The Accountant
REVISED 9.13
by
bill dubuque
story by
dubuque & williams
producers mark williams 310.656.9440 lynette howell 323.654.7800
Car horns BLARE, brakes SCREECH. A busy street interrupted.
Muted pops of GUNFIRE. The fast clip of wing tips on pavement, labored breathing, running.
FADE IN:
AGENT’S POV -- a quick glance, two LARGE MEN face-down, dead, fresh blood pooling around their heads.
Our PARTNER in front, gun drawn, runs to the sound of...
GUNFIRE, louder, coming from inside the...
Four stories of ugly brick.
An unseen GUNFIGHT, men SHOUT, run. Chaos.
AGENT’S POV -- rolled shirt cuffs, trembling hands clutch a PISTOL as its barrel sweeps back and forth. The sound of our own frightened breathing.
Our frightened Partner hugs a wall, eyes the entrance door.
Partner exits. A shotgun BOOMS. We react, swing our gun to the sound, a stairwell.
AGENT’S POV -- blood-spatters stain the walls. BODIES. An open door, a room at the end --
A THWACK. THUMP. Quiet.
AGENT’S POV -- inching along the wall to the doorway, pistol tight against our chest. We fight in vain to control our rapid breathing. Ready... ready...
CLICK.
OS a .45 cocks, loud in our ears, an inch away.
Our breath stops.
FADE IN:
Modest. A wrap-around porch... the quiet shade of an old- growth coastal forest. A government-issue Ford sedan in the small gravel parking lot fronting the cabin.
A newly carved wooden sign protrudes from the ground, reads “HARBOR NEUROSCIENCE.”
SUPER: Brookings Harbor, Oregon 1988
A child’s hands sift quickly through a pile of hundreds of puzzle pieces, feeling, searching, discarding... finding one.
JUSTINE, 10, severely autistic, long tangled hair, sits cross- legged in a child’s arm chair... she grunts, squirms, arms flap. A frustrated PRETTY NURSE kneels in front of her, works the child’s Keds onto little bare feet.
The Nurse ties a sneaker, turns, stares at something os.
A YOUNG BOY, 10, glasses, kneels on an area rug, working an unseen puzzle. He rocks back and forth, back and forth.
Seated in a chair behind him, his LITTLE BROTHER, 7, swings his legs, casts bored eyes about the room.
Young Boy’s eyes ping-pong from the unseen puzzle to the remaining pieces. He continues to rock, chant.
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER (V.O.) He has no friends, just his younger brother--
YOUNG BOY’S MOTHER (V.O.) (near tears; resentful) I’m sure moving from base to base can’t help any. Doctor, why all the rocking?
Young Boy’s eyes flit to the staring Nurse, making eye contact for a split second before returning to the puzzle.
Little Brother notices Nurse staring at his big brother.He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like her.
The pile of puzzle pieces has decreased significantly-- impossibly.
Little Brother looks at Nurse, catches her eye.
YOUNG BOY’S MOTHER (V.O.) (rope’s end) “Einstein”? You talk like you’re glad he has this Aspergers.
YOUNG BOY’S MOTHER Who refers to himself in the third person! It’s embarr--
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER Enough.
YOUNG BOY’S MOTHER We came to your-- to here, because we heard you specialized in, in... this. You must have a cure? A treatment? Drugs? Something?
Nurse stands, task finished. She gives Little Brother a sympathy-smile, acknowledgement of a long-suffering sibling.
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER (V.O.) Is our son capable of living a normal life?
Little Brother’s stare burrows into the walking Nurse, eyes cold, predatory. A malevolent smile slowly forms.
Nurse’s smile fades. Her throat dries, she looks away.
Young Boy’s eyes dart, suddenly alarmed, searching the floor, the space around him, anxiety rising, panic.
Justine GRUNTS, flaps a hand in the direction of a chair, Little Brother clues in, follows her eyes to an errant puzzle piece.
Little Brother snags it, hands it to Young Boy. Relief.
Young Boy snaps the piece into place. He cuts his eyes in Justine’s direction, a small smile of thanks.
Before him, a completed 1,000 piece puzzle, FACE DOWN.
Parking lot, mostly empty. Kim’s Nails. Mandarin Garden Chinese Food. Al’s Laundromat. ZZZ ACCOUNTING.
SUPER: Plainfield, IL... twenty miles South of Chicago... Present day
Clean. Small. A matronly RECEPTIONIST sits behind a desk, immersed in a paperback romance novel.
A nameplate reads “Christian Wolff, CPA.”
White shirt, tie, pocket protector, glasses -- CHRIS WOLFF -- 30, handsome, sits at a desk, rocking slightly; he fixates on the tax forms scrolling down a CRT monitor.
Across from him sit FRANK and DOLORES RICE, 60s, sun- weathered Midwesterners. The Rices worry.
Dolores chances a quick look at her frustrated husband.
He works the Dekalb hat in his calloused hands. Dolores looks at Chris, a plea in her eyes.
Chris averts eye contact.
Frank EXHALES, shaking his head, unmanned. Dolores puts a comforting hand on her husband’s forearm.
Chris notices the touch and shifts, uncomfortable. He double- clicks a mouse and the 1040 is replaced with STREAMING VIDEO of a STORAGE LOT.
The rocking stops.
Double-click and the 1040 returns.
Chris reluctantly makes eye contact, double-clicks. NIGHT VISION VIDEO of an AIRSTREAM TRAILER inside a large dark space. Sunlight glints off her necklace, catches his eye.
He stares at the homemade necklace, the play of light. Dolores raises a hand to her chest, disappointed.
A confused Chris double-clicks, focuses on his monitor.
Frank, thinking he’s part of the “we”, allows a weak smile.
She smiles politely, not buying it.
He double-clicks, the Airstream interior appears.
Sensing a life preserver, Frank stirs.
Double-click. Tax forms.
Chris fidgets, the wait for her to conclude painful.
DOLORES/FRANK (simultaneously; confused) What?
Chris GRUNTS his exasperation. Dolores, taken aback, looks to her husband.
Seeing Chris’ play, the farmer straightens.
Chris SHAKES HIS HEAD, stares at his desktop.
Chris settles, adjusts his glasses.
The Capitol... White House... Lincoln Memorial... Treasury.
MARYBETH MEDINA, early 30s, Hispanic, attractive, conservative business suit, trails a fast-walking bulldog of a FEMALE ADMIN.
SUPER: Financial Crimes Enforcement Network... Department of the Treasury
High tech. Glass-walled offices. Busy. Rows of desks, shirt/tie wearing men, women in business suits... speaking on phones... flat-screen monitors... streaming financial data.
They approach the alpha-dog corner office. Through glass walls she sees Deputy Director RAY KING, late 50s, fit, crisp white shirt, tie, pacing, talking.
The Admin deposits an anxious Marybeth in the open doorway. Ray glances over, crooks a finger at her. She enters.
Marybeth fidgets, scans the room; framed headlines featuring Ray from the Post, Times,Journal. An aura of power.
Ray looks at her, she meets his gaze, holds it.
He plucks the phone from the receiver, speaker killed.
He hangs up, drops into his chair, studies her.
She moves forward, hand outstretched.
He makes no move to shake, nods at a chair facing his desk.
He ignores her, turns to his monitor, displayed text.
She hesitates, collects herself, wary of the spotlight.
Ray swivels the flat monitor so they can both view it.
Monitor: a rough TEENAGE MARYBETH glares in a MUG SHOT.
Chris stands by the open door, eyes down, the relieved Rices leaving. The receptionist sits, novel open, waiting.
Frank extends a hand which Chris one-pumps, releases.
Chris produces a smile, weak but sincere.
They nod to the receptionist and leave. Chris closes the door, watches the couple through the sidelight.
CHRIS’ POV: The Rices walk to their car. Dolores looks over her shoulder, spots Chris, mouths “THANK YOU.”
He steps away from the sidelight.
Marybeth’s mug shots stare sullenly from Ray’s monitor.
Marybeth frozen in her seat; day, career, life unraveling.
Monitor: Identifying marks photos... scars across her back, arms, beneath the hairline on her scalp... an actual size .45 PISTOL TATTOO low on a hip, barrel angled at her crotch.
Ray squints, mouse clicks, crotch and pistol fill the screen.
Marybeth’s wet eyes dart to the windows, she reddens. Trembling hands smooth the hair over an old wound.
Eyes shining, she glares at him, a hint of the old Marybeth.
Standoff for a tense beat. She sits. He clears the monitor.
Ray bends, opens a low drawer, retrieves a fat file. He straightens, thumps the bulging file on his desk top.
A GRAINY PHOTO: four men; three of Middle-Eastern descent. The fourth, nearly out of the frame, blurry, a Caucasian man, 30s, dark hair, glasses.
Marybeth holds the photo, inspects it as she sits hunched over the opposite side of Ray’s desk. The file open.
She hesitates, mindful of her own situation.
He motions to the file, impatient.
She flips through the file... grainy photos of non-smiling lethal-looking men of various nationalities.
She looks again. First photo, second, third, fourth... wait. Back to the Antwerp shot. Every photo, in the background, the same Caucasian man, 30s, glasses, dark hair. Chris?
Ray’s eyes light, pleased, an obsession surfacing.
Another photo... Asian men in focus. In the background the Caucasian man, glasses, dark suit, briefcase, walks away.
He gathers his thoughts, the explanation important to him.
He suppresses most of a “not bad” smile, rolls on.
She digests this, the enormity of that feat settling on her.
He taps a photo on the desk, “Lou Carroll”.
Ray clicks his mouse, her mug shots pop on the monitor.
Middle-class suburb of cookie-cutter 1970’s ranchers. End of a cul-de-sac. A Ford F-150 pulls into a driveway.
