Ghost writer, p.28
Ghost Writer, page 28
Kathy reached for him. “You don’t know it’s him.”
“I’m going to prove it today, if I have to tie him up and make him confess.”
Kathy followed him out the door. “But . . . but . . .”
Jonathan turned around. “What, Kathy? Why are you sticking up for him?”
“I’m not,” she said, shivering in the cold. “I’m just . . . it’s just that . . . well, you really need his book, don’t you?”
Jonathan sighed, so frustrated he wasn’t even aware that a north wind had picked up and was blowing snow against him. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I need more. My sanity or another bestseller.”
Kathy warmed her hands with her breath. “Just don’t go crazy on him. That’s all I’m saying.”
Jonathan leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, then continued to walk to the car as Kathy made her way back inside. He was opening his car door when something suddenly dawned on him. He rushed back inside, meeting Kathy in the hallway.
“What is it?” she asked.
“This morning, you said that you thought I had a meeting. You said it was on my desk calendar in my study.” Kathy nodded. “But I didn’t have a meeting. With anyone.”
Jonathan moved past her into the study. He moved a couple of books off the top of his calendar and then saw it. A large 9 a.m. written on today’s date and circled with bright blue ink.
Jonathan stumbled backward into Kathy, then turned toward her. His eyes stung with bitter, fierce anger as he whispered, “That’s not my handwriting. He’s been in our house.”
chapter 20
Jonathan took Kathy by the arm and rushed her to the kitchen. He grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter and opened the door leading to the garage.
“Jonathan—”
“Hush. You’re leaving. We’re leaving. You’ve got your car phone?”
“Yes, but—”
“Call the school. Go pick up the girls. Where’s Sophie? At Susie’s?”
“Yes, but—”
“Pick them all up. Meet me at the office, down in the parking lot. I’ll call you to let you know what time.” He opened her car door for her and all but pushed her inside.
“Jonathan, I think we should—”
Jonathan bent down to her level, and with eyes lit up with the fury of a frightened man, he said, “Kathy. I’m not going to tell you again. Get out of here. Now. Get the girls. Now. He’s been in our house. Don’t you understand what that means?”
Kathy started her car. “Where are you going?”
“Just go!”
Kathy’s car slowly backed out of the garage, her eyes fearful and anxious. She continued to back down the driveway. “Don’t speed!” Jonathan called after her, but he doubted that she heard him.
After he couldn’t see her car any longer, Jonathan raced back into the house, rushed to his study, and unlocked the drawer in which he’d hidden his gun. His fingers trembled as he loaded it with the three additional bullets that lay at the back of the drawer. He wondered if he even remembered how to shoot a gun with any accuracy. He hadn’t shot one in years, not since he was a boy out at the farm.
As he loaded the last bullet, he thought to himself that he wouldn’t need to be that great of an aim. The person he was going to see was too old to run from him.
Jonathan felt sick. Paranoia had overtaken him. And he knew good and well he could never shoot Clyde Baxter.
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The fifty-minute drive to Clyde’s house could take less when the speed limit was exceeded but not pushed over ten more miles per hour. Twenty miles of that stretch of highway was known as “blue lights” for all the cops that set speed traps there. Jonathan thought it better to drive five miles per hour under since he had a loaded weapon in his possession.
He still didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle, and in a short moment of honesty, he managed to admit he barely had any pieces. He didn’t know how Clyde could possibly know about his past. His parents were dead, so researching that part of his life would be useless. His present, though, was another situation. He didn’t know how, but Clyde could definitely get most of that information if he worked hard enough. He was famous for his meticulous research on all of his novels. One New York Times review said, “His detail and accuracy is astonishingly readable. Maybe Ludlum and Clancy should take note.” That was what Clyde did best . . . write smart enough to impress the critics, yet simple enough for most everyone to enjoy.
And Jonathan noted to himself that he wasn’t just pulling Clyde as a suspect out of thin air. Too many coincidences pointed to him. For one, a manuscript just “happened” to appear in his mailbox. And then Clyde just “accidentally” stumbled upon Jonathan’s conversation in Sydney’s cubicle. Not to mention the continuous hounding of his drinking, marriage, and life-style. How many times can a man tell you to go to church? Oh yes, and then there was the fact that he happened to be at the house the night another manila envelope showed up on his car.
Jonathan touched the gun next to him in the passenger’s seat. Why did he even have the stupid thing? Maybe he would just use it as a threat. Was he crazy?
The gun’s metal was cold against Jonathan’s fingertips, and he suddenly realized he hadn’t even turned the heat on in the car. His hands were like ice as he manipulated the knobs to get the heat going. For the first time he realized his teeth were chattering, but he didn’t know if it was due to the cold air.
Jonathan was tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants as he turned onto the old dirt road that now had gravel on it in an attempt to keep the dust down. The tires of his SUV slipped a little due to his accelerated speed. He was trying to straighten out and pull his sun visor down all at once. The sun blinded him like a spotlight.
