The reception was so poor, I could barely hear him. When I explained the problems I was having, he interrupted. “Just get it done. If Wentworth wrote this book, remind him his last contract with March & Sons gives us the option on it. There’s no way I’m going to let anybody else publish it. Do you have the agreement with you?”
“In my jacket.”
“Make sure you get him to sign it.”
“He’ll want to talk to an agent.”
“You told me his agent’s dead. Anyway, why does he need an agent? Within reason, we’ll give him whatever he wants. ” The transmission crackled. “This’ll go a long way toward proving you’re a necessary part of the team.” The crackle worsened. “Don’t disappoint . . . Call . . . soon . . . find . . .”
With renewed motivation, I searched the southern sector, not giving up until dark. In town, I refilled the gas tank, ready for an early start the next morning. Then I walked along the shadowy main street, noticing FOR SALE signs on a lot of doors. The financial troubles gave me an idea.
* * *
Tipton Realty had its lights on. I knocked.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice said.
As I entered, I couldn’t help noticing my haggard reflection on the door’s window.
Again the hardwood floor creaked.
“Busy day?” The same woman sat at the desk. She was about 35. Her lush red hair hung past her shoulders. Her bright, green eyes were hard to look away from.
“I saw a lot of beautiful country.”
“Did you find him?”
“Find . . . ?”
“Bob Wentworth. Everybody in town knows you’re looking for him.”
I glanced down. “I guess I’d make a poor spy. No, I didn’t find him.” I held out my hand. “Tom Neal.”
She shook it. “Becky Shafer.”
“I can’t get used to people calling him ‘Bob.’ I gather you’ve met him.”
“Not as much as other people in Tipton. I’m new.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I came here only twelve years ago.”
I chuckled.
“I drove into town with my artist boyfriend,” she explained. “We loved the quiet and the scenery. We decided to stay. The boyfriend’s long gone. But I’m still a newcomer.”
“Sorry about the boyfriend.” I noticed she didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“No need to be sorry. He turned out to be a creep.”
“A lot of that going around.” I thought of my CEO.
She gave me a look that made me think she applied the word to me.
“I do have an important reason to see him,” I said.
After I told her about the manuscript, she thought a moment. “But why would he use a pseudonym?”
“That’s one of many things I’d like to ask him.” Thinking of the FOR SALE signs, I took my chance to propose my idea. “To hear the old timers tell it, things got crazy here with so many fans wanting to talk to him. You can imagine the effect a new book would create. The publicity. The pent-up demand. This town would attract a lot of fans again. It would be like the excitement of thirty years ago.”
I let the temptation sink in.
Becky didn’t respond for several moments. Her gaze hardened. “So all I need to do is show you where Bob lives, and in exchange, next year I’ll have more business than I can handle?”
“When you put it that way, I guess that’s right.”
“Gosh, I didn’t realize it was so late.” She pulled her car keys from her purse. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to go home.”
* * *
The weathered old Tipton Tavern was presumably the place Wade told me about, where Wentworth sometimes watched a baseball game. There was indeed a baseball game on the televison, but I was the main interest, patrons setting down their drinks and looking at me. As much as I could tell from recalling the photograph on Wentworth’s books (a lean-faced, dark-haired man with soulful eyes), he wasn’t in the room.
Heading back to the motel, I didn’t go far before I heard wary footsteps behind me. A cold breeze made me shiver as I glanced back toward the shadowy street. The footsteps ended. I resumed walking and again heard the footsteps. My Manhattan instincts took charge. Not quite running, I passed my car and reached the motel. My cold hands fumbled with the room key.
In the night, glass broke outside my room. I phoned the front desk, but no one answered. In the morning, not having slept well, I went out to my car and found the driver’s window shattered. A rock lay on the seat. The radio was gone.
The surprised desk clerk told me, “The town constable runs the barbershop.”
* * *
“Yes, we’ve been having incidents lately.” The heavyset barber/constable trimmed an elderly man’s spindly hair. “A bicycle was stolen. A cabin was broken into.”
I took a close look at the man in the chair and decided he wasn’t Wentworth.
“Town’s changing. Outsiders are hanging around,” the barber continued.
I recalled the two druggies I’d seen emerge from an alley the previous day. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Contact the state police. I hoped the problem would go away as the weather got colder.”
“Please remember I reported the stolen radio. The rental car agency will contact you.” Trying to catch him off guard, I added, “Where does Bob Wentworth live?”
The barber almost responded, then caught himself. “Can’t say.”
But like a bad poker player, he hadn’t been able to repress a glance past me toward the right side of the street.
* * *
I went to the left to avoid suspicion. Then I walked around the block and returned to the main street, out of sight of the barbershop. As I stepped from an alley, I again had the sense that someone followed, but when I looked behind me, I seemed alone.
More people were on the sidewalk, many dressed like outsiders, the town finally attracting business as the weekend approached. But the locals paid attention only to me. Trying to look casual, I went into a quilt shop, then continued down the street. Wentworth didn’t live on a country road, I now realized with growing excitement. He lived in town. But I’d checked all the side streets. In fact, I’d used some of those streets to drive north, west, south, and east. Where was he hiding?
