Untraceable Page #3

GRIFFIN:

What the hell is this?

MARSH:

I’m not sure, but it’s streaming

live.

Marsh types, opening windows until she’s got the cable news

playing live. She drags it over to killwithme and lines it

up next to the site’s TV set. The two broadcasts are

identical, in perfect sync. Griffin shakes his head-

GRIFFIN:

Just when you think you’ve seen it

all.

MARSH:

Look -- a message from our sponsor.

A banner of red text crawls across the bottom of the screen:

“HHOS...HHOS... HHOS....” Marsh thinks, then translates-

MARSH (cont’d)

Ha-Ha, Only Serious.

Griffin throws Marsh an uneasy look. From the next scene, we

hear honking car horns.

11.

EXT. MARYLAND HIGHWAY -- LATER -- EARLY MORNING.

A traffic jam as far as the eye can see.

OPERATOR (O.S.)

Northstar operator Tina. Good

morning, Miss Marsh, how can I

assist you?

INT. MARSH’S SUV -- SAME -- EARLY MORNING.

Marsh, crawling along in the traffic jam, talks to a speaker

over her head-

MARSH:

Well, Tina, I’d like to get home

someday. What’s the outlook?

OPERATOR (O.S.)

Let’s see.... Good news. In about

a hundred yards, you’ll reach--

MARSH:

I see it. Thanks.

Marsh cuts off the system.

INT. MARSH’S SUV -- MINUTE LATER -- EARLY MORNING.

Marsh reaches the source of the jam: A crushed motorcycle.

Blood. A body covered by a tarp. Marsh is disgusted by the

rubbernecking. As soon as she is able, she roars away.

.

INT. MARSH'S KITCHEN -- LATER -- DAWN.

STELLA MARSH, 50’s, a charming ex-hippie, attractive but a

bit ethereal and scattered, cooks pancakes on the stove. The

back door bangs open. Stella gasps, a hand to her heart,

then laughs at her own fear.

STELLA:

Sh*t, you scared me!

MARSH:

Watch your tongue, young lady.

STELLA:

(delighted)

Hey, that’s what I used to say to

you when you were little.

MARSH:

I know, Mom, that’s why I said it.

That what makes it so darned funny.

12.

STELLA:

Don’t be a grump. Why’re you so

late?

Marsh drops her laptop on the counter. She pets a black cat

sitting nearby--

MARSH:

There was a crash on the I-50.

Everybody just had to line up for a

look.

STELLA:

Oh, I hate that.

MARSH:

Yeah, sorta makes you wanna buy a

time-share on another planet.

She exits into the next room. Through the doorway, we see

her stop at a hutch, open a drawer, set her Glock inside it,

and lock the drawer.

INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM -- MOMENTS LATER -- MORNING.

ANNIE MARSH, 6, still wearing pajamas, lays out kooky clothes

on her little bed. Part of the ensemble is a day camp T-

shirt. Marsh stands at the door, smiling gently-

ANNIE:

Mommy!

Annie runs over and jumps into her mother’s arms. Marsh

peppers her with kisses.

ANNIE (cont’d)

I’m making my outfit!

MARSH:

Hey, that’s my job.

ANNIE:

You were late. Was traffic murder?

Marsh is struck by the word.

.

MARSH:

No, but...but definitely bad.

(walking to the bed)

Let’s see what we’ve got here.

Lavender...red...blue...and pink.

ANNIE:

Do they match?

13.

MARSH:

Not even a little.

ANNIE:

Cool. That’s my style.

Marsh laughs and tickles her. Annie squirms and giggles

happily.

EXT. MARSH’S HOUSE -- LATER -- MORNING.

DISTANT POV:
The door opens and Annie comes running out,

being chased by Marsh. Marsh scoops her up and carries her

to a Volvo parked in the driveway. Stella sits behind the

wheel.

CLOSE ON THE CAR. Marsh lowers Annie into the back seat and

fastens her seat belt.

