Blast from the Past

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  Joni still looked reluctant. “Is it really necessary?”

  “Well, I’d like to say that I’ll be able to identify the real Leviathan just from talking to the last three people, but I’d be a lot happier if I had something concrete to prove it. This would do the job. Besides, wouldn’t you like to find out what’s under there?”

  “You know, now that you mention it, I would. Okay, bring on your expert.”

  Tilda spent the rest of the day making sure she had everything in place for the meetings, which included running into town to gather a few props. For dinner, she again indulged in room service and wondered how much money she’d have to make in order to be able to afford to live somewhere like the Glenham Bars Inn full-time.

  Chapter 34

  Though artists produce excellent work on the computer, I do miss being able to see the actual pages and know that Frank Miller and Bill Sienkiewicz make mistakes, too.

  —TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA ARTISTS: THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE

  ART conservator Patricia Houchin, a sturdy woman with a firm handshake and thick glasses, arrived at Tilda’s door a few minutes before eight the next day, which impressed Tilda all the more when she found out she had driven down from Cambridge that morning. Either she was really eager, or a very fast driver, or both. The first words out of her mouth were, “Good morning. Do you have the page?”

  Tilda showed it to her, and that concluded the small talk portion of their day.

  With Tilda carrying the page and Patricia toting a big red toolbox, they went across the street to one of the inn’s boathouses. When they’d spoken on the phone, Patricia had told Tilda that the process could be messy and that she’d need someplace with good ventilation. Tilda had played the guilt card once more and the hotel manager had provided a work area, complete with the table and strong light Patricia required.

  Once Patricia had her equipment in place, Tilda handed her the page and then disappeared from sight. At least, she supposed that she must have done so, because Patricia didn’t look in her direction again for the next three hours.

  Patricia did keep up a running monologue as she worked: “Okay, it’s in good shape, no creases. Only used adhesive along the corners, which will help. India ink? Yeah, probably. Good-quality bristol board. Not so sharp with the trimming here. Wow, look at that.”

  Tilda found it entertaining for the first fifteen minutes or so, but after that she resorted to playing Bejeweled on her phone, wishing she’d brought her laptop along. She supposed she could have gone to retrieve it without Patricia even noticing she was gone, but she’d promised Joni that she wouldn’t let the page out of her sight, so she was stuck as Patricia pulled out an impressive selection of solvents, knives even more exact than X-ACTO blades, and a digital camera to document every step of the procedure.

  Finally, almost exactly four hours after Patricia had knocked at Tilda’s door, the conservator triumphantly announced, “Got it. It’s coming off now.”

  Tilda jumped up to watch as Patricia used a shiny pair of tweezers to lift the corrected panel off of the page.

  They looked at the original panel, and Patricia started to say, “I don’t see why—” just as Tilda started to snicker. When she explained what she was seeing, hilarity ensued.

  Once they’d wiped their eyes, Patricia carefully packed up the page and the removed panel. Joni had said that she wanted to see the panel underneath before deciding if she wanted to paste the panel back on or not. So once Patricia cleaned up the work area and took her toolbox back to her car, Tilda showed her to Joni’s suite. Edwina and Dolores were there with the director, so Tilda got to show all three of them the panel.

  Hilarity ensued.

  After everybody settled down, Joni let Patricia get a closer look at her other original pages, and the art conservator was almost incoherent with joy.

  “I’ve loved Pharos since it was first published,” she said, “and I’ve never stopped hoping that some of the pages would show up at a convention or on eBay or somewhere. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to see any of them.”

  Joni looked on proudly as Patricia oohed and ahhed, and even let her take photos. Then she thanked her for coming and gave her some Pharos swag, including a signed photo of Laryea dressed as Dylan O’Taine and a spiffy Pharos crew jacket.

  After that, Tilda offered to buy her lunch, but Patricia said she needed to get back to Cambridge. Of course Tilda was fairly sure that what she really wanted was a chance to show off her new toys, but she could understand that. She wouldn’t have minded getting one of those jackets herself.

  It was just as well Patricia was in a hurry. The first Leviathan wannabe was due in a little over an hour, which didn’t give Tilda much time to grab a bite and get prepped. And now she was sure that she had a question that only the real Leviathan could answer correctly.

  Chapter 35

  The Fosse Grim wasn’t so much evil as greedy. He used his Siren Pipe to play seductive songs that enticed sailors to throw their treasure overboard, but when the entranced men also threw over their food supplies, condemning themselves to starvation, Dylan O’Taine had to intervene.

  —TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA ARTISTS: THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE

  FIVE minutes after shaking Roy Coombs’s hand, Tilda knew that June had been absolutely right about meeting the remaining members of the Leviathan legion in person. Via e-mail, Coombs had come across as sincere and sensitive. In person, he sounded and acted like a used car salesman. It wasn’t just the studied casualness of his sport coat and khakis, or the slight overuse of hair product. It was the plastic smile.

  Still, it had been twenty years, and maybe those two decades had converted the creator of Dylan O’Taine to a fast-talker. So she went through the protocol she and June had devised.

