The Perfect Ghost (21 page)

This could be it, the book that unaccountably took off, sold an unimaginable number of copies. The industry was fickle, I knew, and based on self-fulfilling prophecy, you always said. If they paid a lot, they pushed a lot; they sold books they had a financial interest in selling. But every once in a while, a bolt struck out of the blue and a happy marriage of timeliness and content blew away the estimated royalties.

Me, a bona fide success. Me, traveling to exotic locales. The thought of either was almost as bizarre as the idea of going out for a drink with Garrett Malcolm. I crossed the sandy gravel and headed up a grassy hill. What would that be like, dating, having sex with a star, an acknowledged object of desire? What things he must know, what experiences he must have, what comparisons he might make.

I am a woman, Teddy.

I strolled on, unbuttoning and removing my jacket, first flinging it over my arm, then pausing to tie the sleeves firmly around my waist. The lawn gave way to sandy soil, grass-topped dunes, and finally the sand. At the ocean’s edge, I turned toward the tip of the Cape, toward the Province Lands, and walked briskly for ten minutes, admiring the rocks and dunes, watching the long-legged seabirds hop, spotting the occasional fishing boat far out at sea.

The day was so glorious, the water so clear, I could see the waving stalks of seaweed to their liquid roots, and practically count the pebbles on the ocean floor. I took off my sneakers, almost giddy as I tied their laces together and swung them over my shoulder, walked barefoot along the coast, wading in the shallows. Such temptations rarely came my way in Boston. The desire to dip one’s toes in the turbid Charles, even on the hottest summer day, is nonexistent.

The sand was warm and soft, decorated with a scattered pattern of canine and human prints. I wouldn’t dally long. I’d watch the darting birds, smell the salt air, search for Justice locations, but mainly use the time to organize the book. I’d start with the first Academy Award evening. I had a terrific quote from the presenter, an apt and funny anecdote from a high-powered nominee. I framed and reframed the first paragraph, debated the merits of this opening sentence or that one. The sunlight shimmered on the waves, temporarily blinding me. I turned my head away from the dazzle of the ocean toward the dunes. That’s when I saw the shack.

CHAPTER

thirty

Isolated, remote, weathered, and unexpectedly beautiful. Secretly beautiful because you had to be practically on top of the beach shack before you saw it. Quietly beautiful because of the way it blended with the shore and the sea and the sand, because it looked like it had always existed, not so much built as discovered.

A shingled box on high stilts, it resembled a cross between a lifeguard stand and a cottage, impossibly tiny and backed by an imposing dune. Squat, green-tinged utility poles, cross-braced by heavy three-by-sixes, bolted at the joins, made up the foundation. In a hurricane, waves could wash through the stilts.

Each of four small windows boasted its own tidy window box. A railed balcony faced the waves. An open staircase ran ten steps up to the door. Enchanted, I climbed the sandy path and circled the structure. On the dune side, a stubby propane tank sat next to a rusty grill. When I discovered an outdoor shower I was amazed such a rustic place could have running water. And not just water, but electricity. A meter hung from one of the poles and thick wires disappeared behind the dune. An iron smokestack poked from the peaked roof. The PA had mentioned only four houses on Malcolm’s estate, but this would hardly qualify as a house.

I made my way slowly down to the shore again, zigzagging between clumps of beach grass, thirty, forty steps at the most, feeling like I’d wandered into a fairy tale, discovered a dwelling that might house a princess and her retinue of rowdy dwarves. At water’s edge, I turned and peered at the shack in order to make sure it was still standing, visible and not some dreamlike apparition. And froze as though I, myself, had been placed under a spell. From this angle the building was eerily familiar. I’d seen it before, twice over, not only in the background of Jenna’s gypsy photo, but as the backdrop for dozens of McKenna’s scurrilous Web site shots.

My neck crawled and I pivoted, turning again to the ocean, seeking the hidden lens. Did the gossipmonger own a boat, lash a waterproof camera to a buoy, pay a fishing captain to spy on the place?

I clambered up the path, took the ten steep steps in a rush, and knocked at the worn, silvery door. Indignation played a major part—anyone inside ought to know the place was essentially under surveillance—but curiosity played a strong supporting role. Under the influence of McKenna’s photos, my brain furnished the interior with fur rugs, hot tubs, sex toys. The desire to view the orgy den, the party place for the bronzed boys and beautiful girls, was powerful.

