Blah blah blah.
Jonathan Hunter supposedly disliked episodes on serial killers and their ilk; he preferred smarter, less gruesome quarry, like corporate criminals and con men. But the cable network—for all its generosity in pouring hundreds of thousands of advertising dollars into research—practically
The man playing Philip had to admit, this one was probably the most exciting job he’d ever done working for Mann.
In fact, he still had a hard time believing he was actually
He’d come out to L.A. in his early twenties with a set of head shots, just like everybody else. Scored a part in an indie film, just like everybody else. Had visions of being discovered, landing the big role, just like everybody else. Waited for his cell to ring, just like everybody else. Worked another, totally unrelated job in the meantime, just like everybody else. Saw his early twenties slip into his midtwenties, just like everybody else.
But unlike everybody else, his cell rang one day. He was called in, given a number 2 pencil and a battery of psychological exams, then a series of interviews, then a bizarre play-acting screen test. More time went by, and then all of a sudden he was signing an inch-thick nondisclosure agreement and told to memorize a script, and then instructed to burn it and then drive to a certain street corner downtown near the Bradbury Building, where he watched someone get murdered. He followed the script when he talked to the police, and then he went home and wondered if it was all a practical joke. That is, until he went online and looked at his checking account balance.
The actor soon learned that other hopefuls had fallen into this line of work; there was a loose network of them spread throughout the world. You didn’t audition; you were simply chosen. In a way, it made him feel like a secret superstar.
And this was his biggest role yet.
Still—all of that preparation Wednesday night, Thursday night, Friday night (because the real Philip and Jane liked to sleep most of the day away, curled up with each other while movies and music played nonstop in the background), left him exhausted. He was eager just to get this job done—impress them, then move on. The gas station part was fun, but it was a long slog to L.A. Lots of highway and hills and sun and then chain stores and houses and more hills.
As he drove, the man playing Philip wondered what the real Philip Kindred was doing right now. The official story was that the Kindreds were still on the loose; the FBI had kept them on their Ten Most Wanted list for the past year. Unofficially, they were told not to worry about the real Kindreds, because they had been apprehended a year ago and were being confined in secret and wouldn’t be talking to anybody.
Probably safe to say that nobody told Jonathan Hunter this little bit of news.
—Sylvester Stallone
THE ARREST was straightforward. They eased the handcuffs on him, pulled him to his feet, shuffled him down the hallway, digital cameras capturing the scene, the cops shooing them away. He had feeling back in his legs now, and in his arms. Middle of his chest still felt dead, though. They read him Miranda. They put a hand on top of his head as they eased him into the back of the car. Slammed the door shut, ready to bring him in.
They figured out who he was, and his connection with the Philly PD, fairly quickly. They called in more uniforms when they realized they had a celebrity death. Their goal was to get Hardie away from the scene and let the tech guys start working it over.
Hardie wanted to save them the trouble and shout:
You won’t find a shred of evidence that’ll say otherwise.
His hands around her throat.
His fist that smashed into her badly bruised eye.
His skin cells all over her body.
They’d even helpfully left his duffel bag behind, the one that used to contain the one irreplaceable thing in his life.
Now it contained Lane Madden DVDs, photos, magazine articles, and other stalkerish paraphernalia.
Used to work with the Philly police or not… Hardie did it, and he was going down for it.
Hardie wondered how soon they’d let Deke know, if they’d try to contact him on the plane. Cell phones didn’t (allegedly) work up there, but many airlines had Internet. Hardie’s name was in the system, and he couldn’t imagine Deke wouldn’t have alerts in place in case anything went wrong with Charlie or his family in hiding. Deke would probably head right to the station house, ask for time alone with Hardie. Would Deke believe him? No idea. Even if Deke did, who would he go looking for? Where would he start?
And what did it matter, anyway? Their mission was accomplished. Delayed maybe. But Lane Madden still ended up dead, and the truth along with her. The truth about what had really happened to poor little Kevin Hunter.
In her last moments, she’d begged him, wordlessly pleading with him:
Hardie couldn’t get rid of the image of her racked with pain, struggling to speak:
The more he thought about it,
She wasn’t saying
Lane was saying
All it once it came to Hardie, his lizard brain finally snapping the last piece into place. Why hadn’t he realized it earlier, after Lane had confessed her sins?
As Deke had put it:
The address in the GPS. 11804 Bloomfield. The one that Lane quickly dismissed from the screen.
Oh fuck.
They weren’t done yet.
O’Neal didn’t say it out loud, but he couldn’t keep the thought from rattling around in his fuzzy, sleep-deprived mind.
Seriously, it should be some other unit. He knew what Mann was thinking: turning this assignment over to another production team midstream was a sign of weakness. And you never showed weakness to your employers, because suddenly they’d lose your number and you’d never receive another assignment.
There were other directors out there—some legends, others rising stars. They were all known only by their