  Instead of inviting Coombs to her suite, Tilda had asked if the inn had a small function room she could borrow, and the hotel—still in make-Tilda-happy-so-she-won’t-sue mode—had swiftly provided one. Tilda had also asked for and received chairs and a table. Dom had loaned her Hoover to act as security, and he was sitting to one side, out of the way but visibly and muscularly present.

  Coombs was right on time.

  “Mr. Coombs,” Tilda said, offering him her hand. “I’m Tilda Harper. I really appreciate your coming down here today. I know it isn’t easy to get away on short notice.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Knowing that somebody still appreciates my work is so gratifying.” He looked around the mostly empty room. “Will the movie people be joining us later?”

  Tilda hadn’t said anything about movie people being involved, or even implied it. “Maybe later. Right now, I’m just so excited to have a chance to meet the man behind Leviathan.”

  She started by asking about the sources of Dylan O’Taine and other characters in Pharos, even though they’d already discussed it via e-mail. Then she brought up the lighthouse again. June had recommended soft-ball questions as a way to relax him before going for the jugular.

  Coombs rattled off the answers about studying mythology, and when he’d first seen the Monomoy Point Lighthouse. “It just spoke to me, Tilda. I knew that it was exactly what I needed in the comic.”

  “It is beautiful,” Tilda said. “You know, we’ve mostly spoken about the writing in Pharos. My bias, of course, since I’m a writer myself. What about the art? How did you learn to draw like that?” That was another one of June’s suggestions.

  “Self-taught,” he said promptly. “I was always doodling as a boy. I can’t tell you how many times my teachers got annoyed at me.”

  “I can imagine.” Then, as if it had just occurred to her, she said, “Do you think you could draw something for me? Maybe a picture of Dylan, or the lighthouse?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t tell me that you wanted me to bring my sketch pad, so—”

  “I have one right here.” She handed over a brand-new pad and pencil. “According to
your reply to the reader letters in the last issue of Pharos, those are the brands you like to work with.”

  “Wow, that’s some attention to detail,” he said, his smile a bit strained. “But I’m really rusty—just haven’t got the time to draw anymore. I don’t think I’ve picked up a drawing pencil in years.”

  “Understood,” Tilda said. “This isn’t for publication, anyway, just for a big fan. Please?”

  Coombs swallowed, but had a go at it. Tilda busied herself with her papers, pretending she didn’t see him referring to the stack of Pharos comic books on the table.

  After fifteen minutes of what must have been pure torture for the man, he said, “Wow, I’m even rustier than I thought. This is embarrassing.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Tilda said.

  “Honestly, I hate for anybody to see this.” He tried to close the pad, but Hoover reached over him to take it and hand it to Tilda.

  She stared at the so-called sketch for a full minute before finally saying, “You have got to be kidding me. I’ve seen infants do a better job with anatomy than this.”

  “Did I mention that I was in a car accident some years back? I lost a lot of dexterity in my drawing hand. I can still write—I’ll have no problem signing autographs—but drawing is another story.”

  Tilda pointedly poised her pen over her pad. “Where were you treated? Who was your doctor?”

  “Actually, I was overseas at the time.”

  “Where?”

  “Mexico?” he said.

  Tilda decided there was no need to bring in her big gun, the mystery of the corrected panel. She just looked at Coombs, waiting for him to break. Hoover told her later that he had timed it, and that it took exactly two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

  That’s when Coombs said, “Okay, you got me. I’m not really Leviathan.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying. My nephew goes to those comic book shows all the time, and told me how much he pays for an autograph from some fat boy in a Spider-Man T-shirt. He’s the one who told me how you were looking for this Leviathan guy and I got the idea to fake it. I figured it might be a good gig—I could go to those shows, sign some autographs, pose for pictures, make some extra cash. My nephew helped me study up so I could answer your questions.”

  “Did it never occur to you that you’d have to prove you can draw?”

  “At first I didn’t realize that the same guy wrote and drew Pharos. With most comics, it’s different guys, right? By the time I found out I was supposed to be an artist, we’d gone back and forth by e-mail half a dozen times. I thought I had you fooled.”

  “You were fairly convincing,” Tilda had to admit.

  “Look, you still need a Leviathan for this article, right? Rather than get you in trouble, why don’t we just say I’m him? Who’s going to know? I’ll even cut you in for a percentage of the profits when I start hitting the comic book shows.” He nodded at Hoover. “The big guy, too. Hell, he can be my roadie. It’s a win-win proposition. What do you say?”

  “Forget it. For one, I don’t roll that way. For another, I said you were fairly convincing—I never said you had me convinced. I’ve dealt with over a dozen people claiming to be Leviathan. You’re just one of the crowd, and with you eliminated, I’m that much closer to the real person.”

  Coombs shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He stood and offered his hand again, but this time Tilda wasn’t inclined to shake. Maybe he hadn’t lost anything, but he’d sure wasted a lot of her time.

  Hoover tapped him on the shoulder, and escorted him out of the room. Assuming he kept to the plan, he’d be sticking with Coombs until he drove out of the parking lot.

  “One down,” Tilda said to the empty room, “two to go.”

