“Ike mentored me since I was eighteen, so I assumed responsibility for all his clients. I’m actually Ike’s nephew.”
“I see.”
“I’m a highly qualified agent, but Patrick . . . he just wanted Ike. He didn’t want to deal with anyone but Ike.”
Chris looked at Walker. “It sounds like Mr. Reagan doesn’t have a full grasp on the ups and downs of life.”
“I don’t think that’s a fair statement,” Bentley said. “His wife died two years after Ike and I think he just hit a rough patch.”
“Can you explain what that means?” Walker asked. “Rough patch?”
“The ecosystem got polluted.”
“Ah.” Walker jotted that down. “So he didn’t want to deal with the young, hotshot agent that took Ike’s place.”
“He didn’t want to deal with anybody, including his editor.”
“She told us,” Chris said, “that he’s late on his current project.”
“That is true, but he said he needed more time to research and that when it was finished, it was going to be mind-blowing.”
“That’s stellar in literary terms,” Walker quipped.
Chris laughed but Bentley wasn’t amused. “As you can imagine, I’m very busy, so are there any more questions?”
“One more,” Chris said as they all stood. “How does Patrick take negative reviews of his work?”
“Patrick does not read reviews of his work. It’s counterproductive. And of course, the reviews and critiques are subjective. Many writers don’t read them.”
“Sorry—just one more question,” Chris said. “Is Mr. Reagan Internet savvy?”
“We got him hooked up to e-mail in 2004, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What about social networking?”
Bentley laughed. “No. You’re talking about Facebook and Twitter? Absolutely not. He has a website that is maintained by his publisher. Patrick has nothing to do with it. The man doesn’t even own a cell phone.”
“Okay. Well, thanks for your time,” Chris said as they walked out of the conference room.
“Yeah,” Walker said. “Thanks. Oh, and your shirttail is hanging out.” He winked and gestured to it.
Bentley just stood there with an odd expression as they headed to the elevator. Once inside, Walker cracked up. “Did you see that look on his face?”
“I know. We probably should’ve mentioned his hair was out of place.”
Walker died laughing. “Honestly, I don’t blame Patrick for not wanting to turn over his life to a guy named Bentley who wears bow ties and oversize glasses. His name might be Bentley, but he drives more like an Isuzu.”
Chris laughed but then turned his thoughts to the information they’d gathered. “I’m seeing a pattern here. Reagan had to deal with a lot of loss in a short period of time.”
“I can’t believe nobody knows where this cabin is.” They stepped off the elevator. “You think your witness can be trusted with his account that Reagan was at the grocery store? Maybe he was mistaken.”
“The kid seemed pretty perceptive.” Maybe too perceptive, Chris thought.
They were about to exit the lobby when Walker’s phone rang.
“Walker. . . . Yeah. . . . No kidding. . . .” He looked at his watch. “Yeah, we can catch the one thirty. . . . Okay, bye.”
“What?”
Walker groaned as he continued to walk. “No coneys. We gotta get back. Reagan’s house was broken into and ransacked.”
“PLEASE . . . PLEASE!” Jules was backed into the corner. Her legs shook so much she couldn’t hold herself up. She slid down to a squatting position, her arms wrapped around herself. “Please . . . just . . . just stop it!”
Patrick turned to her, his face an enraged mess of bulging veins and splotchy redness. He was breathing hard, like a bull about to charge.
Jules tried to control her fear, to patiently wait this out, whatever it was, and not get herself killed. She glanced to the front door. Did she dare brave it? She had no idea what he was capable of. Moments before, they’d been discussing literature. Now . . . was she going to have to beg for her life?
“I’m sorry . . . ,” she whispered. “I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to.”
“Offended me?” A wicked resentment flashed through his eyes. “You think you’ve offended me?”
“I don’t know,” Jules cried, as earnestly as possible, trying to reach into him for that other man she’d known a few minutes before.
Patrick studied her, like he’d just noticed she was terrified. He blinked and blinked again, as if shaking an unseen image out of his mind’s eye. Jules stayed perfectly still, replaying in her own mind what she’d said that had caused him to rage.
She’d mentioned her fondness for his fourth book, Crashing Tide, and how the characters were portrayed, the difficult decisions that had to be made. She remarked about how much she loved the hero’s journey in each of his books. Something led to something else, and Jules asked about his wife . . .
Was that it? She couldn’t recall the exact moment. He’d stood as if stretching his legs. Maybe she just assumed he was stretching his legs. But it didn’t seem threatening right away. She’d looked up, midsentence, to find him glaring at her, fists balled at his sides. She’d asked him what was the matter. And then it was a blur. He’d been yelling things that didn’t make sense; she’d gotten up but he told her to sit down, except she didn’t, and now here she was, cornered like a frightened animal.
Patrick’s face slowly returned to a normal color as he scraped his hands through his hair. He seemed unable to look at her. Jules rose slowly, afraid, but not wanting to seem as vulnerable as she looked.
He finally met her eyes, remorse in his own. “I . . . I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re right,” she said sternly.
