4INTERIOR: THE LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.

The ball rolls across the floor, weaving between the furniture. When it reaches MARTHA'S chair, where LINOGE now sits, it bounces itself twice, gaining altitude. On the third bounce, it lands in his lap. He picks it up.

WEATHER LADY

(holds sandwich)

. . . like a good old fried bologna sandwich! Especially if the bologna is Smile-Boy all-beef bologna!

LINOGE He shoots . . .

He throws the ball with SUPERHUMAN FORCE at the TV. It hits the screen dead center, sending the WEATHER LADY, her sandwich, and her two enormous storm systems into electronic limbo. Sparks fly.

LINOGE ... he scores!

45 EXTERIOR: ATLANTIC STREET, WITH DAVEY.

He's still running down the center of the street, still screaming at the top of his lungs.

DAVEY

Mrs. Clarendon! Someone killed Mrs. Clarendon! There's blood all over! One of her eyes is out! It's on her cheek! Oh, God, one of her eyeballs is right out on her cheek!

People are coming to windows and opening front doors to look. They all know DAVEY, of course, but before anyone can grab him and calm him down, a big green Lincoln pulls in front of him, like a cop cutting off a speeder. Written on the side is ISLAND-ATLANTIC REALTY. A portly gentleman in a suit, tie, and topcoat (the only business garb on Little Tall Island, quite likely) gets out. We may or may not see a resemblance to the absurd mannequin on the store's porch. This is ROBBIE BEALS, the local big deal, the unpleasant DON BEALS'S even more unpleasant father. Now he grabs DAVEY by the shoulders of his jacket and gives him a hard shake.

ROBBIE

Davey! Stop it! Stop that right now!

DAVEY stops it and begins to get himself under control.

ROBBIE

Why are you running down the middle of Atlantic Street, making a spectacle of yourself?

DAVEY Someone killed Mrs. Clarendon.

ROBBIE

Nonsense, what are you talking about?

DAVEY

There's blood everywhere. And her eye's out. It's . . . it's on her cheek.

DAVEY begins to weep. Other people are gathering now, looking at the man and the boy. Slowly, ROBBIE releases DAVEY. Something is going on here, something that may be serious, and if so, there's only one man to check it out. We see this realization dawning on ROBBIE'S face.

He looks around at a middle-aged woman with a sweater hastily pulled around her shoulders and a bowl of cake batter still in one hand.

ROBBIE

Mrs. Kingsbury. Look after him. Get him a hot tea . . .

(reconsiders) No, give him a little whiskey, if you've got some.

MRS. KINGSBURY Are you going to call Mike Anderson?

ROBBIE looks sour. There's no love lost between him and MIKE.

ROBBIE

Not until I take a look for myself.

DAVEY

Be careful, Mr. Beals. She's dead . . . but there's someone in the house, I think . . .

ROBBIE looks at him impatiently. The boy is clearly hysterical. An old man with a craggy New England face steps forward.

GEORGE KIRBY

You want help, Robbie Beals?

ROBBIE Not necessary, George. I'll be fine.

He gets back into his car. It's too big to U-turn in the street, so he uses a neighboring driveway.

DAVEY He shouldn't go up there alone.

The group in the street (which is still growing) watches ROBBIE drive up to MRS. CLARENDON'S with troubled eyes.

MRS. KINGSBURY

Come on inside, Davey. I'm not giving whiskey to a child, but I can put the teapot on.

She puts an arm around him and leads him toward the house.

46 EXTERIOR: MARTHA CLARENDON'S HOUSE.

ROBBIE'S Lincoln pulls up in front. He gets out. Surveys the path, the overturned walker, the open door. His face suggests that this might be a little more serious than he at first thought. But he starts up the path, anyway. Leave it to that know-all MIKE ANDERSON? Not likely!

47 EXTERIOR: LITTLE TALL ISLAND TOWN HALL DAY.

This is a white wooden building, stark in the New England style, and the center of the town's public life. In front of it is a little cupola with a largish bell inside a bell the size of an apple basket, say. The Island Services four-wheel drive pulls up in front, using a slot marked RESERVED FOR TOWN BUSINESS.

48 INTERIOR: THE ISLAND SERVICES VEHICLE, WITH MIKE AND HATCH.

HATCH has got a pamphlet called Storm Preparedness: State of Maine Guidelines. He's deep in it.

MIKE You want to come in?

HATCH

(doesn't look up) Nope. I'm fine.

As MIKE opens the door, HATCH does look up ... and gives MIKE a sweet, open smile.

HATCH

Thanks for seeing after my little girl, boss.

MIKE

(smiles back) My pleasure.

49 EXTERIOR: ANGLE ON THE ISLAND SERVICES FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE.

MIKE gets out, once more settling his hat so it won't blow off. As he does this, he takes another small measuring glance at the sky.

