gaze.

His POV: the Man reaches forward, DROPS the apartment window’s BLINDS.

Nothing from the window.

MOTIONLESS.

CASHIER

Mr. Silverman? Sir?

Her eyes go from him, and around to the street, and Boone spins back to the window, and, outside, the Man is WAVING for a taxi. A green coat, pulled tight across his shoulders and arms.

Before Boone is able to catch any of the figure’s face, he is getting into a cab, and is gone.

EXT. MAIN STREET – NIGHT – CONTINUOUS

SPRINGTING, LEGS PUMPING. Briefcase splicing through the night air. The cars pass so close to him he can register the sound of it banging off of their fenders.

A TAXI CAB.

Boone circles around and pushes inside.

CAB DRIVER #2

What the hell you doing out there?

The money from his pocket is enough to get the cab moving again.

Boone searches ahead of them frantically, and sees nothing at their slow crawl.

CAB DRIVER #2

Chasing somebody? Hope it’s not a woman, Joe.

BOONE

Go to the bridge.

They turn left, where Boone the previous taxi had turned off. SEACRHES block after block – houses, restaurants, stacks of apartments.

CAB DRIVER #2

Look, Joe, I don’t know what you be

looking for, but it’d help, you know, if

I had a name or something.

In the distance, the city is starting to unravel into frosted fields.

Boone sits back, surrendering.

CAB DRIVER #2

Made your mind yet?

BOONE (exhausted)

Yeah. Anywhere on Main. Actually, the

Hotel Baker.

That smirk.

CAB DRIVER #2

Tired out of chasing women already, are you?

BOONE

Tired of chasing ghosts.

The driver’s gaze returns to the road, smile drops slightly.

CAB DRIVER #2

Well, Joe, that might be even worse.

FADE IN:

INT. HOTEL BAKER LOBBY – NEXT MORNING

The sitting area of the lobby is full of executives, doctors, lawyers, an array of bosses. It’s Christmas party season, after all. All of them look expensive and fake.

Boone, unnoticed, sits hidden within the crowd in a suit of his own, briefcase on lap, reading the journal noncommittally, a temporary subterfuge in order to scope out his next victim, when the man next to him on the satin sofa leaves and is replaced soon enough by another.

Boone unclasps his case and brings out a catalog, flipping through it. It’s not long before the man, handsome brown eyes, a spray of freckles exposing every vacation spot he has spent this dreary season on, and dazzling white teeth perfectly concealed in a bold, square jaw—peeks over to it.

Boone’s POV: the catalog, HOME DÉCOR.

BRUCE TYLER (V.O.)

Hey, buddy, you looking to fix something up?

(pauses)

Or are you selling?

BOONE

No, actually—I’m a salesman.

BRUCE TYLER (grinning)

Well, I guess you are, in a way, then.

I apologize—my wife and I are selling.

I thought you looked like one of those

fix-em-up-and-sell-em kind of guys.

BOONE (fake interest)

No, but you can refer me to one.

BRUCE TYLER

I guess I could. We’re kind of in this

business together . . . Bruce Tyler, sir.

The two shake hands.

BOONE

Dan Boonslick.

BRUCE TYLER

Are you local?

BOONE.

No. On business.

BRUCE TYLER

That would be right, I guess.

Tyler studies the catalog in thought for a moment. They let the roar of conversation overtake theirs until:

BRUCE TYLER (CONT’D)

I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Boonslick: my wife

and I are moving to Chicago nearby, into a

bigger house, so I’ll give that magazine of

yours there a look, but you’ve got to help me

out.

Boone doesn’t hesitate, but passes it over to the man and smiles.

BOONE

I’m your man for making deals.

BRUCE TYLER

Terrific.

As promised, he scopes out the sale catalog with a relaxed precision. The man obviously has nowhere he should be at the moment. However, it’s worth the time when Boone spots his fingers bookmarking several pages.

