Cary nodded. He was truly happy she had found some professional success, but he had to admit he was pleased that her marriage had failed. He thought she deserved it maybe just a little for leaving him the way she had.
It had been a wet December, just a couple of weeks away from Christmas. He'd been saving up so they could go skiing together in Colorado. Cary had called her a few times as the vacation date drew near, but she was never home. He went to the bookstore, but Monroe, the owner, said she had taken her vacation early. Frantic with worry, Cary telephoned Diana's mother in upstate New York. She had not heard from her daughter. Cary called the police station and all the hospitals. No Diana Moon was arrested, injured or dead. Then he got it. The Letter.
Cary was pulled from the memory when the waitress came to take their order. They had never even opened the menus, so she said she would come back.
"So, what's good here?" Diana asked.
Cary had rarely splurged on restaurant meals, especially at places like the Tavern, but since he'd sold his book he had come here a few times. "I like the chicken Florentine, but it's a bit heavy for lunch. Maybe the chef's salad?"
"Sounds good," Diana said, closing her menu. She obviously didn't want to think about food right now. "Cary--" she began.
"Cary Bouchard!" A large man with silver hair and a neatly trimmed mustache came up to their table and shook Cary's hand. "Remember me? Marcus Thompson from M & B Books. We'd still like to talk to you about a contract."
"Well," Cary replied, "I've just signed this morning with Carousel."
"Oh." The man looked crestfallen for a second, then perked right back up. "Good luck!" He left and went back to his own table. He said something to his companions and they all laughed. Cary, self-conscious as ever, wondered if they were laughing at him.
He turned his attention back to Diana, whose eyes were wide with admiration. "You signed with Carousel? Wow, Cary, congratulations. You must be thrilled."
Cary giggled and leaned forward. "Yes, I guess I am," he admitted in a conspiratorial whisper. "I must confess though, I do feel a bit guilty about breaking my contract with Old Scratch Press. They did give me my first break after all."
"Well, that's the way it goes," Diana said flippantly. "After all, you benefited them, too. No one ever heard of them before you came along. Now the Book Nook is stocking some of their other titles, as I'm sure the larger chains are, too."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. I never thought of that." He felt much better now.
The waitress came back and took their order. They made small talk until the food arrived, then ate. When their coffee and pie was brought, Cary just had to ask Diana what she had thought of Vengeful Ghost.
She couldn't lie. Of course she had read it, but only because he wrote it. She had been surprised at the violence and the savage, almost palpable hatred of his words. It was like nothing he had ever written before. But of course, none of those manuscripts had sold. "As you know," she replied, "that genre isn't my cup of tea. My tastes in thrillers lean more toward Sir Conan Doyle and the like. But I must say, it was very well-written."
That's my Diana, Cary thought. Diana could always find the good in anything, and she was the only person who truly appreciated his superior writing skills. All the people who tried to schmooze him had used those ridiculous catch-phrases that sounded like promotional blurbs: What a page-turner! Gripping! It kept me awake all night!
Cary agreed with her that it wasn't exactly what he had planned on writing either, but as soon as he had established himself as a bestselling author with staying power, he planned on writing something of real literary merit.
Diana didn't think he would ever be able to shake the label of horror hound, but why burst his bubble? "I'll bet Bernard is absolutely thrilled that he decided to stick with you," she said.
"He left me." Just like you, Cary wanted to add, but did not have the guts.
"Oh," Diana replied. "So, do you have an agent now?"
"No. I'm quite capable of handling my own business affairs."
"Of course, you are." Diana took a sip of her coffee, holding the cup delicately, with her pinky finger extended. Her nail polish was a pearly shade of beige, and her nails were not too long. Cary liked them long, liked to have them raking his back when he and Diana were in bed.
That thought spurred Cary into action. "Diana," he said quickly and so forcefully she jerked her head up and looked at him with alarm. "Why did you invite me here? You said you wanted to explain about why you left me and all..." His conviction quickly fizzled. He wasn't very good at serious talk.
"I do, Cary. Honestly I do." Diana, though it was a shaming and painful thing to have to do, did not shed a single tear as she told Cary the reasons she had left and why she now wanted to come back.
"Well, I won't deny that I've missed you," Cary said. "But my life is just so structured now I'm afraid letting you back in will topple the dominoes."
"You're right," Diana agreed, eyes downcast. "I guess I couldn't expect things to go back exactly as they were."
"That doesn't mean we can't be friends," Cary added quickly. He did want her back, but not right now. He wanted to take things slow and see how they went.
Two hours later Cary and Diana lay together in her bed, sweating and gasping for breath as they climaxed one after the other. Diana raked Cary's back with her pearly-beige fingernails, then let her arms drop to the mattress.
It was a sultry June day, and they had the window open but it afforded little ventilation.
"Whew!" Cary exclaimed, as he rolled over onto his back. "I guess I missed you more than I thought."
Diana smiled and veiled her eyes with her long sable lashes. The demure coquette. She found her robe and threw it on as she got up to pour them each a glass of soda from the kitchen.
