Ghost writer, p.6
Ghost Writer, page 6
Donomar paused dramatically. “Why did you come?”
I felt my throat tighten. Donomar was turning the tables, but I felt no immediate danger, so I obliged. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
Dietrich’s eyes narrowed, making him look very intellectual. “Killed a cat once, I hear.” He cracked his knuckles. “You’ve got cats, don’t you, Keaton?” He grinned then and said, “That’s a joke.”
I smiled carefully. Donomar’s attempt at humor rolled my stomach over. I made a deliberate glance at my watch. “Why did you want to see me, Dietrich?”
Donomar rose, a typical move he made when he wanted to dominate. He knew his height made an impression. “I’ve been thinking, Keaton. I have a lot of time to think in this place, as you know. I’ve been reflecting . . . on my life.”
I sat perfectly still, not wishing to break his concentration in the least bit. As I listened, I could not remember Donomar ever making such a statement. He rarely talked about himself.
“I’ve taken the lives of so many innocent people. So many,” he said, and I thought his voice seemed a little strange. I wished I’d brought a tape recorder. Jenkins would never believe this. He’d worked for years trying to find some sort of conscience in Donomar and had never been successful. I didn’t know what was happening, but I did know that whatever it was wasn’t normal.
Donomar paced briefly and then turned with a dull stare in his eyes. I wondered if I should respond, but my instincts and twenty-three years of experience told me to wait.
This, however, didn’t seem to bother Donomar too much. He pivoted on his right foot and walked to his desk. He sat down and opened a file folder. “Some of the victims’ families send me photographs regularly to remind me of what I took from them.” Donomar held up the folder so I could see it more clearly. “It gets to me sometimes.”
I instantly felt my whole body shake. It “gets to me sometimes”? I tried to hide any expression that might indicate I was about to explode inside. I had to admit I never saw this coming. This was monumental, and as frozen with shock as I was, I was still kicking myself for not bringing a tape recorder.
Donomar stood and walked close to the Plexiglas. He held up a picture and I recognized it immediately . . . Ashley Horton, one of Donomar’s victims he’d killed in Texas. Horton was twenty-seven, found dead in her car after a jog at the park.
“Take Ashley, for example,” Donomar said as he looked the picture over. “How could I have taken the life of such a beautiful, promising young woman?”
I could no longer contain myself. I leaned forward and in one breath said, “A lot of people are wondering that same thing.”
Donomar looked up at me, as if surprised I had spoken. He held up another picture. “And this one. James Whitfield.”
Whitfield had been a lawyer from Detroit, horribly tortured with fire and then left to die slowly. I looked away from the picture. Whitfield had probably disturbed me more than the others because of our own similarities . . . he was the same age, our mothers had the same name, and we both had light brown hair and a medium build.
Donomar slowly closed the folder and walked back to his desk to set it down.
“Why? Why am I such a horrible person?”
I felt my head spinning. Why hadn’t I called for Jenkins to come? Why hadn’t I brought the tape recorder? I silently justified it all inside my head. Never in a million years would I have seen this coming or ever expected it. The Dietrich Donomar I knew had no soul. The Dietrich Donomar sitting ten feet away from me had seemed to grow a conscience.
“Can I ever make this right, Keaton?”
I let out a heavy sigh and raised my eyebrows in dumbfounded astonishment. “Right? I, um . . . I . . . you’ve killed over 150 people, Dietrich. So can you make all of that right? I don’t know if that’s possible.” I watched as he lowered his head a little, and I quickly added, “But it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Donomar had a very sad look on his face, and I almost felt compassion for him. Almost.
Silence filled the still chamber, and for what seemed like forever, Donomar just sat and stared at the floor. I could hear my watch tick but wasn’t at all interested in how much time was going by. I didn’t know if Donomar had anything else to say, but I wasn’t about to take the chance that he didn’t by leaving prematurely.
Then Donomar looked up. “There are three men about to be executed on death row here, correct?”
I tried to think about that question and process the entire event as it unfolded all at once. I didn’t keep up with the actual execution dates too much, but I thought that sounded about right. “I think so.”
In that very instant I saw something remarkable. Donomar’s hard features turned softer. His body, usually straight and strong, was hunched a bit. And I noticed one other thing that would stick in my mind more than anything else. He had stopped twiddling his thumbs.
He deliberately looked at me and said, “One of them is innocent.”
I kept eye contact with him, something they’d trained us in the Academy to do at all costs, and tried to find something, anything, that would connect him to the old Donomar.
“One is innocent,” I repeated.
“Yes. One is on death row for a murder I committed.”
I couldn’t even imagine what I should say next. My mind methodically searched through all the manuals and books and classes I’d been exposed to at the Academy. Nothing prepared me for this. I hoped Donomar would go on, and he did.
“I can’t make things right. You are correct in that statement, Keaton. But perhaps I can keep a further wrong from happening.”
“What are you saying?”
Donomar leaned back in his chair and let out a huge sigh. After a moment, he said, “The body of Manuel Roberts was supposedly found in the North Haven drainage ditch, near the river. But Roberts was actually killed on the other side of town in Bear Woods.”