As Tyler continues on:

BRUCE TYLER

Where are you from, Mr. Boonslick?

BOONE

Kansas originally. Just moved into the

area not long ago.

BRUCE TYLER

I know how that is.

(pauses, lifts the catalog closer, lowers it)

My wife’s taking it the hardest. She’s

worried about the kids and switching schools

and all that. How’s yours?

BOONE (chuckles)

Not married, no kids. I came close once,

though.

BRUCE TYLER

And that was enough for you, right?

BOONE

Right.

BRUCE TYLER

Bet you were a young couple, weren’t you?

BOONE

Yes, we were.

BRUCE TYLER

That kind is the best, let me tell you, but

it’s hard to make it last . . . You’ve got

to be a fan of it when you see it, though.

Boone hesitates, remembering a familiar face.

BOONE

Certainly.

EXT. FLORIDA BEACH – MEMORY FLASHBACK

His POV: we see Nancy looking out toward the ocean smiling—it is a soft smile, broken, almost, but happy to be there at all. She is happy to be there. WE HEAR NOTHING.

A WAVE, pushing in to them, LICKING their FEET in the sand.

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL BAKER LOBBY – PRESENT

Tyler looks upward to Boone.

BRUCE TYLER

Okay, how much down, because this piece

right here . . . this is just—perfect.

She’ll love it.

BOONE

Seventy. Cash only. The rest can be

mailed here to this address in the front.

Wrestling his CHECKBOOK from his coat:

BRUCE TYLER

Now your half of the deal: if it’s not

too much trouble, spread the news about

us selling--that’s Bruce and Joy Tyler.

(a beat, pen in hand)

How much was that now?

EXT. MAIN STREET – LATER

A DARK, WET NIGHT.

Fog shields much of the city, and the streetlights hang like lost spirits in it.

BOONE (V.O.)

Looking for business at the neon wasteland

of bars, I couldn’t shake the image of the

man and woman out. I keep wondering—what if he

killed her?

An OLDER GENTLEMAN waits at the Hotel Baker entrance, and NODS as Boone steps out of a cab, as if the two are longtime friends.

BOONE (V.O. CONT’D)

Would it be partly my fault?

As the man reaches to open the door for him, he notices a reflection in its glass, and turns back. The bar across the street. And over it, the apartment.

BOONE

And then there’s a part of me that says

no, that it’s none of my business in the

first place.

INT. MAIN STREET BAR – LATER

CLOSE: a FOLD OF MONEY, being counted.

Satisfied, the YOUNG MAN, college material, no doubt TUCKS it into his coat pocket. Takes another swing of beer, watching someone over the lip of the bottle.

Boone.

(a beat)

Boone rises from the bar and starts across the room, passing a quick GLANCE his way. He is headed for a PLAIN, METAL DOOR.

The young man abruptly BOLTS to his feet.

YOUNG MAN

That man there! Somebody—that man,

running, he stole, he’s taking that

woman! Look!

People are already moving to the windows, some even out of the bar, running into the night.

YOUNG MAN

He went around that corner, I swear to you!

See him? There, he’s . . .

His voice melts away behind Boone as he slips through the door. CLOSE on his face, showing the faintest signs of a grin, rearing to the surface.

The ROOM in which he stands is small, white-washed walls and contains one other door leading outside, on the other side of a wooden STAIRCASE. Hanging on the walls, fluorescent scones. There’s another light coming behind a door at the top of the stairs.

Boone is immediately drawn by it with a drunken courage that cannot be masked. The comforting light of the room leaves him to darkness.

His POV: the door, also plain, white-washed.

Waiting.

At the top of the stairs, he tries the knob, and finds it is unlocked. Looks back once. OPENS IT.

INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

THE BRIGHT LIGHT is all he sees for a minute – he is taken back by it and pauses until his eyes can adjust.

An ordinary hallway. A window at its end, three doors, two on one side of the hall, one on the facing. They are wooden, and the walls bare white.

