"THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT" (1996)

CHILDREN, dozens of them, bursting from houses. Slapping of screen doors. A HORSE-DRIVEN SLEIGH is rattling down Main Street. Flanked by kids. Christmas carols, droning from loudspeakers.

HAPPY, LAUGHING SANTA waves howdy, chortling his "Ho's" in groups of three, meanwhile he's really a grizzled old fire marshall named EARL, freezing his nuts off.

Beside him sits MRS. CLAUS, about whom we notice two things: First, she's the June in this June/December pair -- and second, she's to kill for, an effortlessly beautiful woman. For the record, meet SAMANTHA CAINE.

Santa produces a bottle of Seagrams. Starts to open it.

Earl complies, grumbling. Some teenage burnouts howl from a street corner:

Samantha squirms in her seat, scowling.

Samantha stares at him.

Throughout the following NARRATION, we watch Sam: 1) Rallying the varsity CHEERLEADERS; 2) Showing off a GERBIL to her seventh graders; 3) Kneeling in church with her HUSBAND, blessing herself; 4) Absently fingering a silver KEY which she wears round her neck; and finally 5) Probing at a tiny ridged SCAR under her hairline.

(beat)

I'm married now. Nice guy, early forties. I stand naked in the mirror and try to guess my age. Thirty-five, maybe. I have lots of scars.

Samantha walks with her husband HAL. Late thirties. Balding. Coming out of St. Paul's Episcopal Church.

She hugs him good-naturedly. As they near their house, an eight year-old GIRL drops from a TREEHOUSE and comes running, leaps into Mommy's arms --

The kid leaps into her arms, as we HEAR:

(MORE )

The family troops up the driveway to their SUBURBAN HOME. Chipper little A-frame. Christmas lights abound. Behind the house, a vast frozen POND. It is idyllic.

PARTY in progress. Laughter. Mingling. In the corner, CAITLIN puts pipe cleaner antlers on the gerbil. Samantha shepherds her home room class past the punchbowl. She is radiant. EARL surreptitiously nips from a silver flask.

SAMANTHA (V.O.)

days. I teach now, fifth grade. I have the key, I wear it around my neck for luck. Except for that, and my name, all traces of my prior life are lost.

(beat) Was I in love ever...? Did someone look in my eyes, did I Say, "Darling, I'll never forget

you...?" (beat) Because fuck me, darling, I managed. ACROSS THE ROOM -- Her daughter CAITLIN hangs with two young

girls. Shows off a plush TEDDY BEAR, says: CAITLIN

His name is Mr. Perkins, my Mom named him for me.

GIRL #1 points, whispers excitedly:

GIRL #1 That's her?

Caitlin nods. Kid #2:

GIRL #2 That's who?

GIRL #1 (excitedly) Her Mom, she's got amnesia.

GIRL #2 Swear?

GIRL #2 Too weird.

A voice interrupts their reverie:

The girls whirl around, startled -- Samantha is leaning on the desk behind them. Busted. She smiles amiably:

The girls look at her like she's grown a tail.

A DOOR KICKED OPEN, WHAM-! Splintered. Lock shattered.

A NUDE COUPLE on the bed. They look up, startled -- as three men burst through the door. The LEADER: a haggard-looking man sporting a soup-stain on his tie, whoops, that's the design, sorry. MITCH HENESSEY, private investigator and con man extraordinaire. He flashes a phony badge:

(MORE )

YOUNG MAN (CONT'D)

I'm Sergeant Madigan, Vice, and if you cop a 'tude, jerkoff, I will see to it you spend the next ten years in prison getting ass-fucked, and if the case is thrown out because my arrest is too violent, then I will personally HIRE men to ass-fuck you for ten years. So if you're an ass-fucking fan, go ahead and mouth off, but meanwhile you're under arrest for the crime of prostitution, now shut the fuck up before I cut out your kneecaps and use 'em as ashtrays.

(beat) Officer Donleavy, read him his rights.

Donleavy looks pale, pasty. He stutters a few words. Loses interest. Wanders away across the room.

Donleavy plops in a chair. Belches. Grins foolishly. The man in bed points to him:

THE REMAINING COP is swaying on his feet. Like a tree ina hurricane. Donleavy pukes all over the floor. We CUT TO:

THERE'S THE GIRL. The one in bed moments ago. She and Henessey are dividing a wad of bills.

He indicates an envelope earmarked for him. Labeled in magic marker: SAMANTHA CAINE.

Henessey opens the envelope. Extracts a black and white HEAD SHOT of Samantha, says immediately:

Stares, mesmerized. Trin peers over his shoulder:

SAMANTHA and HAL bid goodnight to their friends and neighbors. Hal steers her away from a middle-aged teacher.

She notices EARL sitting in the bushes by the side of the building. He is speaking intently to the gerbil.

Samantha takes the keys from him. Breathes deeply of the chill night air. Smiling. Surveys the scene... their friends. The neighborhood. Sighs:

At which point, young Caitlin says:

ESTABLISHING SHOT - STATE PRISON - OHIO - NIGHTTIME Switch gears: A grim, grey building. Guarded. Patrolled.

A tired TV set drones to an audience of one. Let's call him ONE-EYED JACK. In fact, let's give him one eye, the other replaced by a PATCH. He smokes cigarettes, stubs them out on the chair's armrest. Throws offhand glances at the TV screen.

The happy news chatter continues. Jack isn't listening. Jack isn't talking or breathing either. He's simply STARING at the TV screen, jaw slack...

He SCREAMS as we CUT TO:

If you had to pick a night to die horribly, you'd be hard pressed to find a nicer one. A country highway. Bathed in moonlight. Crusted with snow. Pontiac Sunbird, wending its way through the wooded slopes.

SAMANTHA drives while Earl (the SANTA we saw earlier) reclines, still drunk.

He makes a thumb circle. Jabs his finger in and out of it:

He starts playing the Hawaiian nose harp. In Sam's ear, she can't help it, snorts laughter --

THE ADULT DEER appears perfectly framed in the Sunbird's headlights. Dead ahead.

Sam looks up, face etched in sudden TERROR. *No time to think*. SWERVES, no dice...! BROADSIDES the animal --

And it comes THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD. All two hundred and fifteen pounds of it. Fucks up their night altogether. Actually, it only makes it *halfway* through --

But the damn thing is ALIVE. More than alive. KICKING. Thrashing. Squawling with pain and rage. A FLAILING HOOF takes out Earl. Kills him in less than a second. Collapses his skull.

Sam rides the wheel, screaming. An antler gouges her chest. Rips. Draws blood. She SWERVES, madly -- Hits the tree doing

ANOTHER ANGLE

Sam goes airborne. Explodes through the windshield, outward bound. Shower of glass, spritz of blood... And then she's flying. Slow motion, end over end... We lose all SOUND. Silence as she tumbles. Below and behind her, the Sunbird noiselessly ERUPTS. Fireball, sky high --

Sam floating. Describes a lazy arc in mid-air... Whoomph-—! Disappears into the snow. Swallows her, leaves a silhouette. Around her, trees catch fire. Burn. She lies in her impromptu sarcophagus. Out of sight.

THE FLAMING DEER totters from the wreck, thrashing. Scene from a nightmare. Nightmare part two: from the snow, from the human-shaped divot -- arises a woman of blood.

She stumbles from the drift. Toward the wreck. And though it's clearly Sam Caine under all that crimson, there's something wrong about her *eyes*.

En route to the car, she kneels beside the suffering deer, its flesh scorched and torn -- and KILLS it. Puts it away with a sharp CRACK-!ing blow to the head. Stands, eyes squirming with madness...

The car's an inferno. Earl is dead. She turns away, wiping blood from her eyes -- Comes face to face with a SNOWMAN.

A jolly white fellow. Charcoal briquettes for eyes. She watches, fascinated, as he MELTS in the blast furnace heat -- With warning, she *screams*. Crumples to the ground.

The snowman's eyes fall out. He melts away and away...

Elsewhere. Tract housing, late-model cars. MITCH HENESSEY delivers a Christmas gift to his nine year-old son TODD: not just any gift, the *Midtown Saturn Orbiting Precinct*, with action figures. Henessey points to the box, engrossed:

VOICE interrupts them:

VOICE (0.S.) TODD, TIME FOR DINNER. NOW.

An awkward pause. Henessey scowls.

TODD

It's awesome, Dad. Mom, though, she...

(sighs ) She gets weird. On my birthday, when you gave me the Schwinn... she called bicycle stores to see if there'd been any robberies.

Henessey manages to control his face. Says tightly:

He watches, forlorn, as his son vanishes inside the house. Christmas lights, blinking feebly. We HEAR, supered:

As he reaches his car, his BEEPER goes off.

Henessey on the phone. Dials. Waits. We HEAR:

The phone picks up. He says:

Samantha, having survived. Laid up now in an austere hospital room. Listening to silence. Stares out the window at a sunlit tree. Head bandaged. Frowns:

Outside, snow slithers... Her eyelids, slowly closing. Slides off the edge of consciousness...

IN THE DREAM: She stands on a windswept cliff, before an incongruous FULL-LENGTH MIRROR. Staring at her reflection -- it's bleeding from a scalp wound.

She probes her head... frowns. Nothing. Nothing but the tiny RIDGED SCAR she's had for as long as she can remember.

The reflection eyes her grimly. Haggard. Tired.

You used to.

Samantha is suddenly holding a cigarette. She raises it to her lips. Her reflection MIRRORS her precisely. Except Samantha COUGHS, chokes on the smoke -- While her bloody reflection takes a long, satisfying drag.

They are now in perfect synchronicity. Sam inhales easily.

The reflection grins. There's blood on its TEETH.

Back at home, business as usual, pre-Christmas. A COMMOTION has arisen: Gingerly, bones still aching, Samantha moves toward the KITCHEN. HAL and CAITLIN trail behind.

Hal worriedly exits to the garage. Plucks a tomato from the fridge, tosses it to Caitlin, who stands in the door.

Caitlin turns, tosses it to Sam --

Who catches it, plops it on the cutting board and proceeds

to DICE it to SIMTHEREENS. Razor-thin slices. Knife a blur. Missing her fingers by millimeters, never faltering, like a mad mumblety-pegger --

Sam catches it. Knife flurries. Pieces, flying up.

And it becomes a bucket brigade. Hal heaves veggies to Caitlin who spins and relays to Mom who slices, dices, purees, and even makes curly fries. Veggies, incoming. HAL starts to lose it, starts lobbing them at Caitlin, one after another, she giggles, starts throwing them overhand --

And now it's a food fight, PELTING Mom, and the floor is COVERED with food as Hal stumbles in laughing, scoops up Caitlin --

Samantha shakes her head, grinning, dices to pieces a last, lovely radish. Ends with a flourish, TA-DAH-! Doesn't think: Flips the knife point up on ONE FINGER. Tips it for balance. Lobs a tomato. Slings the knife without looking, pins it to the wall, KA-CHUK--—!

Everyone goes silent. The knife, quivering. Caitlin and Hal turn as one, gaping at her. She shrugs numbly. Blinks.

Underground. Water GURGLES through overhead pipes. Furnaces hum and tick in the sweaty gloom.

A SHIRTLESS MAN is tied to a chair. Weeping. Before him, what looks like a young GQ model. Blonde. Gorgeous. Impeccably attired. For the record, TIMOTHY. He looks his captive in the eye as the guy blubbers:

Timothy stares him full in the face, eyes narrowed... as though seeing into his brain. He nods, satisfied.

someone's lying to me. A little skill of mine, something to trot out at parties.

He slams home the knife. We don't see it, but we FEEL the impact. The FBI man's face contorts in SHOCK. Twisted. Inches away from Timothy, their eyes lock...

A CELLULAR PHONE BEEPS. Timothy reacts, annoyed. Plucks it from his belt and flips it open:

VOICE (0O.S.) Message from Mr. Daedalus.

He shrugs at his captive. Rolls his eyes. The guy's still dying, still on the KNIFE.

VOICE (0.S.) He says he's sorry, but he needs you right away. Something's come

up.

VOICE (0O.S.) He's aware of your weekend plans, and he apologizes.

VOICE (0.S.) Your old colleague, One-Eyed Jack...? Recently escaped from a high-security prison, as you're aware. But listen to this: prior to his escape, seems he saw something on TV that disturbed him. So much he had to be sedated.

VOICE (0.S.) The man was overheard talking to himself under sedation. (beat) He said Charly Baltimore's alive, sir.

Timothy is silent.

He clicks off, face troubled. Withdraws the knife. Checks his clothing. Not one speck of blood.

A CARTON OF MARLBORO REDS hits the stack of groceries. HAL looks at his wife, bewildered.

At the next register over, a duo of Canadians throw looks her way. Confer in rapid-fire French, subtitled for us:

CANADIAN #1 Ooh, j'aimerais la baiser. (Subtitle: I'd like to fuck her.)

The checker looks up, smiles:

CANADIAN #2 Oui, j'veux etirer celle-la autour d'une chaise. Comme je le vois, une femme c'est comme Gumby avec des seins. (Subtitle: I'll stretch her over a chair, women are merely Gumbys with tits.)

He turns to Samantha -- except Sam isn't there. Her arm shoots out-! CLAMPS on one of the men. By the throat. Catches him like a fucking VICE. Her voice a sibilant hiss:

Subtitle: "Gumby's gonna stretch your neck, motherfucker." Accent flawless. Eyes like steel. The man will go on to start a profitable construction business with the bricks he shits.

SAMANTHA - ON THE PHONE TO HER SHRINK - INTERCUT

Jubilant, can't contain herself:

You bet your life, fluent French,

whatever the fuck that means. (chortles)

Quand @@&is a l'ecole, Jai eu un

professeur qui s'est §@Huiqu

dentifrice!

