He hadn't asked a word about what was in the contract. He didn't even try to negotiate a price, he'd been so eager.
Then he realized he hadn't even been summoned to the office to sign the contract. That seemed a bit odd, and he didn't even ask about the P.O. box, which he had been wondering about. He was always suspicious of businesses who would not openly state their place of operation. Well, maybe this was a small press run out of someone's home, he decided. If so, at least they could afford a lawyer to do professional contracts.
It was amazing how quickly this had all come together, like it was meant to be. He'd just mailed the manuscript the day before, and already it had been read and accepted. Those guys must check their mail five times a day! He was just glad they'd decided to check it this morning.
That was the best wakeup call he'd ever gotten, Cary thought with a smile as he turned on the kettle for some tea. Tweetie chirped softly, reminding him she hadn't been fed or watered for almost two days.
Cary wanted to take a shower after he'd finished his tea--it had been almost six days since his last one, after all--but he didn't want to miss the messenger. This would be the most important delivery of his life to date.
He sat on the sofa and tried to read, but couldn't concentrate. He didn't own a TV, so he couldn't lose himself in some banal show. He walked over to the radio and turned on the classical station. But not too loud--he didn't want to miss the sound of the knock.
It was dark when he woke up, and he sat bolt-upright in shock. How could he possibly have fallen asleep? He had been thinking about fame and fortune, listening to a particularly stimulating tune by Wagner, and must have drifted off. It was unthinkable that he could possibly have missed the messenger!
He caught sight of the blinking green light in the inky darkness of his living room and realized the phone had rung while he slept, too. He got up, flicked on the table lamp, and walked over to the machine. He pressed "PLAY."
"Cary, my friend. It's Winesapp, here. The messenger called at about four and said you weren't home." Cary's heart sank. He thought for sure they were going to say they'd changed their minds and decided to go with a better manuscript received after his. "So he left it under the mat. If it's not there, give us a call at 800-555-BOOK." Cary let go of a big sigh.
He immediately went his door and opened it without looking out the peephole first. Not a smart thing to do in New York City, but he wasn't thinking. The parcel was there, neatly tied with string and apparently undisturbed since it had been left there at least four hours before.
He carefully untied the string and bent back the prongs on the underside of the large envelope. With quivering hands, he gently eased his very first book contract out of its wrapping. He turned the table lamp on and sat down on the couch to read. It wasn't very long and certainly seemed to be on the up and up. There was a decent advance offered. He didn't understand a few of the clauses--the language seemed very archaic, like Latin almost--but he wasn't alarmed. He signed on the dotted line and laughed aloud. His book would be published. Even if it wasn't a bestseller, he would finally be published!
He slept very well that night and woke up bright and early so that he could call Mr. Winesapp.
"Winesapp here," said the flat voice after just one ring.
"Hello, Mr. Winesapp," Cary said. "This is Cary Bouchard."
"Cary!" The voice suddenly brightened and sounded genuinely happy. "How are you? Top of the line, I hope!"
"Oh, I am," Cary agreed. "Look, I've signed the contract and wanted to know what would be a good time to bring it to your office."
"Don't worry about making a trip," Winesapp said. "I'll send another messenger."
"Okay..." Cary reluctantly agreed. "But it's really no problem."
"Nonsense! Your time is precious. You should be thinking about your next novel for Old Scratch Press."
Next novel? Already they wanted to buy his next novel without seeing how Ghost of the Misty Moor would do? It seemed too good to be true, but Cary was so delighted he immediately took the advice to heart and began plotting out his next bestseller.
A few minutes later, as he was writing out a few ideas in longhand, there was a knock on his door. Cary got up and peered through the peephole.
There was a young Hispanic man on the other side, chewing gum and looking tremendously bored. "Messenger service," said the man with a sneer and a roll of his brown eyes.
"Just a minute," Cary called, as he fumbled with his many locks and bolts. That was fast, he thought, as he pulled the door partially open and passed the signed contract through. "Now you be sure Mr. Winesapp gets that," he said. "Don't give it to anyone else."