I walked to the end of the street. In a park of brilliant maples, dead leaves crunched under my shoes as I followed a stream along the edge of town. I soon reached a tall fence.
My cell phone rang.
“I hope you’ve found him,” a stern voice warned.
“I’m making progress.”
“I want more than progress. The Gladstone executives phoned to remind me they expect a better profit picture when I report on Monday. I hinted I’d have major news. Get Wentworth.”
A locked gate sealed off a lane. I managed to climb over, tearing a button off my sports jacket.
Sunlight cast the shadows of branches. To my left were the backyards of houses. But on my right, the fence stretched on. A crow cawed. Leaves rattled as I came to a door that blended with the fence. Signs warned NO SOLICITORS and NO TRESPASSING. A mailbox was recessed into the fence.
When I knocked on the door, the crow stopped cawing. The door shook. I waited, then knocked again, this time harder. The noise echoed. I knocked a third time.
“Mr. Wentworth?”
Leaves fell.
“Mr. Wentworth? My name’s Tom Neal. I work for March & Sons. I need to talk to you about a manuscript we think you sent.”
A breeze chilled my face.
I knocked a fourth time. “Mr. Wentworth?”
Finally, I took out a pen and a notepad. I thought about writing that Carver was dead, but that seemed a harsh way for Wentworth to get the news. So I gave him the name of the motel where I was staying and left my cell-phone number. Then I remembered that Wentworth didn’t have a phone. But if he sometimes left his compound, he could use a phone in town, I concluded. Or he could walk to the
motel.
“I’m shoving a note under the gate!”
Back in the park, I sat on a bench and tried to enjoy the view, but the breeze got cooler. After an hour, I returned to Wentworth’s gate. A corner of my note remained visible under it.
“Mr. Wentworth, please, I need to talk to you! It’s important!”
Maybe he’s gone for a walk in the woods, I thought. Or maybe he isn’t even in town.
Hell, he might be in a hospital somewhere.
* * *
“Did you find him?”
In the tavern, I looked up from a glass of beer. “No.” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lie.
Becky Shafer stood next to me at the bar. Her green eyes were as hypnotic as on the previous evening. “I thought about our conversation last night. I came to apologize for being abrupt.”
“Hey, I’m from New York, remember? It’s impossible to be abrupt to me. Anyway, I can’t blame you for trying to protect someone who lives here.”
“May I sit down?”
“I welcome the company. Can I buy you a beer?”
“Rye and diet Coke.”
“Rye? I admire an honest drinker.”
She laughed as the bartender took my order. “Maybe it would be good for the town if Bob published another book. Who knows? It’s just that I don’t like to feel manipulated.”
“I’m so used to being manipulated, it feels normal.”
She gave me a questioning look.
“When I first became an editor, all I needed to worry about was helping an author write a good book. But now conglomerates own just about every publisher. They think of books as commodities. If authors don’t sell a hundred thousand copies, the head office doesn’t care about them, and editors who don’t find the next blockbuster are taking up space. Every morning, I go to March & Sons, wondering if I still work there.”
“I know what you mean.” Becky sipped her drink. “I’m also an attorney.” My surprised look made her nod. “Yep. Harvard Law School.”
“I’m impressed.”
“So was the Boston law firm that hired me. But I couldn’t bear how the senior partners pitted us against each other to see who generated the most fees. That’s why I ended here. I don’t earn much money, but I sure enjoy waking up each morning.”
“I don’t hear many people say that.”
“Stay here longer. Maybe you’ll be able to say it.”
* * *
Walking back to the motel, I again heard footsteps.
As on the previous night, they stopped when I turned toward the shadows. Their echo resumed when I moved on. Thinking of my broken car window, I increased speed. My cell phone rang, but I didn’t have time to answer it. Only after I hurried into my room and locked the door did I listen to the message, hoping it was from Wentworth.
But the voice belonged to my CEO. “You’re taking too long,” he told me.
* * *
“Mr. Wentworth?” At nine the next morning, amid a strong breeze, I pounded on his gate. “It’s really important that I talk to you about your manuscript! And Sam Carver! I need to talk to you about him!”
I stared at the bottom of the gate. Part of my note still remained visible. A thought from yesterday struck me. Maybe he isn’t home. Maybe he’s in a hospital somewhere. Or maybe–a new thought struck harder–maybe he is home. Maybe he’s sick. Too sick to come to the gate.
“Mr. Wentworth?” I hammered the gate. “Are you all right?” I tried the knob, but it didn’t turn. “Mr. Wentworth, can you hear me? Is anything wrong? Do you need help?”
Perhaps there was another way in. Chilled by the strengthening breeze, I returned the way I had come and climbed back into the park. I followed the fence to a corner, then continued along the back, struggling through dense trees and undergrowth.
