Affliction Page #3

WADE:

Just wait till we're through,

goddamnit!

Horner's hat falls. Lillian, icy, stares at Wade. He backs

off. Wade sometimes wonders: how'd Lillian Pittman of Lawford,

N.H., get so much class?

WADE:

Don't you say a word. I didn't hit

him. I'm not going to hit anybody.

Horner sits behind the wheel. Lillian silently stares Wade

up and down, gets in the car beside Jill. The automatic locks

latch as the Audi drives away. Its taillights merge with

vanishing traffic.

Wade looks down, picks up Horner's dark green Tyrolean hat,

examines it, as if unsure of its function.

Wade walks toward Town Hall. MARGIE FOGG, exiting, greets

him:

MARGIE:

New hat?

(no answer)

Jill's up, I see.

WADE:

(vague)

For a while.

MARGIE:

How's she doing?

WADE:

Okay. She's fine.

MARGIE:

You two want to do anything tomorrow

and need a third party, give me a

call, okay? I'm off.

NICK WICKHAM, 45, Marg's boss, passes by:

WICKHAM:

Like hell you are. Tomorrow's first

day of deer season. I'll need you at

least in the morning.

MARGIE:

(shrugs)

Well, that's that.

NICK:

(walks off)

Take care, Wade.

WADE:

You be careful of that little bastard.

He's dying to get in your pants, you

know.

MARGIE:

(laughs)

Don't worry. I can protect my virtue.

I mean, c'mon, Wade, give me a break.

WADE:

See you tomorrow, maybe.

MARGIE:

You okay?

WADE:

Yeah.

Wade, lost in thought, continues toward Town Hall. At the

door, LaRiviere, one of the last to leave, eyes him. Wade

tosses Horner's hat inside.

WADE:

Tomorrow, Gordon.

LARIVIERE:

Watch this snow. It's coming down

tonight.

Wade nods as he lights a cigarette. Alone, he watches the

last cars pull out. He holds his jaw.

CUT TO:

EXT. WADE'S TRAILER HOME - DAWN

Pre-dawn light silhouettes a dozen weather-beaten mobile

homes set off Route 29. Snow continues to fall. A sheet of

white stretches down Parker mountain.

CUT TO:

INT. WADE'S TRAILER - DAWN

6:
40. A clock radio pierces the silence with classic rock.

Wade Whitehouse rolls over, runs his tongue across mossy

teeth, shuts off the music. He looks out the window, grunts:

"Sh*t!" He steps over to the phone by the frayed plaid couch,

dials.

Wade's trailer is surprisingly neat, considering its owner

smokes too much, drinks too much, eats take-out and rarely

cleans up.

WADE:

(on phone)

Lugene? Wade. Hoya doin?

(fumbles for cigarette)

Look, I was wondering, with the snow

and all, if you got school today?

(lights cigarette)

How the hell do I know? You're the

principal. All I'm supposed to do is

direct traffic from 7:30 to 8:30.

(listens)

Yeah, okay, I'm sorry -- I only just

now saw it was snowing, that's all.

My whole day is f***ed. I gotta plow

all day. If I don't get over to

LaRiviere's early enough, I'm stuck

with the grader. I was just hoping

you'd have called school off.

(beat)

You check the weather bureau?

(acquiesces)

Okay, I hear you. I'll be over in a

bit.

(hangs up)

CUT TO:

EXT. WADE'S TRAILER HOME EARLY - MORNING

Jack Hewitt's 4x4 passes Wade's trailer, continues up 29.

Tire chains splice the path.

CUT TO:

EXT. JACK'S TRUCK EARLY - MORNING

Jack behind the wheel. Beside him EVAN TWOMBLEY, 60, fleshy,

Irish, wearing brand new scarlet wool pants, jacket and cap.

He feeds on the misfortunes of others.

TWOMBLEY:

It's not enough snow, not for tracking

the bastards. No advantage there,

kid.