"Yeah, yeah," the messenger yawned, looking to Cary as though he had half a mind to drop the document in the gutter and run over it a few times with his bike before hand-delivering it to this Mr. Winesapp.
Cary closed the door again, sliding each bolt home and carefully turning both locks. As he sat thinking about the plot of his next horror novel, he realized that he had not gotten his own copy of the contract. Oh well, he thought, I'll call Mr. Winesapp and ask him to mail me a copy.
As the days passed, Cary managed to write an outline and a couple of chapters for his new novel, but he just didn't have the same drive as he had with Ghost of the Misty Moor. He would sit for an hour sometimes, just staring at the blank page and not knowing what to write. But it was that way in the beginning with Ghost of the Misty Moor, too, he reminded himself.
Sometimes Cary just got so excited about having his first book published he couldn't do anything but think of that. It galled him that he had no one to share his wonderful news with. He had telephoned Bernard Krattenbokbower a few times, but his calls were always avoided. It seemed that Bernard had either just gone to lunch, just gotten on the other line or was simply unavailable. Cary tried to tell the secretary that it was a good thing he was calling about, but he suspected she just thought it was a ruse to get Bernard on the phone. She had no doubt been told by her boss that he didn't wish to speak to Cary Bouchard, and she was doing her job letter perfect.
Since Cary had always had spartan tastes and had never been one to spend any money on anything other than the bare essentials, he would be quite comfortable living on his savings and the advance on the novel for the next few months. He wondered exactly how long it would take for Ghost of the Misty Moor to be published. He hoped it wouldn't be a year or more. He had heard that it often took ages for a novel to actually hit the stands.
Cary was shocked beyond belief when he got the first advance copies of his novel delivered to his door about eight weeks after having signed the contract. He opened the parcel with trembling hands and held his very first published works in his hands as though they were made of blown glass.
He couldn't stop looking at the cover. Vengeful Ghost, it said in big, drippy, blood-red letters across the top. So, they had changed the name. That was okay. The cover illustration on the thin paperback depicted the wispy phantom with a malevolent glare, seemingly staring right at the reader. Her yellowy eyes glowed, thanks to a Mylar insert in the paper. Then, at the bottom was his name: Cary Bouchard. They had spelled it right, he noted with relief.
One day, he thought, already setting his sights ahead, my name will be at the top of the book, even bigger than the title. That's when you know you've ready arrived as a writer.
He sighed and held one of the books to his beating heart.
Finally. He was a writer.
"Well, Jaime," Cary was saying six months later on national television, "I really don't feel that a book can incite a normal, reasonable, sane person to violence. It's only a story."
"What about the power of the press?" Jaime Rivers countered, his eyes glittering as he moved in for the kill. They were like two black bugs, punctuation marks high above his thick mustache. "The pen is mightier than the sword? Come on now, you can't tell us," he gestured to the audience, "that books are just harmless fun. What about Mien Kampf?"
"
I would hardly put my book in the same league with that! For one thing, Vengeful Ghost is only fiction."
"So was The Exorcist," said Jaime from the aisle. "Look at the stir that book caused."
"Yes, but people didn't run out and start killing priests." That comment came from Steve Prince, who was seated to Cary's left.
What is Prince doing answering my questions? Cary thought with annoyance.
That was it. Jaime started talking with Steve Prince and forgot all about Cary Bouchard.
Cary should have been grateful just to be included on the show; his book, Vengeful Ghost, was just a paperback from a small, independent publishing company and yet, it had skyrocketed to number one of New York Times Best-Seller List. Now it was in all of the book stores across the nation and everyone was talking about it. Suddenly, the press had become interested in Cary. At first he did a few radio and online talk shows, then went on to do a full-fledged book tour. Yesterday he had been on with David Letterman, and the week before he was on Piers Morgan Live.