Chris parks the pickup truck in the usual spot.
Above the other spot, a tow chain hangs from a large pulley connected to a rafter-high 4X6 beam. Suspended from the chain, what appears to be a TARP-COVERED TRANSMISSION.
The garage door closes.
Spartan. Disposable. Stock photos of staged model families smile out from picture frames. Furniture immaculate.
3 burners, 3 hot skillets. 3 pancakes bubble, 3 pieces of bacon sizzle, 3 eggs fry.
Chris, T-shirt and shorts, opens a cabinet. 1 plate, 1 bowl, 1 glass. He takes the plate and glass.
Silence.
Chris sits at his table, preparing to eat. He BLOWS TWICE on his fingers -- lightly. Picks up his fork.
Chris, t-shirt and boxers, sits in the center of a queen- sized bed, legs extended. He rolls a cut-down BROOM STICK up and down scarred shins. Up. Down. His mind elsewhere.
Young Boy rages, strains against his Father. The man kneels, strong arms wrapped around his son, squeezing, rocking.
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER Fight. That’s it. Burn off that energy. Burn it. Burn it.
Young Boy keens, tries in vain to break free. They rock.
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER You need to learn how to calm yourself. What works. Use it to stay in control. Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday... (Young Boy starts to calm) Feel the squeeze. The pressure. Calm. Good boy. Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday--
His digital clock rolls 10:00. He suddenly turns to his nightstand. To the prescription bottle: “ZOLOFT 50 mg. CHRISTIAN WOLFF... take 1 pill every night at 10 pm.” He swallows one dry.
BINOCULAR LENS POV -- A FAT CANTALOUPE perched atop a sun- bleached fence post comes into focus, a SMILEY FACE inked on it. Three posts, three smiling cantaloupes.
The CANTALOUPE SILENTLY VAPORIZES IN A YELLOW MIST. Three seconds later, a distant ECHOING CRACK.
Chris, jeans and sweatshirt, prone position, earplugs in.He stares down a Leupold scope on a .50 CALIBER BARRETT SNIPER RIFLE. KA-BOOM! The heavy weapon bucks. KA-BOOM!
BINOCULAR LENS POV -- The last canteloupe EXPLODES.
A mile of farmland blurs by as the lens searches, focuses: Chris stands at the edge of the timber, gun in hand, staring at the lens. He raises a hand “good-bye”, turns.
At a window, Frank lowers binoculars from stunned eyes.
Window down, Chris’ pickup idles up to a guard shack. Inside, a bored GUARD nods toward the truck.
Chris looks in the direction of the nod, considers the fat rolled rug leaning against the passenger seat. He turns...
The guard gives a lazy “whatever” smirk. The gate lifts.
Chris eases the truck down a wide lane bordered by storage buildings. He looks right, left, in his rear view mirror, watching, wary.
Chris’ POV: fifty identical 14-foot-high overhead doors on each side.
Hidden between his legs, Chris holds a .357 Colt revolver.
A closed galvanized metal overhead door.
Dark. Interior lights glow from the windows of a 34-foot AIRSTREAM TRAILER.
Low classical music from mini wall-mounted Bose speakers.
Strands of Christmas tree lights sparkle along upper blonde wood walls. The lighting diffused, warm. Home.
DINING AREA. A laptop open on the table. A framed RENOIR hangs on a wall. A tiny CAMERA high in a corner.
TOY HAULER AREA. Tie-downs leash a CONFEDERATE WRAITH MOTORCYCLE. A CRAFTSMEN tool chest. On wall racks: the Barrett, scoped DAKOTA T-76, pistol-grip MOSSBERG 12 GAUGE, KALASHNIKOV with banana clip.
An original “Star Wars” LIGHT SABRE mounted on the wall... on the handle, a signature in black marker:George Lucas.
Light from a Tiffany lamp on a bedside nightstand.
The bed-- a homemade contraption -- atop a mechanical frame; a queen mattress curled over on itself lengthwise to form a shape not unlike a hollowed out log. Chris tucked inside.
Chris lies snug in the bed, studies a poster on the opposite wall; ADULT FACES, subtle expressions-- surprise, anger, confusion. Joy. Chris mimics joy, puts a hand to his mouth, feels his smile. Lets it fade.
He works a remote control and a small motor whirs, rotating the bed upward, mattress flattening. On his back now, eyes resting on a large framed JACKSON POLLOCK mounted flush to the ceiling.
He daydreams, lost in chaotic swirls of viscous paint.
Dark. Small. Institutional.
BUNK BEDS. Bottom bunk, beneath a thin sheet FRANCIS SILVERBERG, 80s, bare-chested and frail, instructs.
In the top bunk, Chris, t-shirt, mulls the question.
CHRIS FRANCIS
Given your age, it’s unlikely Two years together. Every you’ll-- night.
He trails off. Silence. Chris considers his friend’s tone.
Chris smiles. A BANG on the door. They ignore the intrusion. Francis quiets, turns reflective.
FRANCIS CHRIS
“I was worthy of white.” “I was worthy of white.”
Francis laughs; at the memory, his repetition. Chris smiles, pleased to have made Francis laugh.
Chris puzzled by the shade of Francis’ testicles.
Chris considers this for a long beat.
Francis recognizes the flash of depression, feels for him.
Francis pauses, his mood softens, reflective.
Francis HOWLS, shoves the bottom of Chris’ bunk. Chris smiles. LOUD BANGING at the door.
Francis turns on his side, settles in with a SIGH.
Chris concerned. He wears boxers, no sheet, around an ankle: a DIGITAL MONITOR, its red light blinks.
On the nightstand, Chris’ MOBILE RINGS. He sits up, instantly alert. He connects, pauses...
On the other end of the phone a COMPUTER KEYBOARD CLICKS.
Chris sits, laptop open on the table. He watches the screen, the images change constantly, rapidly:
B&W PHOTO: 1960s M.I.T. Engineering class, ONE MAN CIRCLED.
NEWSPAPER CLIPPING: 1970s, LAMAR BLACK, a young Silicon Valley greaser in a garage-workshop.
POLAROID: a small storefront shop: “CREATIVE ROBOTICS.”
FORTUNE ARTICLE/PHOTO: 1980s, Lamar and his older sister RITA pose with a prototype robot.
VIDEO of clean-room manufacturing.
PHOTO: Vegas Consumer Electronics Show: STEVE JOBS and Lamar.
YOUTUBE: a Humvee convoy in Iraq disappears in a massive fireball as an I.E.D. DETONATES.
Chris quiets, the images on his laptop screen grim.
PHOTOS: Iraq/Afghanistan war vets lie in hospital beds, faces cut, burned, their shortened arms and legs bandaged.
PHOTOS: sutured STUMPS of a dozen amputated arms-legs.
CNN: a rehab patient’s prosthetic fingers pick up a DIME.
Chris looks away, focuses on the Renoir, takes comfort in it.
A granite “CREATIVE ROBOTICS” sign on a tree-lined campus leads to a large ultra-modern glass structure.
The sound of two people walking fast, talking fast...
Electromechanical arms slide computer chips onto circuit boards, automated arms solder.
Chris, suit and tie, pocket protector, stands compliant, arms outstretched. A SECURITY GUARD waves a metal-detector baton over him.
RITA BLACK, 60s, handsome and EDWIN “ED” CHILTON, 60s, large, no smile, sit together, face Chris across a large table.
Rita cracks a smile. Chris stares back, parrots the smile.
Rita’s smile reaches her eyes.
Chris lifts his briefcase onto the table, pops locks, lid.
Chris silently mouths the expression, confused.
Chris stirs, senses a challenge. A PUZZLE.
He’s in.
Chris pulls a sheet of paper from a folder, slides the itemized list to Rita.
She traps Ed with a confrontational look.
The air is sucked from the room. Ed turns hostile.
Chris glances at him, unfazed by Ed’s anger.
Rita stares at Chris, holds a hand up to Ed.
Chris maintains eye contact, nods.
He blinks at her, not reacting to her tone.
She studies him. Nothing. Considers her words.
Silence. The question hangs. Chris looks away, then back.
She stares at him for a beat, satisfied.
A wall clock reads 4:03, the division hums with activity.
At her bullpen desk, Marybeth stares at her monitor, scrolls through profiles of the THUGS in the Accountant file.
Faces flash, words, figures pop:Terrorist. Hawala. $20 million. Extortion. $45 million. Organized crime. Smurfing. $70 million. Narcotics kingpin. Murder.
She pushes back, anxious, looks around the beehive.
MARYBETH’S POV -- every person busy, on the phone, computer, engaged. Ray paces in his office, phone pressed to the side of his head, giving someone hell. Pressure.
She pulls back to her desk, determined. Clicks her mouse, brings up the ANTWERP photo, locates the Accountant.
She MAPS his face, SLIDES THE DIGITAL IMAGE to a desktop folder. Opens her e-mail, types in the “to” box: SORKIS@DHS.GOV.
Chris looks through one-way glass as a WHITE-COATED DOCTOR works on one of two prosthetic arms on a seated shirtless (and armless) MAN, 20s.
The prosthetic is Terminator-high-tech.
Chris turns as LAMAR BLACK, 60s, enters the viewing room. Lamar, in khaki pants, plaid shirt, oozes decency, warmth.
Lamar stands next to Chris, watches the lab.
The doctor removes one arm and walks to a side bench. The patient looks off-balance without the arm, incomplete.
Chris watches the man sit on his stool, stare into space.
Silence as the two study the man.
Lamar grins, turns to Chris, impressed. He extends a hand.
Techs manipulate robotic arms, legs, joints. A prosthetic- armed patient picks coins off a table with robotic fingers.