Samantha and daughter CAITLIN sing a hearty chorus of "Frere Jaques." Sam giggles , Caitlin looks nervous; astride her new two-wheeler BICYCLE while Sam finishes removing the training wheels. Caitlin points to her stuffed TEDDY BEAR.

SAMANTHA

Mr. Perkins, going in the basket.

Samantha sets her sailing. Laughs excitedly. The bike weaves, Side to side... hits the curb and topples with a CRASH. Spills Caitlin to the pavement. Now's she's CRYING.

Samantha walks over briskly. Face set in determined lines. SAMANTHA

Nonsense. You can do it. You don't want to, but you can.

SAMANTHA

You can go home, Caitlin. You can ride there.

An unpleasant note is edging into her voice. The louder the kid cries, the more Samantha starts to SIMMER.

She hoists her onto the seat. Caitlin cries and hollers. SAMANTHA (CONT’D)

You gonna be afraid of things all your life? Huh? That what you want?

*Snap*. Something lets go. Suddenly Samantha's right in her face:

Eyes cold and lifeless. She is not herself. CUT TO:

CAITLIN huddles on the steps, itching at her brand new WRIST CAST. Eavesdropping on her parents. In the kitchen a counter-

top TV is on, the Three Stooges. Samantha is on the phone, saying:

Henessey, I'll see you shortly.

She hangs up as HAL ENTERS behind her... She doesn't turn around. Samples the topping of a cream pie. Stares at the linoleum floor. He regards her with angry, vindictive eyes:

Hal takes a breath, composes himself. HAL We can still make six o'clock mass,

you coming?

Sam surveys her perfect kitchen. Runs her hand over a hanging pot. Looks sadly at her husband. Whispers:

(beat) I may have to go away. For a bit. Now please leave me alone.

They stand in tableau. An electric silence... Broken quite suddenly by the sound of SINGING. CHRISTMAS CAROLERS. Outside the front door. The sweet strains of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" wafts in through the window.

Except the sweet strains ain't so sweet. These carolers are TERRIBLE. Missing by a country octave. Sam and Hal look at each other, what the hell...?

THE CAROLERS continue their interesting rendition. Snowflakes fall. All is quiet. All is bright. Especially bright is the SHOTGUN BARREL pressed to the throat of the lead soprano. HE- Over and under combo. Shotgun on top. HE cannon on bottom. You'd sing shitty too.

Samantha hurries to the door. Carrying a bowl of festive M&M's. Just as she gets to the door, the singing STOPS. Footfalls running away, that's odd... She opens the door. Carolers, gone. She's eye to eye with ONE-EYED JACK.

He swings the big GUN. Slams the barrel into her. Glass shatters, M&M's everywhere. She gapes at him, dumbstruck, unable to THINK... Hurry it up, lady, we need a decision, live or *die* --

SHE GRABS THE GUN BARREL. Wrenches the gun...! On the steps CAITLIN howls, eyes like saucers --

Sam's cry is a veritable shriek. HAL LAUNCHES himself from the kitchen doorway. Pounces on Jack, snarling -- brave, useless. For his trouble, gets three broken ribs and a trip to the fireplace, airborne. Comes down. Catches fire. ROLLS, over and over on broken ribs --

JACK kicks Samantha in the gut. She collapses onto the stairs. Splinters the banister. That's when he sees CAITLIN. Top of the stairs, paralyzed.

Jack is already moving forward. SPIN-COCKS the shotgun, draws a bead -- Promptly slips on festive M&M's. Goes down. Gun goes off, WHAM-! A flat concussion. The banister EXPLODES. A storm of wood chips, as SAMANTHA surges up the stairs, toward her daughter --

JACK. On the ground. Fires, *wham*--! The wall DISAPPEARS three inches from Caitlin's head. Blown to shreds, you can see outdoors. Samantha doesn't miss a beat. Grabs her daughter -- flings her OUTSIDE. Through the hole in the wall. Takes her by the belt and fucking HURLS her out into space...!

Two stories up. The kid is ejected, flailing. Floats in SLOW MOTION. Across a ten foot gap -- INTO THE TREEHOUSE. Sails head over heels into the place. Hits with a CRASH. Alive and unhurt.

Samantha didn't even look. Didn't need to. Here comes JACK. Up the staircase. Reloading. Samantha launches herself down the stairs. COLLIDES, head on -- Down they go. Jack, rolls

to his feet. Propels her into the KITCHEN.

She hits, spray of cat food. SKIDS. Across the linoleum, slams to a stop. Hard. Cupboard pops open, out comes the IRONING BOARD. Falls into place, SNAP--!

A GUN BLAST disintegrates it. Reveals Sam, cowering behind.

Samantha struggles to her feet. Dazed. Jack abandons the shotgun. Takes the IRON down from its spot on the shelf -- Slams it against her head.

CLOSE ON TV: Stooge Joe Besser mugs wildly, takes a pie in the face.

Jack raises his arm for the killing stroke -- Samantha takes Hal's cream pie from the counter and shatters every bone in his face.

Comes from nowhere. Back foot planted, body twisting, entire organism focused into the outstretched arm, WHACK-! We have never seen anyone move this fast. Samantha RECOILS. Startled by what she's done --

The glass dish is SPLINTERED into his head. It STICKS there. He topples. Hits the linoleum. She straddles him, breathing hard. Winded.

The barking dog "Jingle Bells" plays inanely in the background. Samantha stares. Trembling. Pokes the body. Nothing. Pokes it again. Still nothing. She leans forward. Grips the neck and wrenches, CRACK-! Just making sure.

She out of it. In shock. Glaring at her own hands as if demanding an excuse for their behavior. There is pie filling on her fingers. She kneels beside the corpse, catatonic. Stares. Absent-mindedly licks the bloodied cream.

HAL is standing in the doorway. Wide-eyed. He has seen Samantha break the man's neck. She looks at him, frowns.

He stares, dumbstruck. She blinks. *Snaps out of it*.

She gets up. We RUN with her to the front door -- she flings it open and collides with MITCHELL HENESSEY. Private dick. Runs right into him.

Henessey spins, as FOUR POLICE CRUISERS pull up. Vomit up a bevy of COPS, swarming toward the house. He spins back to Samantha -- As she collapses to the floor.

FADE OUT: Pause. FADE IN. Super the legend: ONE WEEK LATER. ESTABLISHING - SAMANTHA'S HOUSE - MORNING

Early morning quiet. HENESSEY and SAMANTHA are throwing suitcases into the back of his battered Chrysler.

Sam's looked better. Kneels beside Caitlin, says softly:

come. I have to leave. Just fora little while.

Caitlin looks at the floor. Doesn't respond. Samantha reaches in a cupboard. Produces a box of CANDLES. Lights a match, touches flame to one of them.

I'm alone... if it's dark and I'm lost... It's how I'll find my way home.

She touches Caitlin's wrist cast. Pain in her features. She grabs a marker pen and writes a TELEPHONE NUMBER on it.

She reaches behind her head. Unhooks the KEY, the one she wears around her neck.

Slips it over her daughter's head. Looks up at HAL, eyes brimming. He whispers:

SERIES OF SHOTS: EXT. SUBURBAN TOWN

As it fades behind Henessey's Chrysler. Leaving behind porch- bound elders, dimestore clerks. Grinning children, hair like spun straw. All fading... DISSOLVE TO:

Henessey sings with the radio. Loudly. He's got the lyrics wrong: "I'm not talking 'bout the linen... And I don't wanna

change your life..."

Samantha endures as much as she can. Speaks up:

SAMANTHA

It's not linen. The song's not about linen.

SAMANTHA

I'll pass.

(clears her throat) So, you're a former cop. Atlanta, was it...? Stop me if I'm out of line, but I'm curious. How did you... well, succeed? I mean, where Six other detectives failed?

As they clamber from the car, Henessey shoves his sunglasses into his sportcoat. SINGS:

Samantha looks at him like he's sprouted wings.

Samantha smiles thinly. The man's a lunatic.

An old, walrus-mustached IRISHMAN ushers them down a concrete hallway. The old man hangs back with Henessey. Whispers:

Henessey lights a cigarette, says:

Drab, musty. Filled with disused tables, lamps, farm implements... Jimmy Hoffa watches TV in the corner.

She pauses. Surveys the musty compartment, faraway look in her eye... says softly:

She hefts a SUITCASE onto a bench. OPENS it -- Draws a sharp breath:

Clothes to kill for. Smooth velvet. Creamy silk. The finest, the best. The sexiest. Sam peeks at the tags:

She checks the case for INITIALS -- C.E.B. Who...?

Henessey grunts. In his book, well dressed is clean underwear. Holds up a small manila envelope.

SAMANTHA

What's in it?

Saying. Meanwhile, her hands, still pawing through the suitcase... A SHAPE. She feels it. At the bottom of the case. Lifts up the mound of fabric -- HKM-40 sniper rifle. Disassembled. Sam

looks like she just took a stomach punch.

Up until now, it could've been adrenaline. She could still be just a schoolteacher. A rifle, that changes everything. She plunks the clothing back in place. Hides it.

HENESSEY

Yeah, well take a look at this.

He holds up the envelope: addresses to one *Nathan Windeman*. Fishes in his coat, brings out Samantha's CHECK. Written to him, earlier that day... identical handwriting.

NATHAN WINDEMAN is in a bad mood. A frail-looking man, mid- seventies. Tiredly spooning a bowl of soup. His sister ALICE watches TV nearby. In her lap, a Pomeranian cleans itself. Windeman scowls:

Alice stares at him. Uncomprehending.

Theatrical? Nah. The old bat scoops up her pooch and beats feet for the door. THE PHONE RINGS. Nathan snatches it up:

The voice is soft. Controlled:

with you. NATHAN Who... who is this? SAMANTHA

You tell me, Mr. Windeman. Nathan pales. Blinks once. Twice. Manages:

SAMANTHA

*My full name*. Please...!

A pause. Then:

He chews his lower lip, mind racing. Jesus, no joke, this is *her*... He fights to control his voice:

A MAN in shirtsleeves flips a switch. Speaks into a headset:

She hangs up. Nathan stares, trembling. Turns to ALICE, standing in the doorway. Swallows hard, says:

She hangs up the telephone in the ladies' room. Stands, alone in the stillness. Hands to her head, mind churning...

Turns, checks to make sure the door is locked. Props her SUITCASE on the sink and opens it. Flips back the mound of clothing --

And there it is. The pieces, disassembled, of an M-40 sniper rifle. Her trembling hands find the parts, seemingly of their own volition... Hefting them. Gauging their feel. And then, slowly... terrifyingly...

Knowing how they go together. She SNAPS the barrel in place, *click*-! The sound breaks her reverie. She drops the thing like it's alive. Looks down, trembling...

ALSO in the case: a wicked looking HUNTING KNIFE. She picks it up gingerly. Shiny, brand new. Turns it over in her hand, fascinated by the play of light off the blade...

Looks up. Her REFLECTION, in the mirror. Staring back. She frowns -- It frowns. She turns away --

THE REFLECTION DOESN'T. It stays right fucking put, except now it's *smiling*. Malignant. Deadly. Sam feels something wrong. Spins back toward the mirror --

Her reflected arm comes through the looking glass. Reaches into Sam's world and SLICES FOR HER THROAT.

Samantha JERKS, comes awake in the passenger seat of Henessey's Plymouth. Bad dream. Looks over to see if he noticed -- he's honking his horn at a TRAFFIC JAM. Sea of taillights, dead ahead.

when we met you're all, "Oh, fooey, I burned the darn cupcakes." Now, you go into a bar, ten minutes later sailors come running out, they can't take it.

Just then, THREE POLICE CRUISERS blow by, sirens screaming. Henessey frowns, puzzled.

He switches on a police band radio. Listens, hears:

VOICE (0O.S.) ...without endangering the hostages, over... ...Roger that two- niner. PCP confirmed, he's ona fuse, please provide backup, over... ...Conneaut, I'm waiting on Special Weapons, sorry, over...

POLICE FLASHERS, spinning. Cop cars, incoming. SLAMMING to a halt. Disgorging uniformed cops. THE DINER is rapidly surrounded. Its a cheery decor, the giant roofbound Santa, all in stark contrast -- To the SCREAMING we hear, dimly, from within.

Hostage drama, unfolding. The perp's a big ugly meatloaf with his mitts on a waitress. She's sixteen, she's a baby. She's sucking the barrel of his shotgun. His finger on the trigger. From outside, we hear the COPS:

Mr. Shotgun snorts laughter. Does a little dance, yells: MR. SHOTGUN I'm the man! I'm the man! I elicit the explicit!

The police are just starting to re-route traffic. A highway cop signals to HENESSEY, "Turn around, go back."

Henessey swears. Swings wide, when suddenly a HAND clutches his arm. He looks over and suppresses a shiver -- Samantha's eyes have gone dead and cold. She lights a cigarette, shakes out the match and says:

SAMANTHA

*Drive up the fucking hill*. Now Henessey shivers. Cranks the wheel as we CUT TO:

SAMANTHA flops on the frozen ground in a stand of pine trees.

No answer. She deftly assembles the SNIPER RIFLE. Rests the rifle barrel on a dead branch. Flicks on the starlight scope.

She ignores him. Focuses through the scope. POV SAMANTHA: Framed in spectral GREEN, the diner's interior. Hostages. Crying mothers. Children, catatonic.

Through a tiny window -- a limited view of the KITCHEN. He's

in there. Girl, eating both barrels. Samantha's jaw tightens.

She steadies the rifle. Takes aim.

She fires. Splintered CRACK-!

Mr. Shotgun dies on his feet. Outgoing matter. Flung. Spattered on the grill where it sizzles along with burnt hamburger. He drops. Screams. Pandemonium.

Samantha slams the trunk of the Chrysler. Gets in the passenger side without a word. Henessey pulls away.

