Ghostwriter (4 page)

“You don’t remember me, do you, Mr. Shore?”

Dennis shook his head, afraid of where this might be going, afraid of this.

The young man smiled, revealing strangely crooked teeth that gave him a wild, untamed look. Dennis noticed the beads of sweat
on the man’s forehead. The stranger wiped them away and brushed his hand through long, stringy brown hair.

“It’s Cillian Reed.”

Once again, Dennis shook his head, the forced smile on his face giving nothing away, even though something grated on his insides.
It sounded as though the words had been uttered behind a locked door, that the name had been spoken but not fully heard.

“Excuse me, but there are a lot of us in line… ,” the woman said.

Cillian turned and gave her a look that shut her up. His eyes smoldered, the gaze ticking, boiling, frightening. He held the
hardcover in one hand and turned back, waving it at Dennis very slowly.

“This,” he said deliberately, his dark eyes glancing at the book, then back at Dennis, “is mine. And you know it.”

The bookstore manager stepped behind Dennis. “Is everything okay?”

For a second, those brown eyes narrowed, lips tightening; then the unsettling smile filled his face. “See you later,” the
stranger said.

And he slipped out of line and was gone.

“This is possibly your best reviewed book since
Breathe.
”

“That’s great,” Dennis told his editor.

They were finishing up a dinner celebrating the successful launch of his tenth horror novel. The book signing could have gone
on all night, but they had stopped at eight o’clock to get out of there. After meeting Cillian, Dennis had little desire to
sit around and meet more quacks like that guy. Everything the young man said stuck with him.

“You didn’t eat much tonight,” Maureen observed as the server took away his mostly untouched plate.

“Probably just nerves,” he said, working on another glass of Shiraz.

“Nerves over what?” James asked, still polishing off a steak. “You know you got a home run this time.”

James was about the same height as Dennis—right around six feet tall—but he was lean and could put away food without ever
showing it. James was approaching forty, but still very much a kid in Dennis’s eyes. He had been Dennis’s editor ever since
acquiring
Breathe
and helping Dennis work on making it creepier and darker. But one would never know James had a dark creative side to him
since he was so amiable and quick to laugh and fun to work with.

The successful ride Dennis had experienced for the last nine years could be attributed in many ways to the man sitting next
to him. Dennis was the one telling the stories, but James was the one pushing Dennis to dig deeper and cut when necessary
or change when required. They had a great working relationship, one built on trust and honesty.

Trust and honesty.

Dennis shrugged at James’s comment. “Maybe it’s just the introvert in me that’s exhausted from meeting three hundred fans.”

But Dennis knew that was a lie. He wasn’t tired from meeting three hundred fans. He loved meeting them. He was anxious about
one particular fan. And nervous about who that fan might be.

“So, speaking of the fans,” James said, shifting gears, “how’s the next book coming along?”

“It’s coming along well.”

Another lie.

“Are you going to give me anything other than ‘another scary story from Dennis Shore’? Everybody’s asking me, and I’d like
to offer them something.”

“The scariest story yet.”

James and Maureen laughed. “If it’s scarier than
Empty Spaces
, I don’t think I want to read it.”

Dennis forced a smile.

“Any chance you might be able to hand the book in early?”

“We’ll see,” he said.

James shook his head, looking at Maureen. “Boy, he’s being really evasive this time.”

“Maybe I’m nervous over the fact that everybody loves the new book. What if the next one is a fl op?”

“You haven’t had any flops,” James said, grinning in the subdued light of the Italian restaurant.

“Critically or commercially?” Dennis asked.

“Critics always target authors who write popular fiction,” Maureen said.

He nodded at the composed New Yorker with her narrow, stylish glasses and her dainty frame.

“Give me a sound bite at least,” James said.

Dennis shook his head. “I already gave you one. It’s about a man with a dark secret.”

“And what would that secret be?”