There’s the SOUND of a WASHING MACHINE swashing somewhere, and that is all. Obsolete SILENCE. No cars or horns from the street below, or the dangerous melodies of sirens.

Boone walks to the first door on his left and puts his ear against it. Nothing. With his drunken sway he moves across to the right door, OPEN. We can see inside just vaguely: WHITE tile floors, peeling, white walls, a table. Laundry baskets.

At the washing machine, he slowly RAISES its TOP.

His POV: clothes – wet, exotic eels of many colors swimming inside.

He swipes down as if to catch one, and, holding it in front of him, dripping, it is a small, RED SWEATER. a football is sewn onto the middle of the chest.

A little boy’s.

He lowers the sweater back into the water and watches as it is drug down under the surface again.

With still no sign of the apartment’s owner, he leaves the room, down the hall. The second door is also locked. Unsuccessful, but not even sure of his intentions in the first place, Boone goes to the window at the end of the hall to look down on the street.

His POV: suddenly we are drawn to a figure standing on the sidewalk across the street in a familiar green coat. It appears almost as if he is staring back at us.

Then he turns, looking both ways down the street, ready to cross.

Boone jerks away and FLEES as fast as he can down the hall, fumbles down the staircase, out of the SIDE EXIT into a narrow alley—a scene he is good at.

EXT. MAIN STREET – CONTINUOUS

He scans the last place where he saw the man standing, the few faces of passerbys. The man is gone. Their faces reveal nothing of suspicion or as to where he went.

The apartment.

Nothing.

INT. HOTEL BAKER – LATER

Boone enters the lobby elevator, noting the older OPERATOR standing inside, ready to assist.

BOONE

Sixth. Thanks.

There’s something odd about the old operator’s eyes as they take off . . . his sly, crooked grin . . .

OPERATOR

Sorry, sir, but I’ve seem to have forgotten

your name. In all honesty.

BOONE (distracted)

I’m sorry? We’ve never met.

OP.

Oh, I’m almost sure we have.

Boone is stepping out as the elevator doors pull open to reveal the sixth floor hallway. He turns back. The Operator is smiling—a bit too widely, he thinks.

BOONE (slurring)

Well, believe it or not, I get that a lot

around here. Goodnight.

STILL SMIRKING, the doors close on the man again.

INT. ROOM 154 – MOMENTS LATER

FROM THE CLOSET we watch as Boone ENTERS, shuts the door, and falls against it, exhausted and confused.

He goes to his briefcase on the bed and, TOSSING his CATALOGS out onto the bed, reaches the worn journal and flips through its pages.

PUSH IN and we catch glimpses of the scribbled pages . . . words . . .

“have left my son”

“under floorboards”

“made as a baby”

AND LASTLY:

“HE WON’T BE ABLE TO FIND THEM”

INT. ROOM 154 – NEXT DAY – DUSK

We’re looking down on Boone, WAKING, the journal clasped to his chest like a teenage girl fantasizing a romance novel.

FROM THE CLOSET: sits up, rubbing his head.

Looks around.

His eyes come to stop on us.

His POV: the closet, the door slightly ajar. Even through the blur that was the night before Boone knows he didn’t leave the closet that way.

Approaching the closet:

MEMORY FLASHBACK: the figure in the night, slipping out of his room, forgotten until now.

Boone doesn’t waste time, but SWINGS the door wide, BACKING away as he does.

SMEARED on the closet WALL:

“WITNESS”

BELOW: the room SAFE neatly on the floor, open slightly. Boone opens it—and inside a SEVERED EAR, the left, in a thin, scatter of blonde hair, starting to DISCOLOR . Boone stumbles backward into the opposite wall and falls, forced to observe the scene again.

When he finds his feet he gropes for the door, starts into the hall and toward the elevators.

