“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Well, maybe I am. I mean, if I was you and you were me, I’d probably think you were crazy. Or I’d think I was if I wasn’t me. Or…oh, you know what I mean. But all I know is that there used to be a connection between me and the Big Dog, a bond. We just clicked and the writing was almost effortless. But now…that bond has been broken. And they did it. They must have done something to the Big Dog while they had it.”
“Who’s they?”
“Patty Westmorland and her son, and that carrot-top computer professor. Maybe even the hippie at Thrifty Joe’s. After all the hoops they made me jump through, in the end they gave it up much too easily. I mean, they didn’t even take any money. It was because they knew, they knew they’d altered the Big Dog somehow, took away its magic.”
“Ross, I’m worried about you. I mean, more than just my normal worry. I really think you need to get some sleep.”
“Screw sleep. I’ve got to do something. I mean, I can’t just let them get away with what they’ve done.”
“Ross!” Julie said sharply, the tone of a stern parent chastising an unreasonable child. “All you’re going to do is lie down in this bed while I make you a sandwich.”
Ross stared into her eyes for a moment, at the determination he saw there, then merely nodded, curling up on his side in a fetal position. He lay there quietly while listening to Julie rummaging around in the kitchen.
“Jesus, is this butcher knife the only thing you have clean? Seems a bit of overkill for spreading mustard, but it’ll have to do.”
As Julie made the sandwich, all he could think about was the Big Dog, how it had once felt like a comfortable friend but now it was a stranger. And he thought of the sticker, ripped off the top. That was representative of something, of whatever had been done to the machine to render it impotent. He couldn’t let that crime go unpunished.
Julie returned to the bed with the sandwich. He had no clean plates, so she’d placed it on a paper towel instead. Ross just looked at it then shook his head. She set it down on the pillow next to his head and said, “I’m going to use your restroom right quick, then you’re going to eat this sandwich, we’re going to talk, then you’re going to get some rest even if I have to force feed you sleeping pills. Then tomorrow I’m making you an appointment with the counselor I saw last year when I was dealing with my depression after Erik dumped me. Okay?”
Ross could have argued, but he knew better. He just nodded and remained silent as she disappeared into the bathroom. As soon as the door clicked shut, he jumped up from the bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. When Julie came out of the bathroom, she was going to find the sandwich still untouched and Ross gone.
And two items missing from the apartment.
His car keys.
And the butcher knife.
COLLECTOR’S MARKET
The round little man smiled from behind the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes squinty. His name was Ralph Wendal, and Chester took an instant dislike to him. Still, he didn’t have to like the man to do business with him.
“So Mr. Simmons,” Ralph said, “are you familiar with Exclusivity Press?”
Chester considered lying but then decided against it. “I must admit, before you contacted me, I’d never heard of Exclusivity. I’ve since done a little research online, seems you do very limited collector’s editions with exorbitant price tags.”
“Our customers are not afraid to pay for quality, and quality is what they get from Exclusivity. We select only the most talented authors and produce books that are minor works of art. The materials we use—the paper, the ink, the cloth—it is all top-notch. No skimping. We release never more than fifty copies of a given book, and charge according to the high-end nature of our product.”
“Yeah, seems almost a shame to produce so few books though. I’ve always felt the more people I can get my work out to, the better.”
Ralph’s lips twisted into a smile that looked more like a smirk. “That’s a very mass-market frame of mind.”
Chester slumped down in his chair a bit, feeling chastised. Over the last five years, he had published a string of paperback mysteries, and while he wasn’t exactly a household name, he made a modest living at it. Still, he harbored dreams of moving up to hard covers. He was aware of the collector’s market in a peripheral sense, books that were purchased not for the enjoyment of the stories told but the value of the book itself. Literature as an investment, a commodity. It had never seemed a market in which he could fit, but then Ralph Wendal had contacted him and asked if Chester had any unpublished material. Chester had sent in a novella he’d given up any hope of publishing because there was little market for stories of that length these days, and then Ralph had requested this face to face meeting.
“And you really want Under Lock and Key?” Chester asked, referring to his novella.
“Most definitely. I’ve already consulted our design team on the specifics of the layout and packaging, and one of our in-house artists has started sketching out ideas for the illustrations. We’re very excited about the project.”
Chester wanted to be flattered by this, but his natural skepticism took hold. He just seemed an unlikely match for Exclusivity Press. “I’d hate to disappoint you, Mr. Wendal, but I’m not sure I’d be the best investment. I mean, your cheapest books usually go for at least a couple hundred dollars, and I have doubts about my ability to pull in that kind of money. I’m just not well-known enough.”
Ralph graced him with a slight, enigmatic smile. “You’d be surprised, Mr. Simmons. Very surprised. We have many loyal customers who want anything we put out, simply because of the exclusive nature of our books.”
“I’m sorry, I know I’m coming across as a bit obtuse, but I’m not sure I see the appeal in that.”
