by E H Davis
“I know this sounds dramatic, but there’s a book I have to write before I die, and it means putting the Poulon series on hold.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“It means the publisher may take back the advance we’re living on. It means tightening our belts.” He took a deep breath. “It means pulling you out of Exeter.”
Teddy stared at him, his brow furrowed. He brightened.
“Do it, Dad.”
“What about your friends?”
“I’ll make new ones. Do this thing for yourself.”
“I don’t know, Teddy. It feels selfish ... and scary. What if the book fails?”
Teddy shook his head. “Go for it, old man.”
Jens’ smile was short-lived. “Your Mom’s definitely not on board.”
“Get her on board. You haven’t lost your mojo, have you?”
________
Jens was awakened from a light sleep by sounds coming from the bathroom. The shower was running, which meant that Vivian was home. He wasn’t sure how to play this. In the past, if he’d kept quiet, their rifts blew over. He decided to wait and see, taking his cue from her.
He didn’t want to split up, though he’d been less certain earlier, after the scene at the library. He knew his reasons were selfish, separating would destroy his ordered writer’s world. Family routine was a safe port he gratefully returned to, after riding the high seas of fiction. Besides, it would put his relationship with Teddy into jeopardy. And the boy really needed him.
Though he knew his survival depended on his ability to write, he also knew that he’d choose the path that would be best for Teddy, even if it meant him living apart for a while.
Anyway, she was the one who wanted a divorce. Why? So she could be with Laurent? He flared with jealousy.
Vivian entered from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her, exposing tawny shoulders beaded with water. Jens lay on his back, watching as she casually removed her towel, dried herself, and wrapped it around her hair. His eyes were adjusted to the dark, and he easily made out his wife’s silhouette, admiring her feminine curves: luminous breasts, a flat stomach, shapely hips, and long, slender legs.
He felt her staring in his direction, trying to determine if he was awake. She toweled off her hair and hung the towel over the back of a chair to dry. He expected her to put on the dowdy stringed pajama bottoms and cotton T-shirts she normally slept in, always complaining of the cold, even in summer. He felt a shiver of excitement as she pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets — naked.
They lay side-by-side, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of each other’s breathing, sensing one another. Gauging, as married couples are wont to do, the emotional and sexual climate.
Jens felt something different about his wife tonight — a subtle shift, an unhinging of habitual reserve, a tempest in the blood. It caught fire with him. The old disaffection he felt for her — borne of tiresome wrangling, repeated snubs, and disappointments affecting most every way a couple interacts — suddenly, miraculously, evaporated.
“Jens,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Mmmm.” He felt her reaching for him. He rose to meet her embrace. Her hands were hot coals strafing him. He took her in his arms, and they began to make love, flesh cleaving flesh.
“I don’t want to leave you. I love us — you, me, Teddy.” She was sobbing.
“Shhh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said about your painting,” he answered.
As they made love, he felt new resolve, infusing him with confidence in his ability to deliver the book he dreamed of.
Somewhere deep in his being, buried on the bitter edge of consciousness, lay the worm of doubt. But it wasn’t about him — it was about Vivian. As she gave herself to him in a way that she hadn’t in a very long time — not since their courting days — he sensed that she had given herself to another.
Someone who’d freed her of the numbing routines couples become accustomed to.
He felt a rougher hand in the works — signaled by Vivian’s demanding, grappling, clawing, as they rollercoasted to orgasm.
Laurent’s hand. The hand of a murderer.
The knowledge was lost in the passion of the moment, rocketing him away like a meteor flung to the far reaches; lost but for a trail of paranoia that might be traced back one day, to the truth.
________
In the morning he awakened feeling restored and whole. Vivian was already up; he smelled coffee and toast. He lay in bed longer, letting the glow of their intimacy continue to permeate his sensibilities. Forgotten was the worm of doubt.
He suddenly understood that Cassie Melantree, who had cut herself off from feeling because of her daughter’s murder, was ready to become whole again, able and willing to risk love. This would be the subtext of his crime story — an exploration of how the human heart mends. He liked the way it fit in with the ending he’d already envisioned — of Cassie confessing her love for Tommy Flaherty.
He congratulated himself on his insight, loving the way an idea acts as a magnet. It was one of the unsung satisfactions of his work, how story comes from incidental strands, semi-conscious threads, woven into a whole.
He jumped into the shower, turning his story over in his mind, priming the pump.
At breakfast, he embraced Vivian, looked into her eyes, and kissed her. She laughed nervously but did not pull away.
He took his coffee and toast on a tray and bounded up the stairs to his office, ready to begin the first chapter of his book, warmed by the thought that with this book, he would take care of his family. And they would stay together.
Chapter Thirty-One
Trying to look casual, Warren glanced around Petronella’s Café, nearly deserted in the wake of the lunch crowd. Their booth, just off the bar with a view of the courtyard, gave them as much privacy as was possible in a public place. Meeting Laurent was a violation of Warren’s parole, and it made him jumpy. But that was something he’d never allow his disciple to see.
