The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix
THE FINAL GIRL SUPPORT GROUP IX:
Final Girl vs. Final Girl
I’m so surprised that I can’t say anything for a full minute, but that’s okay. Heather does all the talking for me.
“Hi, Heather,” she says, in a mocking voice that I think is meant to be me. “Nice to see you, too. So glad you’re alive. You’re so smart to come to Marilyn’s. I’ve been running around the city all day like a dumb bitch.”
There’s a kitchen behind a pass-through counter on my right, a dark hallway on my left, the living room in front of me with French doors looking out into the dark woods. I step over Heather’s legs and yank the curtains closed.
“I liked those open,” Heather says.
There’s no way to block the kitchen windows or the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the dining nook. The fridge is empty except for a shriveled lemon, a box of Arm & Hammer, and a case of Perrier. I find steak knives in the third drawer I open. I take two.
“Is there a reason you’re messing up my action?” Heather asks.
I go into the hallway and start checking the rest of the house.
“That’s a waste of time because you’re leaving,” Heather calls after me.
Two rooms upstairs, both empty. I check the closets, under the beds, behind the shower curtain in the shared bathroom, underneath the sink. Everywhere I go I leave the lights burning. I can’t tolerate any shadows. I can’t leave any hiding places. I go back downstairs.
“Does this door lock?” I ask, trying to find a deadbolt on the front door.
“I hope not,” Heather says, lighting another cigarette off her first. “That’ll just slow you down if I get shot and you have to run away real fast and leave me bleeding to death on the floor.”
I guess she heard about Julia.
“It was a combat situation,” I say, taking a step toward her, trying to disguise my shame with anger. “I had to make an instant decision.” She makes eye contact, and I stop advancing and lamely add, “I made sure Julia was okay.”
“I bet you did, Cowardly Lion,” she says, dropping her butt in a Perrier bottle, where it sizzles. “Does Marilyn even know you’re here?”
“She told me to wait,” I say, dropping down to sit against the wall by the front door. It’s the only place that’s out of the sightlines of all those wide-open kitchen windows. “She said she’d talk to me in fifty minutes.”
“Yeah, well,” Heather says. “One person is a houseguest, two is a crowd, and I was here first.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“My fucking house exploded and all my shit burned up?” she says. “I’m coming to Marilyn’s. The bitch shits money. Where’d you go? Got Julia shot and ran away crying like a little baby? Well, there’s no room at Casa Marilyn.”
“I need to talk to Marilyn,” I say. “This is serious.”
“Fuck yeah, it’s serious,” Heather says. “Did you see upstairs? There’s a fucking Jacuzzi. You’re going to have to drag me out of this motherfucker, and I will fight you all the way.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I ask.
“I know exactly what’s going on,” Heather says. “Marilyn’s got so much house she doesn’t know what to do with it. I figure I’m doing her a favor staying here while Jerry’s away. Camp out in this fly little guest house for the duration. She’s got servants to do whatever the fuck I want. She and me, we’ll turtle down until all this blows over. I’d say you could stick around and watch my back but I don’t have a death wish.”
“The police are looking for you,” I tell her.
“What’s new?” she says. “I slept in the woods behind the halfway house. Okay, honesty time: I fucking passed out. After group? You bitches harshed my sobriety. Adrienne gone? That’s the kind of shit that makes me need to drink. So I cadged some cash, bought a little Smirnoff Ice, and partied in the woods. I wake up with a killer headache and stroll home just in time to see everything I own on fire and cops crawling all over the place. I get in a cab and forty-five bucks later it’s ‘Yo homes, smell ya later, I’m the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.’ ”
“Someone is gunning for all of us,” I say.
“I’m going to start swimming laps,” Heather says. “Get in shape. Lose some of this flab.”
She pinches an invisible roll of fat around the top of her jeans and shakes it. Heather is a bundle of wire coat hangers squeezed into jeans that are more rip than jean, and covered in bruises, but in her head she still has all her baby fat from high school.
