Misery Loves Company

by Rene Gutteridge

  He’d guarded himself from liking her too much, out of respect for Jason, but she became the woman that all other women were judged against in Chris’s book. And unfortunately for those women, they had a high standard to reach. None had, so far.

  Chris set the photo against the headstone and moved a nearby rock to hold it in place.

  “I’m going to bring her back,” Chris said as he stood. “I’m going to bring her home safely. If it’s the last thing I do.”

  WHEN JULES AWOKE, the curtains were wide-open. The light filled the room so dramatically that she held her hand up to her eyes as if she were out at the beach with the sun glaring off the sand.

  She sat up. She was certain she’d closed the curtains last night. Then she noticed the door to her bedroom was open. She hurried over and shut it. There was no lock on her side of the door, but she leaned against it, breathing hard. She’d hoped as she wept herself to sleep last night that she’d wake up in the morning and be back home.

  Or maybe that she wouldn’t wake up at all.

  She walked as quietly as possible to the bathroom and shut the door. It didn’t have a lock either. She washed her face and brushed her teeth. In the closet, she picked an outfit—a warm sweater and matching slacks. She slid on her shoes. The wrong style for what she was wearing, but that was the least of her concerns.

  Her heart pounded wildly as she geared herself up for walking out of the room. She’d thought last night about how she might get herself out of this predicament. She knew Jason would want her to think, to keep her wits, to stay strong and aware and astute. Every time he worked some tragedy, he’d come home with tips. A woman drove her car into the water, so Jason showed Jules how to escape a car if she were underwater. A teenager was kidnapped a few years back, so Jason gave her ideas of how she might handle the situation, pretending to go along until there was a moment she could get away. He’d even cautioned her about her Facebook page and her blog, not to tell everyone she was going out to the store or that they were leaving on vacation. He was such a cautious man, and she loved him for it. But the truth was, he’d always made her feel safe and she never feared anything when he was around. When he was gone, she began to fear everything. Yet even with all the irrational fears she dealt with, she could’ve never seen this coming.

  So, Jules, what are you going to do here?

  She heard his voice like they were practicing some safety maneuver. First, she decided, she had to understand the man she was dealing with as best as possible. Most of what she knew about him was from his books. And the question was, could anyone really know a writer from just his books? How much of himself did he put into his writings? Was it all just make-believe, or were there elements of truth hidden behind each passage, clues about what made the writer tick?

  She knew the answer to that. And he had actually come out and said it, with his quip about reading between the lines.

  It occurred to her that Patrick really liked the female characters he wrote. There was at least one strong female character in each book, witty and discerning, cleverly working her way in or out of a crime, deftly escaping even her wisest foe.

  So. Maybe she should be one of those characters. If she didn’t show her hand but wisely worked her way around and through and into him, then maybe she had a chance to, at the very least, talk some sense into him. Even to escape.

  Be a character. She tried to think through some of her favorites. Alise Domingo, the street-savvy detective who barely topped five feet but had a martial arts background. That wasn’t going to work. The most Jules knew to do was get out of a choke hold. “And if all else fails,” Jason had told her, “bite the living daylights out of them.”

  There was Sabrina Farmer, the burned-out detective from Queens who’d gotten hooked on meth. When her boyfriend, a firefighter, died on 9/11, she tried to clean up her act. But she’d inadvertently gotten tied to a Mexican drug cartel, and the only way to save herself and her young daughter was to go undercover . . . as a drug addict.

  Nancy Montgomery was a fun character. An ATF agent whose only asset was the fact that she seemed to be able to read people’s minds. Other than that, she was a terrible agent. But when she started reading clues that one of her partners was contemplating murder, she had to get out of her comfort zone and figure out how to stop him without showing her hand.

  Yeah, maybe Nancy. She could do Nancy.

  A loud sigh escaped. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t even do Juliet well.

  “There’s no use stalling anymore,” she said, hooking her thumbs through her belt loops like an old Western showdown was about to take place.

  She walked into the living area. Patrick was at the table where they’d eaten the night before, an old-looking typewriter in front of him. He was clacking away at it, briefly observing her before going back to his work.

  On the other end of the table were a bowl, a cup of orange juice, and a spoon.

  Jules waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, so she sat down and began to eat.

  “Ugh . . .” It was just the first response to what looked to be an appetizing breakfast. But it was stone cold.

  He looked up at her, one of his eyebrows raised. “Breakfast was served three hours ago.”

  “I don’t know what time it is.”

  “Any person with a decent amount of self-discipline has an internal clock that awakens her. It’s 11 a.m. Is that when you normally rise?”

  She regarded the bowl and continued to eat. “It’s not bad cold.” Trying to sell it, she took a few more bites. “So what should I call you?”

  “Brilliant.”

  She forced a smile at his joke. “Mr. Reagan? Your Highness? The Grim Reaper? What?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her again. “You may call me Patrick.”

  “Fine. You may call me Jules.”

  “I think Juliet fits you better.”

  “Then you don’t know me very well.”

