Ghostwriter

by Travis Thrasher

  He named a pub in downtown Geneva. “Nine o’clock.”

  “I was rather hoping you were going to invite me over for dinner.”

  “This isn’t funny anymore.”

  “Do you hear me laughing?” Cillian asked.

  “I hear that smart-aleck tone in your voice, so yeah, I hear you laughing.”

  “There’s a time and a place to laugh, Dennis.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll give you something to laugh at.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “It sounds however you want it to sound. Meet me at O’Malley’s at nine.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Me neither.”

  Dennis watched him arrive ten minutes after nine. He had been sitting in the darkness of his car waiting since eight thirty, just in case Cillian was early. But the guy swaggered into the pub late. Dennis remained resting behind the steering wheel, parked facing the sidewalk and the building front. It was another twenty minutes before Cillian stepped out of the pub.

  He could see the lean figure standing outside, as if waiting. Then he lit up a cigarette, smoking casually as if he had no cares in the world.

  Dennis wished he could see Cillian’s face. He wished he could see the expression behind the taunts and threats and games.

  The figure began to walk away from Dennis, down the sidewalk.

  Dennis quickly climbed out of the car and began striding toward him.

  In the shadows he walked.

  Down the street he walked.

  Turning the corner he walked.

  All the while following Cillian, who ambled without a destination.

  Where’d he park?

  In the lawn lining Third Street in front of a sleeping store, Cillian stood. He faced Dennis as if he knew he was coming. That didn’t stop Dennis. The trees gave them enough darkness. The street didn’t have much traffic.

  He walked toward Cillian.

  “You get an F for spying,” the voice called out to him.

  Dennis approached him and didn’t bother looking around to see if someone else was standing there in the shadows. He didn’t worry about another car passing by and seeing them. He didn’t wonder if an elderly woman was walking her aged poodle.

  He didn’t think of anything except the box with Audrey’s photo inside.

  And he thought of this as he launched his fist against Cillian’s creepy, leering face. His knuckles connected with the guy’s temple, slamming him backward, sending him spiraling to the ground.

  For a second Dennis stood his ground, watching the figure sprawled on the grass. Cillian reached for his forehead.

  “Heck of a punch for a writer.”

  “Get up,” Dennis said.

  Cillian laughed as he stood to his feet. “So you didn’t want a beer, huh?”

  Dennis punched the guy in whatever tiny gut he had. Cillian keeled over, out of breath. Without thinking, rage and hate filling him, Dennis grabbed the guy’s oily hair.

  “You ever threaten my child again and I’ll kill you. You hear that? I’ll kill you, you sick little freak.” And his hand, now aching, slammed against Cillian’s nose. He heard something crack.

  Cillian fell to his knees, coughing. For a moment he leaned back, making a sound.

  What is that?

  Dennis didn’t recognize the noise. But then, as Cillian sat back up, his hands covering a nose that gushed blood, Dennis knew exactly what the noise was.

  It was laughter.

  “How does it feel, Dennis?”

  “Get up.”

  “Get up for what, Dennis? For another punch?”

  “Get up now.”

  Cillian wiped a hand across his face, smearing blood. Even in the muted light Dennis could see it clearly. Pearly white teeth grinned, the whites of his eyes sticking out like glowing orbs in the night.

  This time Dennis slapped him across the face. It seemed far more insulting than a punch. “Get up.”

  “Hit me again, writer.”

  “Stand up.”

  “You hit like a girl.”

  Dennis grabbed the collar of Cillian’s T-shirt and jerked it, ripping half of it away.

  “Such aggression. How does it feel?”

  “Shut your face.”

  “How does it feel to taste blood, huh? Feels good, huh? You probably haven’t felt this alive since the day of your wife’s death, have you?”

  Another fist landed against Cillian’s face, sending him crumpling in the wet grass. But this just made the laughter intensify.

  “Go ahead, hit me again, Dennis. Go ahead, pummel me. Make me pay. Make me hurt.”

  Dennis felt dizzy as tears filled his eyes. His hand throbbed, and his gut raced. He backed away.

  You gotta stop this. Gotta stop, Den.

  Cillian looked at his bloody hand, then wiped his bleeding nose. “How does it feel?”

  “You stay away from me and my family. I mean it,” Dennis said, pointing a finger at the eyes that never strayed away.

  “Or what?”

  “I mean it,” Dennis said, backing away now.

  “Or what? Or what? What are you going to do? What could you possibly do to me?”

  The way Cillian said it frightened Dennis. This wasn’t some young fan toying with him.

  This was some sick mess of a young man challenging him.

  “You can’t do anything anymore, Dennis. You’re weak. Look at you. Look at your face. You’re scared to death, aren’t you? You’re scared of what you’ve done, but more than that you’re scared because of what you can’t or won’t do, right? I got it right, didn’t I? I know you, Dennis. I’m a fan and I’ve been a fan for a long time and I can see through your words. You expose your flaws through your writing, even as lame as your writing has become. I know. I see. I understand.”

  Dennis turned and ran down the sidewalk, away from Cillian, from his words, from his smile. Back in his car, Dennis noticed the bloody gashes on his knuckles. He leaned his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

  He just wanted this nightmare to be over.

