Ghost writer, p.35
Ghost Writer, page 35
The sun, now high in the sky, warmed the top of his head enough that he felt comfortable taking his time walking to the other side of the parking lot. Carl and his wife invaded his thoughts, but he couldn’t stop smiling as he thought of them. She had no idea the power that man held or the high esteem he was held in. He was just “her Carl,” and she loved him. He felt disappointment that he would not have a flawless record as a husband. But he was sure he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. If out of fear only, he would never cheat on Kathy. But if he ever thought about it, Clyde Baxter wouldn’t be there to send him pages chronicling every sinful move. He convinced himself that was a good thing.
He rounded a large, oversized Chevy pickup and walked from the rear of his car to the front. With his remote he unlocked the doors and was just about to climb in when his blood froze in his veins and his throat swelled so tight he started choking.
Underneath the drivers-side windshield wiper was a manila envelope.
chapter 24
Jonathan . . .”
The voice, distant and hollow, was thousands of miles away, spoken from a black hole.
“Jonathan . . . Jonathan . . .”
The pain was heavy and deep and suffocating.
“Jonathan . . .”
Darkness. Thick and inky. Then a harsh light, stinging his eyes.
“Jonathan . . .”
A shadow softened the light a bit and he managed to focus on it, though it was no more than a blurry scribble.
“Are you okay? Let me get you some water.”
He tried to sit up but fell back onto a soft surface, presumably a bed. He waited, shutting his eyes, and then felt a hand on his, guiding it to a cool glass. He brought the glass to his lips and poured the water into his mouth without regard to neatness. He sat up a little and opened his eyes. The light was still bright, but the shadowy figure in front of him had now transformed into his wife.
“My head . . .” Jonathan whispered. He feared anything louder might cause something inside to erupt.
“I’ll get you some aspirin,” she said and went to the bathroom again.
Jonathan took another drink of water and gazed out the window. The sun was high in the sky, still strong enough to heat the room.
Kathy appeared again and dropped two aspirins into the palm of his hand. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he pushed them down his throat with the rest of the water.
“You look terrible,” she said softly. “Do you want something to eat?”
Jonathan rubbed his eyes with force. “What time is it?”
“Four o’clock.”
Jonathan looked down and realized he was completely dressed, minus his tie and shoes. He unbuttoned three buttons of his white dress shirt and leaned his tired body against the headboard.
“Are you hungry?”
He was. He didn’t know why. He’d just eaten a ton of food at the reception. “Sure.” He closed his eyes and tried to think.
“Does anything sound good?”
“Whatever is fine, honey.”
She touched his face. “You were so exhausted.”
He smiled a little. “I guess so. It’s rare that I take a nap at all, much less a four-hour one.”
“A four-hour one?” Kathy asked carefully.
Jonathan opened his eyes. “I got home about noon, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes . . .”
“It’s weird. I don’t even remember coming home. Everything’s a blur.”
Kathy took his hand. “I guess so. I think you’re more torn up about Clyde’s death than you’re willing to admit.”
“Look, it’s just been a hard day. Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll sleep in and then I’ll feel much better.”
Kathy paused, looked away nervously, and then said, “It is Saturday.”
“What do you mean?” Jonathan asked.
Kathy stood near the end of the bed. “Jonathan, you’ve been asleep since yesterday at noon.”
“What?” He wasn’t sure if the question was even audible.
She swallowed. “You came home from the funeral and went straight to bed.” She nervously smoothed out a wrinkle in the comforter. “You didn’t even stir when I came to bed last night. And you slept through all the racket the girls were making this morning.” Her expression showed worry. “I tried to rouse you but you just mumbled you wanted to sleep. I figured you probably needed it.”
Jonathan forced a smile. “I think I will have something to eat.”
“Of course,” she said as she relaxed. “Anything you want.”
“Whatever you make is fine.” He rubbed his temples.
“Is that aspirin kicking in yet?”
“I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. I actually feel pretty good and rested,” he lied.
“Good. Come down when you’re ready.” She patted him on the leg and left the room.
Jonathan collapsed against his pillow and shut his eyes tightly. What in the world was going on? What had happened? It was like the last twenty-four hours was a blank slate. He thought back as hard as he could and remembered the funeral, though it felt as if his mind had sunk into a thick haze. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself. His knee kicked something hard underneath the covers and he threw the sheets back, revealing the picture frame of his children that normally set on his nightstand. He vaguely remembered holding it against his chest as he went to sleep. He picked it up, and as he set it back on his nightstand, he noticed a small bottle of over-the-counter sleeping medication sitting near the lamp. The bottle was open and a few blue pills lay scattered across the dark wood.
Yes. He had taken two pills, then two more. He remembered fighting the urge to chase it with liquor. But why? Why had he—
A numbing tingle started at his head and blazed down his body like a white fire. He held his breath, clenched his jaw, and then felt underneath his pillow. His hand emerged with the manila envelope he had found on the windshield of his car. He didn’t have to open it. His mind was clear now. He remembered exactly what it said. Still, it almost had the power to command him to open it again, and so he pulled up the flap and removed the single white sheet of paper from it. He reread it.