“But you’re naive, Juliet. Horribly naive. Is everything so black-and-white for you?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“You believe it is wrong to murder someone.”
“Yes.” Her heart pounded in her chest at the word murder.
“I do too.” He stared at the ground. “But sometimes it’s merciful. Does mercy ever trump your black-and-white world?”
“I believe you’re a merciful man.”
“Then you don’t know me very well.”
“I’m seeing a few different sides to you.”
He looked at her. “I am not sure if there is any decency inside of me.”
“Of course there is.”
“I always imagined that I would know right from wrong. It might be blurred for other people but not for me.”
There was a long pause and Jules studied every inch of his face. His eyes dimmed and wandered.
“In your books,” she said quietly, testing the waters, “the protagonists and antagonists are clearly drawn.”
He cut his eyes sideways to her. She waited, but he didn’t speak, so she continued. “There is always a pursuit of justice.”
He turned, folded his arms, looked up at the ceiling as if searching for answers. “I set out to do the right thing, and I am not sure if I can now.” He looked at her. “You’re just so . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. His hands dropped to his sides. “Maybe I should send you home. Maybe everything should go back to how it was.”
Jules stepped closer to him. She realized in that moment that she had not seen a single picture of his wife in the cabin. From what she’d read in the very few interviews he’d given over the years, Amelia was everything to him. She liked having pictures of Jason around her, but maybe they grieved differently. “Patrick, I am sorry your wife died.”
His eyes lit for a moment, but the fury washed away like tidewater.
“I need you to be immersed,” he said, his tone changing ever so slightly. She sensed the danger was gone, and something else had arrived. “You’ve got to be pulled into the story. You’ve got to see deep into it and work your way through
it all, snake your way through. Do you see? You can’t just rest on the surface. You can’t be a boat, gliding over the top, barely slicing the water open. You’ve got to be drowning, under the water, under the surface, looking up at the light.”
Jules nodded though not really understanding what story he was referring to or why.
“Nothing but that red pen, do you hear me? Only notes in red.”
“Why?” She put her hands on her hips, locking eyes with him.
He turned to face her completely. “Because it will remind you of the blood that I poured out onto the page and the blood that’s going to be required from you, too.”
She felt hysteria bubble to the surface of her emotions. Her chest rose and fell faster and faster, even though she wanted to remain calm. “You just talk in all these riddles and say things that don’t make sense.”
“Because you’re not cooperating very well.”
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”
“Not well enough.”
“You’re crazy, aren’t you?” Jules asked as she swiped tears from her face. “You’ve lost your mind and now you’re pulling me into your nightmare.”
“Let me be clear,” Patrick said. “It’s your nightmare. And you’re the only one who can get yourself out of it.”
Jules buried her face in her hands. “I just want Jason.”
A hand touched her shoulder and she stepped back and batted it away. “Don’t touch me, you crazy freak!”
She ran to her room and slammed the door. Within a few seconds, she heard it lock. She lay on the bed, crying for what seemed like hours. The light in the window was all but gone.
She’d fallen asleep at some point and then awoke to a noise at the door. She sat up. Sliding under the door toward her were pages from the manuscript.
If she wanted to get out of this alive, she was going to have to unravel the mystery of the man who was drifting like the snow outside, leaving reality, it seemed, one word at a time.
Two delays at the airport caused them to get back to Maine in the early evening. They went straight to Patrick Reagan’s house, where a couple of squad cars were parked and the captain’s vehicle too. It had not been snowing in New York, but up the coast, the cold Canadian air was filling in, and large, blissful snowflakes caressed Chris’s cheeks as he walked from the car.
The front door was open and the captain stood in the middle of the large living area taking notes. Chris couldn’t believe what he saw. Books were pulled off the shelves, tables overturned, drawers and cabinets opened, cushions upended.
Walker and Chris looked at each other with disbelief.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it?” Captain Perry said.
“Anything taken?” Chris asked.
“We’re still trying to assess the situation. We talked to his housekeeper, who was very freaked out and was having a hard time concentrating on our questions. But after two hours of looking around, she didn’t think anything was missing.” The captain closed his notebook. “And of course, we can’t figure out how to get ahold of the man to tell him his house has been destroyed. You two have any luck in New York?”
“Not really. We’re still trying to dust the quirk off ourselves,” Walker said.
“We learned his agent and wife died within a couple years of each other and that he’s been distraught about it. His editor said he’s late on a book and that’s unusual for him.” Chris took in the scene around him. “Somebody was looking for something here, weren’t they?”
“You don’t suppose it was his publishing house, hoping to find an early draft of his book?” Walker cracked up.
As the captain and Walker continued to talk, Chris made his way toward the office. More than the rest of the house, this room was a gigantic mess. Folders from every drawer were pulled open and thrown here and there. But Chris was interested in one thing: was the manuscript that had been scattered all over the place still here?
It was hard to spot because there were papers everywhere, but as he sifted through, he found manuscript pages in the debris.