  He went back to typing for a long while. She silently ate her cold oatmeal and drank her warm orange juice, watching as he pecked away with two fingers, fairly fast but not as fast as she typed. His focus was on the keys, not what he was writing, and his eyes were distant as he typed, like he was not really present in the room.

  Here she was, in Patrick Reagan’s cabin, watching him write. She was pretty sure she’d imagined this once or twice. She decided to make the most of it, take in all the details. If she got out of this alive, she’d have blog material for years.

  The paper rolled as he continued to type. When he reached the bottom, he pulled the sheet out, turned it over, and set it atop what looked to be a thin stack of papers. He looked at her. “You’re eating breakfast and I’m about to fix myself lunch. I guess you won’t be needing lunch.” He stood. “Haven’t you heard, the early bird catches the worm? I work more before noon than most of your generation works in a week—unless, of course, you consider FarmVille work.”

  She laughed. It seemed to surprise him. But it was funny, especially to someone who equally hated all those Facebook games. “You know what they say. Writing is 5 percent work, 95 percent staying off the Internet.”

  “You won’t find anything of the sort here.”

  “Well then, I don’t have anything to work on. Maybe you have a chore or two I could do around the cabin? And you’ve been rude not to give me the full tour.”

  He smirked. “You seem chipper for a woman who was so distraught last night.”

  “It’s amazing what a good, long night’s sleep will do.” This was good. Nancy was kind of coming through.

  He stood and took the bowl away from her. She was somewhat thankful but had only eaten half. Then he slid the papers toward her, still upside down.

  “I’d like your opinion.”

  “On?”

  “These few pages. Give me your first impression of them.”

  Jules swallowed. How was she supposed to be fair and unbiased?

  “Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” s
he said, sliding the papers back his way. “The last time I read one of your books, it ended up . . . messy.”

  “Don’t you know who I am? What I can offer you by letting you read these pages?” His voice had a booming quality about it. Maybe it was because he was standing over her. “Do you know how many writers would kill for a chance to read just three pages of my unedited manuscript?”

  She tried to keep her voice steady. “Of course. It’s an easily recognizable honor.”

  He snorted. “You’re just saying what you think I want to hear. Your generation, you’re a bunch of self-absorbed snobs, unwilling to be mentored or taught or shown a way other than the easy way.” He pointed toward the pages. “This—what’s on this page—takes decades to master. Do you understand that? Do you understand it’s called a craft because it must be shaped and molded? You cannot read a textbook and understand the nuances and commandments of this process.”

  Jules generously nodded. “I respect the process. I know it’s difficult.”

  “Do you know because you have any idea of what it’s like to pour your blood onto the page?”

  Jules took a deep breath, placed her hand on the pages, and slowly pulled them toward her. “I’d be honored to read them.”

  He was breathing hard, but then his breathing slowed as he watched her turn the papers over. “This is raw, right out of the typewriter. Raw, Juliet. It’s mad and insane. It’s forbidden and foreboding—all those risks that a writer takes to get to the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  Jules nudged out a nod.

  “Then read.” He walked to the sink and she felt her body tremble. Nancy slid down the drain of despair. Weak, vulnerable Jules had returned.

  But now she had to concentrate. She had to read this and absorb it. Certainly there would be a quiz.

  Her eyes focused on the first line and she gasped, her hand covering her mouth.

  His body, riddled with bullets, lay in a pool of blood, beside the white sailboat named Greed.

  She looked up through the tears welling in her eyes. Patrick was at the counter, fixing something for lunch, his back turned.

  With the exception of the name of the boat, he’d described exactly how Jason died.

  THIS IS A TERRIBLE MOVE.

  Chris nodded. He knew that was what Jason would say if he were sitting in the seat next to him. But then again, Chris argued in his head, this was his wife they were talking about. Jason had been fiercely protective of Jules. One time, at a Christmas party, some of the guys had made harmless remarks about Jules’s “hotness.” Chris watched helplessly as Jason rose, walked the length of the room in long strides, and in a tone so cool and measured it sounded rehearsed, let the four detectives know where they could shove it.

  It definitely kept Chris on guard. It was a side of Jason he’d never seen. In fact, he would’ve described Jason as wholly placid before that night. Nothing rattled the guy. Once, a rare earthquake hit the coast. They’d been eating breakfast at the diner when the entire place shook. Chris had hopped up in a lame attempt to do something, like save his own life, and was seconds away from diving under a table when the shaking stopped. Jason just smiled and sipped his coffee, most of which had actually sloshed from his cup.

  As the morning café crowd buzzed with excitement, Chris had found his seat. He raised an eyebrow. “You were awfully calm.”

  “Spent a couple of years in California as a kid.” Jason grinned. “We mostly just wonder where the epicenter is.”

  “What if it was right here?” Chris asked.

  “Then you’re probably not going to be asking any more questions.” They’d laughed for days about it and Chris had to endure some good ribbing as Jason reenacted his reaction for the guys.

  Chris gulped his coffee, trying to chase away the memory and grogginess. He hadn’t been sleeping.