“We need to figure out a strategy,” I say, ignoring her dysfunction.
“A strategy?” Heather laughs, and rummages in her purse. She pulls out a hand-rolled cigarette and lights it off her cigarette. From the smell, it’s not tobacco. “What’re you going to do? Fucking dress up like Batgirl and go swing around the city?”
“How did this person know where your halfway house was?” I ask. “How’d they know where Adrienne lived?”
But even as I say it I know where: my computer. I must have had their addresses in there somewhere.
“Halfway houses are full of chain smokers,” Heather says. “They burn down all the time. Stop trying to be a hero. Everyone feels sorry for you because you’re a paranoid with OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
“I know what OCD is,” I say.
“I know what OCD is,” she mimics. “Fucking Forrest Gump over here, you can barely walk through a door without having a nervous breakdown and you’re going to help anyone? You can hardly dress yourself. You look like a fucking twelve-year-old boy. The second the shit hits the fan you bolt like Bambi.”
“We have to watch out for each other,” I say.
“That’s beautiful,” she says. “But you’re just sick enough to have arranged this whole thing to keep group together. Out of everyone, you are the absolute fucking worst at letting go of the past.”
Then, as if the universe is ganging up with Heather to prove her point, my past is on TV.
“Turn it up,” I say.
“Turn it up yourself,” Heather says, and then she turns to the plasma screen. “Holy shit, that’s your boyfriend.”
Garrett P. Cannon is on the screen and I’m frozen. Time has not been kind. He’s wearing a cowboy hat and a bolo tie, everything in creams and dove grays, and he’s grown a bushy white mustache, probably to give his withered old face some volume. His neck hangs slack and loose. He’s still bleaching his teeth, but they look too white against his sunburned skin.
The slugline across the bottom of the screen reads Shocking Revelations in Silent Night Slayings. I stare, hypnotized by Garrett’s wet, moving mouth, the way he’s basking in the cameras like a reptile sunning itself on a rock. If there’s one person I never wanted to see again, it’s him.
His voice is the size of a mouse’s. I can’t help myself. I find the remote and turn it up.
“. . . saying for years this case don’t smell right,” he drawls. “And after much tenacious investigation on my part I have uncovered explosive new information.”
“At least someone’s got a hard-on for you,” Heather says.
“Without a doubt we will be seeking Lynnette Tarkington for further questioning,” Garrett continues. “I am receiving unprecedented cooperation from the police in Los Angeles County and we are attempting to locate Miss Tarkington right this minute. In Utah, justice wears cowboy boots, and they’re always ready to kick BLEEP.”
The camera flashes back to an anchor gazing earnestly into the lens.
“Garrett P. Cannon, law enforcement hero, commenting on explosive new information in the Silent Night Slayings. Tune in tomorrow, when Nancy Grace gives her take.”
“Have they said what it is?” I ask.
“Dude, didn’t you hear?” Heather says, taking a deep pull on her joint. “There’s explosive new information. Probably that you were the one killing people, you little psycho.”
Whatever this is, I know they don’t have anything. If they did, Garrett wouldn’t have been able to keep his mouth shut. The fact that he’s being coy means that he has a crummy hand and wants to keep the cameras on him for as long as possible. The last time Garrett had “explosive new information,” it was that he’d written the script for the franchise reboot.
“This is so fucking boring,” Heather says. “I need a drink. Nothing materialized in that fucking fridge in the last five minutes, did it?”
She stands up, checks the fridge, slams it, grabs her bag, opens the front door, and gets immediately swarmed by black-suited security.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to go back inside,” the short, wide, bald guy blocking the doorway says.
“Sir,” Heather says. “I’m going to have to ask you to stick your dick up your ass.”
“Miss . . .” he says. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Let me tell you what I’m going to do,” Heather says. “I’m going into that party to speak to my very good motherfucking friend, Mrs. Marilyn Blake, who pays your motherfucking salary. If you get in my way I’m going to jump in that pool, whip out my tits, and let this bunch of Charity Barbies get an eyeful of what natural Bs look like.”