The captain walked in and shook his head. “This thing is getting crazier by the minute.”
“What time do we think this occurred?”
“Nobody knows. The housekeeper returned, she said, because she forgot some of her cleaning aids the last time she was here.”
The captain looked at Walker, who had trailed behind him. “Hey, go talk to Beals. See what they found concerning the outside of the house.”
Walker nodded and left, and the captain stepped farther into the office. He closed the door. “Chris, did you come by in uniform yesterday to question the housekeeper?”
Chris looked down and nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. He’d been busted, thanks to this break-in.
Captain Perry sighed loudly. “I told you to do this by the book. To be patient.”
“I know. I’m just so worried about her. Something tells me she’s in danger.”
“Nothing points to that.”
“Is this all a coincidence, then?”
“We don’t know what this is yet. Maybe it is. We just don’t know.” The captain lowered his voice. “I know this is personal for you, Chris, but I’m not going to tolerate insubordination. I threw you a bone. I sent you to New York.”
“I know.”
“So we’re clear. You don’t make a move without my approval.”
“We’re clear.”
“What did you find out when you were here, anyway? The maid said you came in and looked around.”
Chris took a deep breath. The captain, who was known to have a temper, didn’t seem as rattled as Chris expected. “I did.”
“You find anything of significance?”
Chris fought the urge to swallow. “Looked like a house that hadn’t been lived in. Too tidy, you know?”
The captain sighed and now appeared angry. “We’re going to find this guy. I’ll tell you that. He can’t just drop off the face of the earth.”
“What can I do?” Chris asked.
“Go write up your report tonight. I’m going to put you back on patrol tomorrow, but listen, Chris, I’m not going to shut you out of this deal. As soon as we have some leads, we’re going to follow them. But I want to be clear: we’re going to be following protocol. If this thing is connected and we’ve got criminal activity going on, then we don’t want to mess this up for the DA. I’ll kick you off if you screw up.”
“I know. I . . . shouldn’t have come here. I know that.”
Perry put a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, son.”
The captain left the room and Chris wandered out, surveying the mess. Another detective gave him a sideways glance as he strolled by. But Chris was just thankful the captain hadn’t blown up. Maybe the guy was mellowing out a little. Maybe he knew how much this case meant to Chris. Whatever the reason, he’d escaped unscathed, which was a minor miracle.
He wished he could slip back into the office and grab some pages of the manuscript, but he couldn’t risk it.
If they weren’t looking for that manuscript, then what were they looking for?
It wasn’t a robbery. There would’ve been valuables taken. They wanted something else. Something more valuable than gold.
Chris tossed and turned erratically in the short amount of time he actually slept. He found himself jolting awake, gasping for air, his voice echoing distantly as he yelled for Jules, somewhere deep in his dreams.
Addy was up early and had fixed him breakfast. She set a large mug of coffee in front of him at the breakfast table. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“How did New York go?” Addy had been gone visiting friends all day and late into the night. They hadn’t had a chance to talk yet.
“I can’t shake the feeling this is connected to Reagan. His house was ransacked sometime yesterday while we were in New York. But nothing was taken.”
She sat
back in her seat. “Bizarre.”
“Nobody knows where he goes in the winter. He literally disappears.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep looking for her. I can’t stop. I can’t give up.”
She nodded and patted his arm. “I know. But you can’t let it consume you to the point where you’re no good to anybody, especially Jules. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“I promise.” But there was no one to be any good for. Addy could take care of herself. Nobody depended on him.
He finished his coffee quickly. “I’ve got to go.”
“You don’t go in until the afternoon, do you?”
He wiped his mouth and grabbed his things. “You going to see Heather today?”
“Yeah. Can’t wait.” She grinned. “You want to join us for lunch? Heather’s single again.”
Chris laughed. “No thank you. Cute girl, but runs through men like a drunk driver plows through orange hazard cones.”
“That’s not fair,” Addy said. “She’s just had a string of bad . . . choices. You would be a great choice. You would treat her right, which is what she needs.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
She pouted. “You’re going to stay single your whole life? I kind of had visions of being an aunt someday.”
“Ooookay, cart way before the horse.”
Addy followed him to the door. “I just think you’d be happier settled down, with a family to come home to.”
“You don’t think I’m happy now?” Chris asked.
“I think you could be happier and could make someone very happy, too. You’re a good man, and there aren’t many of you left these days.”
He gave her a quick hug and scruffed up her hair. “Thanks, Sis.”
“That’s another ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ I guess.”
“You’re so good at pouting.”
“I know. It usually works on you.”
“Say hello to Heather for me.”
Chris left, headed straight to the place he knew he shouldn’t go.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” The Lt. Colonel stumbled through the front door like the house had just jolted forward and tossed him out. His eyes, bloodshot and glowing mean, seemed unable to focus on anything in particular. His clawlike grip on his whiskey bottle released suddenly, and the bottle fell to the porch, shattering. This led to a string of cusswords blistering through the morning quiet.
Misery Loves Company Page 11