Now he was doing the Jaime Rivers Show with Steve Prince, Cleve Barkland and Gary Masters. The subject for the whole week was horror in the media, and how it affected young people. Monday's topic had been Satanic heavy metal music, Tuesday's had been stab-and-slab films, and today it was horror novels. It was mindboggling that a first-time author such as Cary would even be considered in the same league with Prince, Barkland and Masters. But his rise to fame had been truly meteoric. Already, he was being courted by the biggest New York publishing houses for his next novel. All of those publishers who had so callously snubbed him just the year before. They all had their hats in their hands now.
Old Scratch Press thought they were going the get Cary's next book, The Brandie Killer, but Cary had other ideas.
Jaime was now talking to Cleve Barkland about Hell-Raker, and the phenomenal success of the movie versions and computer games. Jaime wanted to know if Cleve thought it was a good thing that his satanic protagonist, Nail-Skull, was sort of a cult hero.
Who cares? thought Cary. Of course, he would never dare say that. He still thought that all horror, with the possible exception of his own, was nothing but a bunch of clap-trap put out by hack writers and greedy publishers. Cleve Barkland was supposedly a cerebral author whose theme just happened to be in the macabre. Actually, Barkland was moving away from the horror genre, and trying to distance himself from it. He was writing children's books now, of all things! What's he doing here then, taking up my air time? Cary asked himself.
During the commercial break Gary, Steve and Cleve all leaned in to talk amongst themselves, managing to talk over and through Cary, as though he wasn't even there. Cary decided they were just jealous.
Jaime scrutinized his reflection in a hand mirror while a make-up person powdered his prominent, twice-broken schnoz. The audience buzzed, whispering amongst themselves. "Isn't Cleve a doll?" Cary heard one of the women say to her companion. No one talked to him or even about him. Good God, even an ageing, openly gay man with a husband drew more feminine attention than he did.
The director cued for silence and the cameras began to roll once again. Jaime looked intently into the lens and addressed the audience in TV land for the big climax.
"Horror novels. Are they just harmless fun, or are they a blueprint for murder? Cleve Barkland says they are a way for readers to work out aggression and vicariously live out sick fantasies. Steve Prince, who has voluntarily pulled his books from the shelves, admits that yes, they can incite violence and maybe even...murder. Gary Masters feels that his books are more a study of the human psyche and cannot really be labeled as simple horror. And our new kid on the block, the overnight sensation, Cary Bouchard, seems to think that people should be reading Lovecraft or Poe if they want real terror." He turned his head, cocking it so that his best side was toward the camera, and addressed Cary: "But you're laughing all the way to the bank, aren't you?"
The music came up, leaving Cary with no chance to reply. Jaime knew he would have the last word. Look at that smug expression, Cary thought to himself. Arrogant bastard. If he only knew.
Old Scratch Press had given Cary an advance, of course, but the royalties would be a long time in coming. Winesapp had promised Cary an advance on his next book, but for no more than he had been given for Vengeful Ghost. It didn't seem fair, what with the phenomenal success of the first novel. And his next idea, a story about a sadistic serial murderer who stalked and killed only blonde, buxom women who resembled Brandie dolls, was sure to be another hit. Cary had tried to argue with that, but Winesapp reminded him he had signed a contract for three books. Cary didn't realize that when he signed the contract, but it wouldn't have stopped him anyway. Now the other publishers were offering him hundreds of thousands of dollars and all kinds of perks...but he had signed a contract.
Cary had tried surreptitiously to see if there was any way he could get out of it, but Old Scratch, despite his repeated requests, had never sent him his copy.
He wanted to be loyal, but OSP just didn't have that much to offer him. They wanted to release The Brandie Killer in paperback. The editor at one of the top three worldwide publishers had told him that was crazy. He said both Cary and the publisher would make oodles more money with a hard cover release first, then a paperback. And what about screen rights?
Cary realized he really had no idea what was in his contract.
