Suspect Zero Page #2

Speck guns the Buick. Interstate 35 flies by. The farther he

gets away from that Diner, the happier he'll be.

...until a strange SOUND gets his attention: it's WIND, as if

whistling through a ghost town. Hollow, varied - building then

falling off again. Wind.

Trouble is, the windows in this Buick are up.

Yet there it is again: a thin, hollow GHOST-TOWN WIND,

whistling over his shoulder. He's heard it before - in every

Western he ever watched as a kid.

But this wind is coming from his back-seat.

The blood drains right out of Speck's face. Doesn't know if he

should jam on the brakes or drive faster.

He looks in his rear-view, catches a glimpse of a LATEX GLOVE

snapping onto a hand. Dear God: O'Ryan is back there, making

that odd Ghost-Town wind sound. Whistling.

SPECK:

(sheer terror)

What-do-you-want?! What-do-you-want-with-

me?!

No reply. Instead, another gift appears from the back: a

FOURTH DRAWING, tossed from the darkness into Speck's lap.

He looks down, registers the image... and SHRIEKS.

O'RYAN (O.S.)

There's a rest stop, next off-ramp. Pull

into it.

SPECK:

I have some money. It's not a lot but--

O'RYAN

Nobody wants your money, Harold. Just

pull in.

SPECK:

Why?!

O'Ryan rises into frame now, like Nosferatu...

O'RYAN

Because I don't wanna do this at 70 miles

an hour. It could be dangerous.

Speck finds the off-ramp. His breaths are shallow now.

SPECK:

Please, Mister - what do you want from

me?

O'Ryan's face:
a knowing grin fans across it...

CUT TO:

...the face of VIRGIL RAY STARKEY, on a bulletin board.

5 INT. F.B.I. RESIDENT AGENCY - WICHITA FALLS - MORNING (SAME 5

DAY)

We're looking at the F.B.I.'s "Ten Most-Wanted List." Starkey

is #7 on it. He's 40, white. His crime are listed as rape,

murder, kidnapping.

THOMAS MACKELWAY stares at Starkey's image. At the eyes...

Mackelway is 34, bred for success - bred for stardom in fact,

a whiz at everything he's ever attempted.

So what the hell is he doing in Wichita Falls, Texas...?

EIGHT AGENTS, in cubicles, with a ring of outer offices. Quiet

phones, lousy take-out options, hardly a dream gig.

CHARLTON (O.S.)

Got a spot set up for you, Tom.

That's RICK CHARLTON: late 40's, thinning hair, friendly.

Charlton heads around a corner. Mackelway follows.

CHARLTON (CONT'D)

Ms. Potter's the nice girl you met at the

desk. She puts a package together for all

the new agents, things to know about the

area, help with finding apartments and

such. This one's yours:

Charlton stops at a CUBICLE: Carpeted walls, formica desk. A

corner of dull Hell. Mackelway eyes it, fighting dread.

CHARLTON (CONT'D)

Not so different from Dallas, is it?

MACKELWAY:

(f*** yes)

No, Sir.

CHARLTON:

Good.

An abandoned SPORTS PAGE tells us about that World Series, so

we must be mid-October. Charlton heads out. Mackelway throws a

briefcase on to the desk, setting up his world:

A framed picture of himself and his BROTHER, ages 10 and 15,

on a childhood camping trip. Address book, coffee-warmer,

calendar, a baseball covered with autographs.

He opens up a drawer, and casually tosses two bottles of

BUFFERIN into the back of it.

...but first grabs four tablets from one of the bottles,

and throws them down his throat, as:

GRIEVES (O.S.)

Ya like Frito Pies?

Mackelway turns. BILL GRIEVES stands here, holding a white

grease-stained paper-bag. Grieves is Mackelway's age, not

quite as ambitious. But solid, decent.

MACKELWAY:

I dunno. What are they?

Grieves pulls out a greasy concoction that's wrapped up like a

semi-burrito. Pure Texas. Tosses it to Mackelway:

GRIEVES:

Welcome to the minors.

Grieves passes by with a faint smile, handing out lunch to a

few other agents. Mackelway eyes the still-wrapped Frito Pie.

God, get me outta here...

CUT TO:

6 INT. WICHITA FALLS F.B.I. OFFICE - LATER 6

A BRIEF MONTAGE:
Mackelway, in his cubicle, watching as THOSE

OTHER AGENTS take calls, strap on guns, head out on

assignment. Men in motion.

But Mackelway's land-locked, writing up an Auto-Theft report.

It's drudgery, but he's meticulous about it, deleting the word

"beige" and replacing it with "tan."

His head is throbbing - not an unusual circumstance for him.

But after lingering for a half-second on that "Most-Wanted

List" again? Starkey? It's a wound...

7 INT. F.B.I. OFFICE - KITCHENETTE - MOMENTS LATER 7

Mackelway struggles with a COFFEE MACHINE that's unfamiliar to

him. Filter, water, grounds, etc.

KATIE (O.S.)

Here. Lemme do that.

He turns. This is KATIE POTTER. She's 25, friendly, under-

challenged by her job. Been here two years. In two seconds

she's got the thing percolating. Of course.

KATIE (CONT'D)

It takes some experience.

He shrugs, not feeling too smooth.

KATIE (CONT'D)

You're Mackelway, right?

MACKELWAY:

Mmm-hmm.

KATIE:

Fax came in for you. It's the room next

door.

MACKELWAY:

Oh. Thanks.

He rises, heads for the "fax room"...

8 INT. "FAX ROOM" - CONTINUING 8

A former closet, converted into useful space. FIVE FAX

MACHINES sit on stands, sharing a surge protector. One fax

machine is printing. Mackelway approaches it.

Six pieces of paper await him. The first is a TOP-SHEET,

written by hand:
"Attention: Agent Thomas Mackelway, FBI

Resident Agency - Wichita Falls." No sender named.

He looks beneath the top sheet - at Page One of the fax.

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