Cary followed. "I like your new place," he said. "How did you manage to get such a nice flat under rent control?"
"It was Dick's place."
"Oh."
The apartment was spacious and sparsely furnished. The small kitchen table and three piece living room set were all in matching austere Dutch modern. There were three Erté prints on the walls of the living room, and one in the bedroom. Cary had given them to her, as he got an employee discount from the gallery. Aside from those, there were no other pictures; not even framed personal 8 x 10s like most people had in their homes. Diana had never liked a cluttered look and did not collect knick-knacks or home decorations of any kind. The floors were of scratched and nicked hardwood and hadn't been waxed or swept up in some while. There were a few philodendrons in the window ledge and a couple of magazines scattered across the living room table.
Cary, wearing only his white boxer shorts, took a seat at the dinette table while Diana poured the drinks. He idly picked up the morning paper and began to thumb through it.
The story was on page three. Had Winesapp's name not been in the bold headline, Cary never would have noticed the article.
"Body of Attorney Cyrus Winesapp Found," said the headline. Cary read on with shock and surprise. According to this report, Winesapp, who had been indicted on eighteen counts of fraud, had disappeared just before his trial was to begin. That had been, according to the paper, nearly two years ago. His body, though horribly decomposed, had just been found in the Hudson, weighted to its filthy floor with a cinder block. The County coroner's office issued a statement that they believed Winesapp had died shortly after he disappeared. The police were still trying to determine whether the death would be classified as a suicide or a murder.
It couldn't possibly be the same Cyrus Winesapp, Cary thought. I just talked to him a few weeks ago. This man had died years ago.
There was a picture of the attorney; a typical fortyish WASP with a balding pate and wire rimmed round glasses. But the picture didn't help Cary much; he had never actually met Winesapp face to face.
Cary took a taxi home later that afternoon. He still had to work on The Brandie Killer. He wanted to be able to give
Susan Montgomery the whole manuscript by Monday. He reluctantly paid the cabbie and trudged up the steps to the security door. He rode the elevator to his apartment, already thinking about how his story could possibly end. As he turned his key in the lock, Cary saw the edge of an envelope sticking out from beneath his door. Pushing with his shoulder, he shoved the door open, entered the apartment and immediately shut the door again, doing up all of the locks and bolts before bending down to pick up the note.
It was a manila envelope with an Old Scratch Press mailing label on the front. His name was scrawled in black ink pen where a typed address would customarily go. He bent back the brass prongs and opened the flap. He upended the envelope and was taken aback when confetti came spilling out and landed all over the floor. Cary bent down and scooped up the shreds of paper. He held one of the larger pieces up to the light and realized it was his contract with Old Scratch. They had finally sent him his copy of the contract, he thought with an ironic smirk.
How could they possibly have found out about his new deal so quickly? They must really be pissed. Someone had shredded that contract by hand, placed it in the envelope and sent a messenger--or brought it over themselves to his home. He was glad he hadn't been in.
As he idly scattered the pieces of paper across the table top, he noted with mild alarm that this was the original of his contract. He could tell by the portions of his signature where he had signed in blue ink.
Cary took this to mean that the contract with Old Scratch was broken, since they had returned the original and all. He hoped a legal subpoena was not soon to follow, but if it was he knew he could count on Carousel to back him up.
That reminded him--he needed to get going on The Brandie Killer. First he fed and watered Tweetie, then put the radio on. Vivaldi's music soon floated on the stuffy air of his apartment. It had been very hot of late, and suddenly Cary felt like he was roasting. He opened the kitchen window, admitting the dissonant sounds of the street traffic below, and placed Tweetie's cage on the sill. He then got some cold Chinese food out of his refrigerator, which had been in there over a week, and shoveled the food into his mouth. He was anxious to get going on the climax of his story, but he knew he didn't work well on an empty stomach.
Those necessities taken care of, Cary then retrieved his laptop from the entryway closet and sat down on the couch. He booted up and the word-processing program took him right to where he had left off the night before last.
The story of Rudolf Bonfiglio was coming to an end. Cary decided that there would be one more victim, and that would be it. But then, how to end? He wasn't sure if Bonfiglio should be caught or get away with it. He thought of the Zodiac Killer. He had gotten away with it. All these years later, people still wondered if Zodiac was out there somewhere. Cary didn't think so. Sociopathic serial killers were unable to simply stop their crimes at will. They had no control over their impulses and that's why their fantasies of killing escalated to actual murder in the first place. He felt that the man had probably died, or been murdered himself--Hey, that's an idea, he thought. The ultimate justice.
He sat staring at the flashing cursor. It blinked at him maddeningly for a moment, then he typed in a few words, just to go through the motions.
"No one breaks a contract with me!" he'd written.
Why did I write that? he wondered. Probably more worried about recrimination from Old Scratch than I realize, he decided as he hit the delete key.
Cary got a few pages typed, but it had taken several hours, and he just didn't feel motivated. At midnight he powered down and returned the computer to its resting place on the top shelf of the coat closet. He made himself a cup of oolong and went to bed. But he couldn't sleep. He kept worrying about what OSP would try to do to him. Once he decided that he would call them in the morning and try to settle things himself, he felt much better and drifted off to a heavy, dreamless sleep.