Short and Stocky wraps a hand around her biceps and squeezes.
“Ow, motherfucker,” Heather hisses. “I’ll scream.”
“Can I get assistance at station twelve,” Short and Stocky says into his earpiece.
I stay seated and out of trouble. I need a place to sleep tonight. Dani’s safe in jail, Julia’s probably under police protection in the hospital, and while I don’t like the thought of Marilyn, Heather, and me bunched up in one location, at least this one’s secure.
Behind Short and Stocky I see identical twin linebackers trotting toward us, Marilyn striding behind them, and then they’re filling the door, pushing their way through, pushing Heather back.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Blake,” Short and Stocky says as Marilyn emerges from between the twins.
Marilyn’s mouth smiles, her perfect teeth catch the light, her cheeks dimple.
“That’s all right, Tom,” she coos, and then she looks at me and her eyes are dead. “I told you to wait here.”
“Lynne got hungry, dude,” Heather says. “Have you ever tried to stop her? She’s like the fucking Terminator.”
“You will both stay here until I come for you,” Marilyn says, her lips barely moving. “That is not up for discussion.”
“You can’t keep us locked up like one of your prisoners,” Heather says.
“Like what?” she asks. “You arrive at my house and I have to pay your taxi fare and I give you a place to stay and you’re a prisoner?”
“These dudes marched Lynnette in here like Nazis,” Heather says, appealing to me.
“I’m not involved,” I say. “I just need a place to stay.”
“Is that all?” Marilyn tears a strip off me. “You sneak over my wall with a gun like a home invader because you want a sleepover? The only reason I haven’t called the police is because there are some very sick, very old lions who need homes and the people who will pay for them do not like a scene.”
“Marilyn,” I say. “I need a place for one night. We’ll be good.”
She leans in.
“If I weren’t having a party”—she smiles—“I would get Jerry’s security detail to toss you out on your fannies while I sip white wine and laugh.”
The security guards perk up.
“Screw you,” Heather says, and starts pushing forward.
She hasn’t taken two steps before all the security guys have her arms twisted up behind her back.
“I’m not going to repeat myself,” Marilyn says as she turns to go. “Stay.”
The security guys toss Heather onto the couch and are out the door before she even stops bouncing.
“You can’t send us to our room, Mom!” Heather screams, running to the door as they slam it in her face.
It’s locked. She rants for five full minutes and then the door opens and a stream of staff pour inside while the three security guys block the door. They lay out platters on the pass-through: ginger jelly sandwiches on gluten-free buns, mushroom rice balls, vegetable sushi rolls. Of course everything’s vegan. Heather makes pointed personal comments about each and every person laying out food, and only stops when the last cater waiter puts three bottles of champagne in the fridge.
“Compliments of the lady of the house,” he says, and then there’s a puff of smoke and the room is empty and the door is locked and I’m stuffing my face. Before the first bite, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
Heather pours a water glass full of champagne and goes back to running me down.
“I had a good thing going until you showed up,” Heather says. “You know what? You’re an asshole, Lynne. I’ve always fucking thought that.”
I keep eating. I need my calories in case I have to run.
“You’re so quiet and everyone thinks you’re all sad and fucked in the head,” Heather says. “But I bet you know a lot more about what the fuck is going on than you’re telling.”
Heather and I used to be close, but when I realized how unstable she was I started keeping my distance. The things that happened to all of us are bad enough, but she’s the only one who feels a need to embellish. Ever since I pulled away she’s made me her target. It’s not her fault, it’s the drugs. Still, it makes me nervous that she thinks I know more about what’s going on than I’m saying. Because I do.
As unpleasant as she is, I stay with Heather. Someone once told me that all you have to do to keep from being eaten by a bear is run faster than your friend. Same principle.