Chris and Lamar walk and talk.
Lamar looks at him, waiting.
Lamar stops walking, turns to Chris.
Chris blinks at Lamar, doesn’t respond to the compliment.
The sound of someone typing fast.
SUPER: Department of Homeland Security
SORKIS, a tech, Lebanese, 20s, gamer-style, headset on, sits and stares at the center of 3 desk monitors.
His fingers pound the wireless keyboard on his lap.
On a side monitor: Marybeth’s unsmiling face superimposed on a VIRTUAL POLE DANCING STRIPPER.
Center monitor: the ANTWERP PHOTO, BEING MAPPED WITH GEOMETRIC PLANES.
On the last monitor: CALL OF DUTY/BLACK OPS.
Empty except for Marybeth at her desk, phone to an ear.
She disconnects, stress getting to her.
Chris, in a suit, carrying a briefcase, steps inside a converted conference room.
Two large dry-erase boards fill a wall.
Lined on a long table, tall neat stacks of files.
A plate of carefully arranged doughnuts, napkins, coffee.
SNORING. Hidden by the files, a woman, 20s, business suit, sits slumped forward, head down on the table, sleeping.
Chris watches her for a beat, unsure how to proceed.
She shifts, her snoring slows, stops, starts.
Nothing. He looks at the doorway, no assistance.
He studies her for a beat. Pretty. He gently rocks her shoulder. Mostly-asleep, she swipes his hand away.
Chris circles, uncomfortable, deciding. He leans over, his mouth to an ear, prepares a gentle whisper...
DANA CUMMINGS, bolts up. Bookish-attractive, wild-eyed and dripping drool. She gets to her feet, unsteady.
Chris steps back, out of his element.
She wipes her mouth, pushes tangled hair out of her face.
Chris remembers to smile, glances at the reports.
Awkward. He scans the room, searches for a compliment.
Bleary, she gestures no big deal. Silence as he waits, reluctantly scours her face for a clue what to say, do.
Searching. Painful.
DANA CHRIS
For? You to...? Us to say...?
Awkward. His eyes bounce around the room and back to her.
Embarrassed, she backs out of the room.
He nods, bounces eye contact, produces a polite smile.
She turns, glad to be leaving, exits.
He walks to the door, closes it, relieved. He turns to the blank boards, energy building, eager to get started.
Press conference in full swing. Cameras, REPORTERS.
The SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY, 60s, mans a podium emblazoned with the Treasury insignia. Flanking him, Ray, and a half- dozen agents.
Marybeth stands in a crowd at the rear of the room.
Cameras click, reporters SHOUT questions. Ray grips the podium top, at ease, in command. The room quiets.
Marybeth’s MOBILE VIBRATES inside her purse.
The room ERUPTS with shouting reporters.
Marybeth bangs out of the Press Room, answers her mobile.
Sorkis hidden by a cluster of standing TECH GEEKS who crowd his cubicle, all staring at his monitors.
AUDIO: car tires SCREECH, horns BLARE.
The group hushed, shocked faces. IMPRESSED faces.
INTERCUT MARYBETH WITH HOMELAND
Sorkis, headset on, stares at his monitors. All three screens synced for a B&W SURVEILLANCE VIDEO.
Sorkis double-clicks his mouse.
RAVEN FOOTAGE. Taken from across the street, an occasional passing van or truck blocks the footage.
A slender man in a white shirt -- back to the camera -- walks toward the Raven’s entrance. Flanking the Raven’s double doors, two large ENFORCERS.
The Enforcers exchange glances, push off the building, move to block the man.
Enforcer 1 extends an arm toward the man.
The Techs grimace, BRACE.
IMPOSSIBLY FAST -- the man grabs Enforcer 1’s straightened arm, jerks him close, his free hand darting to the big man’s neck... PIVOTS around him... a MINI-VAN passes.
Enforcer 1 sinks to his knees, shocked, clawing at the STEAK KNIFE BURIED IN HIS THROAT.
Enforcer 2 fumbles desperately under his jacket for a gun.
The man closes fast. Too fast.
Enforcer 2 bails on the gun, loops a vicious roundhouse.
The man ducks the swing, comes up with sharp jab to the Enforcer’s throat, stumbles him.
Enforcer 2 clutches his shattered larynx.
The man grips Enforcer 2’s head, forcing him down, snapping his own knee up into the Enforcer’s face. CRUNCH.
OS: brakes lock, TIRES SCREECH, HORNS BLARE.
Reaching under the slumping Enforcer’s jacket, the man EXTRACTS A PISTOL. The body hits the pavement.
The man checks the gun’s slide for a chambered round.
The man moves to the door.
A brief pause as he pushes the bridge of his glasses up, enters the Raven.
From inside the Raven, the muted sound of TWO QUICK GUN SHOTS. Silence. And then a FULL-BLOWN GUNFIGHT.
Sorkis rewinds the footage. A mini-van reverses.
On the center monitor the KILLER’S FACE frozen mid-pivot.It could be Chris.
Skyline of Canary Wharf.
SUPER: London, England
Mostly empty. Clip of expensive shoes on concrete. A HEDGE FUND boss - 30s, fit, handsome - walks, presses his key fob, a car alarm beeps. He frowns at a sight os.
He reaches his reserved spot; a plain sedan parked inches from the driver’s side of his Aston Martin.
Hedge Funder drags a leg over the center console, folds himself into the driver’s seat just as BRAXTON “BRAX” - 30s, handsome, suit jacket, slacks, no tie - slides into the passenger seat, closes the door.
Brax points a suppressor equipped .45 at Hedge Funder.
Brax’ free hand snakes -- SLAPS the man across the face.
Hedge Funder startled by the quickness, power of the strike.
Brax rests the gun on the dash, whips his hand, SLAPS Hedge Funder. The financier gasps, head swivels.
Hedge Funder’s eyes water, then focus, blood trickles from a split lip. He glances at the free gun on the dash.
Brax watches, pushes the gun an inch closer to the man.
Brax shakes his head, doesn’t answer.
Brax extraordinarily fast -- SLAP! -- Hedge Funder’s head jerks from the shot to the mouth. Hard glance at the gun.
Hedge Funder watches Brax edge the .45 closer.
SLAP! SLAP! Brax rocks him, quick, vicious. Hedge Funder’s face burns, tears well. He looks around for help.
He stares at Brax, tries not to look at the gun. Fails.
Hedge Funder catches himself, clams up. Brax lets it go.
Brax relaxes, remembering. Hedge Funder uses the moment to steal a look at the gun.
Brax slides the gun directly in front of Hedge Funder.
Hedge Funder’s eyes dart to Brax’ waist line.
Decision. Hedge Funder sinks back in his seat, cowed.
Hedge Funder lunges for the gun -- freezes -- a short BLADE at his throat.
Hedge Funder trembles, tears run down his cheeks.
Michael Buble’s voice fills the car --“I’ve got the world on a string, I’m sitting on a rainbow” -- Brax’ mobile.
Brax retrieves his phone with his free hand, stares at Hedge Funder, answers.
Brax disconnects, pockets the phone.
Hedge Funder swallows, blade against his Adam’s apple. Nods.
Brax sheathes his knife, collects his gun, exits the car.
We hear the sedan start, see through the driver’s window as it pulls away. Slow. Hedge Funder hangs his head, sobs.
Ducks paddle across a man-made pond, circled with trees.
Dana sits on one of two park benches facing the water. An insulated carry-all next to her, she eats a yogurt.
Chris, sack lunch and thermos in hand, approaches the benches. She turns just as he sees her, slows. She inches her carry-all closer to her, making room.
Frustration slides across his face, solitary routine compromised. He beelines for the empty bench, unpacks lunch.
An awkward beat for Dana, then --
He half nods, half shrugs, then turns from her, blows twice on his fingertips.
He unwraps a sandwich, takes a bite, watches the ducks. He glances at Dana, back to the ducks.
She cuts her eyes to him then the ducks.
He swallows, hesitates, then grinds out a response.
She nods, unsure how to reply to this odd sterile answer.
She spoons some yogurt, hesitates, waits for the customary follow-up question. It doesn’t come.
He SIGHS, wanting her to get on with it.
Dana stopped by the sigh, confused. Surely not.
Both suddenly aware of Chris’ pocket protector.
He looks at it, then to her, unfazed. She stammers--
Silence for a long beat. The ducks QUACK for scraps.
She struggles to fill the dead space.
He stops eating his sandwich, looks at her. He holds her gaze, for the first time interested.
His blank stare throws her, she abandons her point.
They sit in silence for a beat, Chris considers her words, watches the ground.
She pauses, not knowing if he’s screwing with her or not.
She reddens, laughs, brief eye contact between them, smiles.
Chris nods his understanding.
He watches her remember, sees the emotion rise.
She clears her throat, embarrassed, her eyes wet.
She stares at him for a dumbfounded beat before zipping her carry-all. She stands, forces a tight smile.
He watches her leave. Returns to the ducks. Pleased.
Audio: A GUNFIGHT. Men curse in anger, shout in fear.
SUPER: One Police Plaza, New York City
Marybeth, headphones on, listens, absorbed by the audio violence. She sits to one side of a desk manned by...
DON, 50s -- same guy on video -- stocky, shirt and tie, stares at the spiking audio waves on his desk monitor. He tap-tap-taps a pencil on his desk, annoyed, restless.
The floor busy. Noisy. A mostly male, shirt-and-tie crowd.
Over her headphones: the gunfire stops, silence. Then--
The audio ends.
She slides the phones off her ears and around her neck.
Don nods, stares at his desk, tap-tap-taps his pencil.
Another nod.
She can’t accept this, opens her mouth to say so--
He smiles to himself, shakes his head... here it comes.