A couple, 30s — tourists, judging from their matching sweatshirts embossed with the familiar Bow St. tugboats — sat at the bar chatting. At their feet were shopping bags full of overpriced “treasures” to haul home. Warren wrote them off as harmless. Still, he lowered his voice.
“Three hundred K, that’s what’s it’s worth?”
Laurent nodded. “Maybe more — housing market’s back up — Conway’s a popular destination — mountain climbing, hunting, fishing, water sports.”
With a toss of his ponytail, Warren looked at him askance. It was a look that Laurent knew well, that said I’m on board, but you can’t know that, or you’ll buy me off cheap.
“Explain to me again — how is it that this log cabin in Conway is not part of their marriage assets?”
“Corbin was smart enough to title it under a shell corporation used for writing off his expenses as a novelist.”
“His wife told you that?”
“It slipped out; she said Corbin thought she didn’t know about it.” Laurent leaned in closer, adding to the drama. “Realistically, if he sells short — and he will once we —”
Warren held up a cautionary hand, shorthand for “don’t count your chickens.”
“Quarter of a mill,” Laurent added, letting it sink in. “Easy money.”
“Kidnapping’s a federal beef.” Warren shook his head. “Too risky.”
Laurent played along — believing himself as good as Warren at the con.
“Not kidnapping,” he hissed. “Threat. Threat only.”
“Still, a terrorist threat. And the boy?”
“We leave him alone. I know enough about him to make it sound good.”
Warren frowned. “I don’t know. I got a lot to lose here.”
Laurent shrugged. “Okay, I’ll do it alone.”
When Warren tossed his ponytail again — his tell — Laurent knew he was in, he had him. It was only a matter of the terms.
“You say you’ve researched this thoroughly. What about...”
Laurent listened patiently while Warren cited his objections. Then he dismissed them one by one, like a car salesman overcoming a buyer’s reservations. It only took another fifteen minutes for Warren to say the words.
“I’m in, I’m in,” he said, bumping fists with Laurent. “Coupla points, first.”
“I’m all ears.” Laurent suppressed a grin.
“One: no physical contact whatsoever with this Corbin guy. Phone call only. Scare tactics. Two: I do the cash pickup. Three: I make the call, do all the talking. Four: We split sixty-forty. I get the extra for the use of my truck.”
Laurent knew he was expected to do some horse-trading, the first item on the agenda their split.
“Sixty-forty for me. It’s my job.”
They finally agreed on fifty-fifty.
“We make the cash pickup together.” Laurent stared him down, knowing this was critical; though they’d been buddies in prison, he didn’t know if he could trust him outside.
Warren nodded. “Okay, but I make the call. You don’t want him talking to Vivian and suspecting you.”
Laurent rubbed his forehead, made like he was thinking it over.
“No deal, then.” He smiled crookedly.
Warren glared. Laurent glared back.
“Okay, okay,” Warren said, finally. “You can make the call, but keep it impersonal.”
Meaning, do not let Corbin know how much he had it in for him. Laurent slowly nodded yes.
They sealed the pact with shots of tequila. Warren got up to go; they’d agreed not to be seen leaving together.
“You steering clear of the wife?” He threw some bills down on the table.
“Strictly business, now,” Laurent lied.
“Keep it that way.”
After he left, Laurent glanced at the bill.
Son of a bitch shorted me!
He grudgingly paid the difference, vowing to get Warren back for all his arrogance. As he made his way back to Bow Street, he congratulated himself on how well things were working out. Warren was playing right into his hands and so would Corbin, and eventually Vivian, too, though she could never know he was connected with the blackmail.
After the cash was delivered, well, accidents happen all the time to people like Corbin, don’t they?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Deep in thought, Jens drove north along the White Mountain Highway toward Conway, retracing the familiar route he and Teddy had traveled only weeks before, in the aftermath of their experiences on Black Mountain.
For Jens it had been life-changing. He had saved a man’s life and in some indefinable way it had quickened his sense of purpose, casting his accomplishments in doubt, and making him avid to bring something new and different into creation while he still possessed talent and will.
The phrase “mid-life crisis” came to mind but instead of having one last fling with a younger woman (Vivian, ten years his junior, was young enough), or buying a James Dean vintage Porsche 356, his dream car, he was committing to a rigorous writing program. He was coming up to the cabin to eliminate all the distractions of home and professional life, so he could concentrate on a book that would come from his heart, not just his head.
Happily, he had the blessings of his wife and son. Vivian, in fact, had encouraged him to go to the cabin so he could concentrate, leaving her to manage the house along with Teddy, who would be starting school in a few weeks. In the meantime, steps had been taken to enroll Teddy at Oyster River High in the event that Jens’ writing advance was forfeited. Jean, his agent, was still trying to hold onto it for him. Surprisingly, Vivian said she would begin looking for a job.
Once at the cabin, he planned to take a page from Hemingway’s notebook on the disciplined writer, which predicated writing without break for six hours, from six in the morning until noon, and then spending the rest of the day fishing.
