The Sequel

by R. L. Stine

  At home, thinking hard, Zachary paces back and forth in his study, holding Emily, the baby, in his arms. Emily’s expression is serious, attentive, as if she can read the turmoil in his mind. She makes a gurgling sound. Zachary imagines she is trying to comfort him.

  He raises her head to his face and gives it a long sniff. Nothing smells as good as baby skin. He runs a finger gently under her chin, a soft tickle.

  “Emily, you are so precious to me,” he tells her. “Should I give up writing something new? Write the sequel? For you?” Her pink mouth crinkles up. She starts to cry, thrashing her arms out stiffly.

  He hands her back to the nanny.

  I have to get out of here. I have to start writing. I have to think.

  He picks up his laptop and carries it outside, down the front steps of the brownstone. He decides to return to the reading room of the little library on Amsterdam. Quiet and nearly empty. He can sit in the back and start to outline a plot.

  But before he can go half a block, he sees the heavyset man leaning on the blue mailbox on the corner. Cardoza. He steps up beside Zachary, matches his quick strides. “You have to acknowledge me, Mr. Gold,” he says. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. His big hands swing gently at his sides as he dodges a boy on a silver scooter to keep up with Zachary.

  “You can’t just walk away. You stole my book.”

  Zachary tries to sound casual. But his voice is shrill, suddenly breathless. “You have mental problems, Cardoza. Please don’t make me call the police.”

  “That would be a very bad plan,” Cardoza replies, still facing forward, keeping pace with Zachary step for step. “You don’t want to be exposed. You have only one reputation to keep.”

  “As I explained, I’ve never seen you before. My work … It’s my own.”

  Zachary stops as the Don’t Walk sign locks on red. A yellow cab swerves to the curb to let off a passenger. Zachary steps back and finally turns to face his accuser.

  But Cardoza has vanished.

  Zachary gazes behind him, then up and down the side street. No sign of the man. Zachary realizes he is sweating. Not because he feels any guilt. He knows he didn’t steal anyone’s work.

  It’s the casual menace on Cardoza’s face. The certainty of an insane person.

  He knows where I live. He was waiting for me.

  The reading room is more crowded than the day before. People occupy the tables and the armchairs. One man has spread his papers over a table, taking up at least six places.

  Zachary glances behind him. Despite its size, the room suddenly seems more vulnerable. If Cardoza rumbles in, there’s no place to hide. Nowhere to run.

  Laptop tucked under his arm, Zachary walks along the aisle to the back. He recognizes the same two bearded Asian men, Chinese newspapers spread out in front of them. A broad stairway leads down. The steps are painted bright yellow, red, and blue. A hand-painted monkey on a poster points down. A dialogue balloon above his head: THIS WAY, KIDS.

  Zachary finds himself in the children’s room. Shelves on three walls jammed with books. Picture books are scattered on a low, round table surrounded by tiny wooden chairs. Tall cardboard cutouts of book characters stand watch. A bright blue Dr. Seuss creature. Tinkerbell dressed as a Disney princess. A Star Wars droid.

  Behind them, Zachary spots a long, dark wood table. Grownup height. Chairs on both sides. He positions himself behind the cardboard characters. Sets his laptop down. There is no one here, not even a librarian. The kids are all in school.

  Quiet. The air a little warm, a little stuffy and dry. But the perfect place to work, hidden from the world.

  He takes a moment to catch his breath. Glances at the framed book cover posters on the wall. All fairy tales. Rapunzel … Snow White and Rose Red … Hansel and Gretel …

  Dark, nasty stories, he thinks.

  He opens the laptop and brings up his Word program. He likes to start a book by making random notes. Plot ideas. Characters to populate the story. Story twists. Stream-of consciousness thoughts. The research will come later.

  To write the first book, he had to learn almost as much about the brain and its functions as Striver. He types the name: Howard Striver. He types: Book Two?

  Am I really going to write a sequel?

