Untraceable Page #20

Brooks talks to Marsh, her face impassive-

BROOKS:

Honestly, words defy me. Your work

has been absolutely outstanding.

And to sustain a personal loss like

this and come back and close the

case? Well, that’s just--

MARSH:

But I didn’t close it.

BROOKS:

(amused)

You think a disturbed young man

driving a forty-year-old VW bus

filled with electronics is just

going to melt into the crowd?

We’ll locate him by Friday.

(beat)

Here’s what I want you to do:

Nothing. Relax. Take some time

off.

Marsh stares at him, stone-faced, then speaks with controlled

emotion-

MARSH:

Griffin died in twenty minutes. By

the time the site went dark, more

people had watched the ants clean

his bones than fought in World War

II. The next victim will die in

the blink of an eye. And you want

me to go lie on a f***ing beach?

BROOKS:

(coldly)

I don’t care if it’s a beach or a

mountain or the North Pole, you’re

no longer the case agent.

(then, more gently)

But don’t you worry. When you get

back? You’ll get your office of

preference.

He smiles. Marsh doesn’t.

102.

INT. OUTSIDE BROOKS’S OFFICE -- LATER -- RAINY EVENING.

Box waits for her. Marsh emerges. They walk.

BOX:

Well?

MARSH:

I’ve been asked...ordered...to go

on...uhhh...what do you call it?

One of those things were you don’t

do anything...or worry about

anything...and just....

.

BOX:

A vacation?

MARSH:

Yeah.

BOX:

Good. I’ll call you the second we

locate him. Even better, I’ll fly

to you with a bottle of champagne,

how‘s that?

EXT. CYBER DIVISION HEADQUARTERS -- LATER -- RAINY EVENING.

Box walks Marsh to her car through a light rain. He holds

the umbrella for both of them. They stop at her SUV.

Awkward silence.

BOX:

You are leaving tonight? Right

now?

MARSH:

Don’t worry.

BOX:

I’d be happy to drive you.

They look at each other. Box kisses her with passion. She

likes it, but then eases him away. He doesn’t understand

why. She points into the sky. He looks. A surveillance

camera on a light pole.

.

INT. MARSH’S MOVING SUV -- LATER -- RAINY EVENING.

As the rain falls harder, Marsh drives on the highway, listening

to classical music.

103.

EXT. MOTEL -- LATER -- RAINY EVENING.

Marsh pulls into the dark, rainy lot.

INT. DARK MOTEL ROOM -- NIGHT.

The door opens. Marsh enters. She stops at the door, looks

around, hears a strange scraping sound. She unsnaps her

holster, lays a hand on her weapon.

Where’s the sound coming from? The bathroom. She walks

over, quickly kicks open the door. Nothing in sight. She

reaches in and throws aside the shower curtain. Nothing.

She relaxes, but then she hears the sound again. She turns

around, tensed, and realizes it’s coming from the closet.

She walks over, crouches, and quickly yanks the folding door.

Her cat bounds out. Marsh, chest heaving, catches her

breath, snaps shut her holster.

EXT. MOTEL -- LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

Marsh throw her stuff in the back of her SUV. Then carries

the pet carrier around and lays it in the passenger seat.

EXT. HIGHWAY -- LAYER -- RAINY NIGHT.

Marsh’s SUV drives along, wipers slapping at the rain.

.

INT. MARSH’S SUV -- SAME -- RAINY NIGHT.

Tired of the classical music, she hits buttons until she

lands on the righteous intoning of an older male commentator,

who words unsettle her-

RADIO EDITORIAL:

--six long days since the murder of

Federal Agent Griffin Dowd, and

still no suspect in custody. Some

wonder who this madman will seize

next. Not I. I wonder when we’ll

stop this diabolical collaboration,

not with the killer, but with the

alternate universe that he

inhabits. The one inside our

computers. A world without

compassion or conscience. Without

laws, morality, or shame. Why do

we love this world so? Why did we

create it?

There are commotion and distress in Marsh eyes.

104.

RADIO EDITORIAL (cont’d)

Does it reflect who we are as a

species? What we have become?

What must our Creator think of us?

Marsh sees the sign saying, “Welcome to Pennsylvania.” She

can’t do it. She yanks the wheel and roars onto exit.

She zooms up the exit ramp and at the top pulls a hard left

and roars along the overpass.

She reaches a red light, sees that the coast is clear, and

runs the red light, yanking another left.

She roars down an entrance ramp.

EXT. HIGHWAY -- MOMENTS LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

Marsh’s SUV streaks past the sign saying, “Welcome to

Maryland.”

INT. MARSH’S SUV -- LATER -- RAINY NIGHT.

Marsh listens to music again. The rain is falling harder

now. A flash of lightning and then a roar of thunder. Her

cat meows mournfully. She looks over and opens the cage

door. It sticks its head out and she scratches it.

MARSH:

I know, baby, I know -- that’s a

lotta water.

Suddenly, the music stops dead. Odd. Marsh adjusts the

radio.

Hits buttons. Nothing.

Then suddenly the wipers stop. She reacts, skids a bit, hits

the brakes. The cat leaps out of its cage. Cars honk.

Madly working the wiper controls, she struggles to see

through the windshield.

Suddenly, the headlights go out and her car lurches

violently. The engine is dead. Cars barrel past her,

honking their horns. She jams the car in neutral and

wrestles with the stiff power steering.

A TRACTOR TRAILER, blaring its horn, bears down on her and

swerves, skids, nearly plowing into her.

Finally, Marsh wrenches the car to a stop in the gravel of

the shoulder.

Chest heaving, gasping to catch her breath, she sits there in

the dark, grateful to be alive. Her cat sits, cowering in

the foot-well of the passenger seat.

105.

Abruptly, she snaps to, reaching for her Treo, hits her speed-

dial. The Treo beeps. She looks at the screen: “Service

denied.”

Spooked, she looks out and through the rain spots an

illuminated CALL BOX about fifty yards away. She pulls the

door handle, but the doors are locked. Won’t unlock.

OWEN (O.S.)

Hello, Jennifer.

With a gasp, Marsh yanks out her weapon and points it into

the back. Nothing. No one. The cat makes a sound.

Slowly, very slowly, heart pounding, she inches her eyes up

to the NorthStar speaker above her head.

.

For a moment, just the sound of two people breathing in the

dark. And the sounds of the storm.

OWEN (cont’d)

I can hear you. You’re not dead.

(beat)

Look out the passenger window.

(she doesn’t)

Under that streetlight, that’s

where my dad’s body landed after he

killed himself. Some websites show

the whole thing in slow-motion,

because it’s so much better that

way. One archives it in a section

called “Whoa.” That’s all. Just

”Whoa.”

MARSH:

I know, Owen. It’s despicable.

Silence. She hears him breathing. Then there’s a click.

The breathing stops.

MARSH (cont’d)

Owen?

Nothing.

MARSH (cont’d)

Are you there?

Silence. Marsh tries the engine. Nothing but a click. She

tries the door. Locked. F*** it. She has no choice.

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