As they trudged up the incline, he studied the mansion, estimated it was more than twenty thousand square feet.
She asked, “Why did you get divorced?”
“I never said I was married.”
“Be enigmatic then.” A pause. “Why are you single?”
Because anyone I love will die? Because something is following me, and half the reason I’m here is to escape it?
“Doesn’t look like a place of magic to me,” Elaine muttered.
It did to him, but of the wrong variety.
Wells’s mansion looked like every ghost story he’d ever read.
Chapter Three
At dusk there was a knock on Lucy’s door. She opened it and beheld a scarlet-haired woman with a tiny, upturned nose and lime-colored eyes. She was younger than the writers Lucy had met, her green tank top and tattered jean shorts very snug.
“Anna Holloway,” the young woman said. “I love your work.”
A blush crept up Lucy’s neck.
“The Girl Who Died got me into reading,” Anna said.
Lucy glanced back at her bedroom. “Look, Anna, I’m not done unpacking and—”
“I highlighted all the naughty parts,” Anna said. “Mom was furious when she caught me reading it. She called the librarian and ripped her a new asshole.”
Lucy smiled despite herself.
“But it wasn’t just the sex I liked, it was the writing. The voice.” Anna took Lucy’s hands, gave them a squeeze. “You’re so good.”
The present tense wasn’t lost on Lucy.
“And when I heard you were here, I couldn’t believe it. It’ll be like having two teachers instead of one.”
Lucy scoured the younger woman’s face for traces of irony, but if Anna was acting, her performance was seamless.
Lucy forced a smile. “It’s nice to know I still have a fan.”
Anna gestured down the hallway. “We’re supposed to gather on the front porch.”
“Did Wells tell you that?”
Anna shook her head. “The maid – this miniature woman named Miss Lafitte – she told me to collect everyone.”
Lucy nodded. “Okay, you tell the rest while I—”
“You’re the last one.” Anna gave an embarrassed little shrug. “I wanted to meet you alone, before the others monopolized you.”
“Why, so they can ask me what went wrong?”
Anna sobered. “Your critics can fuck themselves.”
Lucy laughed.
“My folks figured they were purifying me by sending me to Catholic school,” Anna explained. “I got corrupted instead.”
“I was homeschooled,” Lucy said.
“I know. That’s how you started writing. All that time on your hands.”
Lucy frowned. Something about Anna’s tone.…
“Come on,” Anna said. “You can unpack later.”
Lucy fidgeted with the doorknob. She’d already done what she could with her makeup – not much – and brushed her teeth to rid her mouth of the dank travel taste. There was no reason to delay. Plus, if Wells was waiting.…
She closed her door and followed Anna down the stairs. They stepped onto the covered porch, and with a cursory scan she noted they were still two shy of ten. Tommy leaned against a pillar talking with Elaine Kovalchyk. She’d struck Lucy as a bit of a smartass, the kind who tried too hard to be edgy. Bryan Clayton hunkered on the bottom porch step surveying the meadow. He would gaze for a while, then scribble in a notebook. No doubt cataloguing some piece of minutiae with which to annoy future readers. A black woman stood apart from the others. She was about five-ten and attractive. Her hair was drawn back in a simple bun, she wore a bold shade of magenta lipstick, and her sleeveless multicolored dress hung all the way to her open-toed sandals.
The man closest to the door turned and regarded Lucy. He was dour looking, with a scraggly growth of beard and large, mournful eyes. He reminded her of a refugee from some war-torn country.
Finally, someone older than she was.
A pack of cigarettes drooped from the pocket of his pale green shirt. He was about to light up when he caught Lucy watching him. “Smoke?”
She shook her head. His smile was kind, if a trifle nicotine-stained. He cupped his hands to light the cigarette.
Lucy introduced herself. He squinted at her, took her hand in both of his.
“I’m Marek,” he said in a Russian accent.
“Marek,” she repeated, trying to roll the r the way he had.