INT. HOTEL BAKER LOBBY – MINUTES LATER

CLOSE on Boone at a hanging payphone, GRIPPING it tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Waiting, his eyes search the restaurant on the other side of the lobby. For all he knows, the man can be any one of them, watching him, amused.

Boone turns toward the all, shuts his eyes. A voice comes into his ear at about the same time.

CLERK (neutral)

Daniel County Police.

BOONE

I need someone to the Hotel Baker.

There’s . . . part of a woman—body her.

In one of the rooms. This is Donovan

Boone, 154, send as many as you can

because I’m afraid someone may be out to . . .

may be out for me.

He HANGS UP before the Clerk can respond, puts in another coin, takes a quick look around the lobby, and dials another number, one he knows well.

A WOMAN’S VOICE.

We know it ourselves.

SILENCE. Boone listens to the voice and lets it linger in his ears. How long has it been since he heard this voice?

INT. BOONE-SCOTT HOUSE – EAST COAST – MEMORY FLASHBLACK

Boone’s face, past DEVISTATION, and Nancy, lying upon a BEDROOM FLOOR. She cries but we cannot hear her. Her eyes flick up to the man who has struck her with pure hate. Boone, upon realizing what he has done, moves for the CLOSET, where he retrieves his BRIEFCASE and COAT and heads for the door.

His eyes are dead.

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL BAKER LOBBY – PRESENT

Quickly, before she can hang up:

BOONE

Nancy—Nancy—

NANCY (irritated)

Who is this?

In the BG, we can HEAR two SMALL VOICES, jabbering to each other. Hearing them, Boone swallows, closes his eyes. He moves as if to hang up, but her voice stops him.

NANCY (CONT’D)

Boone?

BOONE

Yeah . . . yeah, it’s me . . .

Don’t hang up.

Nothing from the other end.

BOONE

I need to see you—I want to.

(a long beat)

How are they?

NANCY

They’re fine, they’re great . . .

What do you want?

(an awkward beat)

BOONE

I’m sorry.

NANCY

Yeah, okay.

BOONE

I need to ask you a favor. There’s a box.

At the house—she wrote about . . . Under

the floorboards in the attic. I need you to . . .

His voice is LOST as POLICE charge into the hotel, rushing at the elevator. Boone is not aware of them until they pass.

His POV: a familiar gentleman, speaking to a woman clerk at the front desk. She is greatly disturbed by what he is telling her. As this officer finishes and chases after the rest of his men, as he turns, we the face of BRUCE TYLER, the man who Boone frauded in the lobby days before.

INT. ROOM 154 – THINKING BACK

The CATELOGS on the BED.

CUT BACK TO:

INT. HOTEL BAKER LOBBY – PRESENT

Officer Tyler, the elevator doors closing behind him.

NANCY

Boone?

BOONE

Please, meet me there tomorrow. Noon.

He hangs up, looks around. No officers remain. Boone starts toward the entrance, Mr. Nonchalant, when:

DESK CLERK (O.C.)

Sir? Sir!

Boone’s legs move quicker, and he doesn’t stop. We see her run behind the desk again ans fumble a telephone to her ear.

EXT. MAIN STREET – CONTINUOUS

CRUISERS parked outside. FOUR P.O’S are positioned around them, ready.

Of course, they’re not sure of the face they are looking for.

Boone, slowing, approaches one, where another pedestrian visits with him.

BOONE

What’s going on here, sir?

COP #2 (looks at him)

Well, we had a guy call in about some—

thing he found in his hotel room. Strange

little story.

Looks at Boone, earnest.

COP #2 (CONT’D)

Part of a woman.

Boone offers his hand, smiling. Convincing in every sense of the word.

BOONE

Jim Sanclare, Charles County P.O. Retired,

actually. How’s the man looking here? The

one that called?

The cop is more than happy to speak with him. We get the sense he is a newbie, in the presence of one admired.

COP #2

Not so good, Mr. Sanclare . . . See,

he gave us a name and one of our officers

matched it up with another case. We think

we found our guy, all right.