Don wheels his chair close to her, looks around the room, leans in, conspiratorially. She leans in, closer.
Inches apart, their eyes lock, neither blink.
He reaches into a bottom drawer, pulls out a file folder.
He pulls a short stack of photos from the file, holds them up to her, one by one: GRAPHIC KILL SHOTS of Raven victims.
He stops, stares... the photo in his hands extra gruesome.
Shuffles the deck, another photo, another dead mobster.
She looks from the photo to Don, puzzled.
He returns the photos to his desk drawer.
He stands, pulls a pack of cigarettes from a shirt pocket.
Confused, she watches him leave.
Open briefcase contains files. Laptop. Pens. Tape. Two rows of dry-erase markers; a dozen RED, a dozen BLACK.
All the LEDGERS open, spread out over the tables. Chris stands, bending over a ledger, running his hand quickly down the page, hunting. He flips the page, scans it, faster now... stops. He RIPS THE PAGE OUT.
Chris stands, stares straight ahead, two markers -- red and black -- in his shirt pocket. Adrenaline flows, he rolls his sleeves up, undoes a shirt button, tucks his tie in.
In his mind, the faint notes of MUSIC from a hundred different sources, disjointed, growing louder.
He pulls the markers, one in each hand. Practiced thumbs pop the caps. In front of him, two pristine dry-erase boards.
The music coalesces, a specific BEAT emerges, swells.
SERIES OF SHOTS:
With two large BOLD SWIPES of the black marker he forms an accountant’s classic “T” account.
Numbers and names go up. Ambidextrous, credits in black marker, debits in red.
A ledger page in one hand, marker clenched between teeth, he furiously transcribes figures onto the board.
Ripped ledger pages drift to the floor, accumulate.
Outside: workers file out, hit the parking lot, head home.
The board fills with thousands of numbers, names. His actions energetic, JOYOUS. Numbers stream sideways, up, down, angled. CHAOS. Chris talks to himself, voice modulating, singsong, fast, slow. Happy.
Ragged ledger pages taped to the walls.
Outside: nightfall. A single office window illuminated.
His left hand connects a board-length red line to a set of figures, the right hand does the same with a black line.
He LAUGHS, whips a spent marker across the room, advances on the board, eyes it, twisting, bending, searching for fresh perspective, the way in. LOVING it.
The music builds.
Kitchen table. Unopened bills. Half-eaten T.V. dinner.
Marybeth t-shirt, jeans, sits at the small table, stares at the screen of a laptop: DIGITAL AUDIO SIGNATURES.
She finger-swipes the pad, REWINDS. Digital waves spike to the sound of gunfire, screaming. She deletes each signature wave, listens to static. Nothing.
Tired, she leans back in her chair, eyes closed. She doesn’t see the WHISP of an audio spike on the monitor. Then--
A VOICE. Faint, ghostly. Her eyes snap open. She bangs her chair forward, hits REWIND, presses the UP volume key, holds it. Her ear to a tiny speaker... a voice, barely audible.
She cables her laptop to tall speakers. CRANKS IT.
A LOUD HISS. She paces, hands in her hair. ANYTHING! Freezes as a WHISPERED CHANT FILLS THE ROOM--
Dana stands in the doorway, staring. Stunned.
The dry-erase boards (and a portion of wall) packed with red and black. Thousands upon thousands of numbers, names. The numbers collide, flow across the boards, some writ large, some small. Strangely BEAUTIFUL. A veritable FINANCIAL JACKSON POLLOCK.
Chris stands where both boards meet, lost in thought, repeatedly CIRCLING the sole empty space available.
He turns to her, his unshaven face brightens.
He’s across the room in a snap, grabs her wrist, and half walks, half drags a surprised Dana through hundreds of strewn ledger pages to the boards.
She looks at his hands, his shirt, stained from marker. The destroyed annual reports.
She’s confronted with indecipherable boards.
He moves quickly to the bottom far left hand side of the boards and a CIRCLED figure. Raps his knuckles on it.
He moves right, another circled figure, raps his knuckles.
Dana stares at him, at the board. Amazed.
He moves about the board, underlining various numbers.
Continues to move, raps a third circle, and a fourth.
Her eyes race, trying to keep up but failing.
He SLAMS circled figures on the second board.
He hustles the length of both boards, underlining figures.
She studies the name scrawled near the number.
Chris shrugs, only mildly interested in Ed, starts to speak--
Her eyes ping-pong - nothing. He hints, taps the second number in an underlined figure, a “3.”
She studies. He TAPS again, harder.
She stares at the board, touches his arm.
Momentarily thrown by her touch, he recovers, steps away, struggles to re-establish eye contact, blinking.
He moves to the center of the boards and the EMPTY CIRCLE.
Rita in the room, staring at the boards, taken aback.
Dana checks Chris with an embarrassed glance, heads for the door, giving Rita an apologetic smile on the way out.
Rita slowly approaches the boards, looks at Chris.
Chris points to circled figures, quickly adding in his head.
He ticks off the remaining eight circles as if they were elementary school math, doing impossible figures in seconds.
Rita stiffens, nods.
She squares up to him, confrontational.
She looks at him for a beat, the boards, turns to go.
He looks at her, away, then back, nods.
Dark. Ed, pajamas and bed-head, shuffles across the large room. In bed, his wife sleeps.
Ed yawns, stands in front of his toilet, urinating. The sound of his urine stream stops, starts, stops.
Ed heads back to bed. A faint NOISE outside the room. He stops, listens.
A huge river-stone fireplace anchors the home of a wealthy man. Light from a plasma TV left on, volume low. Ed, in a long bathrobe, frowns at the TV.
He kills it, heads for the--
Light spills out from an open Sub-Zero. Ed rummages in the fridge for a snack.
Ed whirls around, frightened. Brax and two THUGS.
Brax waggles the barrel of a silencer-fitted hand-cannon at the interior of the Sub Zero.
Grouped on the kitchen table-- a wedge of lemon pie on a plate, two vials of insulin, a syringe.
Brax and a nauseous Ed seated at the table, face each other over the pie, medication. Thugs stand in the bg.
Bile rises in Ed’s throat. Brax motions to THUG 1, silent familiar shorthand.
Thug 1 places a waste-basket next to Ed. The CFO retches into it, recovers. Brax signals for water.
Thug 1 delivers water and a paper towel. Ed takes a shaky drink, wipes his mouth.
At the mention of his wife, Ed’s eyes well with tears, hands involuntarily plead with the devil in his kitchen.
Ed stifles a sob, cuts panicked eyes to the kitchen entry.
Brax turns in his seat, pins Thug 1 with a look that radiates menace even in the dim light. Thug 1 averts his eyes.
Ed exhales, a grateful smile, chance of a reprieve.
No go. Brax pulls his .45, uses the barrel to push the syringe to within a couple inches of Ed.
Realization dawns on Ed, resignation.
A MAINTENANCE WORKER, bucket at his feet, dutifully cleans numbers off the wall.
The dry-erase boards gone.
Chris stands, stares at the board-less wall. On edge, his puzzle gone.
Chris turns. Lamar stands watching him, his eyes red, puffy.
Lamar nods, considers the response. Not convinced.
He pulls a check from his shirt pocket.
He sets it on the table, rubs his eyes, anxiety building.
He extends a hand. Chris looks at it, accepts, then grips Lamar’s forearm with his free hand, forces eye contact.
Lamar is momentarily taken aback, searches Chris’ face, then realizes the depth of his need.
Movement at the door, the two turn. Dana stands in the doorway, pale.
He removes himself from Chris’ hold, moves to the door.
Lamar leaves, pausing to squeeze Dana’s shoulder.
Dana is halted by his apparent indifference, disappointed.
Chris looks at her, searching for the right words.
She walks out. He stares at the doorway, glances at the empty wall.
Ray at his desk, transfixed by the images on his monitor-- Raven surveillance. The Raven killer turns -- freezes.
Marybeth sits in her usual chair, facing Ray.
He holds the Antwerp photo, compares it to the monitor image.
Ray stands, walks to a tall file cabinet, slides open a middle drawer, fingers the folders, pulls an age-yellowed tabloid-size 1968 LIFE magazine.
He flips through the pages as he walks to his desk, folds it open, hands it to her. She reads--
Marybeth’s POV: the heading: LA COSA NOSTRA. A B&W photo of two older men flanked by a younger man, names captioned.
The third man; a young Francis, handsome, smiling.
Low. She gestures noncommittally, Ray grins, interprets.
She smiles, off the hook, warming to Ray.
Marybeth studies Francis’ image; intelligent, decent.
Marybeth listens, absorbed.
She stares at him, absorbed.
Poorly lit. Cinder-block walls. A blood-smeared nail gun balanced on a saw horse.
Francis, naked from the waist up, slumps in a straight-back wooden chair, hands nailed to the chair’s arms. Blood streams from his scalp and pulped face, the gray hair on his heaving chest matted with sweat, blood.
Around him, FOUR MOBSTERS stand, laughing. A BLOW TORCH is lit. Francis strains against the nails. Cries.
The story hangs in the air, Marybeth stares at the LIFE.
Chris, unshaven, eyes red, sits alone, behind his desk. He stares into space, rocking back and forth, thinking.
OS a phone RINGS.
He continues to rock, staring straight ahead.
A STROBE-A-SCOPE fills the dark room with disorienting pulsing light. Deafening HARD ROCK plays.
Chris -- shorts, no shirt -- hangs beneath an overhead I- beam, fingertips curled around the beam’s lip. He rips through pull-ups; upper legs held parallel to the floor, a cinder block suspended between bare feet. Abs contract, veins cord.
He is extraordinarily muscled.