I scrambled to remember all this. I wasn’t familiar with the Manuel Roberts case and immediately repeated the information back to myself silently. Donomar then stood and moved away from the front glass. He walked to the back of his cell, where a tiny barred window let in an ounce of light, and gazed out without saying another word.
After a little while, I decided to leave. I rushed down the small corridor and kept repeating Donomar’s statement over and over in my head. As the gates opened, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number to my office.
“Janine,” I said to my secretary through the static the thick cement walls caused. “Get ahold of Pierce for me. Tell him to meet me at the office as soon as he can. And get me the number to the DA’s office.”
“. . . wondered what time you wanted to meet.”
Edie Darkoy’s raspy voice abruptly interrupted the story. Jonathan set down the pages of Clyde’s manuscript and looked up. “What?”
“Clyde’s on the phone—said you called him,” she said, chomping her gum. The stench of her cigarettes saturated her clothing. “What time you wanna meet him?”
Jonathan looked at his watch. “Tell him to meet me at the Sienna for an early lunch. Eleven-thirty.”
Edie left and Jonathan closed Clyde’s manuscript. He liked what he saw so far, though he was still skeptical Clyde could pull it off. At least he’d read some of the manuscript so Clyde wouldn’t be disappointed. But the truth was, the last thing Jonathan wanted to discuss was Clyde’s new story—though he was amazed he’d read so much already. All he wanted was for someone to tell him what was going on with the other manuscript in his life . . . the one about his life.
He glanced to the side of his desk, and there it sat, looking so ordinary, blending in with all the other stacks of stories around it. Jonathan wondered if he should read any more before his meeting with Clyde. He glanced over at the rest of the stack and wondered when in the world he would get any of those manuscripts read.
He sighed, shoved the mysterious manuscript away, and got to work.
------
Eleven o’clock came quickly, and Jonathan found himself fidgety. Anxiety filled him as he second-guessed himself on whether or not to tell Clyde about the manuscript. Although the Sienna was only a few minutes away, he hoped he could get out of the office a little early without raising any suspicions. Edie had been giving him a few looks that signaled if she had more information, she’d start talking in the break room. Although it was only eleven, he felt sure he could go ahead and leave without her noticing he was early for his eleven-thirty with Clyde.
Jonathan snatched his jacket off one of the chairs in his office, put it on, buttoned it, and grabbed his briefcase. He stuffed both Clyde’s manuscript and the other manuscript in there, closed it, and walked out, trying to carry himself with authority.
“I’m gone to lunch with Clyde,” Jonathan said smoothly.
Edie’s fast-moving fingers never left the keyboard, but she said without hesitation, “It’s only eleven.”
Jonathan wasn’t going to say anything to defend himself—why should he, to Edie Darkoy of all people?—until Sydney Kasdan walked by. It happened quickly, and if he’d been able to do it over, he would have played it out much better.
But either way, he’d already looked and smiled at Sydney before he realized Edie had caught the whole thing. And the clue that her little mind was churning came simply—her fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. Her eyes lingered on Sydney, then on Jonathan, then back on Sydney. She cleared her throat in a disapproving manner and pretended to be interested in the document in front of her.
“Dry cleaning.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to pick up my dry cleaning. That’s why I’m leaving early,” he said strictly as he watched the elevator doors shut Sydney in. Jonathan stiffened and added, “If that’s okay with you, Ms. Darkoy.”
Jonathan always used Ms. Darkoy when he wanted to underline the authority he had over her. Edie never seemed to be phased by it but nevertheless backed off.
“Of course,” she said and resumed typing as if the conversation had never taken place.
On his way down in the elevator, Jonathan wondered where Sydney was going. Yet why should he care?
As the elevator doors opened he saw her standing outside, her arms wrapped around her to block the cool fall breeze that always seemed to snap around the corner of the building. He swept his hair to one side and exited the building.
“Hi.”
She turned around and, with a surprised look on her face, smiled.
“It’s a little cold for you to be standing out here, isn’t it?” He noticed how rosy her cheeks were, and the breeze caught her perfume and swept it into his nostrils.
She shrugged. “I’m a pretty tough cookie.”
Jonathan wanted to resist the question, but the truth of the matter was, he never seemed to be able to resist much of anything when he was around her. “Waiting on someone?”
She nodded and shivered a bit. “Yes.”
Don’t ask who! Jonathan screamed inside. But at that moment he wanted to know if she was involved with anyone. And the sad part was, he couldn’t justify that curiosity. It was none of his business, and he shouldn’t care anyway. Still, it gnawed at him enough for him to manage to disguise it with a little humor. “Your knight in shining armor, I presume?”
She laughed and pulled a short wisp of hair up off her forehead. “Well, the armor’s not quite as shiny as it used to be . . . just needs a little buffing.” She smiled, then simply offered, “My fiancé.”
Fiancé? He hadn’t even noticed a ri—ah, there it was, right in front of him, glinting brilliantly in the sun. Perhaps he’d never cared to look.
“Congratulations,” he managed, though rather dully. “You must be very happy.”
She glanced down at her ring, as if a symbol of her happiness, then asked, “Where are you headed to?”