“You see, Mr. Simmons, what a large portion of our customers are truly paying for, even more so than the extremely high production values of the books we produce, is the privilege of knowing that they own something that very few others in the world possess. The lower the print run and the higher the price, the more they want it, because that means they are part of an even more select club. That’s why Exclusivity never does reprints of previously published material, and our author contract stipulates that the works we publish can never be reproduced in any other form. That way, we guarantee our customers that the books will never be devalued by popular consumption.”
Chester found himself frowning at the little man. “I just fail to understand that way of thinking, I guess. Personally, when I discover a book that I love, I want everyone to read it. I want to spread it around, not horde it for myself.”
“That is a mindset a lot of common people have. Exclusivity caters to more sophisticated clientel.”
Chester bristled at the term common people. Ralph’s snobby demeanor and superior attitude was starting to piss Chester off, but he tried to hold it in. The truth was, the publishing biz was a bit incestuous, one publisher tended to have connections with another and another, and it was not in an author’s best interest to burn any bridges.
“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Chester said, exerting quite a bit of mental energy to keep the anger out of his voice, “my audience is primarily made up of common people. Why would you even want to publish anything of mine?”
“For that precise reason.” Ralph leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, his eyes glowing with excitement. “You’ve never published any kind of collector’s edition, which would make Under Lock and Key a one of a kind type of product. Our customers will go into a frenzy to possess such an item.”
“So how much would you charge for something like that? Two hundred, three hundred dollars?”
Ralph sat back in his chair, placed one hand over his mouth and giggled in a decidedly prissy manner. “Oh no, we’ve got something much more grand in store for you, Mr. Simmons. Considering what we anticipate will be high demand for your release, we’ve co
me to the conclusion that you’re the prefect candidate to be the first in a new venture from Exclusivity Press.”
“New venture?”
“Yes, we’re calling it the One and Only series.”
“One and Only?” Chester said, silently chastising himself for merely repeating back everything Ralph was saying. “That almost makes it sound like—”
“One copy,” Ralph interjected, bouncing in his seat as if his joy could not be contained, a look of almost orgasmic proportions on his face. “We’ll produce only one, at a cost of $500,000.”
Chester’s gasp was so sudden and deep that he started coughing, choking on his own saliva. His ears were burning, as if the impossibility of what he’d just heard had set them on fire. When he had recovered enough to speak, he said, “Surely you’re pulling my leg. That’s madness.”
“I anticipate the book to sell within seconds of being posted, with dozens of customers being sorely disappointed that they were not the one who hit the BUY button first.”
“A half a million bucks! Who in his right mind would fork over that kind of cash for any book? And frankly, this novella isn’t even one of my strongest stories.”
Ralph rolled his eyes and started talking to Chester as if explaining simple arithmetic to a mentally deficient child. “We’ve gone over this, Mr. Simmons. It isn’t the story my customers are buying; it’s the exclusivity. The book itself will be more than worth the price, I assure you. Since Under Lock and Key deals with a group of professional thieves trying to crack a seemingly uncrackable safe, the book will be packaged in a thin platinum-lined case with a combination lock.”
“Platinum? Are you serious?”
“Of course, we always give our customers their money’s worth. But even if you were to remove the inherent value of the object itself from the equation, I assure you our customers would gladly pay that amount merely for the bragging rights and satisfaction that comes from knowing they have something that no one else on the entire planet has. Knowing that others want it, covet it, but they’re the sole possessor…that’s priceless.”
Having had just about enough of this insanity, Chester rose from his chair and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Wendal, but I may as well stop wasting your time. I’m afraid this isn’t going to work out.”
Ralph looked up at him serenely. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are not a booklover, you have no respect for the art of storytelling, and if what you say is true, then neither do your customers. You’re just a bunch of stick-up-the-ass snobs, and if you had your way books would only be available to the super rich. That’s not a philosophy I can back. I will not be publishing with Exclusivity Press.”
“I’m afraid production has already begun.”
Chester gaped at the little man for a moment before barking out a brittle laugh. “I haven’t signed any contract, and I won’t be doing so.”
Ralph shrugged. “That’s okay. We have excellent forgers on staff.”
Striding across the office toward the door, Chester looked back over his shoulder and said, “Just you try that, buddy. My lawyers will be all over you in two seconds flat. In fact, I think I’ll give them a call just as soon as I get out of this madhouse.”
Chester gripped the doorknob and tried to twist it, but it wouldn’t budge. He tugged at it, rattling the door in its frame, but it was locked tight. There was a deadbolt but it could only be opened with a key. Chester was effectively sealed up in this office.
From behind him, he heard Ralph say, “Mr. Simmons, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. It isn’t only the platinum-lined case and exclusivity of your book that will fetch such a high price tag. It’s also the fact that Under Lock and Key will be your last book.”
Hearing a click, Chester turned to see the gun in Ralph’s hand.