On his back, beneath a shoulder: a group of three nickel- sized starburst scars.
Eyes squeezed shut, he WINCES in pain.
The nightstand clock rolls 10:01.
A beat.
Chris hurries in, soaked in sweat. He beelines for his bottle of PROZAC.
He sits on the bed, stops.
He considers the bottle, the pills inside. His grip tightens, resentment mounting. He ROARS in FRUSTRATION, fires the bottle at a wall.
The bottle CRACKS open, capsules scatter.
He squeezes his head between his forearms, fingers laced over his head. He moans, rocks back and forth in pain.
Chris’ pickup slows at a gravel driveway. He wheels in, passing a MAILBOX reading “RICE.”
Parked at the base of a giant sycamore, Chris sits on the open gate of his pickup, Sharpie in hand, putting the finishing touches on the third smiley-face canteloupe.
His Sharpie trails off mid-smile, mind elsewhere. He lays back.
The room a disaster. A plywood floor, loose carpet nails, fabric remnants, a roll of duct tape. Beds overturned.
Two wooden poles protrude from a wall-mounted homemade martial arts dummy made from the carpet, bound by duct-tape. Young Boy strikes the wooden poles. Drenched in sweat, exhausted yet hyper-focused, his quick hands wrapped, bloody.
Little Brother lies on a mattress, reads aBatman comic. Cuts his eyes to--
Their Father steps in, surveys the mess, his face clouds.
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER Did I or did I not tell you to take care of your brother?
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER When?
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER (re: wooden poles) That our broom?
Father looks about the ruined room, watches his oldest son.
YOUNG BOY’S FATHER Bend your knees.
A dark late-model sedan slows at the Rice mailbox, pulls in, gravel popping beneath tires.
SERIES OF SHOTS:
Chris lies in the truck bed, staring up, calculating.
CHRIS’ POV -- the canopy of sycamore leaves dance.
The music he heard at Creative, fills his mind, but slow, tracking with the leaves.
A breeze blows, the limbs bend, leaves swirl, twist, fall.
Chris’ eyes track left, right, searching for an answer.
The two thugs who assisted Brax with Ed sit at the kitchen table, hunched over plates of apple pie, eating.
A frightened Frank and Dolores sit together at the table. Frank’s mouth swollen, a smudge of blood beneath a nostril.
Dolores fingers the homemade necklace at her throat.
Trembling, she searches Frank’s face for help... he nods.
She rises, walks to the door. Thug 2 follows, gun drawn.
Dolores stands, shields frightened eyes from the sun, looks at the timber line. Thug 2 close behind her.
A helpless Frank watches his wife out the open door.
PUFF! Thug 2’s head disappears, VAPORIZED. His headless body kneels, falls forward. As it hits the ground, the report of a distant RIFLE CRACK.
Thug 1 stunned, a forkful of pie frozen midway to his mouth.
Chris coolly stares down the scope on the big BARRETT .50 CALIBER balanced on the hood of his pickup.
Thug 1 reels, chair falling. He pulls his pistol, angry, scared, confused. He levels the gun at a ducking Frank.
Dolores stares at the decapitated corpse, horrified.
Thug 1, unsure of his next move, bolts for the door. He BRAKES HARD, points an unsteady gun at Dolores.
Crying, Dolores enters the house. Frank reaches her, holds her close.
The thug circles, at a loss.
He looks at the pair, tears Dolores SCREAMING from Frank.
The gunman jams a hand into his pocket rips out car keys. He drags her to the open door, peers out at his sedan.
THUNK! BOOM! THUNK! BOOM! The sedan rocks as fifty-caliber slugs punch baseball-sized holes through the engine block.
Thug 1 stares in disbelief. The car steams, his retreat cut off. He SLAMS the door shut.
Panicked, he swings his gun toward the shrinking Rices.
Frank stumbles to the door, exits. Thug 1 waves his gun at Dolores, motions her to him, impatient. He snatches her close, backs them to a rear window, eyes the open door.
WHOOMP! He’s VACUUMED out the open window. Dolores looks around, suddenly alone. The house still.
Chris’ arms encircle a prone Thug 1’s thick neck. Chris exerts pressure, whispers in the terrified big man’s ear.
No answer. Chris frowns, squeezes, the man purples.
Thug 1 GASPS, forces a small nod.
Chris removes an arm, digs into the man’s pocket, comes out with a small photo of... DANA.
Chris releases. Thug 1 scrambles up, sucking air. Chris forces eye contact. Thug 1 misreads weakness, pulls a spring- loaded blade, snapping it out, lunging. Chris snags his wrist, breaks the arm, sinks the blade into the man’s chest.
The dying man searches Chris’ face as he’s eased to the ground.
Chris rockets down a crowded Chicago highway. One hand on the wheel, he holds his mobile sideways, eyes the screen:
Video-stream of the STORAGE LOT. He thumb-wipes the screen: AIRSTREAM INTERIOR. RAPID CLICKING OF A COMPUTER KEYBOARD.
The pickup moves to the fast-lane shoulder, ACCELERATES.
HORNS from slower traffic. Inches from the concrete median.
He barrels down on a car slowing for a TOLL WAY, squeezes around. The speedometer pegs 90. He blows through the toll.
CLICKING ebbs, resumes.
Chris SCREECHES to a stop in front of a startled Guard.
Chris ignores him, grips the wheel, the muscles in his arms, neck bunch as he stares straight ahead, out the windshield.
The security bar lifts. Fifty yards from his trailer, his life.
Chris EXPLODES, shaking the wheel, snarling, screaming.
Dana, hair down, jeans and a t-shirt, enters the elevator, carrying a bag of groceries, purse over a shoulder.
Two large MEN enter the elevator. They move to the rear of the car, push no buttons. She hugs her groceries.
The elevator doors close.
Dana exits the elevator with a nervous glance over a shoulder. MAN 1 smiles, follows. MAN 2 stays, holds the elevator.
She shifts the groceries, anxious, rummages in her purse.
Man 1 reaches under his jacket.
Chris barges through an EXIT door, looks down the long hall, SPRINTS.
Man 2 sees Chris, draws a gun.
Dana pulls her keys, sees Chris running, turns. Man 1 levels a gun at her. She’s paralyzed with fear. Groceries fall.
Man 1 sees Chris, switches targets. Too late.
Chris wrenches his gun hand up -- PHHT! A SILENCED ROUND pierces the ceiling.
Dana futilely tries to key her lock, hands shaking.
Chris drives his instep down on the inside of Man 1’s knee, snapping the leg... he GASPS in pain... the gun falls.
Man 2 races down the hall, gun leveled.
Chris bends for Man 1’s gun... PHHT! PHHT! shots furrow the floor between him and the weapon. Man 2 closing fast.
Chris straightens, spins a crippled Man 1 around to face his partner... instantly wraps Man 1 in a FULL NELSON and drives him down the hall toward Man 2.
Man 1 SCREAMS, his shattered leg bending unnaturally with each step. Chris shields himself, forces the man’s head side to side, like a METRONOME.
Fifteen feet apart...
Ten feet apart...
Man 2 stops, aims. Chris and his groaning partner almost on top of him. The muzzle of his gun tracks Chris’ head.
NOW -- Chris reverses head motion -- PHHT!
Man 1 drilled in the forehead. Chris thrusts the dead weight onto Man 2, slamming him into the wall.
Man 2 shrugs off the corpse, brings up his gun, Chris grabs the arm. PHHT! PHHT! Shots divot drywall.
Man 2 drives an elbow into Chris’ face, snaps his head back. Chris hangs onto the gun hand.
The gun neutralized, the men fight, all knees and elbows. Man 2 uses his greater weight, drives Chris across the hall, slams the back of his head into the wall.
A dog furiously BARKS from one of the apartments.
Chris wraps up Man 2’s free arm with his own, tightens his neck muscles and uppercuts the top of his head beneath the larger man’s chin, dazing Man 2.
Chris follows with a savage head-butt, the man’s nose bursts, driving him back. Chris spins him, controlling the gun hand, the muzzle lining up with Man 2’s forehead.
PHHT! PHHT! Chris double-taps him. FIGHT OVER.
Amid spilled produce, a nearly crazed Dana still fumbles with her keys, focused on opening her door.
He hesitates, puts a hand on her shoulder. She SCREAMS.
He jerks his hand back. She turns to him, crying. He gathers himself, unsettled by her tears, pressured by time--
Chris drives, Dana in the passenger seat.
Limit reached, she FREAKS--
He RECOILS, winces at her volume.
She sinks back in the seat, confused, overwhelmed. Silence. She glances at his near sleeve, fixates on the blood spots.
Chris glances at her. She gets it.
Brax sits, reads the Wall Street Journal. He scans the stock index, locates his target, smiles.
“I’ve got the world on a string, I’m sitting on a rainbow. Got the string around my finger, what a world, what a life.”
Brax strolls, mobile phone to an ear. Irritated.
Brax listens, slows, grin fading. He stops, his face empty, oblivious to the luggage-toting travelers edging around him.
Dana stutter-steps backward as Chris roll-slams the overhead door down. Dark. Light sneaks in from the imperfect seal under and around the big metal door.
She follows him to the trailer door. He jerks it open, steps up, turns on her.
He disappears inside, the door slams shut on a speechless Dana. Lights pop on within the trailer.
Chris, in a black fidget, hustles toward his bedroom.
Nerves frayed, Dana hugs herself, paces, walks to the trailer, looks in a window. She resumes pacing.
Chris SLAMS the door shut, pulls a bulging duffel from his closet, dumps it onto the bed.
Dana stops pacing, shakes her head. This is ridiculous. Heads for the trailer door.