You have attended a funeral today.
Yet this is not the end. Only the beginning.
For some, death is final.
For others, it is not.
You have forsaken the one you love.
And the one who loves you.
Your death, if not eternal,
is immediate.
Though how can death sting one who is already dead?
There is life.
But life only through death.
Embrace the death that is required of you.
Jonathan’s hands were shaking so badly he was afraid the rattle of the paper might draw unwanted attention. He attempted to shove the paper back in the envelope but couldn’t find the coordination to do so. Instead, he folded the piece of paper and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
He managed to stumble across the hardwood floor into the bathroom, where he ran his toothbrush across his front teeth only, and then mindlessly swallowed the toothpaste before splashing his face with ice-cold water. His head pounded in sync with his heart. He felt as if he were in a tunnel.
Combing his hair to the wrong side, he buttoned one button on his shirt and closed his eyes for a moment. He had to pull himself together. No matter what, he couldn’t let Kathy know anything was wrong. Not now.
He didn’t even know what all this meant. He couldn’t imagine how to explain it. And the more he thought about it, the more he feared the worst. His death was imminent. And there would be nothing he could do to change it.
“Everything has come true,” he whispered as he looked at his red, wrinkled, tired face in the mirror. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. His five o’clock shadow looked like dirt on his face. Deep creases where the sheets had been looked like a road map on his skin. But the more he stared at himself in the mirror, the more he knew what he was looking at reflected perfectly what he was feeling inside. Hopeless. Helpless. Scared.
Maybe the riddle meant something else. Maybe it didn’t mean he was going to die. Maybe it . . .
His thoughts swirled together in a heap of emotions that let itself out in a quiet, angry cry. So many questions. So much confusion.
Was Clyde writing from his grave now? Impossible. Yet this last page had said that it wasn’t the end for him. Only the beginning. What did that mean? And he thought he’d reconciled with Kathy. Why, then, did it say he did not love her? He did love her. He’d seen the error of his ways. Wasn’t that good enough? Did he have to shed blood as a penalty for his mistake?
He picked up his razor and thought about shaving, but with the way his hands were shaking, he quickly put it down.
“Pull yourself together,” he commanded through his tears. “You’ve got to.”
The mirror image perfectly repeated what he said to himself, yet it was as if he were looking at a man he did not know. He studied the face and knew each line well, yet the eyes were different. The eyes were distant. Sad. Gone.
He sat down on the edge of the tub and buried his face in his hands. His muffled cry sounded like a child’s, scared of the dark, needing a parent, helplessly feeble. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t in control. For the first time, someone else had the answers, and someone else ruled him. Why fight it anymore? Why not embrace it?
Because he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. Not now.
He came up for air and wiped his tears away swiftly with each hand. Somehow, some way, all of this had to make sense. There had to be a logical explanation for it all. Clyde could not be writing this.
“Clyde is dead,” he said out loud, as if that made it more of a fact.
Then someone else was writing it. That was logical. What didn’t make sense was why, and how. But he had to answer those questions. He had to find this writer before . . .
He couldn’t bear to think of it, so he removed it from his mind and focused hard on the facts. The writer knew him, inside and out. The writer knew things from his past no one else knew. The writer had watched him every single day for the past month. The writer had the ability to predict what he would do. The writer was trying to tell him something.
The writer wanted him dead.
Jonathan laughed a little. This writer had saved his marriage and now wanted more. Wanted his life. Why would the writer care about his marriage if he was to die in the end anyway?
Outside his bedroom door, he could hear the girls rumbling down the hallway to the stairwell. He stood, grabbed the Visine out of the medicine cabinet, squirted a drop into each eyeball, and then tucked his shirt in. He brushed his hair one more time and headed downstairs.
At the kitchen table, Kathy had a display of waffles, sausage, eggs, and biscuits lined up like a buffet. Jonathan slid into a chair and felt like he might throw up. His appetite had disappeared as quickly as it came. But for her sake, he shoveled some eggs and a sausage link onto his plate.
Leesol came in from the living room. “Breakfast for dinner! Cool! Hi, Dad. Are you sick? Can I have a sausage, Mom?” Kathy nodded, and Leesol pulled a chair up next to her father. “Dad, are you sad about Clyde?”
Jonathan glanced up at Kathy and then said, “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
“Sure. But I know he went to heaven. I’ll be there, too. So I guess I’m not that sad. God’s probably got him a big pond next to his mansion. He’s probably fishing.”
“Probably.” Jonathan patted her on the back.
Meg came in next and sat at the table, but she didn’t even look at the food. “You slept forever, Daddy.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Mom says you needed it.”
“True. I’m paying for it now, though.”
She shrugged, her eyes cast down at the table. “I know Clyde’s in heaven, but I miss him already.”
Kathy came in with another batch of scrambled eggs. “That’s normal, honey. We all miss Clyde.”
