Lost Souls

FADE IN ON:

Black screen

SOUND OS -- a CHOKED BACK BREATH, GASPING, lungs looking for

air, the struggle for life and we --

FLASHCUT TO:

INT. LIMBO/WATER - ANOTHER TIME

GASPING for BREATH continues, more relentless, harder,

heavier and into the FRAME we SEE fragments, slowed into

special motion, dreamlike, surreal:

Dirty blonde hair lifts and tumbles;

Bubbles POP through the murky water;

A hand and then its attached arm swims, in trouble, trying to

climb;

And then floats as if disembodied, momentary;

The SWIMMER drifts, then a brief effort twisting, signs of

struggle;

A leg pushes off the nothingness, threatened, an impossible

fight;

And the claustrophobic GASP, a last chocked back BREATH as

other sounds begin to bleed in: the CRACKLE of a RADIO, a few

VOICES MURMURING and then more clearly --

WOMAN'S VOICE (O.S.)

Jesus, please... Jesus...

The water blurs opaque, into a murky veil of illusion and we

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. FORD FIESTA - MORNING

The cracked windshield of a blue Ford Fiesta. The clouded

form of the drowning SWIMMER is replaced by a small plastic

day-glo cross that sways as the Fiesta is lifted up on a tow

truck hoist. A PARAMEDIC jogs over to the car as

PARAMEDIC (O.S.)

Hold it, hold on...

The Fiesta stops its ascent. The passenger side door opens

and the Paramedic reaches in and snares the bopping cross.

EXT. CITY STREET - MORNING

The Paramedic carries the plastic symbol over to a middle

aged woman who's sitting on a stretcher, wearing a foam neck

brace and looking totally relaxed. This minor fender-bender

is an ignored sideshow on a quiet commercial street.

As the woman reclaims her crucifix, a lanky MAN strides by,

over-coated against the fall weather. We FOLLOW the MAN as

he rounds the corner.

EXT. ANOTHER CITY STREET - MORNING

And as he walks on, he gazes out at a small Catholic Church

ahead.

St. Ursula's is a modest seminary sitting adjacent to the

Church. And just in front, behind a chain link fence, is:

An asphalt playground used by the Church's pre-school

program. A group of CHILDREN play there in happy confusion,

watched by TWO FEMALE DAY-CARE WORKERS.

EXT. PLAYGROUND - MORNING

One of the day-care workers alternately pushes TWO KIDS on

the swings, using one hand. In her other hand, she holds a

cigarette. Her clothes are worn, her sneakers frayed. A

simple gold cross hangs loosely from her neck. She's got

ancient holes in her ear lobes from another, earlier time,

but no longer any earrings. This is MAYA LARKIN. The kids

she's pushing are singing "Frere Jacques" as they soar up and

down on the swings.

The second day-care worker, more nicely dressed, shoots Maya

disapproving glances as she gives her swinging child modest

pushes.

A Latino BOY walks up to Maya, both his shoes are untied and

his jacket's unzipped. He points to his feet.

MAYA:

(with mock severity)

Look at you.

She moves away from the swings, puts out the cigarette and

stoops down, tying his shoes. After she finishes, Maya

watches him run back into the throng. He dashes past the

LANKY MAN, standing just ten feet away. A powerful figure,

CLAUDE LAREAUX is in his sixties. A stern, heavy expression

glances his face.

Maya stands back up slowly, looking at him, a more serious

expression on her face now. She tosses her cigarette as we:

SMASH CUT TO:

EXT. RURAL ROAD - MORNING

A non-descript Chrysler New Yorker as it winds its way down a

rural road.

INT. CHRYSLER MOVING - MORNING

The car's driver is a fleshy man in his forties named JOHN

TOWNSEND. He's anxious, a nail-biter, with the worn hands of

a worker. Townsend's slightly nerve-wracked, but trying to

settle it all inside.

Maya touches a fore-finger across her upper lip, warm, she

moves forward, covering heat vents with a cupped hand,

uncomfortable, then finally flipping off the heat altogether,

which makes a final WHOOSHING GASP. She POWERS OPEN the

electronic window, a rough hum as...

CLOSE ON:

Lareaux, in the back seat watching her. Seated next to

Lareaux is a dark haired, kind looking man in his 30's,

JEREMY.

Maya straightens the cuffs of her shirt sleeves - first the

right, then the left. Then she repeats it all. Townsend

notes the repetitive movement.

And the RADIO is ON in the B.G.:

RADIO DJ #1

So it says here in today's news that

science is looking for a lost minute of

daylight.

RADIO DJ #2

Yeah, what's that all about? They have

satellites now that can read our ATM

receipts from outer space, but no one

knows how we lost a minute of sunlight?

RADIO DJ #1

When they find that minute...

Townsend FLIPS OFF the radio. There is an excruciatingly

loud pause as everyone in the car sits quietly. Then Maya

turns sideways, leaning towards the backseat, and whispers to

Lareaux:

MAYA:

(muffled by ROAR of passing

truck)

Why are you doing this to me?

LAREAUX:

I know, Maya, but you'll understand when

you see this man. I really need your

strength.

Maya silently acknowledges his remark.

LAREAUX (CONT'D)

(subbed, in French)

Ensemble pour toujours quio qu'il

arrive.

Maya reaches over, putting a soft hand on Townsend's knee.

MAYA:

Good seeing you again.

TOWNSEND:

Whish the circumstances were different.

As Maya turns back around in her seat, Lareaux looks up, sees

Townsend's dart of worry in the rear view.

EXT. KINGS COUNTY MENTAL HOSPITAL - MORNING

Institutional 50's architecture. Two-story building on

picturesque grounds. The Chrysler pulls up to the gate.

INT. HOSPITAL CORRIDOR - MORNING

Lareaux, his overcoat open, walks down the dim corridor. We

now see he's a priest. He's wearing a black cassock with a

waist-high surplice (belt) and a narrow purple stole. He

carries a Bible. Townsend, Maya and Jeremy are right beside

him. We see Jeremy is also a priest. Townsend is carrying a

hard, black leather suitcase.

Large windows, bordered by huge pillars, circumscribe the

never-ending corridors. Thick doors line the walls, each

with a tiny observation window, filled in with octagonal wire

patterns. The foursome avoids looking directly at any of

those windows.

They pass other rooms, doors wide open, lined with several

beds each separated by worn curtains.

INT./EXT. SECOND CORRIDOR - MORNING

Sitting next to a door on this corridor is the hospital's

Chief Resident Psychiatrist, DR. LESLIE ALLEN. She's casual,

calm and intelligent. A mature woman in her late 50's, still

attractive, at peace with herself. As she sips a cup of

peppermint tea, she glances outside, through a window

opposite her chair, at a huge old tree, the antithesis of the

sterile, prison-like environment inside. She finds ways to

remain grounded in this place.

As Lareaux and company approach, Dr. Allen switches her gaze

and --

LAREAUX:

(hands over a document)

Your court order, Dr. Allen.

DR. ALLEN

(standing, makes transition)

You know I'm not comfortable with this.

LAREAUX:

But your patient is legally entitled to

it.

DR. ALLEN

This patient has been plagued with

temporal lobe seizures.

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