Storm of the Century (35 page)

Across the room, MIKE and HATCH stand right where they are.

Come in, boys. Do it now and do it quietly . . . unless you want me to make this bitch burn her face off.

He raises the cane slightly. When he does, JOANNA raises one of the candles in corresponding fashion
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toward her head.

All that hair! Shall we watch it burn?

No.

He comes into the room. HATCH follows, with a glance back down the hall. There, BOB RIGGINS is talking to the ISLANDERS. Impossible to tell what he’s saying, but he’s got quite a few of them agreeing with him, from the look.

Having a little trouble with the local witch doctor, are you? Well, here’s something you might want to file away for later, Constable . . . always assuming there is a later, of course. The Reverend Bobby Riggins has got a couple of nieces over in Castine. Eleven and nine they are, cute little blondies. He likes them a lot. Too much, probably. They run and hide when they see his car turn into the driveway. In fact-

Let her down. Joanna, are you all right?

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes ROLL IN TERROR. LINOGE frowns.

If you don’t want to see Mrs. Stanhope’s impression of the world’s biggest birthday candle, I advise you not to speak again until you’re invited to. Hatch, close the door.

HATCH closes it. LINOGE watches, then turns his attention back to MIKE.

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You don’t like knowing, do you?

Not your brand of it, no.

Well, that’s too bad. A real shame. Perhaps you don’t believe me?

I believe you. The thing is, though, you know all the bad and none of the good.

That’s so inspirational it brings tears to my eyes. But by and large, Constable Anderson, the good’s an illusion. Little fables folks tell themselves so they can get through their days without screaming too much.

I don’t believe that.

I know. A good boy to the end, that’s you . . . but I think you’re going to find yourself on the short end this time.

He looks at JOANNA. He raises his cane . . . then SLOWLY LOWERS IT. As he does, she SLIDES

down the wall. When her feet touch the floor, LINOGE purses his lips and makes a little PUFF. A wind STIRS THROUGH THE ROOM. The flames of the candles on the table and counter flicker; those in JOANNA’S hands WHIFF OUT. When they do, the spell holding her breaks. She drops the candles and runs to MIKE, SOBBING. She CRINGES AWAY from LINOGE when her cross takes her nearest to him. He smiles at her in fatherly fashion as MIKE puts an arm around her.
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Your town is full of adulterers, pedophiles, thieves, gluttons, murderers, bullies, scoundrels, and covetous morons. I know every one of them, too--born in lust, turn to dust. Born in sin, come on in.

(sobbing)

He’s the devil! He’s the devil! Don’t let him near me again, I’ll do anything, just don’t let him near me again!

What do you want, Mr. Linoge?

Everybody on those benches an hour from now--that’ll do to start with. We’re going to have a little unscheduled town meeting, at nine o’clock PM, prompt. After that . . . well . . . we’ll see.

See what?

LINOGE crosses the room to the back door. He holds up his cane, and the door SWINGS OPEN. The storm’s wind BLOWS IN, dousing all of the candles. The SHAPE that is LINOGE turns in the doorway. In the silhouette of his head, we can see the TWISTING RED LINES that light his eyes.

If I’m through with this town ... or only just beginning. Nine o’clock, Constable. You . . . him . . . her . . .
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Reverend Bobbie . . . Town Manager Robbie . . . everyone.

He goes out. The door SLAMS SHUT behind him.

71 INTERIOR: THE KITCHEN, WITH MIKE, HATCH, AND JOANNA--NIGHT.

What do we do?

What can we do? Listen to whatever else he wants. If there’s another choice, I don’t see it. Tell Robbie.

What about the kids?

I’ll watch them ... I don’t want to be where he is, anyway. Not ever again.

No, that won’t do. He wants everyone, and that includes you, Jo. (thinks)

We’ll bring them upstairs. Cots and all. Put them in the back of the meeting hall.

Yeah. That’ll work.

(as MIKE opens the door again)

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I’ve never been so scared in my life.

Me, either.

They go out to tell the storm survivors about the meeting.