  He left Dr. Striver living entirely inside his own brain. Striver had expanded his consciousness enough that his inner world was big enough and interesting enough to inhabit without any outside stimulation.

  But a sequel could not take place inside Striver’s mind. Too constricting for even the cleverest, most brilliant writer.

  How do I bring Striver back? How do I pull him from living inside his own mind, into the world where he can interact with people once again?

  And once he is back, what will his mission be?

  Zachary knows he has already done all he can do in the government-agents-out-to-capture-Striver’s-Brain department. To pursue that plot would be writing the exact same book again.

  What new brain powers can I give him?

  Time travel?

  Can the secret to time travel be locked away somewhere in the human brain, waiting to be discovered?

  “Too outlandish,” Zachary murmurs. “Too science-fictiony. Bor-ring.”

  He types: Do I really want to write a sequel? Am I fighting it because I know it won’t compare to the first book?

  He hears voices upstairs. A woman laughs. Chairs scrape the floor. The light shifts from the narrow, high windows up at street level. A gray shadow slants over the table.

  Zachary checks the time on his phone. It is two hours later. He has been sitting here for two hours with nothing to show for it. Nothing on the screen. No idea in his head.

  Maybe I’ll become like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Go crazy. Type the same phrase over and over. Even that is better than a blank screen.

  Suddenly weary, he shuts his eyes and rubs them.

  He opens them to find a beautiful young woman seated across from him. Round blue eyes, almost too blue to be real. Full red lips, wavy black hair flowing down past the shoulders of her pale blue top.

  She reaches across the table and touches the back of his hand. “Can I help you?”

  5

  They’re making better-looking librarians these days, he thinks.

  “I’m sorry if I don’t belong here,” he says. “I just needed a quiet place to write.”

  She smiles. “I’m not a librarian.” The voice is velvety, just above a whisper.

  He gazes back at her. She is radiant. The high cheekbones of a model. He even notices her creamy skin, like baby skin. She isn’t wearing any makeup.

  She doesn’t blink. “Sometimes I help writers,” she says.

  “Help? What do you mean?”

  The cheeks darken to pink. The red lips part. “I … do things for them.”

  She’s teasing me. Coming on to me?

  She taps the back of his hand again. “I recognized you, Zachary. I loved your book.”

  “Thank you. I—”

  “I can’t wait for the sequel.” She tosses her hair back with a shake of her head.

  Zachary shrugs. “I’m not sure there’s going to be a sequel.”

  She makes a pouty face.

  He’s tempted to laugh. The expression is so childlike. “Look, I’ve been sitting here for two hours thinking about a sequel, and … well, I haven’t exactly been inspired.”

  “I can help you,” she says. “Seriously. I like helping writers.”

  “You want to write it for me?” he jokes.

  She doesn’t smile. “Maybe.” She tugs his hand and starts to stand up. “Come on. Let’s go talk about it.”

  He closes the laptop. “Where are we going?”

  “To talk about your book.” She has a clear, childlike laugh from deep in her throat. “You look so tense. Come on. Follow me.
I can help you.”

  Outside, the afternoon sun is high in the sky. Two cherry trees across the street have opened their pink-white blossoms. The air smells sweet like springtime.

  She is more petite than he imagined. She can’t be more than five-five. Her slim-legged jeans emphasize her boyish figure. He wishes he was better at guessing a woman’s age, but he hasn’t a clue. She could be eighteen or thirty.

  He likes the way she takes long strides, almost strutting, her hair swinging behind her.

  She leads him to the Beer Keg Tap on the corner. A broken neon sign over the front promises steaks and chops. But the place hasn’t served food in thirty years.

  Sunlight disappears as he steps into the long, dark bar, and the aroma of spring is replaced by beer fumes. Two men in blue work overalls are perched at the bar, bottles of Bud in front of them, arguing, their hands slashing the air as they both talk at once. A small TV on the wall above them shows a soccer game with the sound off.

