Bedtime Story (39 page)

David wanted to say something to the captain after the young guardsman rode away, but Loren’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

When he turned, the old man cocked his head toward the river. They walked along the shoreline a ways before the old man spoke.

“It seems strange to me,” the magus said. “The way rivers seem at the heart of such paradoxes. This river, here, feeds into the river that spills into the sea by the castle. In many ways, it is the same river, but it’s both here and there. It is permanent, but always changing.”

David just watched him.

“Forgive me,” he said. “These are the sorts of things an old man ponders.” The magus picked up a stick. “You were dangerously close to treason back there.”

“What?” David asked. “I didn’t say—”

“No,” the magus said. He threw the stick into the water. “It was what you were
going
to say. You were about to ask why we wouldn’t just ride around, yes?” The look on David’s face must have been all the confirmation he needed. “Why we didn’t just take the extra two days and avoid the Berok encampment altogether, correct?”

David nodded slowly.

“If you were a soldier, those sorts of questions, to a captain in the field, would have had you beaten for insubordination.”

He’s not wrong
, Matt said.

David started to speak, but the magus held up a hand. “But you’re not a soldier. Which would have made those questions, in a time of war, akin to treason.”

That stopped David. He thought of the innkeeper, and how close he had come to hanging.

“The truth is,” the magus said, “I agree with you. I think we would be wise to avoid a potentially costly fight with the Berok. But this is Captain Bream’s decision. It’s his command. An extra two days’ ride is not insignificant, especially when time is as important as it is right now.”

David nodded. That made sense.

“And then there are the men themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

The magus sighed. “It has not been long since the watchtowers fell. These men lost good friends that night. They’ve been waiting for an opportunity to bring the fight back to the Berok. I suspect that that was one of the main reasons so many of them agreed so quickly to join this mission. And after the attack on the road, what the captain is planning will, if nothing else, be good for morale.”

David felt sick at the words.

The magus looked at him gravely. “We’re at war, Dafyd. It is expected that men do terrible things.”

I spilled myself out of the cab in front of the hotel, allowing my fluid momentum to carry me through the crowds on 42nd Street, across the lobby, and into the right set of elevators. Somehow I managed to remember what floor to punch in, and it took only three or four tries with the key card to get into my room.

I kicked my shoes off and fell on the bed, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket to dial Jacqui’s number.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call,” she said, without a hello.

“I’m a man of my word,” I said carefully, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling, trying to make the multiple smoke detectors merge into the single one I knew was actually there.

“Right now you sound like a man of many drinks.”

“I confess I’ve had a few.”

“And how was Roger?”

“Yeah,” I said cautiously.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did something …?”

“It seems—” I was diligent about forming each word in my mouth. “I need to find new representation.”

“Oh, Chris.”

“He was good enough to buy me dinner, though, before he cut me loose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I said, having trouble forming full sentences. “I’ve been rethinking the book. Where it’s going.”

“What?”

“How’s David?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

The meeting with Roger and his assistant had been brutal, in a polite, cordial, bloodless way. When he told me that he was no longer interested in being my agent, I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. No new books, not a whole lot of point. He had managed not to be quite so blunt.

“The same,” she said, her tone turning dark.

“No more seizures?”

“I’ve been reading to him, if that’s what you’re asking. I told you I would.”

“I was just checking to see how he was.”

She sighed. “Sorry. I have to say, though, I can see why he got so into that book. It’s got fights and quests and mysteries …”

“Everything a boy might like,” I said, thinking of a gingerbread house in a dark forest.

“And how are you?” I asked.

“Better than you, from the sound of things.”

“Which probably goes without saying.”

“I’m all right,” she said. “This is hard. Harder than I thought it would be. Being with him all the time, having to do every little thing.”

“I’ll be home in a few days,” I said, not sure if she would want to hear it.

“I’m glad,” she said, surprising me.

“Me too,” I said, and then nothing. A long silence.

“So, publicists Monday?”

“Yeah,” I lied, grateful that she had changed the subject. “Fall books, review copies, interview requests. The usual.”

“And tomorrow?”

I didn’t want to tell her that I had nothing on my schedule, that I was just going to kill the day, when she was so busy. “I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sure you will too. You should get some sleep. You’re going to be a wreck.”

“Yeah,” I said, a sudden exhaustion falling over me like a warm quilt. “I’m headed for bed, but I wanted to call.”

“Well, consider your duty done,” she said, warmly. “Okay. I will.”

“And sleep well.”

I drifted off there, lying on the covers fully dressed, all the lights in the room on, one hand loosely gripping Nora’s crystal through my shirt.

G
ETTING UP THE NEXT MORNING
was, apparently, a bad idea. I should have stayed in bed and tried to sleep off the hangover.

My telephone rang as I was standing in the coffee line in the hotel lobby, voices and laughter and shouting echoing off the mirrors and marble, and I answered it without checking the number.

“Chris! It’s Tony Markus calling! How’s your day going?”

His false good cheer made my head pound, and the three ibuprofen I had taken before coming down didn’t even take the edge off.

“Hello, Tony,” I said, trying not to convey my utter lack of enthusiasm, vowing to myself yet again that I would start checking callers’ numbers, the way Jacqui suggested.

“So did you make it to the Met yesterday afternoon? And what did you end up doing last night?”

“Not a whole lot,” I said, thinking that keeping up a constant stream of minimal responses might derail his litany of pleasantries—we both knew why he was calling. “Dinner with my agent.”