72 EXTERIOR: THE FRONT OF THE TOWN HALL--NIGHT.

The little cupola with the memorial bell inside it is almost swallowed in snowdrifts. Standing on one of those drifts--a trick almost as miraculous as walking on water--is ANDRE LINOGE. His cane is planted neatly between his feet. He is watching the town hall . . . guarding it... biding his time.

FADE TO BLACK. THIS ENDS ACT 3.

Act 4

73 EXTERIOR: THE INTERSECTION OF MAIN AND ATLANTIC--NIGHT.

The WIND is still blowing, sending sheets of snow down Main and continuing to build up the drifts, but the SNOW itself has almost stopped.

74 EXTERIOR: THE REMAINS OF THE TOWN DOCK--NIGHT.

The waves continue CRASHING IN against the seawall, but not as hard as before. There’s an overturned fishing boat lying at the foot of Atlantic Street, with its prow smashed through the display window of Little Tall Gifts and Antiques.

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75 EXTERIOR: THE SKY--NIGHT.

At first we see only BLACKNESS AND CLOUDS, but then there is a lightening, a silvering. We see the troubled, smoky shapes of the clouds more clearly in this light, and then, for just a moment or two, the FULL MOON shines through before disappearing again.

76 EXTERIOR: THE TOWN HALL--NIGHT.

The building, visible through WHIRLING MEMBRANES OF SNOW, still looks a bit like a mirage. In the shelter of its cupola, the memorial bell swings back and forth, being GENTLY RUNG by the wind.

77 INTERIOR: OLD-FASHIONED REGULATOR CLOCK, CLOSE-UP.

It’s TICKING LOUDLY. WHEN the minute hand reaches straight-up nine, the regulator begins to CHIME THE HOUR. As it does, THE CAMERA PULLS BACK AND TURNS, giving us the town meeting hall of Little Tall Island.

It is a spectral and beautiful sight. Every member of the community that we have met is sitting there, plus all the other ISLANDERS--two hundred, in all. They look eerie by candlelight, like villagers from an earlier time . . . the time of Salem and Roanoke, let us say.

Sitting in the front row are MIKE and MOLLY; HATCH and ME-LINDA; REV. BOB RIGGINS and his wife, CATHY; URSULA GODSOE and SANDRA BEALS. ROBBIE BEALS is up on the stage, at a small wooden table to the left of the podium. Before him on the table is a little plaque that reads TOWN MANAGER.

At the rear of the room, eight cots have been set up in one corner. On these, the children are sleeping. Sitting on folding chairs to either side of this little enclave are ANGIE CARVER, TAVIA GODSOE, JOANNA STANHOPE, ANDY ROBICHAUX, CAT WITHERS, and LUCIEN FOURNIER. They are trying as best they can to guard the children.

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The last BONGS of the regulator clock die away to the SOUND OF THE WIND whining around outside the building. People look around nervously for any sign of LINOGE. After a moment or two, ROBBIE gets up from his little table and approaches the podium, tugging fussily at the hem of his sport coat.

Ladies and gentlemen . . . like you, I’m not sure what we’re waiting for, but-

Then why don’t you sit down and wait like the rest of us, Robbie?

NERVOUS LAUGHTER greets this. ROBBIE frowns at JOHNNY.

I only wanted to say, Johnny, that I’m sure we’ll find our way through this . . . situation ... if we stick together, as we have always stuck together on the island . . .

78 INTERIOR: THE TOWN HALL’S FRONT DOOR--NIGHT.

It SMASHES OPEN with a LOUD, ECHOING BOOM. Outside, standing in the snow on the stoop, we see LINOGE’S boots and the black shaft of LINOGE’S cane.

79 INTERIOR: ROBBIE BEALS.

He stops talking and looks toward the door. His face is just pouring sweat.

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80 INTERIOR: MONTAGE OF ISLANDERS.

TAVIA . . . JONAS STANHOPE . . . HATCH . . . MELINDA . . . ORV . . . REV. BOB RIGGINS .

. . LUCIEN . . . others. All looking toward the door.

81 INTERIOR: TOWN HALL CORRIDOR--NIGHT.

The boots step onto the black-and-white-checked tiles. The cane keeps pace, coming down at regular intervals. We TRACK WITH THE BOOTS until they reach the door that gives upon the meeting hall. Then THE CAMERA BOOMS UP to the double doors with their glass panels. Written across them is LITTLE TALL ISLAND TOWN MEETING HALL. And, below that, LET US TRUST IN GOD

AND EACH OTHER. We can see the ISLANDERS looking out toward the visitor, their eyes wide and AFRAID.

