Storm of the Century (8 page)

INNARDS as the WEATHER LADY talks.

WEATHER LADY (voice-over)

The forecast calls for destruction tonight, death tomorrow, and Armageddon by the weekend. In fact, this could be the end of life as we know it.

63 INTERIOR: LINOGE.

Seems unlikely . . . but we can always hope.

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He takes another bite of cookie.

FADE OUT. THIS ENDS ACT 2.

Act 3

64 EXTERIOR: ROBBIE’S LINCOLN, WITH ROBBIE--DAY.

He claws at the driver’s side door. Down the street, a number of TOWNSFOLK are watching him curiously.

Everything all right up there, Beals?

ROBBIE doesn’t answer the old guy. He gets his car door open and dives inside. He has a CB radio under the dash, and now he yanks the mike off its prong. He punches the power button, punches in channel 19, and speaks. All during this, he keeps casting panicky glances at the open door of the CLARENDON house, in terror that MARTHA’S killer will show up.

This is Robbie Beals for Constable Anderson! Come back, Anderson! This is an emergency!

65 INTERIOR. ANDERSON’S MARKET--DAY.

The market is as crowded as ever. CAT and TESS MARCHANT, a motherly looking woman in her mid-to late-forties, have been checking folks out just as fast as they can, but now everyone freezes as the radio spews out its EXCITED BABBLE.

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ROBBIE (voice)

Come back, dammit! Anderson! We’ve got a murder over here! Martha Clarendon’s been beaten to death!

A DISMAYED, DISBELIEVING MURMUR goes through the shoppers at that. Their eyes get big.

ROBBIE (voice)

The guy who did it is still in the house! Anderson! Anderson! You come back, do you hear me? You’re always around when it comes to unwanted advice, where are you when-TESS MARCHANT takes the microphone from the radio like a woman in a dream.

Robbie? This is Tess Marchant. Mike’s not-ROBBIE (voice)

I don’t want you! I want Anderson! I can’t do his job and mine, too!

CAT

(takes the mike)

He had an emergency at home. Alton went with him. It was his little g-Just then, MIKE and HATCH come in through the door. CAT and TESS look incredibly relieved. A LOW MURMUR runs through the crowd. MIKE makes about three steps into the room, then stops, realizing something very much out of the ordinary is going on here.

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What? What is it?

Nobody in the market will answer him. Meantime, the RADIO continues to SQUAWK.

ROBBIE (voice)

What do you mean, an emergency at home? There’s an emergency right here! An old woman murdered!

A lunatic in Martha Clarendon’s living room! I want the town constable!

MIKE walks quickly to the counter. CAT gives him the mike as if glad to be rid of it.

What’s he talking about? Who’s murdered?

Martha. He says.

ANOTHER, LOUDER MURMUR this time.

(pushes TRANSMIT button)

I’m here, Robbie. Just a minute-ROBBIE (voice)

Never mind just a minute, dammit! I could be in a life-threatening situation here!

MIKE ignores the man for the moment, holding the mike against his chest and talking to the two dozen or so islanders who have clumped together at the heads of the aisles, staring at him, stunned. There hasn’t
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been a murder on this island for almost seventy years . . . unless you count Dolores Claiborne’s husband, Joe, and that was never proved.

You folks back off, now, and give me a little privacy. I get six thousand a year to be constable; let me do the job you pay me for.

They back off, but are still listening; how can they help it? MIKE, meanwhile, turns so his back is to them and he’s facing the radio and the lottery ticket dispensers.

Where are you, Robbie? Come back.

66 INTERIOR: ROBBIE, IN HIS CAR.

Behind him, we can see TOWNSPEOPLE--probably a dozen of them--standing in the street and watching. They have worked themselves quite a bit closer, but don’t dare come all the way. The door to MARTHA’S house still stands ominously open.

Martha Clarendon’s house on Atlantic Street! Where did you think I was, Bar Harbor? I’m-(a great idea occurs to him) I’m keeping the man inside at bay! Now get your ass down here!