Samantha stares straight ahead. Gives a high, brittle laugh.

She laughs again. Henessey favors her with a look reserved for people with major deformities. Suddenly she says:

He stops the car. She gets out. Stumbles across the shoulder. Kneels. Throws up. Henessey watches. Lights a smoke with trembling hands.

SAMANTHA (CONT'D)

Had to, he... he would've killed her... Had to... Oh God I took him, such a good shot... I felt proud of

it, such a shot, Jesus, *how could I be proud*...?

(sobs) I'm scared... I want to go home...

Henessey kneels beside her awkwardly. She clutches his shoulder. Presses her head to his chest. Cries.

Yes, it certainly is. CUT TO:

Three stories below the White House proper. THE PRESIDENT is seated in his robe and slippers. Before him sits a panel of three: National Security Adviser; Deputy Director of the CIA; and ANOTHER MAN in his sixties, sporting a distinguished mane of silver hair. The President addresses him:

PRESIDENT

*Mister Perkins*.

(frowns ) Please, say it again, I'ma little slow. Better yet, I'll try it. You lost an operative, a trained counterassassin, and you just saw her on TV in a Christmas parade.

The silver-haired man appears unperturbed. And no, by the way, it didn't escape us that he shares his surname with Caitlin's TEDDY BEAR, the one Mom named -- He nods, Says:

(throws up his hands) Unbelievable. You people, you dump this on me, then next week you're screaming, "Where's our funding?" Shit. I'll tell you where it is, can you say health care?

The head of the CIA pipes up:

(beat) But thank you, Kent, for trying to fuck me in the ass.

He directs his baleful gaze at the President. Lights a pipe.

(MORE )

*What in pluperfect hell is she doing in a Christmas parade*???

Henessey is on the phone to his ex-wife. Glowering.

For a moment her ignorance is so stunning he's speechless. Then he slams down the phone. Cracks it. Returns to the pumps, where SAMANTHA leans against his car, still dazed. Looks up at him, says:

Henessey doesn't look at her. Puts the nozzle back in the pump. Crosses to the driver side without a word.

He gets into the car. Starts the engine. Samantha reacts, distraught. Leans in, kills the ignition. Pulls him out of

the car.

She slaps

him. HARD. He falls back, stunned.

He serious. Samantha frowns, a little thrown -- Then she snorts, loses it. They both lean against his Chrysler.

HENESSEY (CONT’D)

Now every dollar I hand my kid, he asks his mother did I steal it.

He smiles ruefully. Spits. A pause, then:

Samantha's voice is cool and level:

She blows her nose.

ESTABLISHING - SALT & PEPPER LOUNGE - MORNING

A gunmetal grey sky looms overhead. The aforementioned LOUNGE is a faded old roadhouse, gravel parking lot strewn with mud- covered trucks. The kind that get a man laid in these parts. HENESSEY'S PLYMOUTH pulls into the lot, rolls to a halt. He'll never get any.

Honky-tonk. SAMANTHA and HENESSEY enter, blinking in the dimness. Around them, drunk mid-day cowboys. Stringy-haired

girls in their ample laps. SAMANTHA consults her watch:

They sit at the counter. Henessey flags the bartender. Signals for a beer. Lights a cigarette, blows smoke:

Samantha shoots him a look. ON A TV above the bar, a British- sounding CNN announcer is saying:

Samantha sits up straight. Draws a sharp breath. He shoots her a questioning look --

(blinks) I hurt my father.

She rubs her eyes. Her voice breaks. She's utterly miserable. Henessey leans in, says softly:

HENESSEY

Ms. Caine, last week at a party I ran into a girl I knew from college and we chatted for a few minutes. And it wasn't til I was driving home on the freeway that I remembered that I'd screwed her in the back of a car once.

(beat) Everyone forgets.

He pats her arm. Smiles reassuringly. A pause. She stares.

He stands, heads off. Samantha nervously lights a cigarette. The bartender suddenly puts a BEER in front of her. She reaches for her purse. He waves it away, points beside her. She turns...

The assassin called TIMOTHY sits down two stools away.

He reveals a surprisingly WINNING smile, says:

Grimaces:

Still staring in her eyes. Noting absolutely NO RECOGNITION on her features. She gives him a cursory smile.

Timothy nods slowly.

(MORE )

He takes his own drink and crosses to a back booth. Sits, a very puzzled look on his face. Adjusts his coat collar, whispers into a concealed transmitter:

He sits back as TWO SHERIFF'S DEPUTIES suddenly enter, doffing their stetsons. Cross to the bar. HENESSEY, coming out of the bathroom. Sees the deputies. Grabs SAMANTHA by the elbow. Tosses down a fin, steers her toward the door.

They emerge into the chill air. Breath pluming from their mouths. Samantha surveys the parking lot. Grabs Henessey, points --

A LATE-MODEL CAR pulls into the gravel lot. Stops.

Come on. They cross toward the car. She frowns, points to his coat.

As they approach the other car, the engine stops. The door opens and a middle aged man emerges -- IT AIN'T NATHAN. He pauses, lighting a cigarette.

She strides right up, Henessey in tow. Flashes a dazzling smile -- *Slow motion*. The guy DROPS HIS LIGHTER, darts a hand inside his coat with practiced ease... Pulls out a

SILENCED PISTOL.

*Slow motion*. Samantha tackles Henessey. Hurls them both to the ground... During their fall, STUFF HAPPENS:

She clutches his sportcoat -- Grips his .38 special THROUGH THE FABRIC and squeezes... A sharp report, BAM-! Another, BAM-! The jacket, shredded. HITMAN just caught two in the chest. He goes over backwards, gun spitting --

Sam and Henessey hit the ground. *Back to regular speed*. Henessey rolls over, stunned. Samantha's staring at her hand, wondering how in the hell it just did that.

They scamper to their feet. Running hellbent for leather toward the Plymouth... They never make it.

ANOTHER HITMAN steps calmly from the trees. Stands at the shoulder of the highway, full view of the parking lot... Adopts a two-fisted stance. Draws a bead, locks on target --

Leaves his feet.

Takes to the air as a BLACK LE SABRE swerves off the highway with no advance warning and DEMOLISHES the bastard, wham-—!

The car roars across the lot, NATHAN WINDEMAN at the wheel.

The snapped-in-two hitman announces Nathan's arrival by FLYING THROUGH THE WINDOW in an explosion of glass. Caroms off a table and bounces head over heels. Hits, dead.

TIMOTHY swears. Leaps up and bolts for the door, right behind the SHERIFF'S DEPUTIES, as

The black Le Sabre SLEWS to a stop, showering gravel -- NATHAN shouts at Sam and Henessey:

They pile into the backseat. Nathan floors it. PEELS OUT, bouncing onto the highway -- and meanwhile here comes TIMOTHY. On the run. Barks into his transmitter:

He begins to run: we have never seen anyone run this fast.

NATHAN kicks in the afterburners. Squinting, can't see... WIPERS, squeaking to and fro. Erasing the hitman's blood.

Henessey is trembling; Samantha comatose. Nathan steals a look in the rear view mirror. Gets his first good view of Samantha. Reacts, stunned:

This is not what she expected to hear.

yards down the highway. Beside a parked car, a guy with an ELEPHANT GUN.

The big rifle BUCKS concussively. The car window SPLINTERS...! Does not break.

Almost as an afterthought, he swerves slightly. CRUNCHES the gunman against the parked car. Shatters him. His SCREAMING VISAGE goes by an inch from Samantha, he coughs blood onto her window...

Timothy, on the move. RUNS, breakneck through the woods. Jumps fallen logs. Ducking, swerving. In and out through the trees, as

Scenery whips past. In the backseat, Henessey is trembling; Samantha comatose. Nathan snaps his fingers sharply:

Yes, yes, you said that on the phone. *Must* I point out to you that the letters in the name SAM CAINE, when rearranged, spell out AMNESIAC? Your mind was missing a name, so it simple invented one that was an anagram of your current condition.

Samantha reacts, floored.

Henessey is so shocked he's LAUGHING:

A forty foot embankment, damn near vertical. Plunging to the road below. Topped by a chain-link FENCE.

Timothy hits the fence at a dead run. Up and over. Pitches head over heels down the embankment, BOUNCING. Hits bottom in a shower of dirt, rolls, comes up... .357 AMP in a two- fisted grip, and *there's Nathan's car*. Blows by, doing 90.

Timothy swivels calmly, BLASTS AN ENTIRE CLIP at the retreating car. Shot after shot, like a machine --

Sam SCREAMS as the side windows COLLAPSE INWARD. Nathan rides the wheel, swerving.

HENESSEY

*What happened to bulletproof*? NATHAN

*The side windows were next, I

swear*.

Watching them go. Oh, well. He tried, right...? Did his best, tomorrow's another day --

Without missing a beat, Timothy walks out in the middle of the road. ANOTHER CAR, coming. Sports car. He snaps ina fresh clip. Raises his fist and PUMPS ONE through the fast- approaching windshield. Kills the driver.

The car throws a skid. Slewing SIDEWAYS at him. Onrushing juggernaut, immense...!

He vaults the hood without breaking stride. Catches the drive- side doorhandle, jerks -- then he's in, and out comes the corpse and the car *never stops moving*.

Completes an out-of-control 360, showering muddy water... and then he's stomping the gas. Utterly relentless. Leaving behind a wet and very surprised-looking corpse.

Timothy GUNS IT, eyes locked dead ahead on the Le Sabre -- Hears a SCREECH. Whips his eyes to the rearview mirror:

POLICE CRUISER. Fishtailing onto the road behind him. Falls in behind, SIREN wailing. One of the deputies from the bar.

Nathan fishes a gun from his coat. Hands it to Samantha.

SAMANTHA

My God. How many do you carry?

Henessey looks out the back windshield, says:

Nathan looks, SWEARS. The chase car's gaining on them.

He accelerates into a curve. Rockets past a connecting road, as, without warning -- ANOTHER COP CAR skids out of the side road, after him. The other deputy...

TIMOTHY, boxed. Going too fast, swerves...! PLOWS into the deputy headlong. BROADSIDES him. Glass flies. The cop car's TIRES blow out as it's SPUN 180 degrees... Timothy's car

careens into a GULLEY --

BAM-! Hits a dead stop. Hood shears off, goes flying. Back

end sticking up, tires spinning... The horn blares continuously. UP ABOVE: The other cop arrives, brakes to a halt -- Door

opens and out he comes. Helps Deputy #2 clamber from his crippled black-and-white.

Together they leap down into the gulley, guns drawn. Cringing as the long HOOOOOOOONNNNNK continues unabated. Approaching the crashed car. Walking up, guns at their Sides... TWO SHOTS. They jitter and twitch. Topple over dead, slide to the bottom of the gulley.

INSIDE THE CAR, we see that a very annoyed Timothy is also very conscious. Splayed against the driver's side door. Holding one hand down on the horn, HOOOOOOOONNK... He releases it. Horn stops. On the radio Conway Twitty is singing. He puts a shot through the radio. Silences it.

Climbs from the car and stares off down the road. Of Nathan and his companions, there is neither whisper nor breath...

Nathan has pulled over in a grove of pine trees. The car is covered with branches. He watches through a gap as two police cars go by on the distant highway.

Charly is overloaded. Trying to keep up, not wanting to:

NATHAN

I think we can safely assume Daedalus is aware of your resurrection and is attempting to reverse it. *Damn*, I can't drive around in this thing.

(beat) Any idea where we can go to stash this car?

IN SAMANTHA'S LAP

Her fingers unconsciously fiddle with something. Damp, crumpled. The ENVELOPE. One address left.

friend.

Henessey stares at her. As Nathan reaches for the envelope, his coat falls open and Samantha GASPS; his left side is soaked with blood.

The house is actually an old converted MILL. Beyond it, frozen landscape stretches to the lakeshore. In the BARNYARD, a scruffy looking COWBOY TYPE is splitting logs on a tree stump. Drops the axe. Scoops up an armload of firewood. Comes around the corner --

Drops the logs, startled. AN UNLIKELY TRIO approaches. NATHAN, Sweating. Pasty. Levels a revolver. Samantha says:

I just want to know who you are.

Seeing her, his eyes go wide -- He locks her in a whooping BEAR HUG, shouts:

Picks her up, SPINS HER around, laughing... Henessey and Nathan stare. Befuddled.

TIME CUT - MINUTES LATER

The strange man (let's call him LUKE) stands awkwardly in the dooryard. Shifting from foot to foot. NATHAN watches him dispassionately from the tree stump. Gun on his knee.

The DOOR bangs open and Samantha comes out of the house. Carrying bandages. Alcohol. Crosses to the tree stump, kneels before Nathan. His voice is a harsh rasp:

He bats her away, administers his own first aid. LUKE pipes up, exasperated:

He chuckles. Looks at her face. Stops chuckling, takes a sudden interest in the ground. Sam crosses to HENESSEY, standing nearby. Takes him aside, whispers:

She studies Luke. Frowning. Concentrating.

Just then NATHAN is hit with a dreadful-sounding cough. It wracks him. Doubles him up. LUKE blurts out:

Nathan grits his teeth: NATHAN

*No ambulance*. The car I ordered will be here soon.

pretty sure I slept with him.

Nathan presses a bandage to his side.

kill you. He pitches forward into Henessey's arms.

Beside the lakeshore LUKE AND SAMANTHA walk side by side. RACK FOCUS to the porch: NATHAN is laid out on a chaise lounge. Henessey beside him, applying cold compresses. The older man stirs, coming awake... Tries to sit up, Henessey nudges him flat again.

Nathan groans. Henessey presses a cloth to the man's head.

Nathan swallows. Grimaces. Lies back down.

Cut me a break, nimrod. She's married with a kid.