Indeed, there was another way in. Hidden among bushes, a gate shuddered as I pounded. “Mr. Wentworth?” I shoved a branch away and tried the knob, but it too wouldn’t turn. I rammed my shoulder against the gate, but it held firm. A tree grew next to the fence. I grabbed a branch and pulled myself up. Higher branches acted as steps. Buffeted by the wind, I straddled the fence, squirmed over, dangled, and dropped to a pile of soft leaves.
* * *
Immediately, I felt a difference. The wind stopped. Sounds were muted. The air became cushioned, as if a bubble enclosed the property. A buffer of some kind. No doubt, the tall fence caused the muffling effect. Or maybe it was because I’d entered sacred territory. As far as I knew, I was one of the few ever to set foot there. Although I breathed quickly, I felt a hush.
Apples hung on trees or lay on the ground amid leaves. A few raspberries remained on bushes. A vegetable garden contained the frost-browned remnants of tomato plants. Pumpkins and acorn squash bulged from vines. Continuing to be enveloped in a hush, I walked along a stone path. Ahead were a gazebo, a cottage, and a smaller building.
“Mr. Wentworth?”
When I rounded the gazebo and headed toward the cottage, I heard a door creak open. A man stepped out. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a sweater. He was slender, with slightly graying hair. He had dark intense eyes.
He had a pistol in his hand.
“Wait.” I jerked up my hands, thinking, My God, he’s been living alone for so long, he lost his mind. He’s going to shoot me.
“Walk to the front gate.”
“This isn’t what it looks like.” My chest cramped. “I thought you were ill. I came to see if I can help.”
“Stay ahead of me.”
“My name’s Tom Neal. I knocked on the gate.”
“Move.”
“I left a note. I’m an editor for March & Sons. Please. I need to talk to you about a manuscript I think you sent us. It was addressed to Sam Carver. He’s dead. I took over his duties. That’s why–”
“Stop,” the man said.
His command made the air feel stiller. Crows cawing, squirrels scampering along branches, leaves falling–everything seemed to halt.
“Sam’s dead?” The man frowned, as if the notion was unthinkable.
“A week ago Monday.”
Slowly, he lowered the gun. He had Wentworth’s sensitive features and soulful eyes. But Wentworth would be in his early eighties, and this man looked twenty years younger, his cheeks aglow.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man rubbed his forehead in shock. “What? Who . . . ? Nobody. Bob’s son. He’s out of town. I’m watching the house for him.”
Bob’s son? But that didn’t make sense. The child would have been born when Wentworth was around 20, before he got married, before The Sand Castle was published. Later, the furor of interest in Wentworth was so great that it would have been impossible to keep an illegitimate child a secret.
The man continued to look shocked. “What happened to Sam?”
I explained about the firm’s new owner and how Carver was fired.
“The way you talk about the bus, are you suggesting . . .”
“I don’t think Sam had much to live for. The look on his face when he carried his belongings from the office . . .”
The man seemed to peer at something far away. “Too late.”
“What?”
Despondent, he shook his head from side to side. “The gate self-locks. Let yourself out.”
As he turned toward the cottage, he limped.
“You’re not Wentworth’s son.”
He paused.
“The limp’s from your accident. You’re R. J. Wentworth. You look twenty years younger. I don’t know how that’s possible, but that’s who you are.”
I’ve never been looked at so deeply. “Sam was your friend?”
“I admired him.”
His dark eyes assessed me. “Wait here.”
* * *
When he limped from the house, he held a teapot and two cups. He looked so awkward that I reached to help.
We sat in the gazebo. The air felt more cushioned and soothing. My sense of reality was tes
ted. R. J. Wentworth. Could I actually be talking to him?
“How can you look twenty years younger than you are?”
Wentworth ignored the question and poured the tea.
He stared at the steaming fluid. His voice was tight. “I met Sam Carver in 1958 after he found The Sand Castle in a stack of unsolicited manuscripts. At the time, I was a teacher in a grade school in Connecticut. My wife taught there, also. I didn’t know about agents and how publishing worked. All I knew about was children and the sadness of watching them grow up. The Sand Castle was rejected by twenty publishers. If Sam hadn’t found it, I’d probably have remained a teacher, which in the long run would have been better for me and certainly for my family. Sam understood that. After the accident, he was as regretful as I that The Sand Castle gained the attention it did.” He raised his cup. “To Sam.”
“To Sam.” I sipped, tasting a hint of cinnamon and cloves.
“He and his wife visited me each summer. He was a true friend. Perhaps my only one. After his wife died, he didn’t come here again, however.”
“You sent him The Architecture of Snow?”
Wentworth nodded. “Sam wrote me a letter that explained what was happening at March & Sons. You described his stunned look when he was fired. Well, he may have been stunned, but he wasn’t surprised. He saw it coming. I sent the manuscript so he could pretend to make one last discovery and buy himself more time at the company.”
“But why didn’t you use your real name?”
“Because I wanted the manuscript to stand on its own. I didn’t want the novel to be published because of the mystique that developed after I disappeared. The deaths of my wife and two sons caused that mystique. I couldn’t bear using their deaths to get the book published.”
“The manuscript’s brilliant.”
He hesitated. “Thank you.” I’ve never heard anyone speak more humbly.
The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) Page 3