He imagined the hypnotic play of sunlight on sparkling water and the rhythmic action of fly-casting as his reward for producing the requisite 1500 - 2000 word goal he set for himself daily.
Already he had completed the first few chapters, which some say is the most difficult because they must hook the reader while revealing enough of the protagonist to be intriguing.
Jens’ Subaru climbed the winding road to Black Mountain in the dusk. He was nearly home.
________
After passing through the pleasantly-musty mudroom, with its fragrance of pine and sweat, Jens cranked open the kitchen and living room windows to chase away the stuffy air. He glanced around with satisfaction, happy to be back in his familiar cocoon, where he could indulge his imagination without interruption. Everything seemed to be in order.
He would write well here, he decided.
He went downstairs and turned on the hot water heater, remembering how he had discovered the cover ajar when he returned to lock up the house the day he and Teddy drove back to Lee. The thought released a cloud of doubt and concern surrounding Teddy, tugging at the edge of awareness. About what, specifically, he could not say, so he dismissed it. Under Vivian’s care, Teddy would be fine for the month Jens would be away here. He set about making himself dinner, thoughtful and relaxed.
________
While washing up the dinner dishes he was struck by a thought about the hook in Chapter One. It wasn’t strong enough. He thought of his Poulon series, in which each novel begins with a scene revealing the “perp” committing his horrendous crime, or showing the results of it, the corpus delicti. The body of the crime is what he always introduced Detective Poulon to, according to the formula for police procedurals.
Suddenly, he caught an image of the “perp,” Orozco, preparing to mete out punishment to the child on the deck of his yacht. The scene rapidly fleshed itself out, and he was afraid he’d lose it if he didn’t capture it immediately on paper, or in Word.
He dried his hands and removed his laptop from the knapsack he used as a carrying case, setting it down on the kitchen table. While the computer booted up, he retrieved his wine glass and took a meditative sip, his thoughts warming in the glow of the screen. He opened a new Word doc and started writing, his fingers gathering speed as he recorded the scene exploding in his mind’s eye.
Prologue: The Beast
Emma was sitting on the bunk in one of the staterooms used to indulge the man’s wicked fantasies of seduction and punishment ...
After writing non-stop for almost an hour, Jens saved and closed his Word doc, worried that the opening was too salacious, prurient — and borrowed. He did not want to arouse the reader, only horrify, and elicit pathos. He closed his eyes to recapture the moment, but the movie in his mind receded, as Orozco disappeared behind the ship’s stateroom door and locked it.
Jens shut down his computer, thinking, enough threatened mayhem for one night. Tomorrow he would evaluate the scene and either rewrite it or discard it.
He poured himself another glass of wine and took it along with his cell phone onto the porch and called home. The phone rang and rang but no one picked up.
He sipped his wine, warmed by his developing understanding of Cassie’s story, confident that it would unfold — without much interference from him — now that he was consciously dreaming.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After seeing Teddy off on the bus to Portsmouth to meet his friends at the city pool, Vivian retreated to her studio in the barn to resume work on the painting she’d put aside until Jens returned to his cabin in the mountains. His departure, which she’d gently but persistently encouraged, was necessary as she intended to sort out matters with Laurent before he did something foolish.
She really did not know what he was capable of. Whispering on the phone with him until Jens left, she’d found him to be alternately sensible and demanding, oscillating between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. At times she believed him to be considerate of her need to remain with her family. At other times, he sounded like a manic-depressive,
high on his demands for their life together, sheer fantasy.
And when she reminded him that nothing like that was going to happen, ever, he became so morose she feared he would kill himself. She contemplated going to the police, but she knew that would blow back on her, terribly. She had a lot to hide about her former life — things that would hurt her relationship with Teddy, never mind Jens, were it to come out.
Laurent just hadn’t moved on. He was obsessed with her.
She knew it had been him out at the hunter’s blind, though she’d lied to Jens, a sin of omission to buy time.
And now he still wanted her back?
So angry had the thought of his clingy desire made her, unreasonable and absurd as it was, that she hadn’t noticed the paint running from her brush onto the sacred white spaces of her composition, reserved for the light. Cursing Laurent and all the heartache his reappearance brought, she daubed at the paint stain until she’d rubbed through the rag paper, destroying her composition thoroughly, sending her into a paroxysm of teary self-recrimination.
At first, because of her sobbing, she failed to hear another presence in the barn, calling out to her from the hinged door.
“Ma’am?”
She spun around to find a man dressed in a UPS uniform, tendering a clipboard for her to sign. She looked but did not find the company’s logo over his shirt pocket.
Odd.
The shorts he wore exposed worm-white legs that likely had never seen daylight. She pictured the UPS delivery men and women depicted in TV ads, always dressed in shorts in summer, outdoorsy types, legs tanned.
His braided silver-streaked ponytail also seemed out of place, as did the tattoos sleeving his muscled arms.
As he talked, he advanced on her in rapid steps.
“Ma’am, pardon me. I’m sorry to interrupt,” Warren said, “but I need to get your signature — oh, I see you’re an artist. Mind if I have a look?”
Suddenly, he was there — and it was too late to run.
