Director's Cut by Alton Gansky

drive you to the theater, you can call your producer or director or whomever and ask them to send you a new one. They can email it to me if they want.”
    â€œThey won’t email it, especially to a stranger. I’m telling you, Maddy, movie people are paranoid about these things. You should see the contract I had to sign, preventing me from revealing any thing about the movie, shooting schedule, actors, or anything else until they give me the go-ahead.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “It’s all I can think of to do right now.”
    A sigh escaped her lips. “You’re probably right. The police must have it. I can’t think of what else could have happened to it.”
    We locked up the house and started down the drive. As we did, a thought rose within me. Would someone kill for that script?
    When I reached the end of the driveway, I turned to my right.
    â€œThat’s not the way we came,” Catherine said. She was searching her purse for her cell phone. I hoped that hadn’t gone missing as well.
    â€œI know. I’m taking a different way out. We’ll end up on the freeway at about the same time. I should have you at the theater a few minutes early.”
    â€œOkay.” She found her phone and began entering numbers. A few moments later, I heard her give her name and ask for Charles Buchanan. She sat in silence. I assumed she was on hold. Moments later, Catherine launched into the story about the missing script. I could only hear one side of the conversation, but I was able to glean that Buchanan was conciliatory and perhaps worried about Catherine’s well-being. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.” She said that ten times if she said it once.
    My mind began to wander. We had been driving for only five minutes when I pulled to the shoulder. Catherine gave me a funny look. I mouthed, “I’ll be right back.” She continued her phone conversation as I slipped from the driver’s seat.
    I felt chilled despite the fact that it was a warm October day. Along the coast of Southern California, October isn’t that much different from May. Days are shorter. Nighttime temperatures are a little lower. But that’s it. My chill came not from a breeze but from what was before me. I walked toward a gray metal railing. Posts rose every six feet. The railing was shaped like a rounded W, attached to the posts by thick carriage bolts. The rail was separated from the uprights by a block of wood. The bolt traveled through the metal rail, wood block, and metal uprights. I peered at the back of the post. The bolt was attached with a large washer and a pair of metal nuts. With the right tools, it would be easy to remove the rail.
    I walked a few feet farther along the road and stopped in front of three twisted and bent posts. Their rail was nowhere to be seen. Just beyond the posts, a steep, heavily planted slope shot downward. Some of the plants had been uprooted, and I could see gouges in the bare ground where something hard had impacted the earth.
    This was where Doug Turner’s car had plummeted off the road. The bent metal uprights had been unable to stop it. I shivered. It was a long way down Aberdeen Canyon. It was amazing that Doug was only in a coma and not dead.
    I pulled myself away from the sight and walked back to the car. Catherine was off the phone.
    â€œWhy did you stop here?”
    â€œA rail is missing,” I said. “I wanted to look at it.”
    â€œDoesn’t the city hire people to do that?”
    â€œYes, we do.” I started the car. “How did the call go? Are they sending a script up?”
    â€œYes, and a new driver. Since I have to be in Hollywood in the morning and back in time for opening night, they’re sending a new chauffeur. The script and chauffeur will arrive by dinner tonight. They’re going to meet me at the theater.”
    â€œSo I don’t need to pick you