Busted. Nathan coughs. Speaks, eyes faraway:

NATHAN

Arms broker, man without a face. Veteran of Baader-Meinhoff and the Red Brigades. He's rumored to be based in the U.S. Doesn't travel much, they say. Too afraid of metal detectors, the poor sod's got a foot- long piece of steel in his leg.

At which point, Henessey stops. Frowns.

He scuffs his shoe in the porch dust. Eyes narrowed:

His eyes widen:

Points to the lake:

Nathan freezes, thoughts racing... swears violently:

He takes off for the lake at a dead run. Behind him, the bloodied Nathan DRAGS himself to his feet and lurches off the porch, stumbling. Weaving. Refusing to go down.

AT THE LAKESIDE -- Luke walks behind Samantha. Talking softly in her ear, smiling... She hears something. A RATCHETING noise, drawing closer, hmmm...? Looks up. Wishes she hadn't -- A BELL RANGER HELICOPTER is descending over the lake. Inside, TIMOTHY shoulders a bolt action rifle, coolly professional.

FIRES, kicks up dirt at Henessey's feet. Stops the fucker cold. On the shore, LUKE smiles at Samantha, says:

SLUGS HER IN THE FACE. Drops her to the ice like a broken doll.

CUT TO BLACK:

Black indeed. Deep. Empty. Out of the darkness, we hear a NEWS COMMENTATOR. Voice scratchy. Indistinct. Far away or long ago...

A TELEVISION IMAGE fills the screen. Black and white. Grainy. The legend: BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, over footage of a sidewalk bombing. We're back in time, the year 1971. A crisp- looking BRIGADIER is speaking to the off-camera reporter:

An ANNOUNCER's face replaces him:

PULL BACK TO REVEAL

A battered TV, volume turned low. Snoozing in a chair, a rumpled older man -- It's the BRIGADIER, the one we just saw speaking on TV. A CALENDAR on the table identifies the date as June 23, 1971.

IN THE NEXT ROOM

Girlish decor. Pinups of rock stars. A YOUNG GIRL is awake, dressed and currently stuffing two pillows under a blanket. She inspects her handiwork. Human-looking lump. Turns, satisfied.

One last look at the WOODEN JESUS on the wall -- Creeps from the room. Past the sleeping Brigadier. To the front door. She checks over her shoulder, nervous. Taps out five digits. Shuts off the alarm. Unlocks the door and slips out.

The boy's name is GREGORY. Sixteen, with a quick, easy grin. Huddled beneath a tree with him, the girl is gelatin.

GIRL

There's nothing odd about it. I'm only sixteen.

GREGORY

You're fourteen and not a day more. Here now, I'm right, you're blushing.

He slides a hand under her sweater. She stiffens, terrified and exhilarated, as he gently strokes her nipple with a thumb.

He leans in. She leans forward. A jerky, tentative duckling on the road to swan-dom. Their lips touch.

Across the road, THE WINDOWS BLOW OUT in her father's flat. She spins, scream caught in her throat -- as ARMED MEN rush from the house. Through the door, the one she left unlocked. Stutter of SMALL ARMS FIRE. She whirls on Gregory, realizes only then that the guy is LAUGHING.

He slaps her full across the face.

He spins and flees.

Girl, moving. Walls racing past, shot to PIECES, run run run into her bedroom and LURCHES to a stop, screaming:

Propped against the wall. By the bed. He's still alive. Incredibly. The man has DRAGGED himself in here. He refused to die, simply couldn't, you see... Not until he reached his daughter.

ANGLE ON BED

Two pillows, jammed beneath a blanket. The Brigadier just stares at them. His face slack. White and gastly. Shifts his gaze to his daughter. Tears running from his dulled eyes.

He raises the pistol to his head.

He fires. On a young girl's dissolve into insanity we FADE OUT... Sound, echoing away. Blackness, total.

FADE IN:

Waking is slow.

Samantha opens her eyes. Blinks. Hazy, out of focus. Tries

to rub her eyes, can't. Hands. Something's wrong, what the

hell'd she do with her hands...? Ah. They're stretched over her head. BOUND WITH CORD. Suddenly she's very awake.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The basement of the old converted mill. A drafty, windswept place full of old, broken timbers. A river runs through it. A stream, at any rate. The waters are still and frozen now. Above the stream -- A GREAT WOODEN WHEEL. Smaller corollary of the wheel outside. Mounted on the same axis.

SAMANTHA is tied to that wheel. Lashed to its SIDE, affixed to it like a goddess to a Greek sailing ship. Now the bad news, the ice has been chopped away so the wheel can TURN... And it will plunge Samantha UNDER THE FREEZING WATER. Beneath the ice. Bound hand and foot. Strapped to the wheel, wearing only a nightgown, she is utterly helpless.

THE MAN KNOWN AS DAEDALUS (AKA Luke) stands before her, giving instructions to the ubiquitous TIMOTHY. He looks up at Samantha. Seeing her eyelids flutter, he tosses her a cherry wave. Gone is the gee-whiz country boy schtick; in its place, a frightening arrogance. He tosses her his cheeriest wave:

Samantha struggles against her bonds. No dice. Subsides. Takes a look around at her predicament. TIMOTHY stands at the edge of the ice. Watching her intently. Smiles thinly:

Daedalus shakes his head, frowning:

your amnesia was genuine -- until you showed up *here*. You follow? (beat)

Meanwhile, I just got around to reading the papers, there's the small matter of an incident upstate. Long range rifle shot, blew a man out of his socks. (coldly) You can see where I'm coming from. I'm trying to pull of the biggest job of my career. I have to know. How much you really remember... and who you've told.

He crosses toward a large RED BUTTON. Set into a wooden beam. Samantha thrashes at the bindings. Looks down at the water where it intercepts the mammoth wheel. Fighting panic:

DAEDALUS

Torture, yes. The torturing of beautiful women, albeit politically incorrect, is an addiction with me.

(beat) A woman never looks quite so beautiful as when her face is distended in pain. Witness the beauty of childbirth.

you want.

DAEDALUS

Good. You'll last longer. Now hush yourself, and take a deep breath. We're gonna do the torture thing.

He hits the button. An electric WHINE -- THE BIG WHEEL TURNS. Feet first into the water. Struggling. Arms stretched above her head. She plunges below the surface. A new dimension in PAIN. Frozen, mind-numbing.

She WRITHES against the wheel. It's like a crushing VICE is ripping her limb from limb. She opens her eyes, briefly. Discovers she's not alone -- A mere foot from her face, THE BLOATED CORPSE of the drowned NATHAN. Staring away and away. Blue with cyanosis.

Meanwhile, back ON THE SURFACE: Daedalus turns to his right- hand man, who says:

He turns. Hits the red button again. THE WHEEL reverses itself. Creaks and moans, turning --

SAMANTHA BREAKS THE SURFACE. Gasping for air. Wheezing. Choking. The FREEZING WIND plasters the nightgown to her.

Samantha, face twisted. Coughs. Wheezes. TIMOTHY looks her in the eye... shakes his head:

He exits. Daedalus, alone with his captive. On her features, unbridled HATRED. He chuckles:

He shakes his head, makes a "tsk tsk" gesture. Smiles grimly as he turns his attention to the red switch.

Without warning, her head snaps upward -- Eyes cold. Voice, not her own:

He hits the button. She plunges beneath the surface. Daedalus walks over to one corner. Sits down. Takes out a pipe. Lights it. Picks up a book. Reads. And reads.

UNDERWATER -- Sam THRASHES and jerks, to and fro. Dead Nathan, mocking her. There, under the water, the memories come... In a flood. Stark and vivid.

MEMORY FLASH - THE YEAR

THE TRUNK OF A CAR opens, revealing a patch of night sky. Mostly obscured by two familiar individuals --

There's ONE-EYED JACK, remember him? Few years younger. One eyeball heavier. The other man is TIMOTHY. He looks in the trunk. Nods.

The lid SLAMS SHUT.

The world of rushing MADNESS, memories unspooling now, faster and faster --

MEMORY FLASH: A CLIFF overlooking the ocean. Darkness. Sheeting rain. Our heroine (for it is unquestionably SAMANTHA) is lying unconscious atop a rocky bluff. Drenched.

ONE-EYED JACK produces a SYRINGE from a leather case. Rolls up her sleeve. Starts to administer the injection. Stops. He can't resist... Can't help LOOSENING the buttons on her shirt.

Her eyes snap open. And before it even registers, she's grabbed the hypodermic and plunged it deep INTO HIS EYE --

Then she's up and running. Along the cliff, toward the car... Jack, HOWLING in pain, stumbling... Draws his gun and shoots her. In the head.

She pitches backward. Tumbles from the cliff...! Rushes headlong toward the waters below, getting smaller --

Here. Now. She breaks the surface. Gasping for breath. SHRIEKS, a sound ripped from her by the PAIN, the COLD --

By her ruptured sanity. She hangs there. Drenched. Half frozen.

DAEDALUS can't help it. A chill dances up his spine, watching... She is not afraid. She is not whimpering. She is looking directly AT HIM. With a sick smile.

Daedalus struggles to recover his poise.

Charly's eyes bore into his:

Daedalus stabs the red button. THE BIG WHEEL TURNS... Into the water goes Charly. Going down for the third time.

UNDER THE WATER - HELL - SAME

Here we are again, in the world of silence and blinding PAIN. Despair and madness but now there's something else -- Now there's RAGE.

It takes losing most of the FLESH from her right wrist... But she frees the hand. WRENCHES it loose. The water turns soupy red around it. GROPES, blindly. Fingers NUMB, so fucking cold -- Breath, running out. No air. NO TIME.

She darts her right hand forward. Toward the obscenely bobbing CORPSE of Nathan. Does something grotesque, jams her hand

DOWN THE CORPSE'S PANTS --

Hideaway gun, it's right where he said, right beside Mr. Wally. PSP-25. Semi-auto, steel jackets. She waits. Rage inside her. Death in her hands.

MEANWHILE, BACK ON THE SURFACE

The wheel CREAKS. Groans. The terrorist in the western boots watches her emerge, face first -- She comes up firing.

The first slug takes him in the knee. Blows it to scraps. He collapses, howling. She shifts aim. THE RED BUTTON. No hesitation. BLAM-! Hits it DEAD ON. Stops the wheel. Incredible.

Doesn't blink. Unties her captive hand. BLOWS TO SPLINTERS the wood surrounding her feet. Leaps to solid ground, as

ANOTHER ANGLE

Daedalus looks up from his prone position. In agony. A vision from Hell approaches: A fiendish blue-skinned woman ina

sodden nightgown. Blood leaking from one wrist. She has risen, REBORN, from the icy waters.

She shoots him in the other knee. He HOWLS. Gun, empty. She tosses it aside. In a nearby crate: ASSAULT RIFLES. Snatches up a Kalashnikov and clip. Kneels and says:

She fires again.

The detective lies naked, bound hand and foot. Beaten. FREEZING. A single ray of LIGHT through a tiny crack.

He hears a SPLINTERING noise, as if a door's been ripped from its hinges. Pause -- A FUSILLADE of gunfire. Shouts, cries. A heavy weight SLAMS to the floorboards above him. Through a crack comes a tiny stream of BLOOD, dribbling onto him, as --

TIMOTHY bolts from the house, clutching a bleeding hand. Running hellbent for leather. Reaches a parked car. Leaps in and kicks over the engine as, behind him --

MORE MEN come piling out of the house, shouting. Running for their cars -- never make it. CUT DOWN IN THEIR TRACKS. Wracked by gunfire, bodies twitching...

And as Timothy PEELS OUT, spraying mud, we pull UP, UP, AND AWAY... Into the sky, moving ever higher, gunfire fading... Until now we're WAY UP, we can see Timothy's car... the OLD MILL, ever so tiny below us...

It blows to pieces. Sends flaming boards flying STRAIGHT UP AT US.

The door bursts open as PERKINS stalks in, shedding his coat. His aide -- let's call him HARRY -- looks up nervously.

He throws open a door off the passage: THERE'S TIMOTHY. Perched on the edge of a conference table, tamping a pack of smokes. Perkins reacts, stunned.

My boss is dead.

He blows smoke. Trains his eyes on the older man.

to go... but you gotta contain her, man. We gotta step on her hard and fast.

An agent on the SWITCHBOARD calls out:

Piercing.

Perkins stops dead. Lunges for the phone, nearly drops it:

INTERCUT - OUR HEROINE AT PAY PHONE We only see her mouth. Set in hard, grim lines.

She says:

CHARLY

From where I stand, it ain't much of a commute. You'll hear from me.

She clicks off. Perkins darts a look at the techie -- guy shakes his head, no go on the trace. Perkins swears.

ESTABLISHING SHOT - ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY - NIGHT

There. Thank you, New Jersey, that'll be all. You can go now. Um, please.

Waking is slow for Mitch Henessey. He swallows dryly. Eyes creak open, struggle to focus... Hears WATER running. A shower. Squints at his watch. He's not wearing a watch, he knew that... In BED, naked. Chest swathed in bandages, what the hell...? He pokes them. Jerks his head, hissing in pain.

Henessey lights a smoke at the bar. Flicks the match ina trashcan. Starts to go, stops... Reaches into the can. Plucks out a tiny scrap: PHOTOGRAPH, ripped in two.

A photo of Hal and Caitlin.

He pockets it, disturbed. Crosses to the bathroom door. The shower has stopped. Raises a tentative hand, starts to knock... It OPENS. There, in a thin silk robe, is a WOMAN, swabbing at her hair.

She breezes out of the bathroom all chipper, like nothing's unusual. Notices Henessey cursorily. Raises a finger: "one sec." Lowers her head and shakes it like a terrier, spraying him.

He cannot stop staring. It's Samantha, it *has* to be...

Now she's BLONDE, though. Hair clipped short. Bobbed. Blood- red fingernails. Red cotton shift, legs for days.