It was past ten when he awoke the next morning. The first thing on his mind was to call Old Scratch Press. He'd never talked to the actual publisher/owner, but he had spoken to the editor, Jonathan Favourite, and of course Cyrus Winesapp. Since he'd had the most contact with Cyrus, Cary decided to call his direct line and speak to him. He wanted to prove to himself that Winesapp was not dead, and that things were not as bad as they seemed.
He put on his gray terry cloth robe and ambled out into the living room. His telephone sat on the end table alongside his answering machine. He sat on the couch and punched in the number. The line rang once, but then that horrible tone of a disconnected number screamed in his ear. "We're sorry," said the decidedly unsympathetic recorded voice. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service. There is no forwarding number."
Cary hung up and tried again, thinking perhaps he had misdialed. The result was the same. He then tried the main office number, only to get the recording again.
Looked like Old Scratch Press had folded. He'd gotten out just in time.
After brewing up a pot of tea, Cary called Diana at work to see how she was doing. She seemed happy to hear from him, and they made a date to have dinner later that night. Cary wanted her to read The Brandie Killer manuscript to see what she thought. This was the first time he'd ever written a book without the constant input of Krattenbokbower or Favourite, but he felt confident that he had written a good book. He just wanted some reassurance from his girlfriend before turning it over to the big-wigs at Carousel.
He worked all day, typing until the tips of his fingers felt bruised, but Cary managed to finish the manuscript just minutes before Diana buzzed through on the intercom.
"I'm here," she announced. "And I have Chicago-style pizza!"
Cary pressed the button and let her in the security gate. He then went down to meet her. She looked fantastic in her green pant suit and black high-heeled boots. Cary suddenly realized with slight embarrassment that he hadn't shaved or showered since the previous morning.
They ate pizza and talked for hours, just like old pals. Diana commented that she couldn't believe the change in Cary. He seemed so confident, so optimistic about the future.
He was really proud of his new book, too. He asked her to read it over the weekend, and she agreed that she would, though she reminded him that she was not a very good judge of the horror genre.
"But you can judge the flow of a story, consistency and writing style, can't you?" Cary said with a smile as he handed her the flash drive.
As promised, Diana read Cary's book over the weekend while she sat behind the counter of the Book Nook. She read it directly from the monitor of the store's computer and had to take several breaks to rest her eyes. She could have printed it out she supposed, but 430 pages was an awful lot to put through the already old and worn printer.
It was a very slow Sunday with just a few browsers, so Diana had plenty of time to read the manuscript between catching up on some of her other paperwork. The Book Nook's atmosphere was conducive to reading: it was a small, cozy store with two soft, over-stuffed couches which encouraged customers to sit down and leaf through the books. Sandalwood or cinnamon incense was always burning, bringing with it a pleasant, relaxing ambiance to complement the soft new age music that was piped through the store's stereo speakers. Diana was an expert on first and rare editions and since she had become a partner in the business, the Book Nook's inventory was leaning further and further away from new releases. This had actually been a boon to business now that the Book Nook had something to set it apart from the countless others.
Diana read through her lunch break, unable to bear the thought of food as she read of Rudolf Bonfiglio's repulsive murder spree. After she'd gone about three quarters of the way through it, Diana had to admit to herself that it wasn't just her imagination: the book's "hero" had absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. And not only that, but the writing style was raw and cruel, with none of Cary's usual flow and lyrical style. It was almost as though someone else had written it. Diana had seen some of that in Vengeful Ghost, but Cary's st
yle had still bubbled just below the surface. This book was truly chilling and scary...and not in a comical, harmless manner either. This was no Nightmare on Elm Street approach with its quipping killer and outrageous, comic-book killings.
In The Brandie Killer, Cary really seemed to understand the mindset of those sick individuals who committed the most heinous crimes on the planet. In spite of herself, Diana had to admire his prowess in successfully transporting the reader right into that psyche.
Diana read on, fascinated and yet repulsed at the same time. The ending of the book, in which Rudolf Bonfiglio is murdered by a marauding female serial killer was at least a nice twist, Diana conceded, but this book was certainly of the sort that she herself would never buy. Most women would probably take offense at it. It might even be banned, she thought. She pictured outraged women picketing in front her store, shouting in protest against her boyfriend.
At the end of the day Diana shut down the PC and locked up. She took a cab home and before she even had the door open, she could hear the phone ringing. Carefully locking the door behind her, Diana picked up on the third ring, knowing full well who was on the other end of the line.
"Hello, Cary," she said. "Yes, I read the manuscript."
"How did you know it was me? I thought I showed remarkable restraint!"
"You did, honey," she said emphatically, laughing gaily. He hadn't called all weekend. She wondered what he had been doing; before she hadn't had to worry about other women because Cary was always in his shell, and certainly was not the most attractive man on earth. Oh, he had his good points all right, but you had to get to know him first. Anyway, now that he was a big-time author he was bound to have groupies.
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