  The bartender is a pouchy, middle-aged woman with a red bandana tied around henna-colored hair, red cheeks, a long white apron over a yellow I ♥ Beer t-shirt. She leans with her back against the bar, eyes raised to the soccer game.

  Zachary and his new friend slide into a red vinyl booth at the back. He sets the laptop on the seat beside him. He gazes at the vintage Miller Hi-Life sign on the wall above her head.

  “Maybe I’ll just have coffee,” he tells her. “It’s a little early …”

  “You’re a lot of fun,” she says. It takes him a few seconds to realize she’s being sarcastic. “Guess what I had for breakfast. Vodka and scrambled eggs. Breakfast of the czars.”

  “You’re serious?”

  The bartender appears before she can answer. “What are you drinking?”

  She asks for a vodka tonic. Zachary, a little stung by her sarcasm, orders a Heineken. He suddenly remembers: “I haven’t had lunch.”

  She smiles. “Then this is lunch.”

  At the front, the two men walk out, still arguing.

  She pretends to shiver, shaking her slender shoulders. “This is exciting, Zachary. We’re the only ones here.”

  She’s a groupie? An author groupie?

  “Tell me about your new book.”

  “I told you. There’s no book. There isn’t a shred of an idea yet. I’m not blocked or anything. At least, I don’t think so. I am just so ambivalent about writing a sequel. I think I’m setting up roadblocks for myself.”

  The bartender sets the drinks on the table. “Need any nuts or anything?”

  “That’s okay,” he says. She walks back to the bar, the floorboards creaking under her shoes.

  They clink bottle against glass.

  Then what do they talk about?

  Here’s where the time warp occurs. Zachary can’t remember. Yes, he remembers another beer. No. Another after that.

  He never was much of a drinker.

  He remembers her red-lipped smile and the way those eyes penetrated his brain, like lasers, like he was the only one on the planet and she was determined not to lose him.

  But what did they talk about?

  And how did they end up in this pink and frilly studio apartment on the East Side? Such a girly apartment with pink throw rugs, and cornball paintings on the wall of children with huge eyes, and shelves of little unicorn figurines, and a pile of stuffed animals, mostly teddy bears and leopards.

  Zachary doesn’t remember a cab ride here, or a walk through the park. He feels okay, not drunk, not queasy the way he usually does after three or four beers.

  He’s sitting on the edge of her pink-and-white bedspread. She leans across the bed and starts to pull his Polo shirt over his head.

  When did she get undressed?

  She’s wearing only blue thong underwear. Her skin so creamy. Small perfect breasts tilt toward him as she works the shirt off.

  And now she’s kissing his chest. Those full red lips moving down his skin, setting off electric charges. She’s kissing him. Licking him. Lowering her face as her lips slide down his body.

  Is this really happening?

  Oh, my God—it is!

  6

  Afterwards, Zachary pulls on his clothes. Glances at his phone. He’s late. Kristen is at a conference out of town. He has to get home to relieve the nanny. He feels light-headed. The girlish room tilts and spins. He feels as if he’s inside a pink-and-white frosted cake.

  I’ve never been unfaithful before.

  She watches him from bed, quilted bedspread pulled up to her chin. Her black hair is spread over the pillow. Is that an amused expression on her face?

  I held that face between my hands as we made love.

  “Zachary, my dear, I’m your muse now. No. I’m more than a muse. I’ll write that book for you. You can trust me.”

  The words rattle in his brain like dice clicking together. He can’t line them up to make sense of them. Can he be so wasted from three beers? Maybe it was four.

  Why is she talking about his nonexistent book? She can’t possibly think she can ghostwrite a sequel for him.

  “Of course, there will be a price, Zachary,” she is saying. “Everything has a price, right?”

  He nods in agreement. “Okay,” he says. “You write it.”

  Later, he realizes he wasn’t as delirious as he acted. He just didn’t want to admit to the reality of what he had just done.

  And he didn’t want to face the truth of what he was giving her permission to do.