Then, she *smiles* at him -- and it's not her, not Samantha.

Amnesia's over, folks, because we're clearly looking at a changed woman: This one's name is CHARLY BALTIMORE, and she hasn't seen the light of day in eight years.

She grabs a washcloth. Frowns, says:

With that, she opens her robe and exposes her breasts. Henessey perks up considerably -- then SCREAMS as she RIPS the gauze from his chest. She clinchs the robe again.

virgins. HENESSEY

Same as -- virgins, *what*...? CHARLY

Saw it in a Harold Robbins book. Guy bites her on the ear as he goes in. Distracts from the pain. You ever try that?

Henessey watches, fascinated. All the little mannerisms, the differences. Shaking out a match, running a hand through her hair... And never missing a thing, eyes constantly roving, scanning. Guard never down. She plucks a drink from a nearby table, steals it outright.

Henessey grimaces. Clears his throat, says:

She knocks back her drink. No hesitation. Henessey shifts uncomfortably, lights a smoke.

Henessey squirms, this one's gonna take some time to digest.

HENESSEY

I mean, her personality, it had to come from *somewhere* --

Henessey sighs. Next to him a couple get up to dance. He reaches over and lifts their beers.

He looks at her, confused:

Didn't need to know that. A DANCING SANTA goes by:

He shimmies away. Charly grins at Henessey:

Henessey hunches forward, speaks rapidly into the phone:

He hangs up quickly. Turns -- reveal CHARLY, lounging a foot away, watching him.

She swipes matches from his pocket. Nods.

(MORE )

CARNIVAL RIDES, dead for the winter. Henessey and Charly stroll beneath them. He smokes. She eats Chinese.

He takes a good long look at her, still can't fathom it.

CHARLY

Absolutely. Oh, and afterwards? Oh my God, afterwards I said the most funny thing, you know what I said...?

(beat) I said, "Go back to your room. Dad..."

She laughs through a swig of beer. MEMORY FLASH: Charly's

bedroom as DAD puts the gun to his head and fires, CRACK...

Henessey huddles, watching her closely.

She nods, gazes out over the icy waters. Speaks, her voice faraway and gone:

CHARLY

When Da died, I went to his funeral. years old, today I wouldn't. And I overheard a woman, she was praying... She was thanking God -- sounded so happy -- thanking Him it hadn't been *her* father who was killed. See... she didn't really care that God had let someone die... just so long as it missed *her*.

(beat) ...and she bought her cross at the same store as mine, see, that's what we do, we all pray to the same cross on a hundred different walls, and sit back and wait to see who gets hit and who gets missed.

Anger flares in her eye. Like a stirring of mud at the bottom of a deep, deep, pond.

spares you -- when they're just taking someone else. (beat)

Walk me upstairs?

They enter the suite. She drops her purse, sways toward him. Presses him against the wall, framed there in the doorway.

Quite suddenly, Charly leans over and kisses him on the lips. He reacts, startled. Stares at her.

She nibbles his ear. Pulls back, smiling -- and Henessey's holding the picture of HAL and CAITLIN. The one he found torn in two. He looks her full in the face:

He pushes her away.

Charly jerks backward. Angry. Henessey heads for the bathroom.

Charly snatches up her purse, eyes burning:

She storms out. CUT TO:

Charly stalks the city streets. A quartet sings, "God Rest Ye Merry," ostensibly about joy, oddly the most depressing tune ever written. On a crowded street, she is alone. Total misfit. Searches her own haggard features in a shop window. Swallows hard, whispers:

She bustles down a sidestreet, hands jammed in her pockets. That's when a tall BEARDED MAN crosses the street and falls in alongside.

His hand edges out of his windbreaker with a snubnosed .38.

Charly stops walking. Regards him the way you or I might look at a telephone cord. Groans:

The guy stares, mouth working.

Which is precisely when a much larger Smith and Wesson COCKS next to his ear:

VOICE (V.O.) This ain't no ham on rye, pal.

HENESSEY holds the gun rock steady in his big fist. Charly spins on him, eyes flashing:

The hitman watches, bewildered. Considers waving to get their attention. Finally he can't stand it. Blurts out:

Charly snaps her head toward him:

She smiles sweetly.

Takes it off him. Just like that. He stares dumbly at his empty hand. Half of his trigger finger is missing.

Charly flips the gun into the air. Launches a SPIN KICK. Shatters his jaw. Catapults him backwards.

Completes her spin, catlike -- Catches the .38 on its way down. DOESN'T STOP THERE. Arm out, gun cocked -- FIRES. Straight at Henessey, what...? He dives aside --

BEHIND HIM, a second HITMAN. Blown to tatters. The KNIFE meant for Henessey arcs through the air...

Imbeds itself in the ground an inch from the prone detective. He stares at it with shocked eyes. The killer hits, dead. Twitches. CHARLY. Lowers her arm slowly. Gun barrel smoking.

A BRONCO ROARS UP out of a parking garage. Swerves and plunges into the maze of streets that inspired the world's most popular board game.

Charly drives, possessed. Henessey drinks. Hands shaking.

She throws a shrieking skid. Henessey clutches for the dashboard, swearing.

HENESSEY

Don't be so sure, others have tried. The entire population, in fact.

(beat) Look, about me...? I mean, what's up, you're this hot survival chick, I'm getting the feeling you don't need me anymore.

Charly reaches over. Yanks the doorhandle.

She kicks him out of the moving car.

He bounces off the highway. Rolls. Over and over, shudders to a stop. Pause... The wind blows. He groans. Looks up, spits gravel. Stands. Dusts himself off. Watches the Bronco go far away.

TIME CUT - EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT As Henessey trudges wearily down the highway we HEAR:

A SCREECH of tires, he turns, startled -- here comes the Bronco. Skids onto the highway and races back toward him. Pulls up alongside. CHARLY throws open the door, says:

He does. Without a word. Closes the door, they drive off. He lights a cigarette like nothing happened. Shakes out the match, speaks without looking at her:

She turns to him, a gleam in her eye. Speaks softly:

What's in it?

Henessey does a spit-take, sprays whiskey.

The BRONCO races on into the night...

Late, very late now. Henessey, driving. Beside him, Charly reclines, lost in reverie. Features bathed in passing roadlights. Henessey grinds out a butt:

up.

HENESSEY

No, just some loser thought he could maybe understand, fuck it. I been there, you know. I'd kill for fucking amnesia. I'm with my boy and all I can think is I got reamed in the ass by three guys. Merry Christmas, son, here's a ball glove, did you know Daddy screamed when they carved the name in his back...? Mary, by the way. I pushed for Cindy, but hell. God, I'm tired.

(beat) I never did one thing right, you know it, not one fucking thing. Not even accidental, that takes skill.

He looks over. She's asleep, hasn't heard a word. Face slack, lips slightly parted. The toughness banished from her features. In its place, a lingering sadness. CUT TO:

The Bronco glides along. Charly in the passenger seat, eyes roving like a hawk's. THE CAINE HOUSE is peaceful and quiet. Christmas lights, still burning dimly.

She stuffs a .45 automatic in her waistband. Cradles an MP-5 beneath her coat. Rolls out of the still-moving truck. Makes her way through back yards. Silent as a cat. She went to cookouts here. Bridge parties. Now she prowls, a grim assassin.

Leaps a fence, drops behind a woodpile -- Comes face to face with RAYMOND, a fifth grade student we saw earlier. Secreted behind the woodpile, SMOKING. His eyes pop as he spies good ol' Ms. Caine, sporting blonde hair and an assault weapon. Charly doesn't miss a beat:

CHARLY

Good morning, Raymond. RAYMOND

Um... morning, Ms. Caine. CHARLY

What did we learn about the dangers of smoking...? Give it here.

A wet stain appears at his crotch. He hands her the cigarette with nerveless fingers. Charly accepts it. Takes a long, satisfying drag. Passes it back.

face pressed to the glass door. Looking in. The house is silent and empty. Nobody home.

The Christmas tree winks off and on. The tree she helped decorate. She opens the door and slips inside. CUT TO:

Three GOVERNMENT AGENTS. Faces drawn, haggard. Pit-stained shirts, day old sandwiches. Carrying photographs of Charly and Henessey. Agent #1 sighs, examining her figure.

AGENT #1 Man, I'd eat a mile of her shit just to follow it back to the ass it came from.

AGENT #2 Christ, I'm trying to have breakfast.

A RADIO MIC on the dash squawks, a voice says:

VOICE (0.S.) Unit 2 to Red Dog, give us one more pass, let's make sure the house is secure.

Charly enters. All business. Begins to systematically rifle the drawers. Her daughter's precious things. Sweeps everything onto the floor. Utter disregard, it's a bit startling.

Crosses to the bed, throws back the covers -- MR. PERKINS (the stuffed bear) has the chain around his neck.

We hear it, then. Ghosting on the still air, barely audible, the sound of SINGING... Children's voices waft across the frozen pond from St. Paul's Episcopal CHURCH. Charly frowns. Crosses to the window, lifts the sash.

Pause. Charly chews her lip. Unlimbers the MP-5. Hefts the wicked-looking thing. Not to fire it... but to use the SCOPE. Adjusts focus. Practiced movements. Deft. Sure. Sights down the weapon. Scans though the gunsights...

POV CHARLY: Hal's CHRISTMAS PAGEANT. There's Hal. Cast in spectral GREEN. Laughing and serving breakfast. On the church lawn, a NATIVITY scene. Teenage girls as the wise men. Choir of children, singing... CAITLIN among them.

Charly is sweating. She lowers the scope. Squeezes her eyes shut. Something in her, threatening to WRENCH LOOSE...

Henessey, slouched behind the wheel. Starts to light a cigarette. Stops, the match halfway to his face. Eyes riveted on the rearview mirror as a GOVERNMENT SEDAN turns the corner behind him...

Watching her family, far away. Fighting emotion. That's when she hears A HORN HONKING. Her head whips around, toward the front of the house. The honk is followed by three GUNSHOTS in rapid succession.

She's up and moving. All else forgotten.

Henessey PEELS OUT, tires smoking. Careens forward, government SEDAN close behind --

The upstairs window EXPLODES outward. Charly, hurtles through. Freefalls to the porch roof. Glass, showering down. Hits, rolls. Surfaces in a combat crouch, FIRES.

Government sedan, KILLS THE PASSENGER. Collapses him over the doorframe. Gun clatters to the street, car speeds off --

The driver looks over, incredulous.

BACKSEAT

*Go bulletproof, now*!

The driver hits a button and up go the windows. All, that is, except the passenger side window -- Because the dead guy's bald HEAD blocks it. Becomes WEDGED there. Bald pate exposed to the world.

BACK WITH CHARLY - FRONT OF HOUSE Charly watches the two vehicles rocketing away down the

street. Out of range. Lowers the smoking .45. SWEARS. Takes off around the house at a dead run.

Switch scenery: the Christmas Pageant, CAITLIN and fellow angels traipse into the church vestibule... Caitlin looks up just in time to see TIMOTHY apply the chloroform.

Two seconds, she's out like a light. Next case. Up and moving, child tucked neatly under his arm. A NEARBY MOTHER OF THREE has seen it happen. Opens her mouth to scream -- He palms a KNIFE. Puts it to her youngest son's kidney:

Freezes her. Petrified.

He exits into the vestibule. Quick. Professional. MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH:

High speed chase, in progress. The driver dogs Henessey, jockeys for position. Barks into a radio mic:

The backseat agent hefts an AK-47 assault rifle. WITH HENESSEY - DRIVING

Henessey checks the rear view mirror -- just in time to see a circular portion of glass POP from the chase car's window. Out comes a gun muzzle.

The guy opens up on full auto. Rakes the Bronco, STRAFES it. Henessey swerves madly -- no go. Death run. He's not coming home, not this time.

CHARLY BALTIMORE hurtles forward, SPEED SKATING across the frozen pond toward the chase vehicles. Long, coltish legs, to die for.

She goes SIDESLIPPING at superhuman speed. Tacks alongside the government sedan. Targets the bald guy's head. Raises the .45 and FIRES. Not to be graphic, but the car's driver receives the bulk of the mess. SPRAYED.

Across the eyes. He loses control, SKIDS OUT. Catapults off the road, onto the ice. Slides right toward Charly, *still doing fifty*...

She doesn't miss a beat. LAUNCHES herself, twisting in midair... Up OVER THE HOOD of the sedan, it blows by underneath her as

ANOTHER ANGLE

The incredible part. In slow motion, she does a DOUBLE AXEL

PIRHOUETTE. Above the hood. Mid-spin, she blows THREE SHOTS

through the windshield. Kills everyone. Keeps going. The car spins twice around. PLOWS to a halt -- Charly hits a picture perfect landing.

On the shore, HENESSEY watches, thunderstruck. Charly skates by the icebound sedan. Flashes a grin at the dying driver:

She delivers a blow to the neck. Kills him. CUT TO:

Henessey and Charly, driving a new vehicle: late model Cadillac. Charly driver. Henessey rifles the glove compartment.

CHARLY

So, Mitch. Still think I'm warm and fuzzy?

CHARLY

Exactly. What's in the glove box? HENESSEY

Phone bill, Christmas card... Five

buck, swell. You didn't have to kill him, you know.

There is a short, CHIRPING sound. Seemingly from nowhere. They exchange puzzled looks, what the hell...? Charly abruptly realizes it's coming from her purse. She reaches in, scoops up the CELLULAR PHONE, the one she told Caitlin to call. Thumbs the button. Says cautiously:

A voice, then... Clipped tones, TIMOTHY'S voice: TIMOTHY (0.S.) It's me, I got your kid. Give your location, we gotta lose the cellular.

Charly. Hand gripped tight on the phone. Pause, then:

TIMOTHY

Okay, here's how we do it. Drive to Harrison, find their main bus stop. Pay phone, fifteen minutes. Better

drive fast, after five rings I hang

up. Click.

