Chapter 5 Griffin
Griffin
Griffin liked to think his bullshit detector was well-honed, given that bullshit was his day job.
His entire industry revolved around making shit up.
Plus, it was a survival instinct to make a snap judgment of everyone he met.
If he could figure out right away what someone wanted from him, it saved time, potential bodily harm, and lawsuits.
He’d thought about that as he walked along the dirt road toward the security gate, his leather boots crunching on gravel.
When he was young and dumb enough to go to clubs, half the guys wanted to be your best buddy and the other half wanted to fight you.
Half the women wanted to land you, mostly so they could say they had, and a good deal of the others seemed to hate you in principle.
And everyone wanted a selfie. He’d never been the guy people befriended for the usual reasons, even as a kid.
They wanted the connection, the exposure, an anecdote to tell at parties.
That time they’d punched him or kissed him or told him to his face how much The Thunder Protocol had sucked, like he didn’t already know.
Never mind if he’d done nothing to invite it.
As he got older, he learned to recognize the quieter ways people wanted a piece of him. Everyone was pitching something—a film, a cause, a podcast. They wanted exposure, a role, an endorsement, an introduction to his parents. Mostly, they wanted to make money from the connection in some way.
But this woman with her vulnerable eyes and her snappy wit and the sister she was looking for alone…
Not only did she want nothing from him—except not to rat her out—she didn’t want him there at all.
And yeah, she’d lied at the start and that had put him on edge, but when the truth came out, he was certain it was the truth. And he wasn’t often wrong about people.
He spent his career solving fictional problems in created worlds, and here was a scared real woman facing a real problem in the real world—and he’d walked away.
The moment in the film where the hero refuses the call to action.
Rick in Casablanca, sticking his neck out for nobody.
Luke Skywalker and his weak-ass, I’m way too busy with my space chickens to save the princess and the galaxy.
Hell, Achilles dressing as a girl to duck out of going to war.
What was Griffin’s excuse? I’m tired of stalkers and bad press, and I have big weekend plans involving takeout and binge-watching The Godfather? Some action hero he was.
What was the worst that could happen?
Well, several scenarios there:
Pranked: Griffin Hart: World’s Biggest Sucker.
Griffin Hart: Missing in Wilderness, Never Seen Again.
Griffin Hart: Killed By Crazed Stalker Masquerading As Believable And Seemingly Normal And Actually Very Attractive When You Thought About It Regular Person.
Best not to get involved—well, not directly.
Once he was back in cell coverage, he could ask around the production team, make some calls, see if anyone knew about this Vivien woman.
People were more likely to respond to his queries than those of a background actor who presented as a stalker.
The least he could do was fund a search of the hills.
Actually the least. Obi-Wan Kenobi would be disappointed. Odysseus would flog him.
Griffin wore the costume of a warrior—or the costume designer’s sparing interpretation of one. A character who fought for everything, literally and metaphorically. Griffin never had to fight for anything. The one time he should have fought, he’d been too wasted.
So he’d turned around. The moment in the hero’s journey when the character crosses the threshold. Luke leaving Tatooine. Achilles going to war. He’d considered breaking into his trailer for clothes, but he’d wasted enough time. It’d be warm for an hour or two yet.
And now, here he was, just a guy in an Achilles suit standing in front of a girl, feeling like a tool.
“Found anything?” he ventured.
“Not up here. You brought me a rope? I thought you left.”
“I brought you an extra set of eyes, but yeah, the rope too. Swiped it from a rigging platform.” He’d come up here a few times last season, to clear his head. The gully wasn’t death-defyingly steep, but the rope could be useful.
“You’re going to help me look?”
“That’s the idea. That okay?”
“I mean, sure. Of course. Obviously. It’s just…”
“Just…?”
“This is an unusual situation, for me.”
He thought for a second. “For me, too. But we’re here now, so…
” He walked past her and knelt by the sturdiest bridge support, the rope in his hands.
He hesitated. He’d done plenty of climbing in films, but the stunt riggers handled the technical stuff.
Actors weren’t allowed near anything that could go fatally or litigiously wrong.
“A bowline would be best,” Lana said, from beside him.
He flinched. “A … what?”