His smile widened. “That’s good. You say it better than my friends.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, expelled smoke from the side of his mouth. “I’m forty-one, in case you’re wondering. People are always mistaking me for an older man.” He tapped the cigarettes in his pocket. “Must be these.”
They turned as a pudgy newcomer emerged from the mansion. Black hair, parted on one side, sloping shoulders. His short-sleeved dress shirt was pitted out, the pinstriped fabric clinging to pale, hairless arms. His pleated beige trousers looked expensive. Worsted wool, maybe. He surveyed the group through wire-framed spectacles.
“Who’re you?” Tommy asked.
“Evan Laydon,” the newcomer said. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed sweat from his brow. “It’s a sauna out here.”
“You need to get in shape,” Bryan called over his shoulder.
Evan glanced at Lucy. “Have you met the resident survivalist?”
“Classic candidate for heart disease,” Bryan said.
“I didn’t know I was going to have a personal trainer,” Evan muttered. His eyes shifted to something behind Lucy.
She turned and felt her stomach lurch. The man smiled at her. “Rick Forrester.”
He had light brown eyes, a nice smile. He reminded her a bit of a young Harrison Ford, about whom she’d been fantasizing since adolescence.
“How long are we supposed to roast out here?” Evan demanded. He pinched his shirt, flapped it for ventilation.
Lucy crossed to the tall black woman and introduced herself.
“Sherilyn Jackson,” the woman said, her accent Deep South. “I can’t believe I’m actually here. Roderick Wells’s estate. Where Corrina Bowen’s career was born.”
“I love her work,” Anna said. “She’s a national treasure.”
Sherilyn put a hand to her chest, donned a dreamy expression. “I met her at a signing in Mobile. She was even more charming than her stories.”
Lucy kept quiet. She enjoyed Bowen’s work, but evidently not as much as Sherilyn and Anna did. After winning a contest like this fifty years ago, Corrina Bowen had skyrocketed to fame. Since then, she hadn’t written many novels, but the few she had were hailed as classics of Southern Gothic literature. Years ago, Variety had deemed her William Faulkner’s heir.
Anna glanced at Lucy. “You think the winner this time will be as famous as Bowen is?” She glanced up at the house. “God, what I wouldn’t give to live in a place like this.”
Evan mopped sweat from his brow. “I wonder what happened to the other nine in that contest,” he said. “Anyone ever hear of them?”
“Who cares?” Anna said. “They faded into obscurity, like most writers do.”
Lucy kept quiet. It was the exact question that had been plaguing her.
“I wrote Ms. Bowen a fan letter once,” Rick said.
Sherilyn’s eyebrows rose. “Did she respond?”
He nodded. “The most eloquent form letter I’ve ever read.”
They all laughed.
“Am I the only one who’s nervous?” Anna whispered.
“We all are,” Sherilyn said. “No one knows what Roderick Wells is like.”
“Sure we do,” Evan said. “He’s a throwback. Like Hemingway, without the bullfighting.”
“But the same sexism,” Elaine called as she and Tommy approached.
Evan waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. He’s the reason I became an author.”
“Is that right?” Tommy said, eyeing him. “What have you written?”
Evan raised his chin. “I edited the Columbia literary magazine for three semesters.”
“That doesn’t mean you can write,” Elaine said.
Evan laughed incredulously.
Bryan mounted the steps, called to Evan, “Your boobs are jiggling.”
Evan looked stricken.
Rick turned to Bryan. “There some reason why you’re so nasty?”
Bryan returned Rick’s stare. “It’s people like you who do the most harm. I bet Evan surrounds himself with enablers.”
“You’re the one with issues,” Lucy said.
“Oh yeah?” Bryan asked. “What’s my issue, sweetheart?”
“You’re a jackass.”
Several of them laughed. Rick grinned at her. Bryan opened his mouth to answer, but a female voice interrupted, “I see you’re already at each other’s throats.”