The detective's mind, racing... suddenly it hits him:

HENESSEY (CONT’D)

Shit. Service centers...! They list "em on the back of phone bills, right?

As he rips open the bill we CUT TO:

A neutral background, as Charly's HEAD enters frame, we're

very tight on her FACE... Tense, thin-lipped. A PHONE RINGS, deafening. Click -- Charly speaks tersely: CHARLY

Verify you have her.

below Mommy loves you... Picture of a panda. Dog, panda, it's got funky ears.

CLOSE ON CHARLY: Dead still. Made of glass.

He hangs up. Dead silence. HOLD on Charly's face... until slowly, ever so slowly, the camera pulls back to REVEAL:

The .45 automatic -- Pointed at the head of an AT&T operator. THE PHONE COMPANY, they've taken it over. Employees CRINGE on the floor. Henessey, MP-5 slung on his shoulder, leveled. Charly points to the switchboard:

Set back from the mountain road, a lonely MOTEL. A neon Sign: *Deer Lick Motel*, No vacancies. The sign sits atop a rusty pole. Blinks forlornly.

TIMOTHY hangs up and turns to MR. PERKINS, seated across the room:

Perkins crosses to the bed. Rubs tired eyes. Gazes down at Caitlin. Asleep, a syringe on the nightstand beside her. Next to a brown paper bag.

Perkins follows his gaze: the brown paper bag. Smiles thinly.

He reaches into the paper bag and brings out a BABY DOLL. Sweet, innocent. Frilly with lace. A bright red bow.

popular item. It... well, it pees. You put water in it and... oh, fuck you.

Charly and Henessey, eating at HARDEE'S. Seated across from each other at an orange plastic table, scarfing Christmas burgers. Outside, a billboard reads: WELCOME TO SANTA CLAUS! *Where it's Christmas all year long*!

guy.

She knows she's shocking him, rubs it in:

The look in her eyes is feral.

Full dark now, the fun begins... A TANKER TRUCK rumbles up the mountain road. Pulls up before the Deer Lick Motel. MEN IN SUITS wield flashlights, motioning the truck forward into a cavernous GARAGE. Inside, men in BLUE JUMPSUITS operate cranes, maneuver a FILL TANK into place above the truck.

In the distance, as the tanker enters the garage -- CHARLY BALTIMORE drops into frame. Lands and rolls, cat-quick. Comes up behind a scrawny pine. Scans through a pair of Zeiss Nightvision binoculars.

Welcome to the extraction. No more fun and games, tonight it's a survival-zero operation.

HENESSEY appears at her elbow. Lugging the ordnance bag. He sees Charly lower the binoculars, head in hands.

CHARLY

Fucking Chapter, that's who. Timothy acting alone, Caitlin had a chance. Now...? She's dead meat.

As the tanker snorts to a halt, TIMOTHY pulls up, driving a bright red Jaguar. Gets out as a blue-suit trots up:

Fuck the cleaning, just drain it and reload. Chop-chop, I'm going bunjee jumping after this.

Charly and Henessey. Kneeling. He speaks tersely:

Charly studies the encampment. Armed men. Impossible odds. Draws a long ragged breath and flops on the ground. Props her back against a tree. Staring. Lights a cigarette:

She looks up at the sky. Face troubled.

CHARLY (CONT’D)

At the end... there she was, this pretty little girl at the bottom of the ocean, smiling at me. Three years old, didn't know Daddies hid in closets, not yet. Stared up at me in the strangest way... saying how'd it come to this, we were so pretty and perfect, now look at us, sinking with our head all open... Said when she grew up she was gonna teach school. She couldn't wait.

She heaves a sigh. Threads a silencer on a baretta.

Henessey nods. Pause -- she does something unexpected. Leans over and kisses him hard on the lips. He reacts, startled. She pulls back, the oddest look on her face.

She kisses him again. Softly. Tenderly. Pulls back, turns without a word.

me it... looks like a machine or something. You don't like it, don't look.

She moves off toward the trees. Henessey shifts from foot to foot, awkwardly. Opens his mouth --

She's gone, like a wraith. CUT TO:

SERIES OF SHOTS: Charly, on the prowl. In and out of the trees... BURYING C-4 CHARGES. In bushes. In snowdrifts. She crawls to woods' edge, peers out -- The motel stands solemn and bedraggled. Draws a sharp breath -- !

There's a LIT CANDLE in the window of 17. CUT TO:

A gray-suited SENTRY. Poised on a wooded slope. He puts a walkie-talkie to his lips and says:

CHARLY, out of nowhere. Lightning fast. Hand, clamped on mouth. In goes the knife. Deep. He burbles blood. Drops. Before he hits, Charly's already switched from knife to gun and moved on.

Charly appears from the shadows. Ghosts up to the window of door, taps lightly. Watches the PEEPHOLE, a tiny pinprick of light. Abruptly darkened by a human eye --

She presses the silenced Beretta to the hole and fires. Sputs of splinters. From behind the door, a muffled thud. She goes to work on the lock.

BACK WITH HENESSEY - MINUTES HAVE PASSED Henessey lies prone, binoculars trained on the motel.

Behind him, a tiny, sharp click--! TIMOTHY has a Skorpion machine pistol aimed at his head.

The killer speaks into a radio unit, a single word --

POP-! go the Kleig lights. BRILLIANCE, blinding -- CATCHES CHARLY coming out of 17. Pins her dead to rights. Unconscious DAUGHTER cradled in her arms. Tiny DOLL cradled in the kid's. Charly runs, as the ground around her erupts like a SHELLBURST.

TIMOTHY, MEANWHILE, shouting into his walkie-talkie, saying:

Henessey watches, helpless and PANICKED, as Charly tumbles BACKWARD. Crashes through a CELLAR ACCESS, it splinters beneath her...! Plunges into blackness.

She hits, cushions the kid. Grunt of PAIN... THE DARKNESS EXPLODES into kaleidoscopic FLASHES OF GUNFIRE, Charly strafe it all. Blows through the clip, hits the lights:

She's killed household items. BRICK WALLS, blasted. Rusty tools, faded signs -- THREE TEN-GALLON GAS CANS which she's managed to PERFORATE, good one, Charly... The gas comes bubbling out on burps and splatters, drenching the floor.

Charly casts about for an escape route. Set into the brick wall, a huge steel DOOR. She flings it open -- MEAT LOCKER. Nothing there, no help. Eyes darting. Possessed.

A GRAVELY VOICE wafts down from above, then. Deadly serious:

VOICE (0.S.) I smell gasoline, you have a little accident...? I got plenty of matches up here. Bad way for a kid to go. Thirty seconds, think it over.

CHARLY stands in place, mind racing... Caitlin's DOLL. Regards her dully. Plastic smile like it knows a secret. CUT TO:

A MATCH FLARES as it descends into the bowl of a pipe... MR. PERKINS puffs mightily. Turns and favors CHARLY and HENESSEY with a thoughtful gaze, they're handcuffed to radiator... TIMOTHY straddles a nearby chair. Smiles and says:

He crosses to the fireplace, flips the match inside.

Pause. Suddenly Charly's eyes go wide. She whispers:

Comprehension, dawning. She looks up in disbelief.

CHARLY

Theory, my ass. I think some terrorists were planning a strike. Bought supplies from Daedalus, that's how you knew they were coming...

(eyes widening) No way. Don't tell me you're gonna sit there and let them go through with it, *just to get a budget increase*.

Perkins shrugs philosophically.

PERKINS

No. This time, the terrorist event

will come off precisely as planned. This time the terrorists can't muck it up... because we've killed them

and taken over.

Charly and Henessey react, startled...

On the move. Our two heroes, shepherded across the compound.

Timothy's casualness is belied by the presence of two dyspeptic GUARDS, each keeping a safe distance.

A POCK-FACED AGENT approaches briskly, RIFLE across his shoulder. Holds out his hand:

Timothy studies it: C-4 CHARGE with remote detonation unit.

The agent rushes off. Timothy looks at Charly reproachfully:

Moves like lightning. WHACK-! Kidney shot. Charly stumbles, vision going black. Fights for balance. Henessey starts to react but a GUN MUZZLE stops him. Charly straightens. Grits her teeth, says:

Timothy and the guards exchange looks. Cracking up, they can't believe it -- Charly's not laughing. Looks at Timothy with hooded, lifeless eyes:

Timothy lights a cigarette. Studies Charly.

He casually points to the neighboring valley, where Christmas lights twinkle.

(MORE )

Pause. Charly summons herself. Her voice a dull rasp: CHARLY Listen to me, Timothy. Please. Let

my kid go.

She shakes her head:

(spits blood) Because they're yours, motherfucker.

She stares Timothy full in the face. CHARLY (CONT’D) That night in Paris, I got pregnant. The little girl's your daughter. Dead silence. A pause... Then Timothy brays LAUGHTER.

Hooting out loud. Tears, streaming... He manages to bring himself under control. Stops, gestures to the CELLAR ACCESS, the dark awaits...

Charly fights to contain herself.

TIMOTHY

The freezer's downstairs, Charly. Let's get it done.

Charly and Henessey are separated at gunpoint. A look passes between them. Henessey swallows hard.

Charly goes through the opening.

The same CELLAR she occupied earlier. Timothy behind her, he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Caitlin is sitting in a chair.

Bundled in flannel, clutching her baby doll, the one Perkins bought for her. She looks up at Charly dully. Sucking her thumb.

Charly composes herself.

huh...? What's the next part?

Say...

Charly licks her lips. Easy, Charly, keep cool, she mustn't die afraid...

He points to the STEEL DOOR of the meat freezer. The guard opens it onto a gleaming silver CHAMBER. Timothy calmly adjusts the thermostat. Sub zero. The guard reaches for Caitlin's doll... Charly snatches it back. Face etched in disgust.

He subsides, unable to meet her gaze. At which point, Timothy tosses her the WOODEN BOX.

You don't want to ever be on the receiving end of the LOOK she gives him... Steps into the freezer, holding Caitlin. As the door starts to swing shut, she says:

She flashes him her most DAZZLING smile -- The whole room lights up. She can do that. As the door erases her from view, a chill dances up Timothy's spine... because there was

nothing resembling doubt on her face.

CHARLY crosses with Caitlin to the far corner.

Moves. Quick. Methodical. Breaks open the BOX: Sure enough, a hunting knife. Without missing a beat, she crosses to the STEEL DOOR. Kneels and begins DIGGING at the bottom edge. CARVING into the brick, what the hell...?

Henessey, by the window. Tied to a chair. Timothy paces before him, carrying three razor-keen SCALPELS. Pegs one into the wall with deadly accuracy.

Henessey reacts, startled. Timothy chuckles:

TIMOTHY

Uh-uh. They find Chapter, caught with their pants down. See, Mitch, I dumped in a much faster chemical catalyst...

(beat) The tanker's gonna blow *tonight*. In the center of town, thirty-five minutes from now.

CHARLY, sweating at sub zero. Brushes hair from her eyes. Blinks. Still jabbing with the knife, *why the hell is she digging*? Gonna crawl under the damn door? She's gone loopy. Lying flat, she appraises her work --

A TINY NOTCH. Poked through to the other side. The actual penetration to daylight: millimeters. Then, she does two seemingly nonsensical things: Crosses to Caitlin -- gently takes the doll from her, then:

Reaches in her mouth. Takes out her RETAINER.

Must be the temperature. Crosses to the door again. Kneels down. Calmly, with infinite care, takes the retainer...

Inverts it, now it's *trough*-shaped. Holds it flush against the tiny NOTCH she carved. BABY DOLL, now. Holds it directly above the retainer. Depresses the KNOB in its back:

It pees gasoline. Gas, trickling down the retainer, through the brick -- into the other ROOM.

Not much. Enough. She stands. DRAWS A TRAIL with the doll. Crosses, dribbling, over to Caitlin. Hands the doll back to her. What next..?

She grabs the hunting knife, that's what. RAISES IT HIGH -- One terrifying moment, is she gonna put it in the kid...? Hardly. Brings it down on the floor. Slams it down.

Tries again. And again. STRIKING, over and over. Floor RINGS with the effort --

But in the end, it's just not gonna happen. *Won't work*. Lets go a GROAN of despair:

She collapses forward. Cradles her head in frustration. There's a tiny tap in her shoulder.

Charly looks up, face haggard and depleted... Caitlin's eyes, alive again. No longer dulled. Kid reaches inside her CAST and brings out a pack of matches.

Charly stares, dumbstruck, at the tiny gift.

The bitterness, the self-hatred, all of it. Under innocent eyes on Christmas Eve DETONATES, blown sky-high, and she sweeps up her daughter and cradles her, tears streaming...

Caitlin pulls back, looks flush in her mother's face.

From a dark and cold place, Caitlin has led her home. Charly's eyes, like steel. A harsh whisper:

Henessey, straining against his bonds. Sweating. TIMOTHY Charly's stash. What's the number

of the locker, Mitch...?

TIMOTHY across the room, a good forty feet.

Smiling, he raises a scalpel. Eyes dead like a rat's.

The flame hovers above the gasoline trail. CHARLY When I tell you, scream as loud as you can, or else your ears'1ll get

hurt.

A tiny nod. Charly calmly touches fire to the fuel. Cradles Caitlin to her chest, gently strokes her hair...

The flame races across the room. Hits the steel door. And zip! Vanishes through the NOTCH. A pause...

THE BASEMENT BLOWS SKY-HIGH.

Wooden walls, obliterated. Boards sheared. Atomized. THE MEAT LOCKER DOOR blows inward like a cannon shot. Holds to its hinges, buckled like JIFFY POP.