As he shaded his eyes and found the center of the road again, he came to a screeching halt all at once. The sight before him took his breath away. About a hundred yards down the gravel and dirt road that led straight to Clyde’s old two-story house was a crowd of police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck, their blue and red lights made brighter in the sun’s white-hot backdrop.
Jonathan locked his hands around his steering wheel and hit the accelerator. As he approached, he remembered he had his gun on him. He reached and tried to open the glove compartment, but the sun blinded him again and the reach was too far, so he gave up quickly, before he crashed into a police vehicle. Instead, he took it out and placed it gently under the driver’s-side seat.
Jonathan pulled onto the grass of Clyde’s front yard and quickly got out of his car. A few photographers had gathered near a police car and seemed particularly interested in the new visitor. An officer approached and stopped Jonathan from going any farther.
“What’s going on?”
“Who are you?”
“Jonathan Harper.” Jonathan tried to peek around the large man to get a better view.
“A relative?”
“No.” Jonathan finally looked the officer in the eyes. “I’m his editor.”
The officer looked away, glancing around for any other officer nearby. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“What’s happened? Is he okay? Are you arresting him?”
The officer cocked his head and paused slightly before answering, “No. I’m sorry, but Mr. Baxter passed away during the night.”
Jonathan’s knees buckled, and the officer caught him under the arm and helped him to the hood of a nearby police car. Jonathan’s stomach cramped so hard he winced in pain.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
Jonathan looked up at the officer. “How . . . how did he die?”
The officer was flagging down a paramedic for some water. “It’s hard to say. Probably a heart attack.” The paramedic brought a small cup over, and the officer handed it to Jonathan. “I’ve read every single one of his books. I was a big fan. It must’ve been an honor to be the man’s editor.”
Jonathan tossed the water aside and tried to stand upright. “I need to go in.”
“Stay right here.” The officer walked away for a few moments, disappearing behind the fire truck, then reemerging with another man dressed in a suit. “This is Mr. Baxter’s editor,” the officer told the man.
The man looked Jonathan up and down and said, “Do you have any identification on you?”
Jonathan felt for his wallet. He must’ve left it at the office. Jonathan sighed in frustration as he held out his empty hands. “Sir, I left in a hurry. I . . . I was supposed to be meeting with Clyde. I was running late.”
The man in the suit dismissed the officer with a quick wave of his hand and then said, “Does Mr. Baxter have any living relatives?”
Jonathan held his stomach and tried to think. “He doesn’t have any children. He’s a widower. I think he might have a sister in Oregon, but he doesn’t speak of her much. I’m not sure.” Jonathan waited for another painful cramp to pass, then said, “We were sort of Clyde’s family.”
“We?” the man asked.
“My wife. My children. I’ve been Clyde’s editor . . . and friend”—he swallowed back a sour lump of guilt—“for twenty years.”
The man glanced over at Jonathan’s car. “How about an insurance verification card or something?”
Jonathan swallowed hard, remembering the gun under his seat. He carefully made his way to the passenger’s side of the vehicle, thankful he had not put the weapon in the glove compartment. He opened it up, making sure his body blocked any view inside the vehicle, just in case his gun had slid out from underneath the seat. He found his registration and handed it over.
The man took a quick glance at it and then said, “Follow me.”
Jonathan shut his car door and followed the man up the old back porch. He lingered a moment, looking out at the pond, touching the porch swing, smiling at the old battered wicker furniture that Clyde had been so proud of. The anger he had been feeling toward Clyde was pushed to the side by the good memories that surfaced.
The man in the suit glanced back as he held the screen door open.
“Give me a minute.” Jonathan’s voice choked into a whisper, and the man nodded and disappeared behind the rickety screen door.
Jonathan wasn’t sure he wanted to go in. He wasn’t sure what he would see. He had come here to confront Clyde about being the writer of the manuscript about his life, and now he had to confront the fact that his oldest, dearest friend was dead. Jonathan sat down in Clyde’s favorite wicker rocker, buried his face in his hands, and wept uncontrollably. He didn’t care who heard, and he never saw the occasional hand on his shoulder or pat on the back. All he wanted to do was cry.
So many questions emerged with every tear he shed. Why had Clyde written the manuscript in the first place? Why hadn’t he just talked to him? Even with all the pain Jonathan was feeling, a sense of relief passed through his knotted muscles—relief that this nightmare was now over, sadly because Clyde was now dead.
Jonathan stuck the palms of his hands into his eyes to try to stop the tears, but it was useless. His whole body was crying. A lot had to get out, and he knew it. Grief, mixed with relief and confusion, swirled in and out of his mind with every breath he took.
“Mr. Harper?”
Jonathan looked up and the man in the suit was at the screen door again.
“I’m sorry to disturb you. The medical examiner needs to go ahead and move the body. Did you want to . . . to come in before . . . ?”
Jonathan nodded so the man didn’t have to stumble over any more words. His heavy body almost didn’t come out of the chair, and he felt his feet drag as he walked into the house. With each step was the familiar creak of the wooden floors, and the bold smell of pine caused Jonathan to close his eyes for a moment to let it penetrate his pores. It was like walking into a place where he had lived before. Ghosts from the past echoed in every room he passed. The kitchen rang with laughter and the clink of cold Cokes in glass bottles, the only way Clyde liked them. The living room almost seemed to emit a warmth as he remembered all the crackling fires they had enjoyed while talking about book ideas and drinking eggnog, a staple all year round in Clyde’s refrigerator. They passed the dining room, which was on the left, and the sun presented a buffet of light across the top of the table.