They turned and beheld a woman in a low-necked sable evening gown. She had long black hair and looked like a partygoer who’d just stepped onto the veranda for some air. Furthering the impression was the long-stemmed glass she carried, some clear drink undulating within.
“You the tenth writer?” Tommy asked.
“My husband is the artist in the family.”
Anna’s voice was wondering. “You’re Mrs. Wells?”
“Amanda,” she said.
They all supplied their names.
Marek looked around. “I thought there were going to be ten.”
“The last man will arrive later,” Mrs. Wells said.
“Car trouble?” Tommy asked.
“I doubt it,” Mrs. Wells said.
Sherilyn asked, “Are you saying your husband deliberately delayed him?”
Choosing her words carefully, Mrs. Wells said, “One thing you must know about Roderick is that everything he does is for a reason.” She eyed them each in turn. “Will you abide by the rules of our agreement, or would you prefer to go home?”
Bryan stepped forward. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re grateful for the opportunity.”
“You should be,” a voice answered.
Lucy turned and discovered a figure peering at them through the doorway, just a shadow really, tucked in the dimness of the entryway. Lucy had been standing nearest the doorway, and now the other writers crowded nearer to better see Roderick Wells. Lucy squinted into the semidarkness but could only make out a pair of unblinking eyes, the hint of a pitiless smile.
Lucy realized she was holding her breath. Despite the fact that the man in the shadows was slightly stooped and ravaged by age, she sensed a power emanating from him, an indefinable thrum. Judging by the others’ expressions, they felt it too.
Evan was the first to speak. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Wells.”
Wells ignored that. “Before we proceed,” he said, his voice cultured but slightly reedy, as if speaking cost him a great effort, “you must submit yourselves to me. You must prepare to withstand extreme conditions, both physical and emotional.”
Sherilyn half grinned. “No one said there’d be a physical component.”
“My dear,” Mr. Wells said, “this experience will require everything from you. I give my blood, my tears…my very soul to my writing. I demand no less from my pupils.”
There was a silence as that sank in.
Mr. Wells went on. “For the next six weeks, you will have no technology, save a laptop with word processing capabilities. You’ll each have a printer. I have amassed an extensive library that is more than adequate for your research needs. We will, of course, provide food, lodging, whatever you require. However, if you leave the grounds, you will be banished from the property, never to return.”
“Mr. Wells,” Bryan said, his voice uncharacteristically shaky, “the contract made reference to an award – the Best in Show prize, so to speak – but the details were nebulous.”
“Is that why you’re here, Mr. Clayton? For prizes?”
Bryan opened his mouth, raised a placating hand, but Mr. Wells overrode him. “The winner will receive three million dollars.”
Marek whistled softly. Tommy muttered, “Hell, yeah.”
Mr. Wells peered at them from his nest of shadows. “The money is merely a safety net, should your novels not prove lucrative.
“Which brings me,” Mr. Wells went on in a stronger voice, “to the publishing contract. Two or three books with one of the major New York houses.”
“I knew it!” Elaine said. Anna squeezed Lucy’s arm.
Wells continued: “I have assurances from several editors that the publicity surrounding the retreat will warrant a sizable advance, with potential for a film tie-in, foreign rights, et cetera. The point is, you will have my involvement, instant fame, access to the best editors and marketing minds in the business. You all remember how Corrina Bowen got her start?”
The name elicited a smattering of enthusiastic comments.
Mr. Wells’s voice washed over them: “For the first time in half a century, I’m opening my home to ten aspiring writers. You will receive the education of a lifetime. And for one lucky author, the chance to become immortal.” He glanced at Lucy. “The next Corrina Bowen.” His eyes shifted to Bryan. “Or the next Roderick Wells.”
Bryan’s grin was smug enough to turn Lucy’s stomach.
“When you leave here,” Mr. Wells went on, “you will tell no one what transpired. I want my secrets to remain my own and have no wish to see the market flooded with tell-all memoirs.”
“No one would do that, Mr. Wells,” Evan said.