  2008

  Everything was set and ready. But he couldn’t go through with it.

  Rhonda lay on the couch, waiting for him. He had slipped away from her, masking his shivers and shakes as he walked into the kitchen, ready to grab the knife. It would be easy, and it would all be over in just a few minutes.

  But in the kitchen his hesitations seized him.

  He couldn’t even hold the knife straight. It was a butcher knife, a large one that Bob had given him.

  For several harrowing moments he stood in the kitchen, listening to the music in the background, then hearing her voice.

  “You comin’ back? I’m getting cold.”

  And he told her just a minute.

  This was his moment. His big moment. It had all been planned out perfectly. He’d spotted her and talked to her and lured her and convinced her. And now all he had to do was one more little thing.

  But he couldn’t.

  Instead he ran to the bathroom and found himself throwing up.

  He wasn’t sure how long he was in there. He must have blacked out.

  When he came back to consciousness, he stood up.

  As he stepped into the hallway, he noticed markings on the carpet. The bedroom door was open. He looked back toward the living room and saw a shadow approaching.

  And then Bob filled his sight.

  He was going to ask what he was doing, but he knew. Cillian knew that Bob had been waiting for him in the bedroom, waiting with plastic sheets protecting the bed and the fl oor, waiting with gloves, waiting with tools.

  What happened to me?

  But as Bob approached him, he could tell that Bob had done what he couldn’t do.

  The plastic gloves were dark and wet, his face splattered, his neck torn with something resembling a bite. Bob stared at him like a disappointed father, not saying a word. He didn’t have to say anything.

  “Where is
she?” Cillian asked.

  Bob didn’t answer. He had that distant look he always carried—a look that seemed void of something vital to the human spirit. Cillian was afraid for a moment, not sure what the big guy was going to do.

  “There’s a little of her remaining in the family room. You can clean up the rest.”

  Bob went back into the bedroom and shut the door.

  The Truth

  1.

  The Saturday sunset was rich with oranges and reds, the sky burning like a pumpkin aglow on a fall night. Dennis drove toward Ward’s house. He’d be seeing Kendra for the first time since the funeral.

  He stopped by a winery to purchase a couple of bottles for the evening. As he drove down Third Street, he saw the spot where he had beaten Cillian. No police tape surrounded the area, no visible markings in the ground could be seen. Yet Dennis still felt like he was being watched, like he was in trouble, like someone was going to grab him any minute now.

  Ward had e-mailed him several times about coming over and hanging out. They’d finally set a date for this Saturday evening, almost a week before Halloween. Ward said the kids would be out this evening, so it would just be the three of them.

  The three of them.

  As soft rock played in the background, the window cracked to let a little air in, the light of the day fading in the west, Dennis thought of that phrase. The three of them. Threesomes weren’t any good. Someone was always left out. You needed a pair. Two or four or more, but never three.

  I wish she was by my side, dressed up, holding my hand, holding one of the bottles of wine, carrying a smile on that beautiful face.

  It struck Dennis as he drove past familiar places that maybe he ought to move. Every corner and building and shadow reminded him of her. The smells and the sounds and sights all acted as a compass pointing due north toward the memory of Lucy. He had assumed he was strong enough to live in those memories, to breathe and thrive and move through them. But maybe not.

  She should’ve remained behind, not me.

  He could see The Little Traveler, where she used to go with her mother and Audrey. There was Grahams, where they’d get ice cream or chocolate pecan scalies or chocolate covered pretzels. There were a hundred other places that held a hundred other memories—simple, ordinary memories that now seemed legendary and mythic because Lucy was part of them.

  God, I miss her.

  Sometimes the ache seemed physical, like some gaping hole in his stomach. It felt like a literal missing part, like someone had scooped away his vital organs and left all the fat and fl ab behind.

  He found himself approaching the church and wondered if he even wanted to read the sign.

  But of course, he did.

  And of course, it had to say something that nicked him, that cut just a little.

  Ripples don’t come back. Actions have consequences, good and bad.

  And then, out of the blue, he thought of Cillian’s laughter as he punched him in the face.

  He thought of the beating and wondered what ripples it had created.

  2.

  He could hear them in the kitchen, and it made him smile.

  It was good to be surrounded by signs of life: the sounds of dishes being rinsed and put in the dishwasher, a married couple laughing about old times, the timer going off and the dog barking; the smells of wine and lasagna and some fantastic berry dish cooking in the oven; the large open family room with the plush couches and the country French design, the pictures of family adorning the walls, the glow of candlelight mixed with canned lighting.

  It was good to be in the Wards’ house again after all this time.

  Ward came in with one of Dennis’s bottles of red.

  “Here—finish this up.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Then be better,” Ward said, a grin on his face.

  His friend looked relaxed, his eyes a bit squinty after several glasses of wine himself. Ward wasn’t much of a drinker, and when he did partake, Dennis could always tell.

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah. I might just fall asleep on this couch though.”

  “We have a guest bedroom.”

  “That’s in case we start doing tequila shots later.”