MARSH:

Come on, nice and tight.

Annie comically pretends that it’s so tight that she can’t

breathe. Marsh laughs and shuts the door. As Stella backs

out, Marsh turns and looks at the unruly front lawn. Stella

stops and lowers the window.

STELLA:

Don’t even think about it.

MARSH:

But-

STELLA:

Sweetheart? Get some sleep.

Please? Good sleep?

Marsh smiles at her mother’s worries. As the car drives

away, Marsh walks back to the house. She stops and studies

the lawn.

Her mom’s right. She shouldn’t.

INT. MARSH’S GARAGE -- MOMENTS LATER -- MORNING.

Marsh hoists the power lawn mower off a hook on the wall.

EXT. MARSH’S HOUSE -- LATER -- MORNING.

Marsh pushes the powerful, noisy mower, whose engine falters

and sputters, then roars back to life. A NEIGHBOR across the

way, grabs his newspaper, and, seeing Marsh, waves. Working

hard, she doesn’t notice. He shrugs and goes back inside.

14.

INT. MARSH’S BATHROOM -- LATER -- MORNING.

INCHING CLOSER AND CLOSER to the frosted-glass shower door,

we see the naked outline of Marsh showering.

INT. MARSH’S BEDROOM -- LATER -- MORNING.

Wearing only underwear and a T-shirt, Marsh yanks shut the

curtain, blacking out her room.

INT. MARSH’S BEDROOOM -- LATER -- DAY.

Just the burning outline of sun around the curtain. Marsh

lies wide awake, restless. She grabs the remote and flicks

on the TV.

NEWSCASTER:

--of those killed in the blast,

twenty-seven were Iraqis, most of

them school children. We warn our

viewers that some of the images you

are about to see are--

Marsh shuts off the set. Settles back. The cat jumps up on

the bed, purring, rubbing its cheek against her hand. Marsh

smiles, pets it. She meets the animal’s gaze. Her smile

fades, as she remembers something. She jerks to her feet.

.

INT. MARSH’S BEDROOM -- MINUTE LATER -- DAY.

Still in her underwear, Marsh sits at her computer. The

kitten is still there, but now all four of its paws, as well

as its stomach, tail, and bell, are stuck in the glue. Only

its slow-blinking eyes tell us that it is even alive. The

text crawl reads: LABATYD...LABATYD...LABATYD....

Marsh stares, then whispers to herself-

MARSH:

Life’s A B*tch And Then You Die.

She starts to type.

MARSH (cont’d)

No kidding.

She types several commands into a unix shell. Trace routing

algorithms begin to run. A different screen shows possible

IP addresses. The list begins growing, from ten to hundreds

to thousands.... Marsh shakes her head at the futility.

15.

INT. CYBER DIVISION HEADQUARTERS -- LATER -- EVENING.

Elevator doors open. Out steps Special Agent in Charge of

the Cyber Division, WYNN BROOKS, 50’s, Southern accent, dry,

smug, unimaginative.

INT. DIAL-UP ROOM -- MOMENTS LATER -- EVENING.

Brooks walks down the aisle of cubicles to where Marsh,

Griffin, and Wilks stand around Marsh’s desk.

.

BROOKS:

All right, Jennifer, show me this

tortured kitty of yours.

He and Marsh lock eyes. They have a thorny subtext: Marsh

doesn’t respect him and he knows it; Brooks is attracted to

her and she couldn’t care less.

MARSH:

The torture’s over.

She steps aside, revealing her monitor, where the kitten lies

broken and flat, face down, dead in the glue.

BROOKS:

I should say so.

A respectful beat, then Griffin murmurs-

GRIFFIN:

Poor Lulu.

Everyone looks at him strangely.

GRIFFIN (cont’d)

What? That’s her name.

(reading)

The owner...Scotty Hickman...26...

from Columbia...says she was

snatched a few days ago from his

front lawn during a yard sale. He

recognized the fancy collar.

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