Night Film(151)

The greenhouse was a domed rectangular structure, built out of glass panes and pale green oxidized iron, the architecture mimicking the Royal Greenhouses in Brussels. It sat in serene seclusion in a dense medieval forest of Douglas firs—the effect created by more screens rigged around the set. The intense red light was emanating from inside the greenhouse and then, I remembered—of course—from the film.

It was the crimson plant lights.

I waited to be sure I was alone and stepped out onto the lawn, the silvered grass crunching under my boots. I stared down at it, unsettled, because it looked so real, bathed even in a morning dew. I bent down to touch it. It was plastic, the dew actually shiny iridescent paint sprayed across every blade.

I reached the stone path, following it to the greenhouse’s single steel door—the back door, if I remembered correctly. The glass had become opaque from dirt and decades of condensation. Shadows of dark leaves pressed against the panes like the hands and faces of a trapped crowd, frantic to get out.

I grabbed the iron doorknob—noticing it was in the form of an elegant and rather sinister R for Reinhart—and heaved the door open.



A boiling blast of humidity hit my face.

It had to be at least ninety-five degrees inside.

A pathway of immaculate white sand led away from the door, though within a few feet, the dark knots of plants mushrooming from every direction buried it from view. Suspended overhead were green iron barrels lit up with row upon row of cherry-red and blue lights, giving the greenhouse the look of a gigantic oven set on broil.

In Wait for Me Here, the Reinharts’ longtime deaf-mute gardener, Popcorn—prime suspect in the Leadville killings, later found to be innocent—lovingly tended these plants. Glancing around, I realized with unease that they looked exactly as they had in the film. I grabbed a giant shiny black leaf beside my shoulder, rubbing the surface to make sure it was real. It was.

Wait for Me Here, I recalled, had been shot in 1992. The bulbs of these plant lights wouldn’t have lasted twenty years.

Someone must come here regularly to tend these plants.

A chill inched down my spine, but I stepped resolutely inside, shoving back the door, trying to keep it propped open to let some of the heat out.

I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of getting trapped inside here, either, roasted alive by these lights. But even when I wedged in the rubber doorstopper, found buried in the sand just inside, the heavy iron door kept thudding determinedly closed right behind me, so I gave up, letting it slam. I checked to make sure it would still open, then headed down the path, shoving aside the foliage.

It was like the Amazon. Stems as solid and twisted as water pipes laden with white tubular flowers, trees at least eight feet tall, limbs barbed with thistle, black star-shaped blooms, buds with tiny red berries—all of it clutched at my face and arms like swarming orphans desperate for a handout, for human contact. Their aromas were overpowering and pungent, sweet as honeysuckle, though as soon as I inhaled them they seemed to turn earthen and foul. Given that I was wearing three layers of Brad Jackson’s wool clothing suitable for a brutal winter in Vermont, I was already sweating profusely. But I did my best to ignore the heat, jostling past a cluster of verdant trees leaden with drooping yellow blossoms as big as my hands. They collided with my face, getting into my nose and mouth, the pollen tart and acidic.

I spit, left with an acrid aftertaste. Within a few yards, I saw with relief something I recognized: the koi pond.

The pond was a perfect circle made of stones, filled to the brim with black water. In Wait for Me Here, giant Amazonica lily pads floated across the surface. And when Special Agent Fox nearly drowned in there, held underwater by the killer, he clawed at them for dear life, but they only dissolved feebly in his hands.

Now the pool was devoid of plants, the black water so slick and smooth it looked to be made of plastic, though as I shoved my way past the foliage to reach the stone perimeter, I saw perfectly well it was real. I dipped my finger in to make sure. Lazy circular ripples marred the reflection of the red lights and the hulking glass and iron dome overhead.

I assumed there’d be no koi left, not twenty years after the film was shot. But no—in the murky water, I glimpsed a white and orange streak through the murk. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

Someone must come here regularly to feed the fish.

In the film, Popcorn notoriously fed them Cracker Jacks from a box he kept in the front pocket of his filthy dirt-streaked Levi’s overalls.

Maybe he still did.

Maybe the poor man worked in here, lived in here.

The thought made me turn, my eyes scanning the twisted leaves for some sign of that old gardener, his black face wrinkled and glistening, the bright gold tooth in his smile. “The Reinharts’ glorious greenhouse is Popcorn’s holy sanctuary,” I remembered Beckman intoning one night to his students. “It’s his refuge from ridicule—the one place in the world he doesn’t feel afraid.”

I took a moment to recalibrate my mind, to assure myself I was alone and whatever I found in here was a narrative plucked from Cordova’s head. I was not and never had been in Wait for Me Here—though as I noted this, I realized the very fact that I needed to reassure myself of such a thing was horrifying in itself.

Had I already lost my head? Not yet.

I wiped the sweat off my face and headed around the pond’s perimeter, staring into the red-soaked greenery.