JACK:

Don't worry, Mr. Twombley, I know

where those suckers are. Rain or

shine, snow or no snow. I know deer.

We'll kill us a buck today.

Guaranteed. Before ten.

TWOMBLEY:

Guaranteed, eh?

JACK:

Yep. Right about now the does are

holing up in the brush piles. The

bucks are right behind them and we're

right behind the bucks.

(gestures to gun rack)

This gun gets fired before ten

o'clock. Whether it kills a deer or

not is more less up to you. I'll put

you inside 30, 35 yards of a buck

the first four hours of the season.

That's what you're paying me for,

ain't it?

TWOMBLEY:

Damn straight!

Hewitt looks at Twombley's rifle: a Winchester M-94 pump-

action, custom carved stock and not a scratch on it. Never

fired, at least not by Twombley.

JACK:

Done much shooting with that rifle

yet?

TWOMBLEY:

(eyes him)

Tell you what. You get me close to a

big buck by ten, kid, there's another

hundred bucks in it.

JACK:

If you get it?

TWOMBLEY:

Yeah.

JACK:

You might not kill it.

TWOMBLEY:

You think so.

JACK:

You might gut-shoot it or cripple it

for somebody else to find and tag.

Can't guarantee that won't happen,

especially with a new gun. I may

have to shoot it.

TWOMBLEY:

You take care of your end, kid, I'll

take care of mine.

JACK:

Mmm.

TWOMBLEY:

You understand what I'm saying? I

want a deer, a dead one, not a cripple

or whatthefuck.

JACK:

I get it.

(disdain)

No sweat. You'll get yourself a deer

and you'll get him dead. And you'll

have him by coffee time.

TWOMBLEY:

And you'll get your extra hundred

bucks.

JACK:

(smiles)

Wonderful!

The pickup disappears behind a curve of pine and spruce trees.

CUT TO:

EXT. SCHOOL - MORNING

Wade Whitehouse, wearing a reflective vest, waves a district

school bus into the parking lot. Noisy, jostling grade

schoolers emerge from the bus. Jill's former classmates.

Straight as a statue, Wade holds back traffic. Cars and trucks

are backed up on the unplowed road. Horns honk and bleat; a

woman's voice yells, "Whitehouse, we 'ain't got all day!"

Wade, daydreaming, seems oblivious to the commotion. Oblivious --

or just plum contrary.

A shiny black BMW approaches, speeding, passing traffic on

the shoulder. A man and a woman in a fur coat sit in front,

two children in back. Whitehouse waves for it to stop.

The BMW accelerates through the intersection, ignoring Wade

and the traffic. It whizzes past, spinning Wade, and is

quickly up the road, spewing ice and exhaust. Wade slips to

one knee. Honking ensues; every car goes where it wishes.

Wade, brushing off snow, follows the last bus as it pulls

in. LUGENE BROOKS, 60, school principal, rushes over:

LUGENE:

Are you okay, Wade? What was wrong?

Why were you holding everyone up?

WADE:

Did you see that sonofabitch in the

BMW? He could've killed somebody.

LUGENE:

Did you get his number?

WADE:

I know who it is.

LUGENE:

Good. Who?

WADE:

Mel Gordon.

LUGENE:

I still don't understand --

WADE:

From Boston. Evan Twombley's son-in-

law -- he was driving. I know where

they're headed. Up the lake, Agaway.

The old man's out deer hunting with

Jack Hewitt, so they probably got

some big weekend party planned.

Wade sets his face, thinking.

CUT TO:

EXT. WOODS - DAY

Snowprints lead from Jack's pickup to where he and Twombley

walk, guns pointed skyward. They enter a line of trees.

Jack watches Twombley walk ahead of him, wrapped like a huge

infant in red bunting, crunching twigs underfoot. He looks

from side to side, checks his gun, returns to watching

Twombley. They're alone.

JACK:

Safety on?

Twombley nods, slips, thumps to the ground. His rifle lands

silently.

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