INTERCUT DANA AND CHRIS
Chris unzips the duffel, double-checks the contents; clothes, cash, laptop, silencer-equipped pistol.
Dana walks the trailer, scans her surroundings. Christmas tree lights, speakers...
He digs a bottle of meds out of the duffle, shakes it to confirm the amount.
She looks around, pulls open a drawer; knives, forks, spoons-- LOOSE DIAMONDS. She slides the drawer shut. Pulls the pantry drawer out-- shrink wrapped Yen, Euros, dollars. Shoves it shut.
He glances to the closed door, concerned. He rifles an open drawer full of neatly arranged PASSPORTS.
Her face pressed to the port-hole window of the trailer’s Toy Hauler room. A view of the gun racks, the PISTOL GRIP SHOTGUN, KALASHNIKOV, scoped Dakota.
He slips into a clean shirt. A quick look around the room... takes the Light Sabre down, hides it in the closet.
Dana inspects the Renoir. Is this real? Her fingertips brush the canvas, down, his SIGNATURE. She recoils, the piece shifts slightly. She bangs the table, turns--
Looks down the barrel of a silenced 10 mm Glock, Chris on the other end. She freezes.
He swallows, hesitates for a beat, torn by the desire to rid himself of the intruder in his sanctuary.
He quickly lowers the gun, points to the kitchen seat.
She sits, he starts to leave, turns on her again.
He walks, she ignores orders and bolts up, follows.
He groans, exasperated by her inability to follow directions.
Moving quickly, he enters.
Chris moves quickly around the motorcycle, Dana on his heels. He takes the SHOTGUN from the rack.
He pulls open a tool chest drawer... SHOTGUN SHELLS. He takes a box as an increasingly frantic Dana watches.
He heads back.
Chris motors, Dana following, crowding. His irritation meter redlining, he rubs his head with his free hand.
He brakes -- Dana nearly slamming into him -- adjusts the Renoir. He continues into--
Chris works the shotgun and shells into the duffel.
He zips the duffel, turns, gives her his full attention.
She gapes at him, the painting on the ceiling catches her eye. She looks up, stares. He follows her gaze.
Alone, Marybeth sits at her desk, staring dry-eyed at her monitor. MUG SHOTS OF DOZENS OF MEN scroll. Louis “Lou” Carroll, Lew Carol, Louis Karel.
She rubs her tired face, getting nowhere. She tap-tap-taps her fingertips on her desktop. Types ALBERT ANASTASIA.
Black and white photo circa 1957: detectives in suits/hats take notes. At their feet, white sheets cover the face, lower body of a dead Anastasia, his bare-chested corpse on the tile floor of a barber shop.
The mobster’s lifeless hand inches from a pool of blood.
Desk phone RINGS. She jumps. Picks up.
Marybeth hangs her head, tired, getting nowhere.
She hangs up, resumes tapping her fingers, has a thought...
GOOGLES “Lou Carroll”. Nothing. Types in “Louis Carroll.” “DID YOU MEAN LEWIS CARROLL?” pops up. Sigh.
Double-click.
A sketch from Alice in Wonderland: the MAD HATTER, followed by a B&W photo of a slender man, Charles Dodgson circa late 1800s, his alias: LEWIS CARROLL.
Text stands out: “AUTHOR OF ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND.” “ASPERGER’S SYNDROME.”
She clicks the ASPERGER’S link. Page after page of Asperger articles. She clicks one.
“AUTISM SPECTRUM DISORDER” pops. Marybeth straightens in her chair, attention caught. She clicks back to Lewis Carroll, scans the text: “PSEUDONYM,” “FICTITIOUS NAME”.
“MATHEMATICIAN.”
Dark. Large. Cubicles. Overhead fluorescent lights off.
Faint FOOTSTEPS.
A lone light shines from a cubicle in the middle of the room. SOUND OF AN ADDING MACHINE.
A male IRS AGENT, 50s, starched white shirt, tie, flips through a file with one hand, works an adding machine with the other.
FOOTSTEPS approach. Stop.
He looks up with sunken bloodhound eyes, a humorless smile.
Chris’ pickup exits the lot. The Airstream parked, blending in among two hundred RVs.
Elegant low-key lighting illuminates its sign. Uniformed valets front its entrance.
Chic. Exclusive. Expensive. Behind a Japanese businessman, Chris, duffel at his feet, stands next to Dana.
Marybeth and the IRS Agent sit side-by-side behind his desk, staring at his monitor. He works his mouse...
He types in the new specs, hits ENTER.
They both follow the tax forms.
The IRS Agent leans back, weary. He checks his watch.
She hands him several sheets of paper.
She nods at him to get started. He stares, unmoving.
He squints at the monitor, hands poised over his keyboard.
Large. Luxurious. Stunning view of downtown Chicago.
A low fire crackles in the fireplace.
A sterling silver room-service tray holds the remains of dinner: hamburgers, fries, milk-shakes in tall glasses.
In the center of the tray, long-stemmed orchids in a vase.
Chris paces, Dana sits on a long couch.
He sits next to her, rubs his legs, thinking, thinking.
She kicks off her shoes, tucks her legs beneath her. She looks at him, reluctant to interrupt his thoughts.
She nods, accepting.
His concentration falters, breaks, he looks at her.
He nods, interrupts eye contact.
She pantomimes firing a gun with her thumb and forefinger.
She watches him stare into the middle distance, remembering.
He glances at her, then away. Opening up difficult.
He quick-checks her face to gauge a reaction... she smiles.
She looks at him, face devoid of emotion.
Becoming accustomed to him, she’s back on track.
She waits for the usual empathy face. Nothing.
He starts to hazard another guess.
Chastened, he waits. She gathers herself, dives in.
He starts to question, she sees it coming--
She stands, enthused, gesturing.
She flops down on the couch, close to him. He notices.
She squares up to him, he squirms with the nearness of her.
Their eyes meet. He knows, understands.
He smiles, his eyes dart from her eyes to her lips.
She stares at him for a dumbfounded beat.
She blushes, nervous-laughs, both avoid eye contact.
He searches for the words, wanting to share.
She waits for the explanation, patient...
She’s entranced, drawn to him.
She starts to speak, he cuts her off--
She puts a tentative hand on his. He lets her. Encouraged, she touches his face, strokes his cheek. He compels himself to make and keep eye contact. She leans in--
Stop. He bolts up, relieved and renewed. His puzzle solved.
She stands, turned on by his problem solving, his enthusiasm.
They meet in the center of the room, close.
The corncob-shaped twin towers, sixty-five stories high.
Parked a block from the Towers. Chris, ear-piece in, alone, gloved hands screw a suppressor onto his semi-automatic.
Rita, in a nightgown, reading glasses, sits at a small desk studying financials. A slight NOISE outside the room.
She opens a drawer on the desk, pulls a .38. She deftly pops the cylinder, checks the loads, wrist-snaps it shut.
Rita thunders down the darkened hallway, gun in hand.
PHHT! A silenced round slams into her forehead. She drops.
In the darkness, a mobile phone lights up as it’s flipped open. The owner brings it to his ear. BRAX.
Lamar sits at a granite counter, humming, typing on a laptop interfaced with a PROSTHETIC HAND. A finger twitches--
His mobile RINGS.
The line GOES DEAD. Lamar exhales, returns his phone to his pocket, leans on the counter.
He cries. Softly at first, then, overcome with grief, sobs. The tears quickly subside.
He clears his eyes, wipes his nose. He focuses on his laptop, begins to type, tinker with the hand, humming.
Chris stands on the curb ready to cross the street. He sees a man exit the Towers, walking fast, staying in the shadows.
Possible recognition plays across Chris’ face.
Chris paces the man on the opposite side of the four lane street. Traffic passes between them.
On the other side, Brax walks, his peripheral vision catching Chris’ figure on the opposite sidewalk, behind parked cars.
Brax stops.
Chris stops.
Brax resumes his pace, grins to himself. PHHT! PHHT! -- snaps off two NO-LOOK rounds across the street. A car window shatters. ALARM sounds. He looks...
Chris is gone.
Brax pauses, impressed with the vanishing act.
Dark. Rita’s lifeless body lies on the floor, eyes open, dime-size hole in the forehead.
Chris squats next to her, forearms on his legs, gun held between his knees. He blinks back eye contact as he closes her lids with a gloved hand.
Her eyes closed, he looks at her face, rises quickly.
IRS Agent enters the name, stares red-eyed at his monitor. At his side, Marybeth slumps in her chair, list in hand.
She straightens in her chair, hopeful.
She melts, sleep deprived, pressured, at her breaking point.
He highlights two names. She slowly lifts her head.
She lurches over him, commandeers his keyboard, pulls up GOOGLE EARTH, fingers pop keys. The Earth rotates--
Above the U.S., then Illinois, descends: ZZZ Accounting seen from an overhead view. She types, street level view.
Marybeth’s POV: ZZZ Accounting. Kim’s Nails. Mandarin Garden Chinese Food. Al’s Laundromat.
He scoots his chair to an adjacent work station, types. She kneels at his monitor, stares with screen-burned eyes.
She waits, breath held. Sound of him typing... then quiet.
Faint sound of a vacuum cleaner. Deserted save for a lone cleaning woman in the bg.
Ray, Brooks Bros. suit, strides through his empire, folded Washington Times in one hand, Starbucks in the other.
Ray, sans jacket, lowers himself into his chair, starts his morning routine. He opens the Times, sips his coffee--
BAM! His door bangs open, startling him, spilling coffee. Marybeth steams in, clothes wrinkled, circles under her eyes.
She circles the desk, slaps a list down on his desk.
For the first time, Ray appears off balance, he recovers.
Ray skeptically reviews the list.