  Chapter 36

  South Monomoy Island, home of the Monomoy Point Lighthouse, may soon be a tourist destination. The lighthouse, which was in operation from 1823 to 1923, is the inspiration for the mystic fortress of Dylan O’Taine in the comic book Pharos, and is featured in the forthcoming movie of the same name.

  —“MASSACHUSETTS’S MYSTICAL LIGHTHOUSE” BY TILDA HARPER, YANKEE MAGAZINE

  TILDA’S next interview wasn’t scheduled until the next day, leaving her at loose ends, so she took a chance and called Joni and Edwina to see if they were available that evening. It turned out they had nothing pressing planned, and they invited Tilda to join them for dinner and conversation.

  Afterward, Tilda was convinced that all interviews should be conducted in plush hotel suites while eating takeout Chinese food and guzzling beer. She’d rarely had subjects get so open—the only downside was having to monitor her own beer consumption to ensure her notes would be legible the next day.

  The two partners were both from New England, but came from such opposite backgrounds that it made them a nearly perfect match.

  Joni’s family was artsy and despite encouraging her to do anything she wanted with herself, as long as it was creative and life-affirming, they were somewhat nonplussed when she dove into the startlingly commercial world of moviemaking.

  Edwina was from New England blue blood stock, and her family had carefully planned out her life from kindergarten all the way to achieving partner in the right law firm. They were flabbergasted when, after a chance meeting with John Laryea, she ended up moving in with him—in California, of all places. And even she herself was surprised to find out how much she liked the creativity of Hollywood. The relationship with John didn’t last, but her love of moviemaking did.

  Ironically, both partners had spent their summers on the Cape when growing up, but since Joni’s folks were immersed in the arts community of Provincetown while Edwina’s family had a summer home in Chatham, they’d never have met without Laryea. He introduced them just about the time his relationship with Edwina was ending—he’d dated Joni two years earlier.

  The women had been working together ever since, often with Dolores as screenwriter, and their reputation was growing steadily. After several movies, they had plenty of good stories, too.

  Even though Tilda had officially handed off Foster’s murder to Dom and Nick, she did sneak in a few questions about how the women got along with Laryea. But even under the influence of their third beers, neither woman showed anything but affection for him. It was somewhat amused affection, as neither of them was blind to his faults, but still sincere. She noticed that neither of them made even a veiled reference to his height, or lack thereof, and that said a lot about their relationships right there.

  As the evening wore on, Tilda gave up on taking notes. For one, she no longer trusted her handwriting. For another, the reminiscences about Laryea were getting too raunchy for any of the markets she was likely to sell to.

  Tilda finally bagged on them at midnight, wanting to make sure she got a full night’s sleep before the next day’s meetings.

  Chapter 37

  Ceto, who commands the Asrai, is the nastiest of Dylan O’Taine’s enemies. The Asrai themselves are transparent, but Ceto can take on the aspect of any person who ever died in the ocean. When O’Taine reveals her actual hideous appearance, she swears vengeance.

  —TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA ARTISTS: THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE

  ANDREW Kiel showed up at a few minutes after ten, dressed neatly in jeans and a button-down denim shirt. According to his e-mails, he worked for a software company in Cambridge that developed products for managing online relationships through the use of asynchronous electronic messages. Tilda had made a note to remind herself to avoid ever asking about that work.

  They introduced themselves and shook hands, and Tilda was about to sit down when Kiel offered his hand to Hoover and said, “And you are?”

  “Carmine Hoover,” he said, surprised. “Tolomeo Personal Protection.”

  “Is there some danger I should be aware of?”

  “Just a precaution,” Tilda said, figuring that was vague enough to cover contingencies. “Won�
��t you have a seat?”

  “Certainly. I can’t tell you how exciting this is for me. My work on Pharos was so long ago, and normally I’m not one for looking back, but this is different. The movie deal and all. Who would have thought this would happen?”

  “I write about Hollywood, but don’t ever ask me to explain how it all works.”

  He laughed. “What can I do for you? I’m guessing you want to make sure that I’m really Leviathan.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The waves of requests for information, the timing . . . I don’t blame you for being suspicious. There are plenty of people who wouldn’t hesitate to claim another person’s creative work. I find that sad, don’t you?”

  Kiel was the first one to acknowledge the possibility of other pretenders to the Pharos throne, and Tilda honestly didn’t know if that made her trust him more or less. She wished she’d made June come back for the interviews.

  Since it was too late for that, she settled for her sister’s recommended protocol. That meant starting in on the easy questions, all of which Kiel answered while giving the impression that he was patiently humoring her. But when she brought up the Monomoy Point Lighthouse, he said, “Didn’t we go over this in e-mail?”

  “E-mail isn’t the same as real-life conversation.”

  He raised an eyebrow as if disputing that, but didn’t object further.

  “But moving on from our e-mail interactions, I realized in retrospect that I only asked about the writing of Pharos, not the drawing.”

  “It’s an understandable bias, since you’re just a writer. Most people aren’t used to creative artists who work in more than one medium.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, but perhaps I shouldn’t have assumed that you don’t have any other talent.”