TIMOTHY'S THROW is off target, sticks in Henessey's chair. Between his legs. Inches. Then the assassin LEAVES HIS FEET, look of comic surprise -- as the walls behind him disintegrate in FLAME. Henessey cries out, blinded as

He's blown backward OUT THE WINDOW. Chair and all, lofting across the middle distance... blasts through the MOTEL SIGN. Blows it to SPLINTERS. Tumbles, and over end... lands, WHAM. Atop the garage's CORRUGATED ROOF. Chair flies to sticks.

A BLUE SUIT spins, startled. Gun comes up -- Henessey doesn't miss a beat. Reaches between his legs. Plucks the KNIFE from the wood and slings it...! Guy takes it in the head, drops. Some days you get lucky.

He looks up in disbelief. FIREBALL, raging to Heaven.

TIMOTHY staggers from the smoke. Nicked and bloodied -- ALIVE. Rushes into the cavernous GARAGE, where blue-suits scuttle like ants. Points to the tanker, face crazed:

Caitlin in tow, SMOKE everywhere. Running flat out across the compound. Eyes ticking back and forth, missing nothing... Sees a gun on the ground, scoops it up: promptly DROPS IT, the fucking thing's red hot.

That's when the POCK-FACED KILLER lurches out of the smoke, blade arcing for her throat.

She goes under the blade. SLAMS him. Down they go, hit the dirt -- CAITLIN beats feet, vanishes into the smoke.

Charly, fighting for her life. Manages to KICK FREE. He rears up. Poised to hurl the KNIFE. Charly, dives, rolls -- scoops up the gun and SCREAMS as her flesh sizzles and it spurts three times and blows him down.

Doesn't stop. Rips the AUTOMATIC RIFLE from his shoulder. Rummages in his coat -- Cube of C-4. Even better. Casts about, searching the smoke... No sign of her daughter.

CAITLIN darts in and out of the trees. Frightened. In the background, men rush back and forth. The MOTEL burns merrily. Then, above the shouts, A RUMBLING noise, she darts a look -- as THE TANKER comes trundling out of the garage.

POV CAITLIN: Attached to the rear of the truck bed, a bright yellow UTILITY BOX, roughly three by three. As the driver idles, waiting for the road to clear -- Caitlin BREAKS COVER. Runs and climbs inside the box, and meanwhile

Her mother. Crouched behind Timothy's RED JAGUAR. Scans through the rifle's Starlight Scope. Sweating. Intense. We see the landscape, cast in ghostly GREEN.

*There*. Bingo. Charly watches through the scope as a TINY GREEN CAITLIN climbs into the box and shuts the lid. Unfortunately, a nearby blue-suit has WITNESSED this. He looks around, stabbing a finger at the box:

A bullet slams him backward in a cut-string sprawl.

MEANWHILE, ELSEWHERE ON THE GROUNDS

HENESSEY, on the move. Crouched low. Choking on woodsmoke, eyes streaming. Up ahead, a splayed CORPSE -- He hunkers over the poor schmuck, guy's good for a radio. Snatches up the portable unit. Fumbles with the dial, searching for 26. megahertz...

CHARLY slews to a stop in the red Jag. Leaps out. Darts along the cliff, throws herself flat. Peering down at the grounds, sniper rifle positioned -- Babysitting the tanker.

HEARS HENESSEY... Calling to her on the radio.

Grabs the unit from her belt:

Henessey draws a sharp breath. Swallows, says: HENESSEY Charly, Timothy rigged the tanker to go off early. We got fifteen minutes. No more. On her reaction we CUT TO:

Beside the tanker, A PANEL TRUCK sits, engine idling. Phony logo on its side -- *Little Debbie* snack cakes.

A RAMP is lowered, and a CAR begins backing up into the truckbed, facing outwards.

INSIDE THE TRUCKBED, harried blue-suits hurriedly unwrap the frost-covered corpse of IMN AL RAHMAN -- and place him behind the wheel.

MEANWHILE, AT THE BACK OF THE TANKER

A blue-suit puts a PADLOCK on the utility box as he passes. SNAPS IT SHUT.

BACK WITH HENESSEY - SAME TIME

He hears two flat CRACK-!s on the still air.

Even over the receiver, her desperation's apparent:

Henessey rubs his eyes. Takes several deeps breaths, mind turning it over. He looks up. Tired. Haunted.

He stuffs a fresh clip in the gun. Wipes away sweat. HENESSEY (CONT’D) (to himself) C'mon, buddy. Do one thing right, just this once... please...

Closes his eyes. Gathers himself. Long pause...

He leaps from the roof and makes a death run.

Gun in one hand, radio in the other. Swerving and dodging like a broken-field runner, CHARLY in his ear screaming:

He spins, BLASTS AWAY, dead guy, pitching forward -- SMOKE, billowing, making him COUGH...

Stumbling, catching himself. Barreling forward.

He breaks right.

He staggers out of the smoke: TWO MEN, MP-5 machine guns. Trained on his chest. He struggles to aim, oh, shit -- Two distant CRACKS. The bad men go away, catapulted backwards. Henessey shouts into the radio:

UP ABOVE, ON THE HILL

CHARLY fires shot after shot. Every time she squeezes the trigger, someone dies. No such thing as wounded, we're talking St. Peter looks up from a magazine and says holy shit, it's the lunch rush at Kate Mantilini's.

BACK DOWN BELOW

The smoke clears and Mitch sees the tanker. Right there, thirty yards away. Yellow UTILITY BOX. No one in the way.

He breaks for the truck.

Everybody fires a gun.

MITCH GETS HIT

Takes one high in the chest, SPINS him...! UP ON THE HILL

CHARLY SPRAYS on full auto, DICES TO TATTERS the combat zone, extinguishing the gunmen, too little too late because

MITCH IS IN DEEP

BAM--! bullet takes out his right arm, fuck *you*, buddy, doesn't miss a beat, simply tosses the gun over to the other hand and KEEPS SHOOTING, blows that fucker down and now he's staggering into the trees, and collapses, and HITS... And lies very still and bleeds. As ECHOES of gunfire die slowly, we HEAR:

BACK WITH

In big trouble. MANY HEADLIGHTS, bouncing uphill toward her. Cut off, they've cut her off -- The other direction ain't much better: A 200 FOOT DROP. Straight down. Evergreen trees, far below. Power lines. Highway.

She hears the PHONE RINGING, then... inside the Jag. Crosses slowly. Reaches in, lifts the receiver. It's TIMOTHY.

He clicks off. Charly drops the receiver. Turns, looks behind: They're coming for her.

Woods filled with headlights. Backlit FIGURES. Ducking in and out of the trees, getting closer... The wind blows.

Bitter cold out here in the dark night of the soul. Nothing left. No hope. No reason.

Caitlin, dead.

The rage explodes in the form of a kick which SHATTERS the lock on the trunk. *Dammit*, she needs a fucking miracle.

At that moment, the trunk lid slowly rises, CREAKING... Revealing all of Timothy's BUNJEE JUMPING EQUIPMENT.

The TANKER is rolling. Out onto the road, snorting and belching. Preceded by the Little Debbie PANEL TRUCK.

Poor little Caitlin huddles in the dark. All alone. ROARING in her ears. Sort of like being underwater.

A silver device attached to the skin of the tank. WITH TIMOTHY - CROSSING THE SMOKE-FILLED GROUNDS

He consults a tiny, liquid crystal display on his watch. Red numerals. *178 degrees*.

She won't quit. Busy now, deftly sticking the wad of C-4 EXPLOSIVE to the bottom of the Jaguar. Straightens. Turns

around --

Stands dead calm as they all come out of the TREES, guns drawn... Raises her hands, see, boys...? No bang-bang.

Like backlit monsters, they approach, hulking. Matter of yards, now... She flashes a naughty little smile --

Goes backward off the cliff and rockets earthward.

feet of open air, THE BUNJEE Cord pays out, fast...! Whipsaws out the door of the Jaguar, hooked by carabiner to the STEERING COLUMN and meanwhile

THE CHAPTER AGENTS

Rush forward, incredulous. Peer OVER THE EDGE: Below them, a swan diver, BLACKNESS all around. She drops like a stone. Vanishes into the fog, beautiful as a poem.

INSIDE THE JAGUAR: The cord goes taut -- Now it starts to stretch outward. DECELERATION kicking in, Charly can FEEL it, still whistling through space...

Hits a dead stop.

This is it. Cord, stretched as far as it goes.

She's still sixty feet above the highway.

No hesitation whatsoever. She thumbs the DETONATOR in her right fist --

Blows the car.

UP ABOVE - CLIFF'S EDGE

The Jaguar goes up with a solid CRUMP--! Blown off the edge of the cliff. Along with a half dozen screaming AGENTS. BACK WITH CHARLY - FALLING

Lifeline cut. 60 feet above the road, no problem. She does thirty feet in freefall. Raises her left hand --

Slaps a carabiner on a passing POWER LINE. Hurtles downward until suddenly, KA-CHUK--! She LURCHES to a stop.

Doesn't miss a beat: Grips a rope and GLIDES the last thirty feet, touches down lightly. Unhooks herself, turns as AN ONCOMING CAR throws a fishtail SKID, just misses her. Driver

Puts a hole in the passenger side windshield and the DRIVER ain't sticking around, he's out the door and gone as

CHARLY THE EXTERMINATOR

Crosses to the car, face a stone mask. Behind her the FLAMING JAGUAR SMASHES to the ground, raining fragments -- Followed by BURNING CORPSES, smacking the pavement one after another. She doesn't even look. Gets behind the wheel. Leaves most of her tires on the road behind her.

Milling crowds. Music and laughter. SANTA heads up a TEEMING PARADE down Main Street, atop a horse-drawn sleigh... Replay of the film's opening, as

The gleaming TANKER roars down a sidestreet. Riding point: the innocuous PANEL TRUCK.

The temperature gauge continues to RISE: *203 degrees*.

Charly runs a roadblock, doing fifty -- Someone put a PARADE in front of her. Hits the BRAKES...! Fishtales into a

mailbox. Sends it flying through a plate glass window. Out of the car, gun held low, and meanwhile --

TIMOTHY barks orders into a mic:

Racing toward the edge of town and meanwhile ON THE PARADE ROUTE

SANTA CLAUS himself perches atop his sleigh, feeling like a rock star and wishing his groupies were legal... when suddenly he's got company.

The rogue colonel FIRES A SHOT in the air -- THE HORSES bolt. Plunging off the parade route amid SCREAMS as

MR. PERKINS hunkers forward, face slack, as a tinny VOICE issues from his headset mic:

VOICE (0O.S.) ...yes, she's with Santa Claus, correct, er, excuse me, the individual *playing* Santa, er... they're pursuing the tanker truck, sir.

Perkins stares straight ahead, speechless.

SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE TANKER. Horses at full gallop, hooves in pounding frenzy. Charly tries to JUMP from one to the other -- no go, the tanker pulls away, widening the distance, and meanwhile

TWO GOVERNMENT SEDANS

Come whipping out of ALLEYS, fall in behind them. CRACK--! Gunshots, shattering the stillness.

A RICOCHET whines off a hydraulic cable. Spurt of fluid as the BRAKES start to go, and meanwhile

CHARLY throws herself flat next to Santa.

The SEDANS jockey for position, try to pull ABREAST -- Charly swerves the sleigh back and forth, won't let them through. She hands the reigns to Santa.

Santa complies. PEELS OFF to the left -- Opens a TWELVE FOOT chasm between sleigh and tanker. Sure enough, one of the government cars spurts forward to fill the gap, comes ABREAST of them. It's what she wanted.

*FIVE SECONDS*: Charly Baltimore LEAPS from the sleigh, lands atop the government car. Skips lightly across it, casually BLOWS TWO SHOTS through the ROOF. Down through the metal. Drilling into their heads. Driver and passenger, killed instantly --

As Charly hops nimbly from her 50 mile-an-hour STEPPING STONE. Over to the tanker. Dump-stuffs a new clip, as

THE CORPSE CAR

Fades from the race, driverless. Whipping out of control. FISHTAILS away behind them -- Takes out the SECOND CHASE CAR, spray of metal.

Three seconds, and Charly's taken out two pursuers.

The door files open and the DRIVER sees CHARLY. Bloody.

Demonic. Wisely leaps out, BOUNCES from view -- Charly snags his hat as he goes by, plops it on her head. SWINGS UP into the drivers' seat, double-clutches -- pours on the steam.

Five seconds. She owns the tanker.

BLASTS forward into the lead PANEL TRUCK. Slams the truck from behind, BULLDOZES it -- Sends it THUNDERING into a park bench. Glass sprays.

She owns the road. On the seat beside her: an MP-5 machine gun. She's set. Throws a NINETY DEGREE turn onto a Sidestreet. Donates most of her tires to New York.

Charly's on fire. Senses heightened. Eyes tick back and forth like a machine. Heading downhill, out of town...

She hits the brakes. A flash of SPARKS..! A ripping WHINE, dies away -- The brake pedal is all play. Nothing. She's in a runaway truck.

Barreling onward. A lunging behemoth.

CHAIN-LINK FENCE, at road's end. Beyond it, a quarter-mile plunge. Downhill over rocky terrain --

To St. PETER'S SEMINARY. Looming stone structure. Closed now. Vast empty PARKING LOT.

Tears on her cheeks. Lights a cigarette. Takes a long drag, exhales:

Blows through the chain-link fence.

SHUDDERS AND LEAPS DOWNHILL. Mud blows skyward. Trees, blasted to splinters.

CAITLIN

Buffeted inside the UTILITY BOX.

Cries out as IN THE CAB Charly fights to contain the beast. "Fuck you," slyly retorts the beast. She BOUNCES and caroms off the sides like a mad pinball -- THE TRUCK SMASHES DOWN And all the windows BLOW OUT concussively and the front tires go with a volcano CRACK-! as the beast goes canting to one side, ponderous, MASSIVE... It keels over on its side. Still doing fifty. TRAVERSES THE PARKING LOT.