She straightens, paces, punchy from lack of sleep.
She looks at him, expectant. Ray turns it over in his head.
She bolts out the door, energized.
He drops heavily into his chair, thinks for a beat, gnaws a thumbnail, wipes at his coffee stain.
Chris, jeans and jacket, sits on the edge of an easy chair, rocking back and forth. He watches Dana sleep.
A DOZEN KIDS cluster -- 10, 11, 12 years old -- a SLAP!
Young Boy picks broken glasses from the ground, stands... his nose bleeding, he faces--
BULLY, 12, thick in the chest, brow.
Bully slaps Young Boy in the side of the head. Young Boy tries to side-step, walk away. A second Bully blocks his way, herds him back.
Knot of kids parts as Little Brother steps in, passes Bully and stands with his older brother.
Young Boy puts his broken glasses on, blinks.
Young Boy wipes his nose, glances up, averts his eyes.
Bully rotates his shoulders, prepares to brawl.
Little Brother smiles, turns to his brother. The world reduced to the two of them.
Young Boy looks at his younger brother, eye contact easy.
The crowd of children exchange uneasy looks.
Little Brother lunges forward, spears a thumb into one of Bully’s eyes.
Bully SCREAMS, the crowd flinches, shrinks back. Little Brother whips his other thumb into the kid’s remaining eye as the Bully drops, crying. CHILDREN SCATTER.
Little Brother straddles the prone Bully, grabs a fistful of hair. A bloody fist cocked, lips curled, he hisses--
He punches, savage, little arm like a piston. He glances up at his older brother.
Little Brother continues his work.
Young Boy’s eyes well with tears, he gazes through broken lenses, watches alarmed teachers sprint towards them.
Chris’ rocking slows, stops. A yearning in his eyes, sadness.
Chris carefully places a folded sheet of paper next to a sleeping Dana. Gently touches her face. Touches his fingers to his own face. He takes a long last look at her.
Dana sits on the side of the bed, eyes red, open sheet of paper in hand. She stares straight ahead... at nothing.
Written on the sheet of paper: “I’m leaving. Goodbye Dana.”
Marybeth snaps on a pair of latex gloves, holds a wrinkled pair out to Ray. He shakes his head, scopes the room.
Three FBI AGENTS wearing FBI jackets and latex gloves, roam.
Ray wanders, looking around, pensive.
VELCRO SEPARATES. FBI AGENT 1 carefully retrieves a pistol from the open cupboard. Agents watch.
Agent 1 flips the cylinder open, looks.
Marybeth looks at Ray. He seems in a trance, ignoring the gun, fascinated by the cabinets’ spare contents.
Ray and Marybeth survey the property. He turns to the common ground, the woods beyond.
The automatic garage door lifts.
The agents file in, look around. The space bare but for--
The TARP-COVERED OBJECT suspended from the rafter beam.
Ray jerks a thumb over a shoulder toward the common ground.
An agent pulls off the tarp: a huge 6-BARREL MINI-GUN suspended in mid-air, pointed at Ray and Marybeth.
Agent 2 pushes the heavy gun. It glides smoothly across the garage, links of 7.62 mm ammo uncoil, trail behind.
A prone SNIPER 1 blends with brush, eye to his rifle scope. His POV: Lake Michigan frames an isolated glass and brushed- steel mansion.
SNIPER 2 set up behind a tarp covered boat, scopes the rear of the estate.
Soaring vaulted cathedral ceilings, floor to ceiling windows.
MERC LEADER grins, glances at an anxious Lamar staring out a picture window. Four other MERCS lounge on furniture, load clips, work slides on suppressor-equipped pistols.
Brax aims a remote at a high-end stereo system, music changes, classical, advertisement, country, rock.
An angry frightened Lamar turns on Brax.
He turns back to the window, regretful, frustrated.
Brax tenses at “freak”, turns the music off.
A frustrated Marybeth leans against the couch, thinking.
OS the front door SHUTS. Ray enters the room, drops onto the couch, exhales.
Ray slouches, loosens his tie, kicks his shoes off, puts his feet up on the coffee table. His aura dims.
He nods, patient. A long beat, a painful memory. She sits.
Tension in the air, silence for a beat.
Ray doesn’t respond, waits for the real answer.
Enough. She turns a cold stare on him, cuts his strings.
Horns HONK, brakes SCREECH.
Muted pops of gunfire.
Fast footfalls on the pavement. Guns drawn, backs to us, two men run, pass two dead thugs on the sidewalk, pooling blood.
LOUD GUNFIRE. A fear-stricken Don grips his gun, looks across the hall at his back-up -- RAY KING. Ray licks his lips, advances.
Ray looks, sees a terrified Don eyeing the entrance door.
Don exits. BOOM! A shotgun blast. Ray automatically swivels to the sound, both hands grasp an unsteady gun held in front of him. A warren of rooms.
Don hesitates, considers following, but instead runs for the entrance door.
Ray looks up. From the second floor SHOUTS OF PANICKED MEN, RUNNING.
He approaches a doorway, swallows hard.
Ray sweeps the room with his pistol. Early Elk’s Lodge, small bar, a few tables. Stopping on--
A MOBSTER sits on the floor, back to the bar, head lolls to the side, two bullet holes in his face.
From the second floor A PUMP SHOTGUN BOOMS and reloads. AUTOMATIC GUNFIRE responds.
Ray spots a staircase.
No gunfire. No cursing. Only unsettling quiet.
Ray advances down the dim hall. Sweating, hands trembling, shoulders aching, labored breath loud in his ears.
Blood-spatters spiderweb the walls on both sides.
Dead mobsters litter the floor.
Ray GASPS, startled. At his feet, a DYING MOBSTER with a gaping chest wound grips Ray’s pant cuff.
Ray jerks the leg free, wipes flop-sweat from his eyes.
From a room at the end of the corridor... a desperate, frightened voice.
Sound of a THWACK. A THUMP. Quiet.
Ray inches along the wall to the doorway, pistol tight against his chest. He licks dry lips, tenses, ready...
CLICK.
A .45 cocks. Ray freezes. A barrel pressed against the back of his head. He squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them.
OS the faint sound of POLICE SIRENS.
A fat drop of Chris’ blood hits the thin industrial carpet.
The barrel digs into Ray’s skull.
Ray chokes back an involuntary sob, nods slightly.
Another drop of blood adds to a spreading carpet stain.
He blinks back tears, sure of death. He remembers, smiles.
The sirens LOUDER. Closer.
Ray waits. Death or a question.
Seems like an eternity, but... NOTHING.
He turns, the hallway empty of life. He slides down the wall, a pant leg stained with urine, still holding his gun.
He puts his face in his hands, CRIES with relief.
Marybeth gapes at Ray, a question in her eyes.
A microwave cooks a breakfast burrito. An unshaven, wrinkle- shirted Ray holds a five dollar bill up to the overhead fluorescent lights, studies it.
Windowless, dingy. Francis sits at a long oblong table, talks, doing his best to explain. He pauses, worried.
Sitting opposite Francis, an uninterested Ray puts pencil to paper, nods his understanding, doodles.
A numb Francis wears a dated suit. He stands, waiting, cheap suitcase by his feet. The bus pulls up.
A coroner pulls back a sheet, averts his eyes from an unseen corpse. An ashen Ray stares down. The sheet returned.
One of Francis’ ruined hands is exposed. Ray’s eyes shine, he takes the hand in his, gently tucks it beneath the sheet.
Ray and Don sit, the cramped space full of electronics. Visible through the windshield, CHRIS WALKS BY, unnoticed.
Ray advances down the Raven’s corpse-strewn corridor.
The space tiny, fit for a bottom-feeder. A rheumy-eyed unshaven Ray answers the phone.
A speechless Marybeth watches Ray wrap it up.
She leans back, overwhelmed, at a loss.
She bolts from the couch, overwhelmed, pacing.
She finally gets it. Digs her heels in.
He lets her cool, understands her anger, confusion.
She digests this for a beat, wavers.
RING! Kitchen phone loud. She looks to Ray. RING!
RING! Marybeth picks up the phone, answers.
From the other connection a KEYBOARD CLICKS.
Marybeth’s face drops, she looks for the camera.
Lights out. Moonlight through picture windows. Shadows. Merc Leader keeps watch through the front door’s sidelight.
The distant CRACK of a rifle shot.
The room responds, Mercs stand, advance rounds. Lamar loiters, unsure what to do, looks to Brax.
Sniper 2 dead on the deck, hair wet with blood, head-shot.
Brax joins Merc Leader at the opposite sidelight.
Brax gives Merc Leader a look, starts away from the door.
Chris lies on his stomach, comm-link in his ear, scopes Lamar’s home with a rifle identical to Sniper 1’s.
Chris taps the comm-link, disconnects. Next to him, a hog- tied Sniper 1, his face bloodied.
Chris kneels, produces a rolled Persian rug. 17th century.
Sniper 1 watches Chris unroll the rug-- the Barrett .50 cal.
Silent. Brax tucks into an interior doorway, pulls Lamar in next to him. Brax eyes about, watches a BALD MERC edge across the room, into a beam of moonlight.
A picture window divots, a mist from Bald Merc’s head. A distinctive BOOM from the Barrett, Bald Merc crumples.
Brax grabs Lamar by the scruff of the neck, bolts.
Mercs crouch as .50 cal rounds blow jagged holes through the great room, brick powders, walls tear like tissue, strike the lake beyond. A round punches thru 2 walls, a MUSTACHED MERC.
A HUGE MERC lies flat, a round gouging the wood floor near his head. The other Mercs crawl to the rear of the house.
Stop. Silence. The Huge Merc gathers himself, freezes as he watches the front door ease open, hears a whispered chant from the darkness.