“I’m having lunch with Clyde Baxter.”
“You two are good friends.”
“Yes.”
A Firebird suddenly pulled into the circle drive in front of the building and stopped with a screeching halt. Sydney seemed embarrassed by the display. She hastily threw her purse over her shoulder and gave Jonathan a quick smile.
“Don’t forget, you owe me a date.”
“A date?” Jonathan asked.
“With Naomi Yates.” She glanced at the car and said, “I’ve got some new manuscripts for you. I’ll bring them by after lunch.”
Jonathan nodded and she quickly disappeared into the car. Jonathan sighed and realized what an idiot he’d been. How could he ever think someone as beautiful and young as Sydney Kasdan would be interested in him? She had her mind on younger men, and being engaged, she certainly wasn’t looking.
As Jonathan made his way to his car, he reminded himself once again that he wasn’t available anyway. But that was a fleeting thought, which quickly disappeared into a mind filled with everything but conviction.
chapter 6
Jonathan watched Clyde play with the turquoise buttons on his favorite western shirt, the one that was so old it was practically see-through. With his free hand he moved a single olive around his plate.
“That’s odd, if I do say so myself,” Clyde said. Jonathan had the manuscript on the table but kept a protective hand on top of it. “Never heard of such a thang.”
“No kidding,” Jonathan sighed. “I’m not worried, I just thought it was strange,” he said as he tapped his fingers rapidly against its white pages.
Clyde let out a short laugh. “Well, is it good?”
Jonathan smiled a little. “Haven’t paid much attention to the writing style, frankly, but it’s not great, no. It doesn’t flow real well, though the description is pretty good.” Too good. “I don’t know, Clyde. I mean, I’m not counting the periods and commas or anything.”
“How exact is it? The content, I mean. Does it follow your life exactly?”
Jonathan wavered back and forth in his honesty. He didn’t want to reveal too much, just in case . . . in case of what, he didn’t know, but he knew he had to keep his guard up.
“Oh, you know, it’s fairly . . . vague.”
“Then are you sure it’s about your life?”
Good point. “Um, I think so. Yeah. I mean, Jason’s name and my name . . . can’t really discount that. And everything I’ve read so far has happened—not exactly like it depicts, but close.” He paused. “Not close. Just sort of similar.”
Clyde finally popped the lone olive in his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Jonny, you’re scared.”
Jonathan’s fingers stopped tapping and his defenses immediately rose up. But Clyde wouldn’t let him speak. He waved a large hand. “I know, I know, you ain’t gonna admit it. But I can see it in your eyes.” Clyde’s own eyes traveled down to the manuscript underneath Jonathan’s hand. “And I have a feeling whatever’s in there, it’s very close.”
Jonathan clenched his jaw and tried to suppress his anxiety. He could either dismiss all this in front of Clyde or tell him everything. He had to make a choice. He rubbed his hands over the stubbled, unshaven skin on his face. “I hadn’t thought of Jason in years—not until this.”
Clyde nodded. “What else?”
Jonathan swallowed hard. “After Jason died, a year or so, maybe more, I was in the barn with the horses one night and dropped the lantern and burned the barn down.”
“That’s in the book?”
“Manuscript. Yes.”
“Anyone else there at the time?”
Jonathan paused. “My father.”
“Who is dead,” Clyde thought out loud. “And your mama?”
“Yeah, she was there.” Jonathan ran his finger along the sides of the manuscript, giving himself several paper cuts he didn’t even feel. “It’s like they’re speaking from the grave or something.”
Clyde looked at him directly. “You know that ain’t possible.”
Jonathan’s voice trembled with frustration. “Oh yeah? No one knew about what my father said in that barn but my father. He and I were the only ones there!”
“Only God knows everything.” Clyde shook his head, obviously with no answer. “The whole conversation was in there?”
Jonathan felt his head was about to explode. “Yeah! I mean, I think it was. The conversation is real hazy, but I remember my dad asking me—” Jonathan stopped himself suddenly and stared into Clyde’s concerned eyes. He quickly took a bite of cold food to do something with his mouth other than talk.
“Asking you what?” Clyde asked.
Jonathan swallowed the food slowly. “I just remember certain parts of the conversation, that’s all. Certain parts were in there. As for the other parts of the conversation, they could’ve happened. I just don’t remember.”
Silence descended as the two men remained at a loss for words. Jonathan knew there were no easy answers, and he wasn’t sure why he thought Clyde might have some. But the fact that Clyde had nothing told him this was serious. This was no game, no practical joke. Someone was messing with him. He just wondered how far it would go. And he wondered what it meant.
“So they just sent you three chapters?”
“Yes, I think. I haven’t read it all.” Clyde raised his eyebrows at that, and Jonathan explained, “I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to read the secrets of your life?”
“Look, it’s probably just some stupid joke. I don’t have time for this, really.” Jonathan glanced up at Clyde, then away. “And besides, it’s not like I have anything to hide. I mean, fine, write about my life. No big deal. It’s not that interesting of a life anyway.”
Clyde folded his napkin neatly on the table. “Well, looks like someone thinks it’s worthy of writing.”