A dusty window to the right of the door provided nothing but the outline of a table. I knocked again, reached out a hand, turned the knob. Opening the unlocked door was reckless, foolish. I told myself it was about doing a comprehensive job on the book, following every lead, the way you did, but there was no sensible reason to trespass. I felt like I was moving in a kind of trance.

From the doorway I could see everything there was to see: a bed, a table, a living room, if the term meant that all living occurred in a single room. The bathroom was an uncurtained alcove with toilet and sink. A few dishes sat on open shelves next to a red fire extinguisher. No cupboard was big enough to hide a cat. The wide floorboards dipped in one corner. The bed, an old-fashioned iron bedstead, had a canopy covered in patterned curtains. A brown leather suitcase, open on the bed, looked as though someone had hastily removed articles from the lower depths without bothering to unpack the top layer. A can of shaving cream sat on the tiny sink, a safety razor nearby. A pleasant room, not a Dionysian hangout, nothing like Bluebeard’s den.

The furnishings made an impression—they must have, because I can enumerate them—but the first thing that registered was the smell. Illness, not decomposition. I knew it was illness in a flash, just as I knew the sickness’s name: alcohol poisoning. I never thought he was dead because, still as he lay on the floorboards, he snored. He was drunk, and it wasn’t until I noted the striped shirt hanging over the ladder-backed chair that I connected the snoring drunk’s body with the movie star, with the big-screen god, Brooklyn Pierce.

It felt like I’d entered not a fairy tale, but an hallucination. My mind refused to forge the link between handsome movie star and smelly drunk even though my eyes bore witness. The man I’d seen from a distance cresting the hill had been the exact image of the actor on the screen, perfect and ageless. The man who’d demanded the return of his tape had been less an exact image, worn around the edges. This man shared the superstar’s long-limbed body, but his face seemed bloated and his swollen mouth curled in a disdainful pout. Shadows and deeply carved lines rimmed his eyes. It was as though I were seeing him through a distorted lens or a cruel fun-house mirror. A half-empty pack of cigarettes rested on his chest, a matchbook near his right hand.

He was Ben Justice, but not Ben Justice. That oppositional pull, a kind of disbelief, kept me from panicking. That and the smell. My childhood taught me bitter rules, and the rules took over.

Roll him on his side. I did this while mouthing words some foster mother must have required:
There, there, you’re fine, don’t worry about a thing.
Don’t worry about the vomit or the puddle or the glass shards of the shattered bottle. If his eyelids had so much as flickered, I’d have fled. Drunks struck out with hostile fists. Disturbed, they attacked.

If it hadn’t been the bloated shade of Ben Justice lying at my feet, or if I’d had less experience of drunks, I might have called 911. 911 would bring ambulances. Ambulances would bring attention, cameras. I listened to his stentorian breathing and opted for privacy. I’d find a blanket, cover him, and leave. I’d seen sufficient drunks to know he’d sleep it off.

Anger surged unexpectedly. Ben Justice, gallant and true, would never be found like this, sprawled stinking drunk on a bare floor. When Justice drank, he stayed cool and capable, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. It was ridiculous, I knew, but I felt betrayed.

Look for the rest of the bottles. Spill their contents in the sink, but not every drop. Leave enough for one more drink, “hair of the dog.” My heart pounded, but I knew my task wasn’t finished. Clear up the broken glass. Look for the prescription vials, the drugs, dump those with the liquor, down the sink.

I didn’t find any small brown vials, but the manuscript sat in plain view on the table.

It looked, in every detail, from thickness to deep green cover, like one of the manuscripts I’d seen on the corner of Malcolm’s ornate desk in the Great Room. It held me there, motionless and gawking. That, and the almost naked body of a man once voted one of the handsomest in the world, clad in nothing more than plaid boxers that had ridden up the side of his right thigh. I averted my eyes, moved them to the fine golden hairs on his chest, thought again about finding some kind of blanket, but stayed rooted to the spot.