Hands clad in BRIGHT YELLOW GLOVES come up and grasp the two doorknobs. They open the doors toward THE CAMERA . . .

82 INTERIOR: THE TOWN MEETING HALL DOORWAY, REVERSE--NIGHT.

LINOGE stands there in pea jacket and yellow gloves, his cane tucked beneath one arm. He is smiling, eyes more or less normal, his MONSTER TEETH prudently hidden. He strips off his gloves and tucks them into his jacket pockets.

Slowly, and in a SILENCE so thick it’s deafening, LINOGE enters the room. The only SOUND is the STEADY TICK of the regulator clock.

83 INTERIOR: THE TOWN MEETING HALL--NIGHT.

LINOGE walks slowly along the aisle that runs behind the benches and in front of the crumb-strewn tables where the buffet was set up. All of the ISLANDERS, but especially those occupying the last two or three rows of benches (those closest to him, in other words) turn to look at him, their eyes distrustful and afraid.

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When LINOGE nears the little grouping of cots and the SLEEPING CHILDREN, the self-appointed guardians draw together, creating a barrier between LINOGE and the KIDS.

LINOGE reaches the place where a right turn will take him down the center aisle to the stage. For a moment he stands there, SMILING BENIGNLY, obviously enjoying the FEAR AND DISTRUST

swirling in the silent room. Feeding on it, likely.

We INTERCUT this with all the ISLANDERS we have come to know. CAT is defiant: “you’ll take these kids only over my dead and dismembered body,” her face says. HATCH’S ROUND, HONEST

FACE is full of tension and determination; MELINDA’S, full of FEAR AND DISMAY. We see others, too: JACK CARVER . . . FERD ANDREWS . . . UPTON BELL ... all afraid, all awed by the presence of the supernatural . . . and he is supernatural; they feel it.

Last of all, we look at ROBBIE, whose face is DRENCHED WITH SWEAT and whose hand is plunged deeply into the coat pocket where he has hidden his gun.

LINOGE taps his cane first against the bench to his left and then the bench to his right, just as he tapped at the sides of MARTHA’S gate. There is a HISSING SOUND; smoke drifts up from the CHARRED

SPOTS that are left by the cane’s touch. Those sitting closest to the aisles on these two sides SHRINK

AWAY. It’s the HOPEWELL FAMILY on the right--STAN, MARY, and DAVEY. LINOGE

SMILES at them, this time parting his lips enough to show the tips of his FANGS. All three HOPEWELLS see and react. MARY puts an arm around her son’s shoulders and looks fearfully at LINOGE.

Hello, Davey--your day off from school would make quite an English composition, wouldn’t it?

DAVEY doesn’t reply. LINOGE looks at him a moment longer, still smiling.

Your father’s a thief--over the last six years or so he’s stolen more than fourteen thousand dollars from that marine supply company he works for. He gambles with it. (And, confidentially:) He loses.
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DAVEY turns and shoots a STARTLED, INCREDULOUS GLANCE at his father. “I don’t believe it,”

that look says, not my dad, never my dad--but for just an instant he sees NAKED GUILT and TRAPPED PANIC on STAN’S face. Only an instant, but enough to deeply shake a boy’s trust in his previously idolized father.

Dad--?

I don’t know who you are, mister, but you lie. (pause) You lie.

It’s good, but not quite good enough. No one, including his own son and wife, believes him. LINOGE

grins.

Born in vice, say it twice . . . eh, Davey? At least twice.

His work with the HOPEWELLS done, a family’s lifetime of trust ruined in seconds, LINOGE starts slowly down the center aisle toward the stage. Every eye that attempts to meet his falters and turns away; every cheek grows pale; every heart recalls its mistakes and deceptions. When he reaches JOHNNY

HARRIMAN, LINOGE stops and smiles.

Well, Johnny Harriman! The fellow who burned down the planing mill across the reach there in Machias!

I ... you ... I never did!