ACCIDENTS HAPPEN
Dustin said, “I saw the little boy last night.”
“What little boy?”
“The one I killed.”
He said it so casually, the way he might tell me he ran into his old college roommate. I considered that he may be joking but quickly dismissed the idea; the wounds were still too fresh.
“You had a dream about him?” I asked.
“No, Paul, he was there in my apartment.”
Dustin had his head on my shoulder so I couldn’t see his face, but I felt him stiffen next to me, awaiting my response, my judgement of his confession.
“Where did you see him?”
“I was coming out of the bathroom, and I saw him standing down at the end of the hall.”
“You saw him out of the corner of your eye?”
“No,” Dustin said, pulling away from me. He looked at me with such naked desperation that I felt stung by his eyes. “I was looking right at him; he was there.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
Dustin shook his head, and I saw he was near tears. “I was so shocked, I couldn’t even move. I just stood there staring at him, and he stared back. After a couple of minutes, he just disappeared.”
“So you think you saw a ghost?” I asked, working hard to keep my voice neutral.
Dustin retreated to the far end of the sofa, drawing his legs up to his chest, a child’s posture. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Dusty, I know that you’ve been through a lot, and I’m here for you.”
Dustin spent that night at my apartment, snuggled up to my back. I awoke just after three a.m. to hear Dustin crying out in his sleep. I enfolded him in my embrace, delivering soft kisses to his fluttering eyelids, and soon he quieted.
* * *
Dustin and I had been dating for three months. When he had his accident, I wasn’t sure what was expected of me, what role I was supposed to play in the wake of his tragedy. Eventually I realized that it wasn’t about expectations or roles; it was about whether or not I cared for him enough to be there when he needed someone. And the answer was yes.
Dustin had been driving home from work one afternoon, only three blocks from his apartment, when a kid on a bicycle had shot out of a driveway right into the path of Dustin’s SUV. He didn’t even have time to brake. The kid wasn’t wearing a helmet, and the impact cracked his skull like an eggshell, killing him instantly. There had been a brief investigation, the findings of which absolved Dustin of any blame. It was a tragic accident, but one that Dustin could have done nothing to avoid.
This did nothing to assuage Dustin’s guilt, however. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and I did not want to press him on the issue. I figured he just needed time.
But now there was this new wrinkle, this hallucination or whatever it was, the belief that the dead boy had somehow materialized and paid Dustin a visit. I was worried, but I wasn’t sure what to do about it.
So I decided to do nothing, at least for the time being. I would be there for Dustin, offering him a shoulder when he needed one but allowing him the space to deal with the tragedy in his own way.
* * *
A week after Dustin first told me he’d seen the boy, I visited his apartment. He had not answered my calls all day, and I was concerned. Our relationship had not progressed to an exchange of keys, so I stood in the hallway, knocking on his door. Minutes passed with before he finally answered.
“What do you want, Paul?” I was shocked at his appearance, his hair unwashed and disheveled, his face pinched and pale. He was wearing his pajamas though it was early evening.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
Dustin hesitated, but then he pulled the door open and allowed me entry. I gave him a quick kiss as I passed him on the threshold. A stale odor came from his skin, and his breath was sour.
“Excuse the mess.”
“It’s fine,” I assured, but inwardly I was a bit shocked by the state of the apartment. The floor was littered with pizza boxes, soda cans, potato chip bags, dirty dishes, magazines. This was the first trip I’d made to his apartment since the accident, and I suspected the place had not been cl
eaned at all in that time.
Dustin sat on the sofa, pulling an afghan over himself, looking small and child-like. I sat next to him, pulling him close despite the smell. Dustin resisted for a few seconds, but then he melted into my embrace.
“I saw the dead boy again.”
“Where?”
“I was sitting on my balcony, and I could see him in the children’s park out behind the building, standing next to the sandbox.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just some kid who looked like the boy?”
“You think I’ll ever forget that face?” Dustin said hotly, but he did not pull away from me.
“What do you think he wants?”
“To punish me.”
I pulled back so that I could look into Dustin’s eyes, and I said, “It was an accident, Dusty. It’s not your fault.”
Dustin said nothing, but I could see in his eyes that he was unconvinced. He looked down at himself, blushed, then scrambled to his feet. “God, I must stink. I better shower.”
“Want me to join you?”
I was rewarded with the first smile I’d seen on Dustin’s face in weeks. “I might take you up on that later.”
“While you’re showering, I’m going to straighten up in here.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to.”
Dustin stared at me for a moment with an expression that was pure gratitude. “You know, most men would have bailed on me by now.”
“Not my nature.”
“That’s good to know,” Dustin said.
I turned and started gathering the dirty dishes. From behind me, I heard Dustin say, “I love you, Paul.” I turned quickly, almost dropping a plate, but Dustin was already disappearing into the bathroom.
Tales From the Midnight Shift Vol. 1 Page 14