BOONE

You wouldn’t know what he looks like, would you?

Thinks.

COP #2

Dark hair, eyes. Middle-aged. Average height, weight. I never saw him.

BOONE

No, I don’t believe I’ve seen him. I’m sticking around, though, so I’ll certainly let you know if I do.

And he smiles, just as pretty as you please.

WINKS.

BOONE (CONT’D)

But I think you’ve got the situation covered.

He starts away, the grace of a man in love, relaxed as a pauper with no place to be.

COP #2 (calls after)

I’m glad you say so, sir.

Boone, just barely within earshot, turns the corner onto another street.

When out of view Boone picks up speed again and crosses over into a park. The trees over him are strung with thousands of Christmas lights. His breath spews in front of him, and then is broken in his path.

In the distance, SIRENS.

FADE OUT

EXT. CORNER CAFÉ – NEXT DAY

We see Nancy at the window of the Café. She touches

the LOCKET around her throat as she looks out, nervously. Unsure. A small BOX sits on the table before her.

She can’t believe she came herself.

INT. CORNER CAFÉ – CONTINUOUS

THE CAFÉ is at a moderate buzz.

Nancy’s hand moves from her necklace to the box, skimming its top. Resting there, folded.

We do not know how long it has been since she has even shared the same room with the man in which she waits for, but from the Nancy we have seen, she has aged quite a lot since then. There are delicate lines around her lips and eyes. But the green eyes themselves are what have changed the most: they are weathered and hurt and lonely, trying not to give away too much when another meets them.

EXT. MAIN STREET – CONTINUOUS

WATCHING HER AT THE WINDOW.

Boone on a street corner flicks a cigarette away, sighs an exhale of smoke into the bleak, city winter day.

She is beautiful. Something in his eyes, partly hidden, wonders: I left this?

How could I leave this?

Not wanting to, but by force, Boone makes his way across the street.

INT. CORNER CAFÉ – CONTINUOUS

Nancy, suddenly aware of his presence, lifts her chin to meet him in the café doorway.

Boone is, again, motionless, helpless. It’s hard for Nancy to look at him, so she confides in the window where it’s much safer and waits.

It’s easier for Boone this way, too, and he goes to the table to take a seat. She passes the cardboard box to him as soon as he does, eager to get this over with and out of this place.

She doesn’t know how to leave.

BOONE (ackwardly)

Thanks. Thanks a lot.

(a beat)

How are you?

NANCY

What’s this about?

Boone retrieves the journal from his pocket and hands it to her.

BOONE

My mother’s journal. One of them. She

said she wanted me to have this. I just

found it a week ago in some old belongings.

Nancy hardly wants to hold it. She lays it on the table and looks at him again. Touches the locket.

BOONE (motions to necklace)

How are they? Can I see them?

NANCY

No—no, you can’t ‘see them.’ You haven’t

wanted to see them for the past two years . . .

I guess we’re done here.

She rises from the table and begins slipping on her coat, a rock of a woman—the only apparent emotion on her face is fury. And Boone can only watch as she leaves, the only love he has, the love he is meant to be with, when he CATCHES something out of the corner of his eye in the APARTMENT across the street. When he looks, it is gone, and so is she.

Before he attracts anymore attention, Boone opens the box and grabs the CONTENTS inside up and TUCKS them away in his coat.

THROUGH THE CAFÉ’S WINDOW:

Something stops him in his tracks.

Nancy, SCREAMING, being DRAGGED off of the sidewalk and into the alley.

EXT. MAIN STREET – CONTINUOUS

PEOPLE, PANICKING AROUND HIM. They do not know where the screaming is coming from or who as they disperse. Not far from him the CAFÉ WINDOW SHATTERS. Cars whiz manically through the streets at the sound of the gunshot. Behind a trashcan in front of the building, KNEELING in BROKEN GLASS, Boone pulls out a PISTOL. We have no idea where he exactly got it from. He PEEKS around to the alleyway, aims.