The man guided Jonathan to the right, where a familiar hallway led them toward Clyde’s bedroom. On the right, across from the small bathroom that always had a candle burning in it, was Clyde’s study. It faced west, so it was darker than the other rooms, plus the shades were pulled. As he glanced in while passing, he saw no more than the shadows of a desk, a chair, and a bookcase. And, he noticed, the candle in the bathroom wasn’t lit. His heart sank as he watched the man in the suit open Clyde’s bedroom door.
Jonathan’s feet felt heavy as lead, and it took him a moment to pick up each leg and move four feet forward into the doorway. Inside, a tall, scholarly looking man with thin gray hair that hung over his ears was buttoning up a white lab coat he wore. When he stepped aside, Jonathan could see Clyde’s lifeless body covered by a large gray sheet, lying on the left side of his double bed.
In a corner of the room, the man in the suit was speaking softly to the man in the white lab coat, and before long, the room was empty of all the people who had been there before. The man in the suit walked over to Jonathan and said, “We’ll give you a couple of minutes alone, but then we really need to proceed.”
Jonathan nodded thankfully, and soon the room was completely quiet. Only the soft milling sound of people on the other side of the house could be heard, but it sounded more like the hum of Clyde’s old refrigerator, so it brought him a little comfort.
Jonathan had seen a few dead people in his life. He had viewed the bodies of both his mother and father when they had died. He had never seen Jason’s body. His parents never allowed him in the viewing room at the mortuary. And once, while at lunch in the city, he saw a man get hit by a cab and die on the street.
But none of those experiences made looking at Clyde any easier. He knew he needed to do it. For closure. After all, several times as he sat on the bed, he swore he saw Clyde’s chest move up and down.
To the left of Clyde’s body, on the bedside table, sat a large framed picture of his wife, dressed in her best church clothes and glowing like light hitting a strand of pearls. Next to the picture were a neatly folded tissue, two small pills, and a glass of water. Jonathan picked up the picture of Clyde’s wife and wondered what kind of woman she was. She looked so happy, as if she was the proudest woman in the world. Jonathan wondered if Kathy would look that way when she was that old. He figured Clyde had a lot to do with that woman’s confidence. He knew a husband could make or break the whole identity of a woman.
Carefully setting the picture down, he now could hear some feet shuffling outside in the hallway and figured everyone would soon be back in. His heart beat faster as he moved a little closer to Clyde so he could grab the top of the sheet. With trembling fingers, he gently took the edges of the sheet and peeled them back over Clyde’s chest.
Clyde looked peaceful. His color was paler than normal, but he still had a little color in his cheeks. His lips were arched upward, not quite into a smile, but enough to indicate his last thoughts in this life were good ones.
His pajamas were buttoned all the way to the top, and Jonathan figured it had been a cold night for him. The house’s heater never worked well, and Clyde never seemed to care too much. “You can always add layers,” he would say as everyone complained about it.
Jonathan’s throat was tight, and he clenched his jaw to try to find words and hold back tears all at the same time. Outside, he could hear the man in the suit’s voice becoming louder. He knew he didn’t have much time.
“Well,” he managed, though the tears trickled with little control down his cheeks. “I came here for one final confrontation about the manuscript you’ve been sending me. You know which one I’m talking about. The story about my life.” Jonathan paused to gather himself and his emotions. “I don’t know how you did it. But I’ll find out. I just wish you hadn’t passed on—” His voice cracked. “I just wish you could answer me.” Jonathan wept into his own hands as he continued. “Why? That’s all I needed to know. Why, Clyde? Why?” He closed his eyes and let the tears dry a little before continuing. “The funny thing is, as crazy as this sounds, that stupid manuscript probably saved my marriage. Maybe even saved me. I don’t know. I don’t know what would’ve happened if I hadn’t read my life as it unfolded.” He laughed a little. “You were always good at research. Everyone knows that. But I still can’t figure out how you knew all that about me. Some things, sure, I can understand how you might acquire that information. But others . . . others were private. And the people who would know are . . . dead.”
Jonathan’s hand moved to Clyde’s shoulder. He was just about to say his good-byes—good-byes he had no idea how to say—when the door opened and several men entered the room, including the man in the suit.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harper. We really should get to the morgue. I hope you’ll understand.”
“Of course,” Jonathan said, standing up from the bed and moving out of the way of the crowd of people who were now gathering around Clyde’s body.
Another man, a little less well dressed but authoritative looking, approached Jonathan. “A horde of reporters is out there. You’re the editor, right?”
Jonathan nodded.
“You want to make a statement or something?”
Jonathan’s eyes were swollen and heavy. “No,” he said, giving them a good rub. “Tell them to contact Nellie Benson at the publishing house. She’s the executive editor.”
