분야
hwp a screenplay by Amy Holden Jones
based on the book by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
March 16, 1995
TITLE CARD... BELEM BRAZIL - JULY...
EXT. BELEM STREETS - NIGHT
A taxi careens down narrow roadways at breakneck speeds.
INT. TAXI - NIGHT
In the back seat is WHITTLESLEY. Early 40s, the wreck of a once
handsome man. Unshaven. Sweat stained. Rail thin. Scratches on his
arms, a fresh scar on one cheek. As the taxi roars downhill towards
the harbor, Whittlesley leans over the front seat. (Italics indicate
Portuguese to be subtitled)
WHITTLESLEY
Faster! We wont make it.
DRIVER
You want to die?
Whittlesley pulls out A KNIFE, puts it to the drivers jugular vein.
WHITTLESLEY
Do you?
Sweat pouring down his brow, the driver re-doubles his speed.
EXT. BELEM STREETS - NIGHT
The taxi swerves around a corner, nearly crashing into a fruit cart,
flies out of sight.
EXT. HARBOR - BELEM - NIGHT
Light rain obscures the bulky outlines of tethered freighters. We hear
faint laughter leavened with Portuguese phrases, distant Calypso music
from waterfront bars. One of the smaller boats, the SANTA LUCIA, is
loading as the TAXI fishtails to a halt.
Whittlesley gets out, sees the boat still at dock. His face floods
with relief.
WHITTLESLEY
Thank God.
He tosses a handful of bills into the drivers lap, sprints up the
pier as the driver shouts curses after him in Portuguese. Whittlesley
shoves past the dock hands as the last load goes onto the Santa Lucia.
The boats engines churn to life.
WHITTLESLEY
I need to speak to the captain!
Where is he?
The sailors hold Whittlesley back.
WHITTLESLEY
Get your hands off me! Im trying
to save your lives, you fools!
Several crew members murmur the word "loco". Hearing the commotion, a
squat man wearing a billed hat and smoking a cigar approaches. CAPTAIN
FRANCO.
FRANCO
American?
WHITTLESLEY
Yes. Thank Christ somebody speaks
English. Im Dr. John Whittlesley.
You have some crates of mine on
board. They were shipped by mistake
to the Natural History Museum. We
have to get them off the boat.
FRANCO
You have I.D.?
Whittlesley runs a trembling hand through his hair, trying to keep
control and appear reasonable.
WHITTLESLEY
No. Let me explain. I was on an
expedition for the museum on the
Upper Xingu. Something horrible
happened. Im the only one who got
out alive. I lost everything, my
I.D., everything. I have to make
sure no one else dies. The crates,
the crates were sent out before we
knew. Theres something unspeakable
inside. If your boat leaves harbor
with those crates on board, I cant
be responsible. My God, if they
reach New York...
Whittlesleys fists clench spasmodically. Franco looks to his men.
FRANCO
Loco.
WHITTLESLEY
No! Im not crazy! As God is my
witness, Im telling the truth.
Franco barks an order and several sailors grab Whittlesley by the
arms. They start to lead him back to shore.
WHITTLESLEY
Dont do this! You have to believe
me. Your lives are in danger.
The sailors laugh. But with an almost super-human strength born of
desperation, Whittlesley throws them off. He pulls out his wallet.
WHITTLESLEY
Cash. Cash, you see? American money.
Whittlesley throws the money down on the deck. The breeze scatters the
bills across the bow and all the men, including Captain Franco,
scramble for the money, chattering in Portuguese. While they are
occupied, Whittlesley slips by unnoticed and disappears below deck.
INT. HOLD - SANTA LUCIA - NIGHT
Whittlesley ducks between cages of goats, boxes of farm equipment, his
movements jerky with panic. As he continues searching, the camera
moves past him, into the darkness of the hold. We hear Whittlesley
mumbling between low, ragged breaths. At the back of the boat the
camera finds...
A STACK OF CRATES... clearly labeled NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM. Move in on
these as... The CRATES VIBRATE. The boat has started to move!
Whittlesley stands bolt upright, realizing whats going on.
WHITTLESLEY
No!
Too late. He turns to run back on deck but then stops, sniffs the air.
A look of desperation fills his eyes. With one hand he pulls out THE
KNIFE, and unexpectedly puts it to HIS OWN NECK. Better to kill
himself than face what comes next. The knife touches...
A NECKLACE of TWO ARROWS, one gold, another silver.
Whittlesley stares wide-eyed into the blackness of the hold. The goats
start BLEATING in blind panic. A shaft of moonlight comes through a
porthole as the boat turns. The moonlight falls on
THE CRATES. Whittlesleys eyes lock onto them and he inches towards
them, drawn inexorably closer... closer...
WHITTLESLEY
No... no...
He begins mumbling a prayer.
MOVE IN ON HIS EYES... filled with dread as he falls to his knees,
staring, always staring at THE CRATES...
EXT. DOCKS - NIGHT
The crew tends to business and the Santa Lucia points out of the
harbor, disappears into the night.
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. LOUISIANNA COAST - DAY... TITLE CARD... JUNE
Squad cars roar down the back roads, sirens flashing. In the center of
the column is an unmarked car.
INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY
A