Later that night in his hotel room Cary sat on the bed with his laptop. The Brandie Killer had had a rough start, but now and then Cary could feel that special charge flowing through him. He was very nearly finished with the manuscript, and tonight he was inspired. This story was a total departure from Vengeful Ghost. There was nothing supernatural about The Brandie Killer. It was the straightforward but chilling dramatization of the secret life of a serial killer.
Cary had had to do a lot of research on the subject, which he abhorred. Not only were the books he had to read trashy and badly written, but their graphic descriptions of the killings and subsequent autopsies, right down to the last drop of blood, kept Cary awake nights. He chuckled softly to himself in the hotel room; Cary wondered what Jaime's reaction would have been had he told him he was really and truly squeamish, and even had to skim quickly through the gory bits in his own writings.
Cary sat staring at the flashing cursor for a moment, felt that sort of euphoric fugue overtake him, and then let his fingers fly.
Bonfiglio sized the woman up, he wrote. She had the look: long legs, thin waist, large fake breasts. Bare, tanned arms, perfect hands with pink nail polish. Her face was pretty. She had wide-set, large eyes. This Brandie had green eyes, but to Bonfiglio the color didn't matter, as long as the eyes were large and full of trust. The Brandies always had blonde hair, but the length varied. This one had permed, shoulder-length hair. And she, like the others, had the look. The look of a victim.
Bonfiglio approached the young woman. She was standing alone, admiring a dress in the window of one of the many clothing stores in the outlet mall. Bonfiglio put on what he called his "sheep mask." He was, after all, a wolf in sheep's clothing. "Excuse me, Miss," he said softly as he came to a stop right behind her.
The girl had to turn all the way around to address him. He knew he was uncomfortably close, but her back was to the store window and she could not move away. "Yes?" she asked with an uncertain smile.
"I hope you won't think me too forward, but you see, I've been watching you. You are very pretty."
"Me?" she smiled self-consciously. She was flattered, as all of her predecessors had been. On the one or two occasions Bonfiglio had been wrong about his choice, he knew right off when they had spoken to him. A wrong choice would have laughed at him or told him to leave them alone. This one invited him to continue.
"I'm a photographer. No one you'd know. I'm just getting started." He handed her his card. It was a cheaply printed card, white with black letters. Robert Joseph Photography, it read. In smaller script beneath the name it said, Weddings, Por
traits, Commercial. Then there was a bogus telephone number in the lower right-hand corner.
The girl examined the card, then looked back up at him expectantly.
"I'd like to take your picture. This is strictly on the up and up. No nudity, and I can even pay you for your time."
"Really?" The girl made no attempt to act cool or coy. Deception of any kind was not in her nature. "Gee, that would great! What would the pictures be for?"
"Oh, just to use in my portfolio. Of course, you'll get copies of the pictures, too."
That seemed to please the girl even more than the mention of pay. "Gee, that would be great," she said. "Would you like my phone number?" she asked, slipping his phony business card into the side pocket of her small jean material purse. Bonfiglio didn't mind seeing it disappear; he would be getting it back later.
"Well, yes, of course, but I kind of thought we'd do the shoot this afternoon." He smiled, all friendly and harmless. "The light is great at about four o clock and I can get some nice shots of you on the pier."
The girl seemed indecisive. Of course, she would want to go home and change, style her hair and add to her makeup. But Bonfiglio would not let her out of his sight now. He could not take a chance on her calling up her sister or her best friend to brag that she had a photo session that afternoon. No one must know that she had met him. He wanted to read in the paper that Brandie had last been seen at the Fox Mountains Mall, and no one knew where she had disappeared to.
"Okay," she said finally. "By the way, my name is Cindy Hooks." She extended her right hand, a gesture Bonfiglio didn't like. Women shouldn't shake hands. Shaking hands was a masculine ritual. He liked to see women acting feminine and demure, not like his mother, that revolting prostitute. He took Brandie's hand and kissed it.
They left the mall together. She got into his car without hesitation and buckled up like a good girl. She didn't seem to notice that the inside door handle was missing from his car as he, the gentleman, closed it for her.
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 4