His POV: the Man, Nancy struggling in his free arm, bent around the corner of the bar, a gun of his own in hand. His face is obscured by an ill-fit hat.

Boone FIRES, misses, as another bullet chips cement from a building feet away from him.

ANOTHER, into the fleeing crowd. They provide their own kind of safety shield around him.

Boone peeks around the trash barrel again, and the Man is gone, the SIDE EXIT DOOR left SWINGING OPEN. He PUSHES through the men and women and into the street, running.

INT. STAIRWELL – CONTINUOUS

Cautiously he checks for the man and finds nothing.

He starts up the stairs, gun raised, as the Man appears in the doorway at the top of the stairs and fires. Boone dodges, just barely missing it, and fires back, the two men exchanging nothing but plaster. The Man doesn’t take time to try again, but continues down the hall, Nancy screaming still all of the way under his heavy grip.

INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

EMPTY.

The wall paper and wood trimming is such a cold, lonely sight.

From BEHIND one of the DOORS, SINATRA IS PLAYING.

Down the hall, the LAST DOOR us CRACKED just the slightest bit.

The laundry room:

Empty.

Boone switches the gun to his right hand, wipes his palm on his pants, and pushes the door open slowly. He lets the gun lead him into the apartment.

It is plain dry-wall, and dark but for the light which filters in through the main window. There’s no sound except for rich, smooth Sinatra, and no sign of the man.

Now Boone sees the source of the music: a DOOR at the very back of the apartment. Behind it glows a peaceful, familiar LIGHT.

He goes to it.

In the doorway he stands frozen. The pistol LOWERS to his SIDE. He reaches within his coat, retrieves the contents of the box.

SKETCHES.

A COLLAGE OF A CHILD—a boy—his face, caught sometimes in play, in a smile, crying. The RESEMBLANCE to the man holding them isn’t at all hard to see. And it’s not surprising. Least of all to himself.

For the first time, we see what Boone sees—the room.

A much larger scale of vibrant blues and yellows and greens, the WALLS of the small room match the sketches perfectly, as if created by the hand of a god. And, in a way, it was.

The only pieces of furniture in the room are the record player in the furthest corner, spinning a dazzling black record on its top, and a step ladder, in which the goddess herself is still at work on, unaware of Boone. She touches up the highlights, darkens the lows. SMILING. BLONDE HAIR pulled up off her shoulders, the skin there smooth and freckled, and he can imagine the scent of it . . . fresh soap, sweat . . . because it is a woman he knows too well not to.

INT. A COUNTRY HOUSE – MEMORY FLASHBACK

CLOSE on his MOTHER’S FACE, smiling down on him, the eyes weary and unsure but still strong. He sits on her lap with a blank pad covered in the colorful scratching and scribbles of a toddler.

INT. APARTMENT – PRESENT

BOONE (mesmerized)

Mother . . .

The SMILE DROPS FROM HER LIPS as she turns to where he is standing—but she is not looking at Boone at all, but something else, behind him, and he WHIRLS back to the room before and there is nothing.

No one at all.

The SCENERY CHANGES then; LYING before him in his mother’s dead body, the face badly disfigured.

He SCREAMS when he sees her face, but we HEAR NOTHING.

FALLS to his KNEES.

She is gone before he ever hits the floor, vanished in time.

BOONE (sobbing now)

You killed her . . .

Appearing behind him in the doorway, the Man, hatless, exposed. Instead of a gun, a KNIFE is raised to Nancy’s face, who fights to be freed.

Boone knows he is there without ever having to move.

BOONE

You didn’t think she’s leave . . . but

she did, and you, you hunted her down

all the way here when I left and—killed her

. . . You couldn’t control—couldn’t control

something so beautiful, so you had to kill it . . .

Nancy screams as the knife PRESSES tighter to her THROAT. Perhaps the same one used to carve his own mother’s face.