A lot of insults and two bottles of champagne later, the door breaks its seal and Marilyn storms through with a glass of ice water in one hand, wearing an enormous terry-cloth robe, wrapped and tucked and belted around her in big, loose, fluffy loops. Behind her is a maid carrying Fine in his pot.
“Does this belong to either of you?” Marilyn snaps. “Security found it outside.”
I almost cheer, but instead I keep my mouth shut and take the pot in both hands.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Did you get your fucking lion money?” Heather slurs, waving her glass at Marilyn.
Marilyn smacks it out of Heather’s hand and it goes spinning into the wall. Champagne mists my face.
“What the hell?” Heather asks. She tries to stand, but she’s too drunk and her ass pulls her right back down again.
“It’s one a.m.,” Marilyn spits. “And my house is empty. Do you know what kind of fund-raiser ends at one? A failed one. I spent an ungodly amount of money but my fund-raiser failed because about an hour after this one”—here she turns on me—“climbed over my wall with a gun and her stupid houseplant, the paparazzi showed up in my drive.”
“I told you she’s trouble,” Heather slurs, pointing one wavering finger at me.
“They want to know why two final girls are hiding in my guest house,” Marilyn snaps. “They know both your names, so I’m holding you both responsible.”
“How’d they know we were here?” I ask.
“They followed you,” she says. “Because you are sloppy and inconsiderate.”
I didn’t see anyone behind Skye and me, but maybe I missed them? Maybe one of those news vans picked us up at my house and followed us here? I’ve been missing too much lately. I feel old and slow and stupid.
“This is bad,” I say. “That reporter, Russell Thorn, got shot in my apartment. Then they tried to shoot me. Then they shot Julia and burned down Heather’s halfway house. Now they know we’re here.”
“They, they, they,” Marilyn says. “Are you off your meds again?”
“I don’t take meds,” I say, jaw tight.
“Well, now we know your problem,” Marilyn says.
“Someone’s trying to kill us,” I say. “That’s what I came here to say. You can handle that however you want. I just need a safe place for one night.”
A snore splits the room. Heather has passed out on the sofa. The two of us look at her for a minute, and then Marilyn takes a long pull on her glass. It’s not ice water, I realize. It’s vodka.
“Of course you can stay here tonight,” Marilyn says, and for the first time she sounds tired. “I just really wanted to help those lions.”
There’s silence for a minute, except for Heather’s snoring.
“Have you heard anything about Michelle?” she asks.
I know that Marilyn and Dani are close. The two of them were in touch by phone for years before group started. Dani has a place in her heart and that means Michelle does, too.
“She’s in hospice,” I say.
And then my arms and chest fill up with ice water because that means everyone’s someplace safe except Michelle.
Marilyn massages the bridge of her nose with two fingers.
“I need to process this,” she says. “I’ll make some calls in the morning. We will talk then. The house is alarmed, and security patrols all night, so please do not leave the guest house.”
I feel bad leaving Heather in a room with so many windows, but she’s too heavy for me to move. I turn out the lights and check the doors, then go upstairs. I hide the hard drive inside the box springs of the guest bedroom bed, and then I sleep in the bathtub with the door locked and the lights on.
I lie in the bathtub and decide to get out of here in the morning before anyone else is awake. I’ll leave before the sun is up. I tell myself there’s nothing I can do for Michelle. I can’t be responsible for other people. I can barely be responsible for myself.
Fine sits on the counter in his pot, but he’s so quiet I worry he’s in shock. Too much change for one day. It’s not healthy.
—
I wake up with Heather banging on the bathroom door.
“I gotta go, asshole,” she yells as I scrabble awake, adrenaline pumping.
“Use the other one,” I yell back, disoriented, voice shaking. The sun’s already high on the tiles. I overslept.
“I want to use this one,” she screams.
She won’t stop pounding on the door until I drag myself out.
“Freak,” she says, seeing my blankets and pillow in the tub.