  “Yes. Okay, okay. Write the book for me. I don’t want to write it. You write it.”

  “You understand it isn’t for free?”

  “Yes. You write it.”

  He tells himself there will be time to let her down easy when her manuscript is unacceptable. Meanwhile, the project will keep her close to him. Yes, he wants to see her again.

  I’ve never been unfaithful before.

  He sits on the edge of the bed to tie his sneakers. The room suddenly feels steamy, swampy. His skin prickles.

  He stands up to leave. He feels unsteady, but not as unsteady as he’d like. If only he could blame his bad decisions on his dizziness. The little unicorns gaze up at him.

  She’s so beautiful. She didn’t hypnotize him but she could have. He knows he’s fallen under some kind of spell, just being near a creature so perfect.

  She doesn’t lift her head from the pillow. Just lies there watching him, her hair fanned out beneath her head. “Give me a kiss,” she says, pleading, teasing.

  He bends down to kiss her. She wraps her hands around his neck and holds him down for a long, thrilling kiss. “I’ll see you at the library,” she says when she finally lets him go.

  He starts to feel more like himself as soon as he is out of her apartment. The late afternoon air feels cool on his hot face. Long blue shadows slant across the sidewalk as the sun slowly lowers itself behind the tall apartment buildings across the street.

  Where is he? Zachary doesn’t recognize the neighborhood. He walks a few blocks, past a Gristedes supermarket, past a Duane-Reade, past a shoe repair store, until he finds a street sign. Surprised to find himself on 2nd Avenue. 2nd and 83rd Street?

  How did I get way over here?

  He steps off the curb to hail a cab. Several pass with Off-Duty lights on their roofs. It’s change-over time. Most daytime drivers are heading to their garage. It might be hard to find a cab.

  Zachary suddenly becomes aware of a figure standing in the deep shadow of a building at the next corner. He doesn’t have to focus to know it’s Cardoza.

  A shudder of fear snaps Zachary from any remaining cloudiness of his mind. All is clear now. The sight of this frightening pursuer makes Zachary alert, every muscle tensed for action.

  He is stalking me. He is determined to frighten me.

  He sees Cardoza begin to lumber to
ward him. The big man’s fists pump at his sides, as if he’s warming for a fight.

  Zachary turns, considers running. He doesn’t need to. A taxi pulls to the curb. Zachary darts to it, pulls open the door, and dives inside.

  He breathlessly tells the driver his address. The taxi begins to bump down Second Avenue. Zachary turns and peers out the back window. Cardoza stands with his meaty hands on his waist, still as a statue, watching … watching Zachary escape.

  Zachary slumps in the seat, struggling to catch his breath, to slow his hummingbird heartbeats. Someone has left a water bottle on the floor of the taxi. It bumps Zachary’s foot. He makes no attempt to set it aside.

  Stalking me.

  How did he attract these two new people in his life? One accuses him of stealing his book. The other wants to write the next book for him.

  Zachary turns and stares out the back window again. He has to make sure he has left Cardoza behind. When he is satisfied that he has escaped, Zachary turns back, settles into the seat—and utters a gasp.

  He slaps the seat with his palm. He twists his body and looks behind him on the seat.

  No. No.

  His laptop.

  No. It isn’t here.

  He left it in her apartment.

  7

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Z, how’s it coming along?”

  “And how are you, Eleanor? How was your day?”

  “I’m hoping you will improve my day, Zachary. I need a yes from you.”

  “Eleanor, do you ever take a break to be a human? Do you ever stop working?” Zachary balances the baby in one arm, the phone in his other hand. Emily is just the right nestling size. He loves her lightness, the way her round bald head feels on his shoulder.

  “Stop working? I don’t think that would be fair to my clients.”

  Zachary laughs. “Just saying. The way you always cut right to business. Sometimes I wonder if you have a life.”

  “You are my life, Z. Enough about me. Now let’s talk about the Howard Striver sequel. I need a yes from you today. I wasn’t kidding about that million dollars.”