Meg looked at Jonathan. “Do you think he can see us?”
Jonathan looked away and rearranged his eggs on his plate.
“Dad?”
“Sure.”
“Does he have a body?” Leesol asked with a mouthful of sausage. “But better? Thinner? Clyde was fat, you know.”
“Lees, cut it out,” Meg said sharply. “It’s not nice to talk about dead people like that.”
Kathy sat down at the table. “Honey, Clyde’s fine. And he probably is looking pretty good up there in heaven.”
“Can I talk to him?” Leesol asked her mother. Jonathan watched Kathy think the question over.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s better to just talk to God about him, and maybe God will give him a message for you.”
“That’s a good idea,” Leesol said as she snatched another sausage. “God will probably take the message down just like I said it. Right? God’s a good notetaker. Right?”
The chatter continued as Jonathan mulled over Leesol’s last statement.
“Jonathan?”
Jonathan looked up to find everyone at the table staring at him. “What?”
Kathy pressed her lips together and like a schoolteacher to a young student said, “Meg asked you a question. Aren’t you going to answer it?”
Jonathan looked at Meg. He had completely missed it. Everything about him was far away and almost nonexistent. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. What was your question?”
Meg paused, glanced at her mother with worry, and then said, “Why do good people die? Bad people should die. That’s how it should be.”
Don’t cry, you idiot, Jonathan scolded himself. But he felt he could answer no other way, in light of the last page he had received. “Bad people do die. Every day. Maybe even today.”
Leesol and Meg exchanged questioning glances and then Kathy said, “Children, remember you need to pick up your rooms. Why don’t you go ahead and do that.”
Leesol grumbled, but Meg took the hint and took her sisters up the stairs. When they were alone, Kathy took Jonathan’s hand across the table. “Jonathan, is everything okay? Really? You seem . . . weird.”
Jonathan looked up at her. She was beautiful. The late afternoon light glowed in her skin. He squeezed her hand and nodded, unable to say anything that was truthful. She waited, then released his hand and began clearing the table.
“What are you going to do right now, honey? Can I help you with anything?”
Jonathan’s hands lay limply in his lap. He stared out the small kitchen window near the table. That, he could answer honestly. “I don’t know.” Did he say that out loud? He wasn’t sure. His thoughts and actions didn’t seem to line up appropriately.
“Oh. I almost forgot. Nellie called early this morning. She said she wanted to push Monday’s meeting up to eleven A.M. She sounded horrible.”
“I’ll do that.” He stood up with a newfound energy. “Yes. I’ll read the rest of Clyde’s manuscript. I’ve got to write the proposal tomorrow. It should’ve been done last week. That’s what I’ll do. Perfect.”
Jonathan caught Kathy staring at him with odd curiosity. He challenged it with what he hoped was a graceful smile. She went about clearing the table, and he shut himself in his study.
At his desk, he found the manuscript. The aspirin was kicking in and he felt a little better. Perhaps he could concentrate enough to finish reading it. Time was running out. Monday would be here too soon anyway.
“Hello.” Donomar’s voice greeted me before he came into view. I nodded at the guard to leave us alone and then took three more steps and came into his view.
“Dietrich.” I folded my arms as he stood from his desk. “I suppose you’ve heard the news.”
“Of course I have, Keaton.” He smiled graciously. “Lincoln Smith will be released. Joseph James will be executed.”
I pulled up the plastic chair near the cell and sat down. “They’ve linked you to the murder of Mamie Smith. You lose. We win. Are you going to be a sore loser?”
Donomar laughed a little but didn’t respond. I pulled my chair a little closer. “Oh, come on, Dietrich. I mean, you did do a good job of hiding the evidence. Whatever evidence it is that proves you killed the girl. I’ve got to say, I’m awfully curious.” I tried to smile lightly. “I had my best men in here. Couldn’t find a thing. Had you strip searched, so I know the evidence wasn’t with you.” I clasped my hands together. “Are you going to show me what it is? After all, all bets are off now.”
He leaned against the wall of his cell and stared at me with narrow eyes and a hint of a smile. I watched him as closely as he was watching me. For once, I had the upper hand with Donomar. I just wondered how he was going to respond to getting beat.
“Well?” I asked. “Are you going to show me or not? You must know how curious I am.”
Donomar stood still for a while longer, I guess stringing my curiosity along, and then walked to the front Plexiglas. He was only inches from me, and I felt the need to back up, even though there was nothing he could do to me. I tried to remain cool.
“I guess it’s time.” He looked at the clock on the wall outside his cell. “Yes, it’s perfect timing.”
I smiled, as if I were following.
“The truth of the matter, Agent Keaton Spade, is tonight a guilty man will be set free and an innocent man will be executed.”
“You’re wrong. They’re releasing Lincoln Smith as we speak. They have all the evidence linking you to the murder. Is it that hard for you to accept?”
Donomar’s eyes suddenly flashed with such evil that it took my breath away. I stood up and backed away, though I didn’t know why.