“I swear,” Dennis said with a laugh. “You publishing people.”

“What?”

“The new novel’s not even a day old, and you’re already talking about the next one.”

“We’re always looking ahead to the next big thing.”

“I know. And it drives me crazy.”

“Yes. But it’s also very good for you. It pays for expensive meals like this.”

“I’d be happy with Taco Bell every now and then.”

“Whatever you want,” James said. “You’re the talent. Just tell me what you want. As long as you give me that next book of
yours.”

There was pleasant laughter and easy conversation for the rest of the evening. Dennis was thankful there was no more discussion
of the next book. He couldn’t tell James the truth. And even if he could, James and Maureen wouldn’t want to hear it. Nobody
liked the truth when it was bad.

So Dennis remained silent on the issue.

He’d figure something out.

There had been no way to do it. He wasn’t sure how to pull Maureen aside and tell her during dinner. He wasn’t sure how to
tell her or exactly what to say. All he knew was that he was in trouble, and time was truly ticking away.

As he sat in the cab heading back to his hotel, the irony of all this pampering from his publisher gutted him.

Just moments earlier he’d received a text message from his phone service reminding him that if he didn’t pay the bill that
was overdue by two weeks, they would shut off his service. Sure, it was just a hundred dollars or so. No big deal, right?
Not for someone like Dennis, some big-name bestselling author.

But the text was a symptom of something much bigger.

It wasn’t his negligence in paying a stupid cell phone bill. It was his avoiding paying any bills—which would force him to
think about his financial situation, which would force him to think about the novel he was supposed to be writing and handing
in to get his next check.

All of this would speak the truth, a truth he didn’t want to hear.

As he climbed out of the cab and headed into his swanky hotel, thoughts of his unpaid bills hung over him like vultures waiting
for a carcass, circling and hovering. Just a few years ago money was not an issue, and it was easy paying for a cabin in Beaver
Creek, Colorado, or paying Audrey’s college tuition outright.

But then Lucy got sick. And their family insurance didn’t turn out to be as helpful as he had hoped.

None of that mattered the moment Lucy told him. But it mattered now. He had Audrey to think about, and he couldn’t lose their
house in Geneva.

It meant too much to Audrey to lose it.

He decided to go to the hotel bar to have a drink. Not to think about things but to
not
think about things. He didn’t want to think about the book he wasn’t writing, the book he wouldn’t be handing in, the advance
check he desperately needed but wouldn’t be receiving anytime soon.

He didn’t want to think about the cabin in Beaver Creek that had been for sale for the last year and a half.

Dennis didn’t want to think about any of it because it always came down to the same old thing.

The bitter reality that Lucy was gone.

The telephone rang. Dennis knew he was dreaming because it didn’t sound anything like the telephones in his house. Not the
one in his bedroom nor in his office nor in the kitchen.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. The phone continued ringing.

I’m not at home.

His hand waved through the black to find the phone.

“Hello?”

“I hope you appreciate the fact that I spared you from embarrassment and humiliation tonight in front of your agent and your
editor and your adoring fans.”

Dennis opened his eyes, looking at the clock on the dresser.

It was 3:15.

“Who is this?”

“You know who it is,” Cillian Reed said.

“Why are you calling?”

“Because our conversation is not over.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, Mr. Shore, it’s not. You stole something of mine.”

“I didn’t steal anything.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“I don’t know what—”

“You know exactly what you did. And you turned pale as a ghost earlier because you were afraid I was going to tell them, weren’t
you? But I didn’t.”

Dennis didn’t say anything, wondering if he was dreaming.

“What did you think—that I would never find out? That you could slap another one of your appallingly unoriginal titles on
a hardcover and go completely unnoticed?”

“Look—”

“Granted, we all lead very busy lives, and mine in particular has been quite thrilling these last—well, who keeps track of
time anyway? But did you really honestly think I would not find out?”

“What do you want?”

“What do
I
want? What do
I
want?”