He racks the mike, then fumbles in the glove compartment. Under the jumble of maps, town documents, and Whopper wrappers, he finds a little pistol. He gets out of his car.

67 EXTERIOR: ROBBIE.

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(calls down to the cluster of folks)

You stay where you are!

With his authority thus exerted, ROBBIE turns toward the house and points his gun at the open door. He’s recovered a certain amount of his toadlike savoir faire, but he’s not about to go back in there. The man in there didn’t just kill MARTHA CLARENDON; he knew where ROBBIE was when ROBBIE’S

mother died. He knew ROBBIE’S name.

The WIND GUSTS, blowing ROBBIE’S gray-streaked hair back from his brow . . . and the first few snowflakes of the Storm of the Century go dancing past his face.

68 INTERIOR: ANDERSON’S MARKET, WITH MIKE, HATCH, ONLOOKERS.

MIKE stands with the microphone in his hand, trying to think what to do next. As CAT WITHERS

takes the mike and racks it, he makes up his mind.

(to HATCH)

Let’s take another ride, all right?

Sure. . .

Cat, you and Tess’re minding the store.

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(raising his voice)

All you folks just stay and finish your shopping, all right? There’s nothing you can do on Atlantic Street, and whatever’s happened over there, you’ll know it soon enough.

As he speaks, he moves behind the cash register. He reaches beneath it.

69 INTERIOR: THE SHELF, CLOSE-UP.

On it are a .38 and a pair of handcuffs. MIKE takes both.

70 INTERIOR: ANGLE ON MIKE.

He puts the handcuffs in one coat pocket and the .38 in the other. This is done quickly and deftly--none of the goggle-eyed customers see. CAT and TESS do, though, and it brings the reality of the situation home to them: crazy as it may be, there could be a dangerous criminal on Little Tall.

CAT

Do you want me to call your wives?

Absolutely not.

Then he looks at the avidly watching islanders. If CAT doesn’t, one of them will, as soon as he or she can reach the nearest phone.

Yeah, I guess you better. But make sure they know the situation is under control.
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71 EXTERIOR: ANDERSON’S MARKET.

MIKE and HATCH hurry down the steps, and THE CAMERA TRACKS THEM to the Island Services utility vehicle. The snow is still just flurrying, but we can see that it’s thicker now.

Snow’s early.

MIKE stops with one hand on the driver’s side doorhandle. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself, then lets it out.

Yeah, it is. Let’s go.

They get in and drive away. Meantime, people have been drifting out onto the porch, watching them.

72 EXTERIOR: THE ROBBIE BEALS MANNEQUIN.

The propeller on the beanie is now turning briskly.

73 EXTERIOR: THE TOWN DOCK.

The waves CRASH HIGH against the pilings, throwing spray. The work of securing the boats and getting loose gear undercover has progressed quite a bit. We FOCUS IN on GEORGE KIRBY (an older guy--sixtyish), ALEX HABER (thirty-five), and CAL FREESE (a twenty-something). ALEX

points west, toward the end of the docks and the reach beyond.

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Looka there, at the mainland.

74 EXTERIOR: MAINLAND, FROM THE DOCK’S POINT OF VIEW.

The mainland is about two miles away, and quite clear--gray-green woods, mostly.

75 EXTERIOR: RESUME DOCK, WITH SONNY, ALEX, AND CAL.

When you can’t see over there no more, it’s time to get in while you can. And when you can’t even see the reach no more, it’s time to head down to the town hall, whether you’ve heard the siren or not.

(to GEORGE)

How bad do you think it’ll be, Unc?

Maybe the worst we ever saw. Come on, help me with the last of these nets. (pause) I wonder if that fool Beals has any slight idear what he’s doin up there?

76 EXTERIOR: ATLANTIC STREET, IN FRONT OF MARTHA’S HOUSE.

The fool BEALS is still being the good sentry, standing in front of his Lincoln with his .38 pointed at the open door of the CLARENDON house. Snow is coming down more thickly now; it’s scattered across the shoulders of his topcoat like dandruff. He’s been here for a while.