“Guess you didn’t really go in for Boy Scouts?” She held out her hands for the rope, and he handed it over. She wrapped it around the support, carefully made a loop in it, and threaded the waxed end through the hole, around the rope and through the hole again.
“There,” she said, tightening it.
“That looks about right.”
“We should add a backup knot. A double overhand or a Yosemite tie-off. For security. And we could tie a series of knots at intervals along the rope for hand and footholds. A regular overhand or a figure-eight, or we could go so far as alpine butterflies.”
“Okay! What do you do for a living, Lana?” he asked, watching the deft movements of her small, pale hands. Her fingernails were short and free from polish—though cast weren’t allowed it. “Or are you a professional background actor?”
“I’m a librarian.”
“Oh. I thought maybe something more…”
“Practical?”
“Outdoorsy.”
“The Shipping News. It’s a book. Lots of descriptions of knots.
I tried them all. And then I got out The Ashley Book of Knots and The Mariner’s Dictionary.
The social history of knots is fascinating.
” She whispered a series of numbers to herself.
“And Quipus and Witches’ Knots, but that one I had to buy.
” He raised his eyebrows. “It was hard to find,” she explained, misunderstanding his expression.
“Yeah, I’ve seen the movie. I can’t remember there being that level of detail.”
“There’s a movie? Of Quipus and Witches’ Knots?”
“Not that I know of. The Shipping News?”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. She returned her attention to the rope.
“Knots are a big symbol in The Shipping News—the book, anyway. The characters’ lives are interwoven and tangled.
Knotty. Knots are very metaphorical, when you think about it.
Control, anchoring, security. Knowledge passed down through generations.
Adaptation—you can tie and untie a rope infinite times for different needs.
Commitment—the ties that bind.” She gave her backup knot a tug.
“I’m eighty-eight percent sure that’ll hold.
Ninety-four,” she corrected, standing. She turned to him, screwing up her nose.
“Was that too much? The symbolism of the knots? I’m not crazy, if you’re wondering.
I just spend too much time in my head for my own good. Or so I’ve been told my whole life.”
“Me too,” he said, surprised. “I liked the stuff about knots. So, what have you used these knots for?”
“Not for stalking, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
“That … wasn’t what I was thinking.” Though he was now.
“I haven’t used them for anything, really.
I just practiced tying them with the cord from my pajama pants.
I’m stronger on theory than practice, in general.
Anyway, the principle’s the same, no matter what size the rope.
” She stepped back, planting her hands on her hips.
“So, you’re coming down with me?” she said, as if checking she’d heard correctly.
Turned out he was. “Yep.”
“What if you fall and they sue me for breaking you?”
“Do you have money?”
“None at all.”
“Then why would they sue you? Seriously, they have insurance—as do I. I might well be better insured than Hearst Castle. Though for purely selfish reasons, I’d prefer you didn’t break me, if it comes to a choice.”
She studied him with something that could be wonder or bafflement.
“I’ll remember that.” She looked into the gully, pressing her lips together.
It was maybe seventy feet down. The climbing wouldn’t be difficult—the V-shaped descent was mostly gradual, and it looked dry, though they’d have to navigate a few boulders and sheer drops.
“Have you climbed before?” he asked. “Rappelled?”
“No. But I’ve read books about it.” Again, she muttered a series of numbers, then quietly apologized. He wasn’t sure what for. “I’m full of useless knowledge. I start most of my sentences with, ‘I read somewhere that…’”
It was always good to know the theory, but climbing was like swimming or driving, something you couldn’t learn entirely from a book. “If you’re nervous, you don’t have to come down. I might not know my knots, but I’ve done a lot of climbing, for roles.”
“Oh yes, The Precipice.”
He frowned. “I thought you said you didn’t know who I was until this week?”
“I didn’t!” She was blushing. A guilty conscience?
“The Precipice was my biggest flop. Sank into obscurity within minutes of its release. I wouldn’t expect someone who didn’t know who I was to be familiar with it.”
“I … googled you?”
He crossed his arms. Her tone suggested she was lying, but why? In his head, his mom’s warning tolled: Never get close to the normies.
“After the cop identified you in the photo with Vivien,” she continued, “I wanted to find out if you were…”