50 EXTERIOR: MIKE, ON THE WALK.

He stops at the cupola. Now that we're closer, we can read the plaque in front. There is a list of war dead on it: ten from the Civil War, one from

the Spanish-American, a couple each from I, II, and Korea, and six from Vietnam, the po' folks' war. Among the names we see lots of BEALSES, GODSOES, HATCHERS, AND ROBICHAUXES. Above the list, in big letters, is this: WHEN WE RING FOR THE LIVING, WE HONOR OUR DEAD.

MIKE brushes the bell's clapper with a gloved forefinger. It rings faintly. Then he goes on inside.

51 INTERIOR: THE LITTLE TALL ISLAND TOWN OFFICE.

It's your usual cluttered secretarial bullpen, dominated by an aerial photo of the island on one wall. A single woman is running the whole show plump and pretty URSULA GODSOE (she has a plaque with her name on it beside the in/out basket on her desk). Behind her, through a number of glass windows along the main corridor, we see the actual town meeting hall. This consists of many straight-backed benches, like Puritan pews, and a bare wood lectern with a microphone. Looks more like church than government. Nobody's out there right now.

Prominent on the wall of URSULA'S office is the same sign we saw on the door of the market: STORM EMERGENCY POSSIBLE NEXT 3 DAYS! "TAKE SHELTER" SIGNAL is 2 SHORTS, 1 LONG. MIKE strolls over and looks at this, waiting for URSULA. She is on the phone, speaking to someone in tones of forced patience.

URSULA

No, Betty, I haven't heard any more than you have . . . we're all dealing with the same forecast . . . No, not the memorial bell, not with the winds we're expecting . . . It'll be the siren, comes to that. Two shorts and one long, that's right . . . Mike Anderson, of course . . . those are decisions we pay him to make, aren't they, dear?

URSULA winks broadly at MIKE and gives him a one-moment gesture. MIKE raises his own hand and claps his fingers against his thumb several times, miming a talking mouth. URSULA grins and nods.

URSULA

Yes . . . I'll be praying, too ... of course we all will. Thanks for calling, Betty.

She hangs up and closes her eyes for a moment.

MIKE

Tough day?

URSULA

Betty Soames seems to think we have access to some secret forecast.

MIKE Kind of a Jeane Dixon forecast? Psychic weather?

URSULA

I guess.

MIKE taps the STORM EMERGENCY placard.

MIKE

Most people in town have seen this?

URSULA

If they're not blind, they've seen it. You need to relax, Mike Anderson. How's little Pippa Hatcher?

MIKE

Whoa, that was fast.

URSULA Ayuh. No secrets on the island.

MIKE

She's fine. Got her head stuck in the stairs. Her dad's out in the car, doing his homework for the Big Blow of '89.

URSULA

(laughing)

Ain't that just like Alton and Melinda Hatcher's daughter. Perfect.

(grows serious)

People know this one's bad, and if they hear the siren, they'll come. You needn't worry about that. Now you came to look at the emergency shelter setup, didn't you?

MIKE Thought it might not be a bad idea.

URSULA

(gets up)

We can handle three hundred for three days, a hundred and fifty for a week. And if what I'm hearing on the radio's right, we may have to. Come on, let's look.

They start out of the room, URSULA leading.

52 INTERIOR: ROBBIE BEALS, CLOSE-UP.

His face is HORRIFIED, UNBELIEVING.

ROBBIE Oh, my God.

WEATHER LADY (voice-over) So enough doom and gloom, already! Let's talk SUNSHINE!

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK and we see he is kneeling beside MARTHA in her hall, performing the useless ritual of trying to take her pulse. We can see her wrist and the bloodstained cuff of her dress, but that's all. ROBBIE looks around, unbelieving.

In the background, the WEATHER LADY is spieling on. LINOGE broke the TV, but she's there, just the same.

WEATHER LADY (voice-over)

The finest weather in the U.S. today? Well, there's no question about that; the Big Island of Hawaii! Temperatures in the high seventies to low eighties, plus an onshore breeze to cool things off. And things ain't too shabby in Florida, either. Last week's chill there is a thing of the past. In Miami temperatures are in the mid-seventies, and how about San-ibel Island and beautiful Captiva? If you're down that way, you'll be picking up shells with plenty of sunshine to show you the way and temps in the high eighties.

ROBBIE Is anybody here?

He gets to his feet. He looks first at the walls, where some of MARTHA'S nice old pictures are now dotted with a fine spray of blood. Then he looks at the floor and sees more blood: the thin line drawn by LINOGE'S cane and those big, dark smacks that were left by DAVEY'S bouncing ball.

ROBBIE

Is anybody here?

He pauses, undecided, then starts down the hall.