I look out the window. It’s quiet outside, just a few birds. The sunlight is liquid gold, steam rising off the surface of the heated pool. It’s way too late to run.
I go downstairs and walk through the cool morning air to the house. Inside the sandstone kitchen the black marble island is loaded with a fruit platter, bagels, cream cheese. No matter what, Marilyn can’t help it, she has to be a host.
“I do not have the capacity for rudeness,” she says from the stairs. I didn’t see her there. “Get a plate. There’s tea outside by the coffee.”
We sit outside at a wooden table under a rough-beamed pavilion attached to the side of her house. Plastic bubbles containing cameras hang from the corners of her roof; every window is alarmed. Two giants in sweat suits stand on the edge of the yard.
“Now,” she says. “I’ve had my second cup of coffee. Tell me why you think everyone is trying to kill us.”
“I have to get going, Marilyn,” I say. “Is there a back way out of here?”
“Do you think I’m James Bond?” she asks. “Talk to me and I’ll get you out the front way later.”
I explain what’s been going on, leaving out my book. In the middle, Heather drifts up, then floats away to the kitchen, then reappears smoking a cigarette. Marilyn makes her sit far away until she finishes, and winces when Heather flicks her butt in the pool.
“I need to go,” I say. “You guys are safe, Dani’s in custody, Julia’s protected, but I need to go.”
I pray she doesn’t remember Michelle.
“Good riddance,” Heather says. “Finders keepers.”
“I made some calls this morning and spoke to my attorney,” Marilyn says. “He’s spoken with someone at the sheriff’s office who says Dani is safe, and while she won’t be arraigned for a few days, she and Michelle can go home as soon as the judge hears her plea. Julia is in the hospital and they have security posted on her room. You two are probably both getting warrants issued later this morning, so after breakfast you’ll both need to pack up and I can call you cars. Do you have enough cash?”
“I knew you’d fuck up my deal!” Heather bawls at me.
Then I can’t help myself. I feel the obligations pulling on me like chains.
“Make sure they post a cop on Michelle’s room,” I say.
Marilyn immediately knows what I’m getting at.
“She’s dying,” Marilyn says. “There’s no point in someone killing her.”
“There are better and worse ways to die,” I say because, again, I can’t help myself.
“Cancer is the worse way,” Marilyn says. “I’m not trying to be callous, Lynne, but I cannot afford to be pulled into whatever episode you’re having. Adrienne was murdered by someone with a grudge, Dani fired a weapon at a police officer, Heather was smoking crack in her basement and set her building on fire—”
“I was passed out in the woods behind my house!” Heather protests.
“Bless your heart, you were too high to remember,” Marilyn says, then turns back to me. “You and Julia, well, I only have your word for what happened. For all I know you shot her by accident. You do have a tendency to wave guns around and you’ve always had a flair for melodrama.”
“We have to check on Michelle first,” I say, trying to buy time, but also it’s true. “You know I’m right. We owe it to Dani to make sure she’s safe.”
I mean it. I really do. But also if I can get Marilyn to take us to hospice in one of her big armored SUVs, then I can slip away. It gives me a chance to get out of L.A. before the cops bring me in and ask questions about Garrett P. Cannon’s explosive new information.
Marilyn looks out over Los Angeles. The guys in sweat suits are joking around with each other, pretending to push each other into the pool. Marilyn feels safe here. Jerry’s money has allowed her to build a fantasy land where she can enjoy the luxury of pretending that my problems aren’t her problems. But she wouldn’t have lived this long if she couldn’t tell fantasy from reality sometimes.
“I will go and see Michelle,” she finally says. “I owe Dani that much. You two can come if you’d like. But after that, we go our separate ways. We have nothing in common, Lynnette. We can’t keep clinging to the past.”
“How do we get out of here with paparazzi all over your driveway?” I ask. “We can’t lead whoever it is to Michelle.”
Marilyn smiles.
“Did you really think I only had one way out of my house?”