  “Kendra might bring that out,” Ward said with a laugh. “One never knows.”

  “Something smells delicious.”

  “When company comes over, she brings out the big guns. Otherwise it’s mac and cheese and Ho Hos.”

  “I’ll gladly help you out anytime.”

  “Hey—we have something for you. Kendra found it earlier. Hold on.”

  Ward disappeared for a minute, asking his wife where “it” was. Dennis savored a sip of his wine, feeling relaxed and warm and comfortable. The stereo played a selection of soft songs. A song by Sting that Dennis didn’t recognize. It fit the mood of the evening. Relaxed, classy, calm.

  His eyes felt heavy. That’s how relaxed he was. He could doze off right here on this couch. The shuffl ing of feet made him stretch and stop drifting.

  “Look at this,” Ward told him, handing him a photo.

  It was a shot of the two of them back at Databank, where they met. The advertising company had been bought in the late nineties after they were long gone. Very few people they knew still worked there.

  “Look at us. So young.”

  “Look at me,” Ward said. “So much hair.”

  Dennis laughed. “When was this taken?”

  “I don’t know. We had just gotten to know each other.”

  “That seems like another lifetime ago.”

  “Several lifetimes ago.”

  Dennis looked at the men in the picture, two guys in their thirties (though Dennis liked to razz Ward about being older) with the whole future ahead of them.

  “We look like trouble,” Dennis commented.

  “We were lucky to get out of there. Some of the guys got canned when the merger took over.”

  “Isn’t it nice not to have to worry about mergers?”

  “What do you mean?” Ward asked, trying to hide a smile but unable to. “I’m being bought out.”

  “Really? McDonald’s finally called, huh?”

  “Taco Bell.”

  Ward’s wife was cute and petite and a perfect hostess. During dessert, a delicious multiberry pie-like concoction that Dennis enjoyed so much he asked for seconds, Ward and Kendra talked about their daughter’s recent engagement. She had graduated from college that May and was now working in downtown Chicago.

  “Those days seem like a long time ago, don’t they?” Ward asked shaking his head.

  “Yeah.”

  Perhaps it was the way Dennis said it, but Ward and Kendra both looked sad and speechless. Dennis realized he had put a little too much emotion in his response.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

  “For bringing up your daughter’s engagement? Come on— that’s great.”

  “No—I mean—just the reminiscing.”

  Dennis smiled. “You know, Lucy’s name is not forbidden. It’s not like I’m going to turn into some sobbing mess if we talk about her.”

  Both of them nodded with sympathetic, sad eyes.

  It was okay. He was used to this. He wasn’t sure how people were supposed to react.

  “I still remember the day I proposed to her. That was—let’s see, how many years ago? Man. It was a long time ago.”

  “You were married when I met you.”

  “Twenty-five. That’s how old I was when I asked Lucy to marry me. That was twenty-six years ago. Can you believe it?”

  “No,” Kendra said in a tone that said I can’t believe she’s gone. None of us can believe she’s gone.

  “Where’d you propose to her?” Ward asked.

  “You guys ever been to the Fabyan Forest Preserve? Just south of our house off Route 31?”

  “The one with the windmill?”

  “Yeah—that’s across the ri
ver. They’ve redone a lot of the preserve in the last few years. I proposed to her on a summer day alongside the river. Lucy loved the water and for some reason loved the Fox River. I told her—I promised her—one day we’d live in a place right by it.”

  “You got your wish.”

  Dennis nodded at Kendra. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

  “Do you go back much?”

  Dennis shook his head. “No. Actually I haven’t been back in some time.”

  He knew how long it had been. The last time he went there was with Lucy. He didn’t want to go back now. Nothing existed there except ghosts of the past waiting to haunt him.

  A buzz disturbed Dennis’s thoughts. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone, blaring a tune his daughter had programmed. “I can’t get this thing to play anything else,” Dennis said. “Sorry. I should’ve turned that off.” He looked at the number and saw it was Ryan. He decided to let it go to voice mail, but during the next hour all he could think about was the message waiting for him.

  3.

  On the drive home, feeling upbeat after a refreshing evening with friends, Dennis listened to the voice mail from Ryan.

  “Hey, Dennis. This is Ryan. I did some investigating on that guy who’s been harassing you. I think you’ve got someone giving you the wrong info. This guy that you told me to look up—name of Cillian Reed. About nine months ago a man by the name of Daniel Cillian Reed was found dead in a garbage dump. Actually, he wasn’t found but parts of him were, I guess. It was pretty grisly. They had a funeral and everything. I’ve got the file on him and can show it to you.

  “I guess the guy had started going by Cillian, but everyone—including his family—knew him as Daniel. That’s probably why you weren’t able to find anything on him. But it made the news—I remember them talking about it not long ago.

  “So whoever’s telling you this—someone’s screwing with your head, Dennis. But then again, sounds like something one of your fans might think is funny, you know? Taking the name of a dead man and posing as him for a laugh.

  “I left a package at your door—everything I could make copies of from what I found. Give me a call once you’ve looked it over. And let me know if this guy keeps bothering you. Like I said, I bet it’s just some crazed fan trying to make a point.”