Slows itself by TAKING OUT LIGHT POLES, shears them off like saplings.

Whacks the side of the chapel. IMPACT. Keeps going...

Charly is EJECTED from the cab. Pinwheels through space like a broken doll, bursts through a STAINED GLASS WINDOW.

The glass ruptures as she catapults through. Hits on her stomach, bounces. Slides to a stop, rolls over --

FLINGS herself aside just in time, as a towering ST. PETER SMASHES to earth an inch from her head, showers marble...!

Concussion dies away. Silence. Echoes.

The tanker slides, DETONATING planters one by one... Comes to rest in a central COURTYARD. Lies there, a hissing

dinosaur.

TIMOTHY'S TEMPERATURE GAUGE is still affixed to the truck's underbelly: *280 degrees*.

Charly, semi-conscious. Rolls onto her back, gasping. Stares at the gathered saints. Swallows hard. Sucking it up, preparing. Rolls to one knee, plants her foot...

She's got to make that truck.

On her feet now. Stumbling forward. One arm hugging her guts. Cross-eyed, so hard to focus... left foot, right foot, get it done, bitch, yes it's *supposed* to hurt that much, flings open the door and she's so brave that for a second we think she might make it.

Timothy kicks her in the head.

Charly flies back. Hits and SLIDES. Fetches up against a

bannister, WHAM--! Timothy calmly shuts the door behind him. Consults his tiny gauge -- *297 degrees*. TIMOTHY

Call it four minutes to detonation. I got a chopper on the way, lots of time.

He sheds his coat. Stows his gun. Removes a SWITCHBLADE. Drapes the coat on the bannister. Flicks open the knife.

He approaches, almost casually. Charly staggers erect. Adopts a killing stance. Instinct. She can barely stand.

PERKINS hears a garbled, pained voice over his headset:

VOICE (0.S.) Point team leader, reporting...

She's... incapacitated the truck... I'm damaged, sir, I believe I'm dying... Instructions...?

PERKINS

Continue dying. Out.

He leans back. Stares sightlessly. Loosens his tie, hits the intercom and says:

I'll bet. Am I right?

Never watching the eyes, the eyes are liars, they watch the

HANDS... The gathered saints look on, neutral. CHARLY Please, man... She's only... eight... she's a beautiful little girl...

His concentration never falters as he says:

He LUNGES with the knife, she spins away -- He gets hold of one arm and FLINGS her, up and over...! She SAILS through space. Twists in mid-air. Lands like a cat. Almost. Staggers forward. They circle...

Charly LAUNCHES herself. Avoids a stab at her throat, eats that for breakfast, spins, slams the knuckles of her right hand into Timothy's ribs. Busts one. He snarls, TRAPS her wrist: CRACK! Wrist, broken. She HISSES in pain, falls back

motherfucking league, dearie.

CLOSE ON CHARLY

She looks up at him from sunken eyes shot through with red, and in those eyes we glimpse it; the DEMON, laughing... as Charly whispers:

HANDS HIM HER SHOULDER, all that's missing is the plate --

And WHAM. In goes the knife, cuts deep and Charly looks him in the eye and GRINS because sure enough, there's the bastard's KNEE, wide open...

Boot-strikes, BAM--! Shears the knee, and Timothy HOWLS in agony. Stumbles backward into the bannister --

Grabs his coat. Brings out the gun, it GOES OFF--!

Charly dives for cover. Rips the knife from her own shoulder and flings it.

Takes him in the shoulder. Topples him back. BANNISTER. Up and over, flailing...! Drops from sight.

Charly falls back. Pause. Sucking air. Sits down hard. Legs splayed. Looks down at herself, oh, God...

There's a hole in her chest.

The doors burst open and here she comes. Trauma, severe. Shock, blood loss -- She makes for the tanker. For her kid. Hitches. Staggers. Going on sheer guts.

She raises her gun. Fires. BAM-! Lock springs to pieces. CAITLIN tumbles to the pavement, dazed and confused. Casts about --

She springs to her feet. Comes running and flings both arms around her mother. HUGS HER -- That one puts Charly out for a few seconds. PAIN, excruciating. Comes to her senses, swaying like a clothesline in a high wind...

Charly grabs Caitlin's head. Turns it. Facing the TEMPERATURE GAUGE. Red numerals: *301 degrees*.

go...

Caitlin hovers, torn. Charly summons a gutteral CROAK:

In the end, Caitlin relents. RUNS, toward the surrounding woods... Charly watches her go. Nods, satisfied -- Collapses. Hits the tarmac and splays in a heap. Breath wheezing in and out. Already the pavement is staining red.

It isn't moving. It isn't breathing. It isn't laughing or crying...

Or hurting, not anymore.

Bomb forgotten. Danger forgotten. Her tiny arms pumping, feet slapping pavement -- She returns to her mother. Grabs one knife-bloodied shoulder, oblivious of the wound. Jerks back and forth. Frenzied.

CHARLY. Cheek against the pavement. One lifeless eye STARES. Bloodshot and sightless.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Government vehicles, pulling up now. At the edge of the parking lot. 100 yards away, give or take. Numerous SEDANS. The Little Debbie panel truck. AGENTS crouch behind cars. Weapons trained on the wounded behemoth.

The side door BURSTS OUTWARD and a limping figure emerges, frantically signaling for the chopper: TIMOTHY'S got murder in his eye. THE CHOPPER banks, coming in low as he hauls himself aboard.

He grabs an automatic rifle. BACK WITH CAITLIN - UNDERNEATH THE TANKER

She adheres to Charly's motionless form. Looking small and terrified. Whispers in her mother's ear. Soft and low:

Face contorted, she strikes out. Flails. HITS Charly.

(MORE)

Tears coursing in rivulets. Little fists clenched. Then -- It might be a trick of the wind. Tiny aspiration, not enough breath to fog a mirror...

A solitary tear appears in the wide-open staring eye. One fingernail, then. Scratches feebly. Toes, shifting. Seeking purchase. A HAND, planting itself... TEETH BARED, a rictus of pain... Rising up...

*Standing*. Full height now, flexing one deadly arm. She hugs her daughter and says:

Overhead, the HOWLING of rotor blades. Charly gasps for breath. Cracks open the GUN... no bullets. Swell. Scans the pavement... There. THE MP-5 machine gun lies twenty feet from her. Twenty miles, same difference. Across the pavement, even farther away: Timothy's car.

*305 degrees*. Charly swallows hard:

They break cover. Into the open. A WITHERING FIRE ERUPTS. Right at their feet...! Geysers of asphalt, shot skyward --

TIMOTHY sprays the blacktop from above. Ruthless. Charly goes insane. Lurches, crazed, to the cab of the truck. Thumbs the mike and says:

EYES SNAP OPEN IN DARKNESS. We don't know whose they are. We don't know where we are.

The temperature gauge: *308 degrees*. She clutches Caitlin. Shouting into the mic:

A sour-looking CHAPTER AGENT stands before a row of cars and the Little Debbie panel truck. Expressionless beaurocrat. Lifts the mic to his lips and says:

Behind him, the back of the panel truck EXPLODES. A car CATAPULTS outward into space -- SMASHES DOWN atop two sedans. Blows out their windshields. Flings itself to the pavement and RICOCHETS forward, zero to sixty.

*Distraction*, just enough: The pilot banks toward the CAR.

Timothy grabs the stick -- THAT'S WHEN CHARLY BREAKS COVER. Does a MAD STAGGER across the blacktop. Goes for the GUN.

TIMOTHY CHANGES DIRECTION. Chopper again, SCREAMING in low and fast --

CHARLY dives, rolls -- Comes up with the MACHINE GUN and falls flat on her back, points it skyward:

She fires. Blows the chopper's TAIL ROTOR. The craft pitches to the side -- Dumps Timothy out the door. Flailing.

Head over heels, he FALLS -- Lands atop the TANKER, right on the silver tank and *burns*. Actually SIZZLES at 310 degrees Celsius, steam pouring off him like a vampire in daylight,

SHRIEKING--! CHARLY (CONT’D) Die screaming, motherfucker. She watches as he slips from sight... off the tanker. SIRENS

now, approaching. Wind, biting cold. Ground black and bloody in the moonlight...

HERE COMES HENESSEY, powers across the lot, pedal to the metal. Followed at a distance of fifty yards by half a dozen squawling GOVERNMENT VEHICLES, flashers turning.

Henessey stomps the brake. SLEWS to a stop, tires cooking...! KICKS open the passenger door as Charly collapses into the car, CAITLIN in her arms. The kid says:

He PEELS OUT.

He inadvertently smacks a light pole. SPARKS fly. CAITLIN

*You're a bad driver! Who said you could drive*?

They have to drag Timothy inside the car. The engine ROARS as it leaps forward, trailing the other FIVE -- Scarred and hideous, he stares after Charly, screaming:

That's when the helicopter crashes. The pilot does everything but flap his arms -- Forget it. IT KEELS OVER. Rotor touches pavement -- Blows to pieces. They ALL go. Snapped off. Blown like rockets in every direction.

TIMOTHY LOOKS UP as a rotor blade whistles right through the windshield of his car. Shears off his HEAD. Blows out the BACK in a shower of glass and hurtles onward, SPINNING out of control...

Strikes the tanker. Boom.

Imagine God in Monte Carlo. Tossing dice the length of a craps table. Now, imagine the dice are BURNING CARS.

Henessey flies out of the parking lot and INTO the WOODS as the firestorm RAGES TO HEAVEN behind him. Cars, heading his way -- AIRBORNE. Fights the wheel, swerving through the woods as all around him, FLAMING CARS crash down. BOUNCING into and out of the trees, peekaboo...

Some go flying past OVERHEAD. Striking in front like meteors, GOUGING the earth. Caitlin screams:

Henessey favors her with a foul look. CHARLY looks up and sees ANGELS flying overhead, trailing concrete...

Then they're OUT OF THE WOODS. Car slingshots onto the highway and races forward, SAFE. Behind it, the sky is aglow, SNOWING fiery traces... Bits of earth, trees, pavement.

OVERHEAD VIEW: As they roar out of town, we see burning woods and a CRATER approximately 150 yards in diameter -- St. Peter's Seminary no longer exists... CUT TO:

Henessey coasts to the side of the road and stops. He lays his head on the steering wheel, sucking air. Looks at Charly:

Charly offers him that soft, sad little smile.

Henessey starts to fade... breathing labored... Reaches up... strokes Caitlin's hair. Smiles at her:

Slumps back in the seat. Gazing at Charly. A single tear runs from one bloodshot eye. He whispers:

HENESSEY (CONT’D)

Scared... to be nobody... without a

ripple... please... remember me... (beat)

...Love you...

Dies.

Charly leans on the dash. Cries for awhile. For herself... for Henessey... for this Godawful planet, and everything else. DISSOLVE TO:

A MOTHER SITS in the glow of a Winnie the Pooh nightlight. Next to her sleeping daughter's bed -- back to the very beginning of the film, it's been a long kiss goodnight.

An elderly FARMER pokes his head in. She doesn't look up.

The shadowy figure nods... Remains seated. Stays awhile in the dark. Keeping vigil. Snow slithers against the glass.

MR. PERKINS emerges from a guest cottage, flanked by his aide Harry.

Harry's FOOT comes down on a circular slab of STONE -- anda voice from the grave says:

VOICE (0O.S.) Stay very still.

Stops him in his tracks, stops him dead --

As CHARLY BALTIMORE steps from the nearby trees. Stands, twenty yards downrange. Beretta leveled at both of them.

Two months, you barely notice the limp. She stands there in sleeveless top and short skirt and looks like a million. Thumbs a metal box, click-! A red ARMING LIGHT blinks on.

PERKINS steps forward. The gun shifts. Targets him.

She reaches in a pocket. Tosses him a cellular phone -- He catches it as though it were a live snake.

promise. PERKINS You... you promise. He swallows hard. Looks to his aide... back to her... DIALS.

Charly takes a deep breath. Scans the flowers, face placid. It's really quite lovely today. Maybe she'll start a garden.

Perkins clicks off. Look at Charly:

PERKINS (CONT’D)

It's done. Now, you promise... you won't shoot me... won't make me get on the mine...?

CHARLY

I promise. She smiles. Shifts her aim and shoots the other guy. Perkins' eyes WIDEN in sudden realization. He LUNGES

forward, grabs the aide, holding him up... desperately propping his dead weight atop the land mine...

Henessey's CHRYSLER CONVERTIBLE has been restored to a cherry red. It purrs along the boulevard, Charly at the wheel. Hair blowing. She talks on the cellular phone:

Behind her a GOUT OF EARTH blows skyward. Showers the road a ways back.

INTERCUT - PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES He speaks from the oval office, face grave:

Henessey's EX-WIFE stands in the open doorway, flanked by her son TODD. Two uniformed COPS speak solemnly:

UNIFORM COP #1 ...As I say, we can only apologize for the system, Ma'am, but it's confirmed that your husband is innocent of the crime for which he was imprisoned. This is a photograph of the actual criminal...

He shows her a mug shot of TIMOTHY. UNIFORM COP #1 (CONT’D) A petty thief, now deceased. I'1l respect your wishes should you

choose to file charges against the State Attorney...

In the eyes of a young boy, Henessey finds redemption.

Sun, passing into mystery. Wheatfield, rippling. Caitlin is in the yard, chasing a big floppy-eared Labrador.

On the porch, a CRICKET chirps. HAL comes out, sits beside his wife CHARLY as she finishes eating. Says softly:

Pause. Charly says nothing. The dog parades up to Caitlin with a stick in its jaws. A farm truck goes by, a faraway speck.

Charly absent-mindedly rolls a steak knife in her fingers. Eyes far away.

It never occurs to her what she's done until the chirping stops.

Ten feet away, the knife quivers.