The words were spoken slowly and quietly, as if the guy who said it had a bomb strapped over his naked chest.

“It’s the middle of the night.…”

“And what? You don’t usually stay up this late? You’re a writer, Mr. Shore. At least you used to be.”

“What do you want?”

The cackle of laughter made Dennis shiver.

“It used to be praise, recognition, thanks, acclaim. People don’t write for money, do they? You’ve said that yourself even
though you said it all the way to the bank. People might say they write for themselves, but we all know what writers want.
They want to be admired. They want
credit
.”

“Look, it’s late, and I just think—”

“What do you think, Mr. Shore?”

“I think I don’t like a moronic juvenile harassing me in the middle of the night. That’s what I think.”

“You have a lot of gall.”

“So do you,” Dennis said.

“A boy sent you that manuscript in the mail a long time ago. You don’t even remember getting it, do you? So long ago. Almost
seems like another life. All I wanted, all I asked for, was input. But I heard nothing. Nothing. Nothing!”

Dennis didn’t say a word. He rolled over on his side in the bed.

“I just wanted a chance.”

“A chance at what?” Dennis asked.

“A chance to have what you have. Your career. Your success. And now—after all that—you had to go and do this. It’s interesting.
I’m curious why.”

Dennis cursed at him.

“Ah, that’s nice, but that’s not a reason,” Cillian said.

“What do you want?” Dennis asked again.

“You never answered the note I left you.”

“You broke into my hotel room?”

“You never answered the question.”

“What? The note asking where I get my ideas from?”

“Exactly.”

Dennis didn’t respond.

“You’re silent because you don’t want to answer. I know where you get them from. You steal them. You’ve always stolen them,
and this time you stole from me.”

“Why don’t we—”

“Why don’t you just shut your face, high and mighty author man.”

“Why did you come to the book signing? Why not tell them? Huh? What do you want?”

“Soon enough, you’ll know. And by the time I get finished with you, you’re going to get on your hands and knees and wish to
God above that you never met me. But for the time being, you’ll have to do something you forced me to do.”

“What?”

“Wait.”

The phone clicked off, leaving Dennis holding the receiver in silence.

He couldn’t believe what had come in the package. Its contents lay scattered on the mail-room table. He stood for a few moments
just staring, ignoring the other customers waiting to use the table.

Every day he checked his post office box, which he had gotten six months ago. He needed a P.O. box if he was going to be a
bestselling author. It would look more official, more businesslike. This packet marked
Cillian Reed
was the only piece of real mail he’d received besides flyers and coupons and church brochures.

When he initially saw who it was from, he was excited, ripping open the envelope. Finally some contact after the five e-mails
he had sent.

But what he found inside incensed him.

The letter was a fake. Nothing but a form letter. He’d bet the author hadn’t even signed it himself.

It was short and sweet.

Dear reader:

There was no
dear
about it, he thought, because there was a
reader
after it, meaning this was the standard letter sent to
anyone
who wrote. Anyone.

He was not anyone.

Thank you for your recent contact.

Again, the impersonal tone of the letter galled him. “Recent contact.” That could mean e-mail, snail mail, phone, fax, or
personal in-house-upstairs-in-the-shower visit. It could mean a conjugal visit or an SOS from space. Anything.

I’m glad you enjoyed my first four horror novels. I’m busy on my fifth, which I’m calling Run Like Hell and will be released
September of next year.

First-person narration even though the author surely isn’t the one writing,
he thought angrily. He wondered if the author truly was glad.

I’ve enclosed a few items I thought you might like. I’d love for you to be part of my street team, spreading the word about
my books.

“Street team?” he asked out loud. “Street team?” He cursed and tightened the letter in his hand.

“I’m sorry, can I help you?”

He glanced at the silly person dressed in a silly outfit and clenched his teeth, shaking his head. She quickly got the message
and left him alone. He kept reading.