by John Locke
“Our house.”
“Whatever. Forget about Roy for a minute. Everyone knows where you live now. ManChild knows where you live. If he or some other kook decides to come after you some day, you’d be a sitting duck.”
“What did Janie say about the ghostwriting idea?”
She scowls at me for changing the subject again, but says, “She agreed to read the manuscript tonight, said we could call her tomorrow morning.”
Sophie jumps up.”
“Where you going?”
“I forgot to send Janie the manuscript!”
By the time our nails are dry and we can’t speak a full sentence without yawning, it’s two a.m. Sophie says, “Can we sleep in the same bed tonight, or are you still married?”
“Still married.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of you? Terrified.”
“I’m serious, Dani.”
“Me too, Sofe.”
SATURDAY MORNING
“WHAT’S YOUR OPINION of Ben’s manuscript?” I ask Janie Ramirez via speaker phone, after introducing myself.
“It’s well-written, but it’s not the story people want to read.”
“Why not?”
“People want to know three things: how you were kidnapped, what happened to you in that basement, and how you got away. That’s it. Start with the kidnapping, end with the precinct house. As a reader, that’s all I want. Give me that, I’ll be happy.”
“How long would it take to write my version?” I ask.
“We can self-publish your book and get it out before Ben signs a publishing contract. Four weeks, max.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t written a book yet.”
“It’s been written, Dani,” she says, “indelibly, in your brain. It just hasn’t been written down.”
“Excuse me,” I say, shaking my head. “Did you just say four weeks? We can’t write a book in four weeks. It took Ben almost a year.”
“Ben padded the story. Remember, we’re telling the story people want to hear. They don’t want to hear how you grew up, or what treasures you kept under your bed when you were five. They don’t want to know you were popular in school or if your parents fought at night.”
“They don’t?”
“Not unless those things came up in conversations between you and Hicks, or occupied your thoughts in the basement.”
“I like it,” Sophie says.
“Me too,” I say.
“Good,” Janie says. “When can we meet?”
“I might be bisexual,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
Sophie says, “What made you blurt that out?”
I shrug. “I’m married to Ben, but Sophie and I kissed yesterday.”
There’s dead silence from both Janie and Sophie.
“I just wanted you to be aware of that,” I say.
“In case it makes a difference,” I add.
Finally, Janie says, “Are you planning to make a pass at me?”
I laugh. “No, of course not!”
“Then why would it make a difference?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted it on the table.”
“She’s constantly blurting out inappropriate things,” Sophie says. “It’s part of her charm.”
“It is?” I say.
“It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”
I wonder what that says about me. Then I realize Janie hasn’t responded. “Janie? Are you still there?”
“I can’t wait to meet you both,” she says. “Your place or mine?”
Sophie says, “Ours.”
“I need to warn you about something,” I say. “There’s a guy, ManChild, who’s trying to find me. If he does, he’s going to kidnap and kill me. So there could be danger.”
“Sounds exciting!” Janie says.
WE DECIDE JANIE will fly to Nashville this afternoon, and Sophie will pick her up at the airport. She and I will work together by day, and she’ll spend the nights at a nearby motel. Janie says she’ll only need a few days in person, and can follow up with phone calls later in the week.
My new attorney, Paul Small, calls and says he’s not comfortable seeking an injunction to stop Ben’s book from being published. Worse, he says I need to inform Ben of my plan to write my own book, because the publishing houses bidding for Ben’s book will expect full disclosure. If they don’t get it, they could sue us, claiming my book hurt Ben’s sales.
“And it would,” Paul says. “In fact, when they hear about your book they won’t want Ben’s.”
“My full disclosure could cost him a million dollars?” I ask.
“Yes. But remember, Ben never discussed his book with you. And he paid someone to blow your cover.”
“So?”
“You owe him nothing, Dani.”
“I owe him for other things.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s still your husband.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he’s entitled to half the earnings from your book.”
“Maybe I should rethink my marital status,” I say.
“If you’re planning to divorce, you should work out an agreement before you publish.”
“If we’re divorcing, do I have to tell him I’m writing my own book?”
“Yes.”
“That comes under full disclosure?”
“It does.”
“Do I have to tell him my book will be out in four weeks?”
“No.”
“Good, because Ben will assume I’m all talk.”
“Do you want a divorce?”