“You’re right,” he answered, his voice taking on a raw, guttural edge. “Unless you want to face my wrath.”
With that, Mr. Wells turned and, moving gingerly, receded into the house. They watched after him, speechless.
After a time, Mrs. Wells clapped her hands together. “If you’re certain you’d like to spend the summer with us, despite the risks, let’s get you out of this heat.”
Lucy spoke up. “Risks?”
Mrs. Wells surveyed her with mild astonishment. “Yes, darling. Aren’t there always risks?” She smiled, but the smile didn’t go near her eyes.
Wordlessly, Mrs. Wells entered the house.
The others followed, but Rick lingered on the porch. Lucy studied his face, said, “What?”
He shook his head. “Just what the hell did happen to the other nine writers in the first contest?”
Chapter Four
When Lucy’s career had been thriving, she’d been invited to read in dozens of public libraries. And though many had contained more books than Wells’s private collection, none of them surpassed Wells’s in elegance. Rectangular, illumined by wall sconces and table lamps, the high-ceilinged room was comprised of built-in bookcases, cozy leather chairs with matching ottomans, and rich oriental rugs. Yet despite the opulent furnishings, there hung a caul of dreariness over the room and subtle hints of disrepair. The tables and lamps were dusty, the colors of the book spines faded. A window along the eastern wall was marred by a lightning-jagged crack.
She shifted her gaze to study the immediate area. There were ten burnished mahogany chairs ranged in a semicircle, one of them empty. Facing them was a wine-colored wingback Lucy assumed was reserved for Wells. The writers had been arranged near a fireplace broad enough to accommodate a mid-sized car. Beneath the acrid odor of burning wood, Lucy detected the pleasing mildew of old books. She inhaled deeply of the scent, her tension ebbing.
She was about to ask Sherilyn if she’d met the tenth writer yet, when a man jogged into the room, his balding head peppered with sweat.
&n
bsp; “I swear I was on time,” he said, bracing himself on the back of the vacant chair. He gestured, out of breath. “My driver claimed he wasn’t delaying me, but…I know he was going in circles. We passed the same…damned…farmhouse—”
“Save it,” Bryan muttered. “Wells is about to address the group.”
Lucy glanced at Rick, who looked like he’d tasted something sour. She recalled what Mrs. Wells had said: One thing you must know about Roderick is that everything he does is for a reason.
Lucy rose, introduced herself to the newcomer, whose name was Will Church. Rick, Sherilyn, and Marek also shook his hand. Will examined his sodden gray Chicago Cubs t-shirt. “I’m a mess. Do I have time to clean up?”
“I doubt it,” Sherilyn said, not unkindly.
Lucy returned to her seat, studied Will from the corners of her eyes. His brown goatee was a shade darker than his curly hair; a small potbelly tented his shirt. He sat, folded one leg over the other, then decided against it and sat up straighter.
All ten of them in their chairs, the group lapsed into silence. In the flickering firelight, Lucy stole glances at the others and reminded herself she belonged. The problem was, they all looked so damned together. Sure, they were a motley bunch physically, but their faces exuded confidence. They hadn’t been battered by the industry the way Lucy had.
If you lose, there are always the pills, her agent’s voice reminded her. Sometimes it’s easier just to give up. Isn’t that right, Lucy Goosy?
Her stomach muscles clenched at the mocking voice, which belonged to Fred Morehouse, founder of the Morehouse Literary Agency. The man who brokered seven-figure deals in his sleep. The man who emotionally destroyed you when the whim struck.
It wasn’t the industry, Fred Morehouse told her. It was you. I gave you your shot, and you blew it. You let us all down, little lady.
She closed her eyes, her toes curling inside her shoes.
Focus, she reminded herself. Focus.
As they’d been instructed, she’d brought her work-in-progress. She’d even rehearsed in the mirror as though this were a televised reality show.
Question: Why do you write?
Answer: Because in real life, everyone lies. Only in fiction do people tell the truth.
The Dark Game Page 2