Staring at the manuscript, then at the unkempt star, I was aware on some subterranean level of Garrett Malcolm’s treachery. Brooklyn Pierce wouldn’t be staying here without Malcolm’s permission, without his invitation. Which meant Malcolm had lied to me, touched his finger to my lips and lied.

Hamlet
, Act One, scene 5:
Meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

If Pierce was not Malcolm’s Prince of Denmark, what was he? Didn’t I owe it to my readers—our readers—to find out?

Had you posited this very situation, given my fervent desire to know what Pierce had said on your missing tape, given even my consciousness of Malcolm’s deceit, I’d have said that basic decency would have prevented me from snooping, violating a fellow human’s privacy, touching, much less reading, that manuscript.

I pressed my lips together and attempted to slow my breath by forcing it through my nose. The possibility of hyperventilating, fainting in the middle of this impossible scene, terrified me. What a perfect blend: a snoring drunk, a panic-attack fainter, and somewhere out there, Glenn McKenna, gossipmonger, to photograph the whole graceless mess.

I stumbled, making such a clatter I feared Pierce’s eyes would pop open. His harsh breathing kept up its inexorable rhythm; his chest rose and fell. He, at least, was breathing. The manuscript exerted an enormous pull, an intense and magnetic attraction. My hand reached out, snatched up the folder, and flipped quickly to the opening page.

The Black Stone

The Fourth Ben Justice Film

screenplay by Brooklyn Pierce

I turned the page. I turned many pages. I know I did, but my vision seemed oddly blurred, my breath a racing engine on a high-speed track, veering out of control. I knew the routine, knew I should sit, lower my head between my knees, but to sit here, on these floorboards, was impossible. Pierce moaned and moved, and I took off as though pursued by the spirits of drunken stepfathers.

CHAPTER

thirty-one

My toe caught on a riser near the bottom of the flight. I fell hard, then scrambled to my feet, hands stinging, and raced through beach grass onto the harsh-grained sand. My central nervous system ignited; badly wired impulses blinked on and off like tiny neon signs in a crazed video arcade. The clanging pulse of terror shrieked through my veins and demanded escape, but the faster my legs pumped, the slower my progress seemed and the more I flailed in the deepening sand. My knotted sneakers swung from my shoulder, pounding my chest and back with each propulsive step. Panic seized me, and none of my remedies were at hand. My Xanax was locked with my purse in the trunk of the car, along with my recorder and notebook. In my apartment, I’d have grabbed a paper bag from the drawer next to the sink, sunk to the floor, breathed into the bag. Here, the unfamiliar landscape, the terrible immensity of ocean, belonged to an alien planet that offered no relief.

Ten minutes, ten minutes, ten, ten, ten.
The number became a refrain.
Ten, ten, ten.
Panic attacks last only ten minutes, most of them, but this one, I knew, I knew, I knew, was timeless, this one would be the last, the one that killed me, the one that drove me howling into the sea. I glanced behind me, slipped, and almost stumbled to my knees. Yes, I’d remembered to shut the beach shack’s door. I’d left Pierce uncovered, but it was better that way. How shaming to wake tucked in like a drooling infant, to realize an unknown hand had covered your nakedness.

Clouds formed a layer over the sea, the sky darkened eerily, and I ran. It was like a scene in a horror movie; there should have been cameras arranged along the shoreline, a production assistant shouting the number of the take. I felt nauseated, dizzy, I couldn’t swallow or breathe, and still I ran, ran as though old Hamlet’s Ghost snapped at my heels, demanding that I swear, swear, swear my promise of revenge.

“O villain, villain, smiling damned villain.” But wait: Couldn’t Pierce be the villain of the piece instead of Malcolm? Why trust the word of an alcoholic? Maybe you hadn’t interviewed Pierce after all; maybe there was no missing tape. Malcolm would still be a liar, yes, for not telling me that Pierce had taken up residence at the beach shack. But the omission could have been Pierce’s idea, to keep secret his presence on the Cape. Malcolm might simply have kept his word to a guest. If I could believe that …

Maybe Pierce was at the shack as part of a detox program, here to kick his alcohol demon. Malcolm could be aiding a friend rather than trying to dupe me out of an interview. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me. It wasn’t that he was treating me with less respect than he’d treated you.