“I’m trying to decide. I might be bisexual.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m giving you full disclosure.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I kissed Sophie yesterday.”
“Sophie Alexander? My client?”
“Yes. And I liked it.”
“Well…”
“Well, what?”
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” Paul says.
“Is it okay that I kissed her?”
“It’s okay with me. But why would you feel the need to tell me that?”
“I’m telling everyone.”
“Well, I’m not a divorce attorney, but I wouldn’t feel obligated to mention it to Ben.”
“Even under full disclosure?”
“You like saying full disclosure, don’t you?”
“When I learn a new phrase I like to use it as often as possible.”
“Well, as I say, I’m not a divorce attorney. But if you’ve exchanged a single kiss, I’m not sure Ben needs to know.”
“What if Sophie and I play teacher’s pet?”
“Are you having sport with me?”
“Uh…yes. A little.”
“Well, if you and Sophie play teacher’s pet, you know what I’ll expect, right?”
“Full disclosure?”
“That’s right. And photos, if you’ve got them.”
“You’re funny.”
SOPHIE HAD PREVIOUSLY scheduled a meeting with a young country singer for this afternoon, and asks if I want her to cancel it.
“Of course not!” I say. “You can’t change your whole life to accommodate me.”
“Want to come with me? You can wear the auburn wig and use a pencil to color your eyebrows. Give you black lipstick, make you look gothic.”
“Maybe I should just put a sheet over my head and cut two eye holes.”
“Fine, be like that. But you can’t stay locked away forever.”
“What I really want is to call Pat Aub and tell him Roy pretended to be ManChild.”
“I know you think your phone is safe, but please don’t use it. Just in case.”
“I can’t use your house phone, either. Because Pat could find out where I am.”
“While I’m out I’ll swing by Wal-Mart, buy a prepaid pho
ne. You can use that one to call Pat.”
“Thanks, Sofe.”
She leaves, and I turn on the TV and see the media frenzy hasn’t abated. My sudden disappearance is fueling stories and lots of speculation. At the top of the hour, the twenty-four-hour news channel replays a press conference Ben held on our doorstep last night, during which he told the world he established contact with me. He said I’m fine, in good spirits, and he wants them to respect my privacy. As I watch and listen to my husband’s appearance on national TV, it strikes me how much credit he’s taking for making sure I’m safe. It’s also clear he really enjoys his time in the spotlight, although he looks dreadful. He’s pale, gaunt, and looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I wonder if he still has the flu bug. A dozen news people pepper him with questions, and he fields them long after he could have walked away. At one point he tries to get in a plug for his book, but the reporters sidestep him, preferring to ask more salacious questions, including:
“Is there any truth to the rumor Dani’s in rehab?”
His answer: “What? Rehab? Who told you that?”
“There was a reported sighting of Dani near Roswell, New Mexico. Can you confirm or deny she’s being held in a bunker for her own protection?”
His answer: “Confirm or deny the report? Or that she’s in Roswell?”
I switch the station and see a famous TV psychologist giving his professional opinion about what’s going on in my mind right now. He offers his counseling services free of charge, and reminds the audience he’s had remarkable success with celebrities.
I’m a celebrity?
I switch to an entertainment channel and see members of the Hollywood elite being interviewed on the red carpet of some movie premiere that took place last night:
“Lisbon,” says the lady with the mike, “where do you think Dani Ripper’s hiding?”
Her answer: “She’s probably in an abandoned bowling alley, like the one in my new movie, Twilight Bowling for Zombies. It opens Friday.”
“Fairfax, if they make a movie, who should play Dani Ripper?”
Her answer: “I’d play her, if the producers agree to my demands. I expect a forty-foot trailer, decorated in bronze. Everything inside must be bronze, including the furniture, walls, ceiling, and carpet. Everything except the toilet paper. That has to be mauve. And I want mauve rose petals sprinkled in the bowl every time I flush.”
“Well, that certainly sounds reasonable,” the lady with the mike gushes, and moves on to the next celebrity.
“We’re on the carpet with the world’s most famous female rapper, Naomi Trapper. Naomi, what advice do you have for Dani Ripper?”
Her answer: “Stay put, child! Wherever the hell you are, don’t come here! ’Cause this place is *bleep*!”
To me, Naomi’s answer seems the most practical.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON,
SUNDAY, AND MONDAY
JANIE LOOKS EXACTLY like her publicity photo—if you wad it into a ball, then try to smooth it out again.