BOONE

You didn’t deserve her! B*****d!

(a long beat)

Why didn’t she come back for me?

He meets his FATHER’S eyes now.

BOONE

She didn’t come back for me!

His father’s GRIN, peeking from behind Nancy’s head. Suddenly he SHOVES Nancy toward the WINDOW, OPEN NOW. Boone plunges forward for her and reaches out and only manages to catch the end of one PANT LEG, and before he can catch himself he is FALLING with her at the sidewalk

below . . . falling . . .

(falling . . .)

SMASH CUT TO:

INT. COUNTRY HOUSE – PRESENT

BOONE, JERKING AWAKE ON A KITCHEN FLOOR. We see not the middle-aged man we know, but a BOY, no more than SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.

SOMEONE is TALKING to him, the words, at first, not comprehensible.

THEN:

VOICE

--boy? Get up, Daniel.

His father.

He manages to roll over onto his back, PAIN DRILLING into his head. His eyes part open under the fluorescents.

His POV: his father’s face, through a haze of cigarette smoke, looking into his own. The eyes are hard and cold and not exactly alarmed. As Boone’s vision becomes clearer, we see he sits at the kitchen table.

We see the KITCHEN itself: tile floors, wood cabinets, peeling paint.

FATHER

Get up, son.

And Boone tries . . . tries getting to his knees. A brown bib of blood is dried into his clothes—it is crusted onto his face. On the floor, thin traces, a quick attempt at a cleanup.

FATHER

What day is it and what year? Tell me

so I know you’re okay.

Boone searches for the answer. A BROKEN GRIN as he looks down at the youthfully scarred hands of his adolescence. He can’t help it.

The voice BOOMS over him again, an angry god of the skies.

FATHER (CONT’D)

Tell me and then you can go

get that letter you promised me.

Thinks.

His voice is barely above a WHISPER.

BOONE

. . . 1938 . . . 1938, May.

He is trying for his feet now.

He is LAUGHING, but quietly.

And then a hand, PULLING HIM TO HIS FEET, STEADIES HIM.

FATHER

Are you okay?

Boone nods and starts for the doorway. He turns back.

BOONE

I’m sorry, Dad.

INT. BACK BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER

Standing at a neatly-made bed, he peeks over his shoulder at the door. Then he lowers himself to the floor. Reaches under the quilt, under the bed. There he retrieves a small, wooden box. Of course, we already know what is concealed inside.

A .357 MAGNUM.

INT. KITCHEN – LATER

Still at the table, Boone’s father hears nothing, not even when he appears in the doorway behind him. Over his shoulder, we see Boone RAISE the GUN to level.

THE BLAST OF THE GUNSHOT AS:

EXT. MAIN STREET – A FAMILIAR CITY – NIGHT OF THE NEXT DAY

A taxi cab pulls against the street curb outside of a SHOE DEPARTMENT STORE, where the BAR had been. He looks out at the building in the drifting MIST.

Then he gets out, a bag on his back to store a few belongings in . . . Just a weary teenage boy scouting around for work.

SM:

Boone makes his way along the street, toward the ALLEY where he remembers the side exit door. But before he can reach it, OVER HIM, from the above APARTMENT WINDOW, a LIGHT COMES ON . . . shedding brilliant warmth on the patch of sidewalk at his feet. It is absolutely inviting against the wet night, although the mist carries some hidden charm of its own.

Boone smiles, softly . . .

And then a GROUP of people, passing by, catches his eye. He watches them as they move . . . a FAMILY, probably, the MAN in lead dressed in uniform. In all of their wealthy carelessness, suddenly Boone becomes aware of A GIRL trailing behind them. She looks around, taken by the city, until she spots Boone. She is slightly younger than he, with a soft smile and dark hair. She doesn’t stop, meeting his gaze . . . but there’s something strange they notice in each other’s eyes . . .

Recognition?

There is a SILVER LOCKET around her neck.