Down below, a little gathering of WATCHERS (MRS. KINGSBURY and DAVEY HOPEWELL are
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back among them) moves aside to allow the Island Services vehicle through. It pulls up beside the Lincoln. MIKE gets out from behind the wheel, HATCH from the passenger seat.

You want the shotgun?

I guess we better have it. You just make sure the safety’s on, Alton Hatcher.

HATCH leans back into the truck, fumbles, and reappears with the shotgun that is ordinarily kept latched under the dash. HATCH ostentatiously checks the safety, and then they approach ROBBIE. ROBBIE’S attitude toward MIKE all through this is one of confrontation and contempt. The history of these feelings will never be fully explored, but its basis is undoubtedly ROBBIE’S desire to keep all the reins of power in his own hands.

It’s about time.

Put that thing away, Robbie.

No such thing, Constable Anderson. You do your job, I’ll do mine.

Your job is real estate. Would you at least lower it, please? (pause) Come on, Robbie--it’s in my face, and I know it’s loaded.

ROBBIE grudgingly lowers the .38. HATCH, meanwhile, is looking nervously at the open door and the
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overturned walker.

What happened?

I was driving over to the town office when I saw Davey Hopewell running down the middle of the street. (points toward DAVEY)

He said Martha Clarendon was dead--murdered. I didn’t believe him, but it’s true. She’s . . . awful.

You said the person who did it was still inside.

He spoke to me.

And said what?

(nervous, lying)

Told me to get out. I think he said for me to get out or he’d kill me, too. I don’t know. And this hardly seems like the right time for an interrogation.

What did he look like?

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ROBBIE starts to reply, then stops, puzzled.

I ... I barely got a look at him.

He got a pretty good one, actually . . . but he doesn’t remember.

(to HATCH)

Stay on my right. Keep the barrel of that scattergun pointed down, and keep the safety on unless I tell you to take it off.

(to ROBBIE)

You stay exactly where you are, please.

You’re the constable.

He watches MIKE and HATCH start for the gate, then calls.

The TV’s on. Tuned quite loud. If the guy starts moving around, I’m not sure you’ll hear him.

MIKE nods, then goes through the gate with HATCH on his right. The TOWNSPEOPLE have crept closer yet; we now see them in the background. The SNOW SWIRLS around them in the HIGH

WIND. It’s still light, but thickening up.

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77 EXTERIOR: MIKE AND HATCH, FROM THE PORCH.

They come up the walk, MIKE tuned tightly (but in control), HATCH scared but trying not to show it.

Even if there was a guy, he’s probably gone out the back by now, don’t you think? She ain’t got but a five-foot garden fence-MIKE shakes his head to indicate he doesn’t know, then taps his lips with a forefinger, indicating that HATCH should keep quiet. They stop at the foot of the steps. MIKE pulls gloves out of his coat pockets and puts them on. He also takes out his own pistol. He indicates for HATCH to put on gloves, and HATCH hands him the shotgun so he can comply. MIKE takes the opportunity to double-check the safety (still on), then hands it back.

They go up the steps and examine the walker. Then they cross the porch. They see the feet, clad in their old-lady shoes, poking out from the shadows of the hallway, and exchange a dismayed glance. They go in.

78 INTERIOR: THE HALL OF MARTHA’S HOUSE.

Behind them, the WEATHER LADY runs on endlessly.

WEATHER LADY (voice)

Conditions along the New England coast are expected to worsen dramatically toward sunset--not that our Down East friends are going to see the sun go down tonight, I’m afraid.

We are expecting gale force winds along the Massachusetts and New Hampshire coasts, and hurricane-force wind gusts along the Maine coast and offshore islands. There’s going to be significant beach erosion, and once the snow starts to fall, amounts will increase dramatically until . . . well . . . until it’s over. At this point it is literally impossible to talk about accumulations. Let’s just say that the total fall is going to be enormous. Three feet? That’s probable. Five feet? Even that is possible. You’ll want to stay tuned for updates, and be assured we’ll break into our programming if conditions warrant doing so.
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