“Sorry for my appearance,” she says. “I had a bad flight.”
“Turbulence?”
“In-flight meal.”
“Need a bathroom?”
“I think I’m okay,” she says, “now that I’ve coughed up my spleen at the airport. How are you holding up?”
“I’m good. But I need to make a quick call.”
Sophie gives me the disposable phone and I call Pat. When he answers, I say, “Pat, this is Dani.”
“Wow! Call me back in five minutes.”
He hangs up.
Janie and Sophie head for the dining room table, and chat while Janie unpacks her laptop. I call Pat again, and he spends a great deal of time telling me how shocked he was to hear about my true identity. I tell him about Ben hiring Roy to break the news to the press.
“That sucks, Dani, but I’m not sure it constitutes a crime,” Pat says.
I tell Pat how Roy came to my office and threatened me, and now he’s posing as ManChild, and threatening me again.
“That definitely constitutes harrassment,” Pat says, “so be sure to save the voice message. What’s Roy’s full name?”
“He was posing as Roy Burroughs, but I can’t remember his real name. Ben can tell you. He works—or used to work—in the drama department at Riverton College.”
“I’ll have someone look into it,” he says.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“I’ll have a talk with Ben and find out who this guy is and where I can find him. In the meantime, don’t use your personal cell phone.”
“I know. That’s why I’m using a disposable one right now.”
“Smart girl. Are you somewhere safe?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t ask where. Just…be careful, okay?”
“I will. And Pat?”
“Yeah?”
“Make Roy stop bothering me, okay?”
“Count on it.”
We hang up, and I turn off the phone and take a seat at the dining room table across from Janie Ramirez.
“Seems like the whole world is talking about you,” she says.
“But you won’t say anything, right?”
“No one will know we’ve spoken until the book comes out.”
“That’s when you need to be extra careful,” I say. “It’s possible the real ManChild might come after you, to make you tell where I am.”
“Hopefully the police will have him in custody by then.”
“And if not?”
“I’ll get police protection.”
“Good idea.”
Janie says, “Any other questions before we start?”
“Just one. Should I get a divorce?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
I laugh. “You don’t even know me!”
She says, “You’re here with Sophie instead of home with your husband. It appears you’ve already made your decision.”
Sophie beams. “I like this lady!”
“She prepped you on the ride over, didn’t she?” I say.
“I’m pleading the fifth,” Janie says. “Let’s get to work.”
And with that, we begin the first of three marathon sessions. To my surprise, Janie wants to know every word spoken by Colin Tyler Hicks and me, from the moment I entered the basement to the moment I left.
“He talked a lot about other kidnap victims,” I say. “I remember most of the names, but not all of them.”
“I’ll do an online search tonight and make a list,” she says. “Tomorrow we can see if you left anyone out. For now, let’s get the dialog right.”
“Which dialog?”
“Start with what you remember word for word. Then we’ll fill in the rest.”
“You don’t want me to start at the beginning?”
“No. I want you to start with the most memorable.”
“What about the bad things that happened?”
“We’ll get to that and leave nothing out. But the dialog is crucial.”
“Ben’s book didn’t have any dialog between me and Hicks.”
“The readers want to know what was said in that basement, and how it was said. It personalizes the experience for them. Makes them feel they’re in the room with you. Otherwise it’ll come across cold and clinical, like a crime scene report.”
Sophie and I exchange a look.
She says, “I think we’ve got the right ghostwriter.”
Over the next five hours I tell Janie everything I can remember. She comes back the next morning and we put in twelve full hours. She comes back Monday and we do another twelve hours. Then, at eight p.m., she says we’re done. After she leaves, Sophie makes popcorn and turns on the TV and we learn that my husband, Ben Davis, is dead.
TUESDAY
ACCORDING TO SOPHIE I screamed and cried for fourteen hours straight. That’s not entirely true, but it’s close. I remember Sophie called Pat Aub to confirm Ben’s death, and he did. He also said he tried to call my cell phone
twenty times, and because he couldn’t track me down, police lost hours trying to get permission to enter my residence. Cops can’t claim a door is unlocked when a hundred reporters are documenting their every move. Pat asked Sophie’s name and address, but she refused to give it. He insisted I get on the line, and she told him to kiss her ass. But Pat’s always been good to me, so I took the phone.