53 BLACK.

A BANK OF OVERHEAD FLUORESCENTS SNAPS ON, revealing the spacious basement room of the town hall. This room is ordinarily used for dances, Bingo, and various town functions. Signs on the pine-paneled walls remind visitors of the volunteer fire department blood drive, which will be held right here. Now the room is filled with cots, each with a small pillow at its head and a folded blanket at its foot. At the far end are stacks of coolers, cartons of bottled water, and a big radio with its digital readout flashing.

URSULA and MIKE stand looking at this.

URSULA Good?

MIKE

You know it is.

(she smiles) How's the supply closet?

URSULA

Full, just like you wanted. Concentrates, mostly pour the water over the powder and then gag it down but nobody'll starve.

MIKE You did all this yourself?

URSULA

Me and Pete's sister, Tavia. Be discreet, you said. Don't panic anyone.

MIKE

Ayuh, that's what I said. How many people know we're stocked for World War III?

URSULA

(perfectly serene) Everyone.

MIKE winces but doesn't look too surprised.

MIKE No secrets on the island.

URSULA (a bit defensive)

I didn't talk, Mike Anderson, and neither did Tavia. Mostly it was Robbie Beals who spread the tattle. Madder than a wet hen about all this, he is. Claims you're costing the town money for no reason.

MIKE

Well . . . we'll see. (pause) Tell you one thing, his kid makes a hell of a good monkey.

URSULA What?

MIKE

Never mind.

URSULA Want to look in the storage?

MIKE I think I'll trust you. Let's go back up.

She reaches for the switch, then pauses. Her face is troubled.

URSULA How serious is this, Mike?

MIKE

I don't know. I hope Robbie Deals can kick my ass for being an alarmist, come town meeting next month. Come on. Let's go-

URSULA flicks the switch and the room GOES BLACK.

54 INTERIOR: MARTHA CLARENDON'S LIVING ROOM.

We're looking toward the hall door. The TV is louder. It's an ad for a litigation law firm. Have you been injured in an accident? Can't work? Lost your mind?

TV ANNOUNCER (voice-over)

You feel hopeless. You may even feel that the whole world is against you. But the firm of Macintosh and Redding will stand with you and see that you get your day in court. Don't make a bad situation worse! When life hands you a bag of lemons, we can help you make lemonade! Stick it to them before they can stick it to you! If you have been injured in an accident, you may have thousands, even tens of thousands of dollars waiting for you. So don't wait. Call now. Pick up the phone and dial 1-800-1-STIK-EM. That's 1 ... 800 ...

ROBBIE comes into the doorway. His arrogance and authority have gone. He looks rumpled, nauseated, and scared to death.

55 INTERIOR: THE LIVING ROOM, FROM ROBBIE'S POINT OF VIEW.

The TV is smashed to hell, smoking . . . but still the TV AD blares on.

TV ANNOUNCER (voice-over)

(continues)

One-STIK-EM. Get what's coming to you. Haven't you been through enough?

We can see the top of LINOGE'S head over the back of the chair. There is a SLURP as he sips tea.

56 INTERIOR: THE LIVING ROOM, A WIDER ANGLE.

We're mostly over ROBBIE'S shoulder, here, looking at the smashed but still talking TV and the top of LINOGE'S head.

ROBBIE

Who are you?

The TV falls silent. Outside, we hear the WIND OF THE RISING STORM. Slowly, slowly, the SNARLING SILVER WOLF rises above the back of the chair, pointed at ROBBIE like a sinister puppet. Its eyes and muzzle seem to DRIP BLOOD. It wags slowly back and forth like a pendulum.

LINOGE (voice) Born in sin, come on in.

ROBBIE flinches, opens his mouth, then closes it again. What do you say to a remark like that? But LINOGE isn't finished.

LINOGE (voice)

You were with a whore in Boston when your mother died in Machias. Ma was in that crappy nursing home they closed down last fall, the one where they found the rats in the pantry, right? She choked to death calling your name. Isn't that sweet? Other than a good slice of processed yellow cheese, there's nothing on earth like a mother's love!

57 INTERIOR: ROBBIE.

Big reaction here. How would any of us react, if told one of our darkest secrets by a murderous stranger we could not properly see?

LINOGE (voice) But that's all right, Robbie.

Another big reaction from ROBBIE the stranger knows his name!

58 INTERIOR: MARTHA'S CHAIR.

LINOGE peeks around the chair's left-side wing, almost coyly. His eyes are more or less normal, but he is almost as blood-streaked as the head of his silver bludgeon.

LINOGE

She's waiting for you in hell. And she's turned cannibal. When you get there, she's going to eat you alive. Over and over and over again. Because that's what hell's about repetition. I think in our hearts, most of us know that. CATCH!

He heaves DAVEY'S basketball.

59 INTERIOR: THE LIVING ROOM DOORWAY, WITH ROBBIE.