The Huge Merc kneels, unloads a spray of automatic fire through the open door, wrecks the sidelights, door frame. Stops. PHHT.
A single round enters his forehead, drops him. Chris enters.
Lamar, frightened, stares at the closed door, backs into the center of the room.
Brax sits on the edge of a bed, pistol in hand, detached.
Chris chants, eerily calm, sweeps the home. Each burst of automatic weapon fire met with a solitary shot. One dead, two dead-- a TATTOOED MERC advances, firing.
Dozens of silenced rounds splinter door frames, dig into walls, furniture.
A horrified Lamar listens to the relentless MUFFLED GUNFIRE, nears the still seated Brax.
Brax slowly looks up.
The Tattooed Merc stops firing, presses himself to a wall, waits, listens. Two short rounds rip through the wall, enter his head. He drops. Chris rounds the wall--
Merc Leader emerges from a connecting hall, fires a silenced machine pistol. A long AUTOMATIC BURST lasers the room.
Chris dives for cover, badly outgunned.
Merc Leader presses his advantage. Chris returns fire in vain, empties his gun.
Merc Leader empty. Chris pitches his glasses, vaults furniture, rushes the man. Merc Leader jacks a full clip in, racks the slide, points--
Chris slams into Merc Leader, the machine pistol discarded. Two professionals; quick fists, elbows, knees.
Chris smaller but faster, unemotional. A knee snaps one of Merc Leader’s lower ribs, a kick staggers him.
A desperate Merc Leader swings wildly, Chris blocks, breaks Merc Leader’s nose with unanswered punches, moves to finish--
LOUD ROCK MUSIC erupts from the home’s speaker system.
Chris winces, distracted. Merc Leader punches him, Chris swings, misses, Merc Leader delivers a kick to the head, Chris goes down.
Merc Leader lunges for the weapon. Chris, bleeding, disoriented, scrambles after him. Merc Leader grabs the gun, Chris on top.
They struggle for control, Chris -- IN PAIN -- punches Merc Leader in the face again and again. Merc Leader loses consciousness, Chris continues to punch.
MUSIC OFF, LIGHTS ON. Chris lunges, grabs Merc Leader’s gun.
Chris squints against the light, pistol aimed at Brax. He hesitates, is kicked in the face, spun off Merc Leader. An enraged Brax looms over a prone Chris.
Chris tries to rise, Brax kicks him.
Brax unleashes another kick, Chris traps the ankle. Brax straddles Chris, punches him in the face.
Another hard punch, Chris looks up at him, no fight.
Chris, enraged, grabs Brax by the shirt, pulls his brother down, snaps his own forehead up, head-butting Brax.
The two brothers roll on the ground -- no longer two professionals -- a snarling, spitting ball of juvenile fury.
Chris rolls on top of his bleeding younger brother, balls a fist, pulls back... can’t.
Chris grabs Brax’ face in his hands, wills him to understand.
Chris rolls off, collapses next to Brax, exhausted.
Chris sits up, struggles to his feet, locates his glasses.
BLAM! Chris spins -- shoulder hit -- falls to the ground.
Merc 1 gets to his feet, unsteady, pistol aimed at Chris.
Brax reaches for the pistol tucked in his pants.
Brax freezes.
Lamar skirts the edge of the room, angry with fear.
Merc 1 approaches a motionless bloody Chris, stands over him.
Chris sweeps Merc 1’s legs, the man hits the floor, Chris buries a short blade in his neck. Dead.
Brax, pistol drawn, reaches for his shiv-- GONE. He smiles.
Lamar is stunned, flustered.
Chris stands. He looks at Lamar, gestures at him, weak.
Chris passes Brax, hands him his shiv, confronts Lamar.
Chris stares at Lamar for a beat. Satisfied.
Chris turns his back on Lamar, painfully stoops to pick up a pistol, his glasses. He limps for the door, Brax by his side.
In the bg, Lamar picks up the machine pistol, aims at them.
Chris and Brax half-turn, pistols raised, simultaneously shoot. Head and chest shot, Lamar drops.
Slowly the two continue across the great room. Through the windows, police lights twinkle along the distant shoreline.
Brax puts a supporting arm around him, Chris drapes his good arm over his younger brother’s shoulders.
Brax opens the door, helps Chris out.
With effort, Chris pulls the door shut behind them.
The Secretary of the Treasury at the podium. Flanking him, Ray, Marybeth, and a half-dozen agents. Seated REPORTERS jam the room, standing room only in back.
Cameras click, reporters SHOUT.
Marybeth takes the podium, nervous. She clears her throat.
She glances at Ray, he stares back... waits.
She hesitates... cameras click... puzzled faces...
Ray beams as cameras click, reporters SHOUT.
IRS Agent stands at the back of the room, smiles, applauds.
The cabin familiar to us, well-maintained.
A small sun-bleached wooden sign, the words “Harbor Neuroscience” weathered, aged.
AUTISTIC BOY’S MOM (V.O.) (strained emotion) He was just like our other two, such a happy baby. Now, he rarely speaks. It’s like... our child is missing, he’s not there. He’s lost and he needs our help... We thought--
Coming into view, adjacent to the property...
A modern clinic. Suspended between two entry-way pillars, a welcome arch: “Harbor Neuroscience Institute.”
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) We thought... we hoped he’d catch back up, but... He didn’t.
Sun streams in floor-to-ceiling windows... warm, inviting.
Alone, a 6-YEAR-OLD BOY plays with toys on a carpeted floor.
The boy stands, casts his eyes about, heads for a doorway.
On the floor, two dozen blocks, animals, cars, trucks, planes -- have been arranged in a perfectly straight line.
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) “NT’s”?
The boy walks, explores. He runs his small hand against the wall, windowsills, feels the wood grain, sun on his face.
A nurse passes, smiles at him. Stone-faced, he continues.
He rounds a corner, stops. The boy’s POV: a door left ajar.
The boy steps in to a cozy home. The walls a warm pink. Overhead, multiple MOBILES slowly spin, cast prisms of light on the walls, across a framed poster; young Muhammad Ali towers over a prone Sonny Liston.
A GRUNT. The boy turns, freezes.
Dark eyes glare out behind wild thick hair. JUSTINE, now 30s, thin, sweats and t-shirt. She nests cross-legged in an easy chair by a desk. On the desk, a flat screen monitor.
He stares at her, frightened, unable to move.
Justine rocks back and forth, eyes glued to the boy.
AUTISTIC BOY’S MOM (O.S.) (relieved) Honey, for the hundredth time, don’t wander off like that.
The boy’s PARENTS, 30s, and the DOCTOR, 50s, in the cabin. The couple look at Justine, pained smiles on their faces.
AUTISTIC BOY’S MOM (to Justine) I’m so sorry.
Justine ducks her head, flaps a hand, grunts unintelligibly.
He holds the door for the reluctant-to-leave parents. Dad scans the room one last time. They exit.
The boy slowly approaches Justine, passes a large suitcase- size computer, CRAY emblazoned on the front. Her desk, the monitor, a potted cactus plant, a small FRAMED PHOTO.
AUTISTIC BOY’S MOM (V.O.) Doctor, how is Harbor funded?
Two people in the old photo: 10-YEAR-OLD JUSTINE, her little girl’s sober face stares out from behind long tangled hair. Next to her, a 10 YEAR-OLD YOUNG BOY: CHRIS.
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) I’ll say they’re generous.
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) That woman... Justine...
AUTISTIC BOY’S MOM (V.O.) She’s your daughter?
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) Justine’s computer--
Justine rocks, emits a low KEENING sound, averts her eyes.
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) ..it’s a Cray CX1.
AUTISTIC BOY’S DAD (V.O.) Good? Doc, she could backdoor the Pentagon with that rig.
Justine paws at the air, contorts. She pulls a WIRELESS KEYBOARD tucked within the chair. Her hands blaze over the keys, SPEAKERS on her desk produce the familiar VOICE:
BRITISH FEMALE/JUSTINE (V.O.) Hello, young man. And just who might you be?
The boy looks at her with bright, intelligent eyes.
A crowded cubicle-farm of temps, accountants, admins.
Dana sits at her desk, studying a ledger on her monitor. She tilts her head away from the screen, daydreams.
Dana stands, stares at the empty spot where the Airstream once parked.
Dana, in a business suit, tired, slides a key in her apartment lock. A shadow falls across the door. She whirls around, frightened... the Fed-Ex guy.
Fed Ex holds his palms up,whoa. He hands her a rectangular CARDBOARD BOX, size of a flat screen TV but much lighter. She takes it, no return address.
Dana sits on a love seat, reaches into the Fed-Ex box, pulls... a frame, followed byDogs Playing Poker.
Dana finishes nailing a picture hanger into the wall. She hangs Dogs on the hook, straightens it.
She steps back to gauge her work. She LAUGHS, remembering. Her laughter fades, in her eyes a touch of sadness. An imperfection catches her eye, a small bubble in an upper corner.
She fingers the bubble, something beneath. She picks at a tiny flap of paper, inspects... FREEZES. She slowly tears the print the length of the frame.
Dana shocked. She stares at the half-revealed Pollock hanging on her wall. Nervous, she moves to the window, grabs the shade pull, hesitates. She looks out the window, GRINS.
Sun leaks through drawn shades, warms blonde wood. The Renoir also gone.
Windows down, radio on, Chris, T-shirt and jeans, drives. The cuts on his face fading, he gently taps his fingers to the music, daydreams.
Colorado’s San Juan Mountains visible through his windshield.
The SUV trailers the Airstream down a steep grade, the picturesque town of Durango nestled at the base of the pass. The road curves, the SUV and Airstream follow the switchback behind the mountain, disappear.