“You’re staying at the Grand Hyatt, right? Right on 42nd Street? How is it?”

“It’s fine,” I said, taking another step forward in the line. “Listen, Tony, I’m sorry but I haven’t had a chance to get in touch with the estate yet.”

“Oh, no,” he said, as if surprised that I would even think that he might be calling to check up on me. “I just wanted to make sure you were having a good time while you were here.”

Like the goddamn Chamber of Commerce.

“Oh, I am.”

“And how long are you staying?”

“Couple of more days.” Back to the pleasantries.

“Well, we should stay in touch while you’re in town,” he said. “Maybe plan on having dinner Tuesday night?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule.” Wondering if he was ever going to take the hint.

“Sure, sure. That sounds fine. I’ll talk to you in the next few days.”

“That sounds good.”

I hung up wishing, in my very marrow, that I had never thought to contact Tony Markus.

Tony Markus hung up his phone and tapped it softly as he watched Chris Knox step up to the coffee counter. He loathed the man. Just look at him, Mister High-and-Mighty, Mister I’ll-have-to-check-my-schedule. Knox had no intention of calling back, no more than he had any intention of handing over the book. Hell, he probably had it in that shoulder bag right now. He had probably brought it with him because he couldn’t stand to be parted from it.

Or …

As the thought came to him, he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Of course!
That’s
what he was doing in New York. All that journalist talk about meeting with publicists, setting up interviews, chasing books to review, all that was crap, a smokescreen to obscure his real reason for being here: he was trying to sell the rights to publish the book! He was probably in constant contact with the estate. All that crap about coming to D&K first—he just wanted to make sure that there wasn’t a legitimate claim on the book before he started talking it all around town.

Goddamn him!

He quickly dialled the New Jersey number his uncle had instructed him to use last night.

“Venture Construction,” someone answered.

Pretty good service for a Sunday morning, he thought.

“I’m calling regarding the Templeman estimate.”

“If you don’t mind, sir, we’ll call you right back.”

The line disconnected immediately. Tony hung up and waited. He could picture it in his head: somewhere, someone was picking up another prepaid cell phone, another untraceable line. Technology had made this sort of thing so much easier.

His cell phone rang.

“Tony Marcelli?”

It was strange hearing the name he had surrendered so long ago again.

“Yes.”

“Our mutual friend told me you’d be calling. He said you might have need of our services.”

“Yes.” He looked across the room at Chris Knox, now sitting at one of the small tables near the coffee bar.

“We’re going to need some information.”

“Of course,” Tony Markus said. Shifting the phone away from his ear, he snapped several quick photos of Chris Knox.

The bartender smiled as I settled onto a stool at the far end of the bar and ordered a drink.

“To your health,” she said, setting my vodka and tonic on a napkin and sliding it across to me.

I took my notebook and pen out of my pocket. Flipping the book open, I checked my notes on the Hunter Barlow Library. The place opened at 10 tomorrow morning, so I’d want to be out of the hotel by 9:15 or so. I wanted to maximize every moment: I’d planned on using all day Monday and Tuesday if necessary, but given that I had no idea what I was looking for, or how large a collection of Took’s papers the library had, I needed to make the most of my time.

Which meant I didn’t want to waste a moment with technical difficulties. Pushing my notebook and drink to one side, I took the cell phone I had just bought out of its bag and tore open the box.

I spent almost an hour at the bar fiddling with it, checking the wireless, making sure that the essential e-mail contacts were programmed in, familiarizing myself with all the camera controls.

When I thought I had it figured out, I turned toward the room and took a photo.

“Excuse me,” the bartender said from behind me. “You can’t take pictures in here.”

I was startled by her voice: I’d been focused on the camera.

“Sorry,” I said, turning back around on the stool and checking the photo. “I’m just trying to figure this out.” The photo was blurry, probably because of the low light. “These things are easy enough for an eleven-year-old to use,” I muttered. “Some of us it takes a little longer.”

“Yeah, my sister’s daughter has one of these,” she said. “She’s eight.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, as I slid the phone back into my pocket.

I flipped open my notebook again and leafed through the pages. I’d looked at my notes so often I almost had them memorized—there was no new information there, nothing to surprise me.

“Let me guess,” came a voice from beside me. I turned in time to see a woman easing down two stools away. “You’re a reporter.” She pointed at the bar. “Your notebook—it looks like what a reporter would use. Like in an old movie.” Her speech was slow, deliberate, ever-so-slightly slurred. The drink that she proceeded to order clearly wasn’t her first.

“Ah. Right. No, not a reporter. Not really.”

“So how is someone ‘not really’ a reporter? Isn’t that a binary, true-or-false thing?”

“Well, I do write for a newspaper. But it’s a column. I’m not really a journalist.”

“What are you really?”

“I’m a writer,” I said, hating the way it sounded.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not really. I write books, mostly.”

I braced myself for the next question, the inevitable
Have you written anything that I might have read?

Instead, she asked, “So what newspaper do you write for?”

“The
Vancouver Sun
, mostly,” I said. “In B.C.—”

“I know where Vancouver is,” she said, almost petulantly.

I smiled. “Sorry.”

“Us ignorant Americans,” she said, nodding. “You talk about Vancouver, you might as well be talking about Vladivostok. That’s where you’re from, then, Vancouver?”

I shook my head. “Victoria.”

“Nice city.” She nodded appreciatively. “My husband and I spent a weekend there a couple of years ago. He ran in the marathon.”