  Through the night, he wrestled with the conversation he’d had with the captain. The captain had said all the right things, but there was something to his tone. Something placating. The idea that they could get a search warrant without Patrick Reagan around was ludicrous. Chris knew he’d failed to establish probable cause. He hadn’t even established that a crime had been committed. Unless the DA owed the captain his life, there wasn’t going to be a search warrant coming.

  And Chris wasn’t willing to wait three days for the captain to call and say it wasn’t going to happen.

  So he’d continued poking around this morning, questioning neighbors. Had they seen Reagan? They all said no and that he never came around in the winter. Chris asked the closest neighbor if he’d seen any activity.

  “None, except the cleaning lady who comes twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday.”

  “She comes even in the winter?”

  “Faithfully, all year-round.”

  “What time?” Chris had asked.

  “Around noon.”

  So here he sat, waiting for her. Drinking coffee as his eyelids fluttered. He never would’ve been good on a stakeout.

  Suddenly the iron gate swung open and a small, dark sedan pulled into the drive. He started his car and pulled in a few feet behind the cleaning lady. The gate didn’t close after him. And she didn’t seem to notice. She parked her car around back and out of sight. Chris pulled into the front, circular drive.

  He waited a few minutes, then rang the doorbell. He wasn’t on duty, but he was in his uniform, breaking every code and law he knew.

  The cleaning lady greeted him with wide eyes and broken English. “What is matter?”

  “Probably nothing, ma’am. But I need to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

  “ID?”

  He showed his badge. She nodded slowly and let him in, looking nervous. “The sir no like anyone here.”

  “Well, I’m not anyone. I am the police.” Not on duty nor with permission, but that information didn’t need to be discussed. “There is probably no reason to worry, but we were asked to check in on Mr. Reagan by a close friend.” Another lie. Wow. This seemed to be coming a little too easily for him because lying wasn’t his talent.

  He glanced around at the large marble foyer. The chandelier could kill a colony if it fell.

  “A close friend? He no have close friends.”

  “Editor.”

  “Ah. Okay. Yes.”

  “I understand that he does not live here in the winter. Have you seen him?”

  “No, no. He has no been here at all.”

  “But you’ve been getting paid? Everything is going normally?”

  “Yes, yes. He very good about paying right time.”

  “Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary going on that you know of?”

  She shook her head.

  “I am going to have to take a look around.”

  “Of course. Just do not touch. No touch. You understand?”

  “I know you’ve got a job to do, so I’ll let myself out. This will just take a couple of minutes.”

  She nodded and carried her cleaning supplies upstairs. Chris turned and took in the enormous house. Stately and rich with historic detail, it looked as if it had been restored, since it was built over 150 years ago. He could see a spiral staircase, a massive kitchen and formal dining area, and plenty of space between several sitting rooms. He walked carefully, studying the details. It was a house, but not a home. There seemed to be no warmth.

  At the far end of the house, next to a back door that led to gardens and maybe a pool, was a study. The doors to the room were iron. Inside, bookshelves lined two walls, filled to capacity. A shiny wooden desk sat in the dead center on an expensive-looking Oriental rug. The walls that did not house books were filled with large, framed pictures of Reagan’s book covers. Award plaques filled in the empty spaces.

  Chris glanced around at the covers and the titles. All seemed to be pretty grim. He was more of a lighthearted guy himself. Never understood the appeal of horror or the like.

  But these things didn’t keep his attention for
long. Instead, it was drawn to the white paper strewn across the entire room, as if hundreds of pages had been tossed into the air and allowed to float haplessly to the ground. Some pages were crumpled. Others torn.

  “Maybe he wasn’t happy with his latest book either,” Chris said with a smile to himself. He tried to get a feel for what he was looking at. Words filled every page he could see. He picked one up and read a few sentences. It was definitely part of a novel.

  He carefully picked through each piece, trying to find a cover page or some indication of who wrote this and what it was. Each page had a number at the bottom, but no author name.

  It took about ten minutes, but he finally found the first page, wadded up in a corner of the room. Very simply, in type barely bigger than the rest of the manuscript’s and centered on the page, it read, The Daring Life of Enoch Mandon by Blake Timble.

  “Not a fan, I guess,” Chris said as he turned and peered around the room again. Something had set Reagan off, and most likely, Chris was holding the crumpled culprit in his hand.

  Chris’s cell phone rang. “Yeah?”

  “Chris, it’s the captain.”

  “Hi . . .” Chris dropped the page he was holding as if Captain Perry could see him.

  “Listen, it’s going to be a no go on that search warrant. I’m sorry, but you knew it was a long shot.”

  “Sure. Thanks for trying.”

  “I was thinking . . . I might send you with Detective Walker to New York, see if we can get any information from Reagan’s editor or agent.”

  Chris clutched the phone. “Really?” It was unusual to be sent in person, but every good detective liked to look people in the eye.

  “I know you and Jason were close. I get how personal this is to you. I mean, the chances are that we won’t find anything. But I think it’s worth a try.”

  “I’d appreciate that, sir.”

  “Good. Walker’s on the phone with them now and is going to try to get you both on a flight up there this afternoon. If you’ve got important plans, drop ’em.”

  “Very good. Thank you.”