have.
Sharon
had nearly died.
Her
quick thinking and unerring cop instincts had allowed her to narrowly escape a
horrific death at the hands of Earl Manning, a local drunkard and former lover
of Sharon’s who had been turned into the unwitting – and unwilling
– pawn of cult leader Max Acton. Mike’s inability to save Sharon and the
knowledge that he had nearly lost her forever had made the choice an easy one:
he could always find another job, but the idea of living without the petite,
fiery Sharon Dupont was unacceptable.
And he
had never regretted his decision, not once. But finding work with strictly a
law-enforcement background in a town as remote as Paskagankee, Maine, a stone’s
throw from the Canadian border, was easier said than done, and he had spent
most of the time since his resignation cooling his heels.
He
would have a temporary but lucrative gig in a couple of months. Hollywood was
coming to Paskagankee in the form of a film crew and a bunch of actors Mike had
mostly never heard of to do location shooting for the upcoming motion picture
based on Portland Journal reporter
Melissa Mannheim’s book, NIGHTS OF TERROR.
Mannheim
had written the book two years ago, based on the string of brutal murders that
gripped Paskagankee almost immediately upon Mike’s arrival in the little town.
The book became an instant bestseller, earning Mannheim lots of
money—nobody knew how much and Mannheim wasn’t saying—and, of
course, the obligatory movie deal.
As the
hero who single-handedly stopped the violence, Mike had been approached by the
film’s production company, which had insisted on hiring him as a credited
“special consultant.”
The
problem was Mike McMahon had no desire to be listed as a consultant on a horror
movie. He had lived through the experience first-hand and felt no desire to
revisit those awful days, with Sharon Dupont missing and feared dead. That,
combined with Mike’s certainty that no movie could do justice to the story, led
him to turn the offer down flat, despite the fact it came with a fat paycheck
and few actual duties.
Unused
to being rebuffed, NorthStar Productions management refused to take no for an
answer, and after weeks of email negotiations, they reached a compromise. Mike
would not be listed anywhere in the film’s credits, but would agree to sign on
as temporary head of security for the short time the crew was in town. He would
make himself available to answer questions from the film’s director and stars
on an unofficial consulting basis, and in return would receive a fat check.
Mike
still wasn’t convinced he had done the right thing in signing the contract, but
money was money, and at least the gig would give him something to do for a
while. Unfortunately, the film crew wasn’t due in town for eight weeks, leading
to Mike’s current situation: wearing a pathway in the carpet of Sharon Dupont’s
living room.
He
traipsed through the kitchen, pausing to take a sip of coffee from a cup
strategically placed on the stovetop, then resumed his restless wandering:
through the kitchen, across the living room in front of the couch, sharp left
turn just before crashing into the rarely-used TV, through the dining room, and
then back into the kitchen for more coffee and to start the circuit again.
For the
thousandth time over the last three days, Mike wished the rain would stop
falling so he could walk outside, but a glance out the window confirmed what he
already knew: his wishes weren’t being well-received by the weather gods. The
rain sluiced down in dark gray sheets.
Mike
shook his head in disgust and had just begun another trip around his personal
walking circuit, when the telephone rang, making him jump. He squinted at the
Caller ID screen, surprised to be hearing from Sharon. He had seen her briefly
at lunchtime and didn’t expect to hear from her again until she returned home at
the end of her patrol shift.
The
number glowed on the screen and he realized it
Sharon
had nearly died.
Her
quick thinking and unerring cop instincts had allowed her to narrowly escape a
horrific death at the hands of Earl Manning, a local drunkard and former lover
of Sharon’s who had been turned into the unwitting – and unwilling
– pawn of cult leader Max Acton. Mike’s inability to save Sharon and the
knowledge that he had nearly lost her forever had made the choice an easy one:
he could always find another job, but the idea of living without the petite,
fiery Sharon Dupont was unacceptable.
And he
had never regretted his decision, not once. But finding work with strictly a
law-enforcement background in a town as remote as Paskagankee, Maine, a stone’s
throw from the Canadian border, was easier said than done, and he had spent
most of the time since his resignation cooling his heels.
He
would have a temporary but lucrative gig in a couple of months. Hollywood was
coming to Paskagankee in the form of a film crew and a bunch of actors Mike had
mostly never heard of to do location shooting for the upcoming motion picture
based on Portland Journal reporter
Melissa Mannheim’s book, NIGHTS OF TERROR.
Mannheim
had written the book two years ago, based on the string of brutal murders that
gripped Paskagankee almost immediately upon Mike’s arrival in the little town.
The book became an instant bestseller, earning Mannheim lots of
money—nobody knew how much and Mannheim wasn’t saying—and, of
course, the obligatory movie deal.
As the
hero who single-handedly stopped the violence, Mike had been approached by the
film’s production company, which had insisted on hiring him as a credited
“special consultant.”
The
problem was Mike McMahon had no desire to be listed as a consultant on a horror
movie. He had lived through the experience first-hand and felt no desire to
revisit those awful days, with Sharon Dupont missing and feared dead. That,
combined with Mike’s certainty that no movie could do justice to the story, led
him to turn the offer down flat, despite the fact it came with a fat paycheck
and few actual duties.
Unused
to being rebuffed, NorthStar Productions management refused to take no for an
answer, and after weeks of email negotiations, they reached a compromise. Mike
would not be listed anywhere in the film’s credits, but would agree to sign on
as temporary head of security for the short time the crew was in town. He would
make himself available to answer questions from the film’s director and stars
on an unofficial consulting basis, and in return would receive a fat check.
Mike
still wasn’t convinced he had done the right thing in signing the contract, but
money was money, and at least the gig would give him something to do for a
while. Unfortunately, the film crew wasn’t due in town for eight weeks, leading
to Mike’s current situation: wearing a pathway in the carpet of Sharon Dupont’s
living room.
He
traipsed through the kitchen, pausing to take a sip of coffee from a cup
strategically placed on the stovetop, then resumed his restless wandering:
through the kitchen, across the living room in front of the couch, sharp left
turn just before crashing into the rarely-used TV, through the dining room, and
then back into the kitchen for more coffee and to start the circuit again.
For the
thousandth time over the last three days, Mike wished the rain would stop
falling so he could walk outside, but a glance out the window confirmed what he
already knew: his wishes weren’t being well-received by the weather gods. The
rain sluiced down in dark gray sheets.
Mike
shook his head in disgust and had just begun another trip around his personal
walking circuit, when the telephone rang, making him jump. He squinted at the
Caller ID screen, surprised to be hearing from Sharon. He had seen her briefly
at lunchtime and didn’t expect to hear from her again until she returned home at
the end of her patrol shift.
The
number glowed on the screen and he realized it
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