The Mentor
Page 29
A swirling blizzard had fallen that night he was awakened, scraping against the windows like it wanted to come inside. Jamie had gone to red wine dreamland so Kyle got up to tend the fire that still popped and crackled. The scraping sound became louder and louder so he went to the window to see what was up. Outside, a strange silhouette had left footprints in the backyard. Kyle huddled in a bearskin throw and put on a pair of boots to investigate.
By a snowcapped swing set, William sat munching on a heart, his mouth red with sinew and blood. At his feet was a body. Kyle expected to see that it was Mia, but Kyle’s own body lay mangled on the frozen ground.
“William is immortal,” Dead Kyle said to his live self, and then he woke up.
In the morning, Jamie was making pancakes and said he seemed distant. He blamed it on too much red wine.
That night would be their last at Three Stepping Stones Lake. Since it was Halloween, they dressed up as Ugly Sweater People from her aunt’s bountiful collection and headed into town. The blizzard had let up and children were all in costume: vampires, witches, ghosts, and even a tiny devil with a pitchfork that weaved through the crowd. A band played spooky music. They got themselves some hot cider from a kiosk and sat on the benches.
“I feel whole again,” he said.
“Will you still be when we get back?” she asked, leaving an apple-scented kiss on his cheek. “It won’t be easy.”
“It will be because I have you.”
They laced their fingers together. This would be the woman he’d marry. They’d have children and eventually grandkids. They’d keep the torment they went through locked up in a tiny box never to be opened.
“Could you get me another cider, Monkey?” Jamie asked, pointing to a happy monkey swinging from a vine on his ugly sweater.
He kissed her nose and made his way to the apple kiosk. In front of him on line was a little boy no more than three feet tall. The boy wore khaki pants and a blazer with elbow patches. He was wearing a mask, but Kyle couldn’t see what it was until the boy fully turned around. He was startled to find William staring back at him, a cheap plastic version of his former mentor. The mask was an exact duplicate of the photo all the newspapers had used, probably rushed into production for the Halloween season. Plastic William had cutouts for eyes and a hole in his mouth that a tiny tongue slithered through.
When he got back to Jamie, he was perspiring from a panic attack. He couldn’t catch his breath. She kept asking what was wrong, but how could he tell her what had happened? He’d been doing so well at blocking out William, but the man couldn’t be forgotten. Out of the corner of Kyle’s eye, he watched the little boy dressed as William leaving the kiosk with a red candied apple in his hands, devouring his sweet prize.
* * *
KYLE RETURNED TO Burke & Burke a few days later. He wormed his way past the press hunkered outside the office, all of them looking wet and miserable. Upstairs, Amanda sat at the front desk. She ended a call when she saw him.
“Did you make it by those parasites in one piece?” she asked. “The other day, I literally threw my coffee on one of them who wanted a scoop.”
She leaned over the desk to observe his face. The cuts had begun to heal but not completely. She touched one with a fingernail painted royal blue.
“So deep,” she said. “I have some non-Western remedies that could help. I’ll bring them to work tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Amanda.”
“Mr. Burke wants to see you in his office,” she said, and slid back into her seat. “So brave, Kyle. You’re America’s hero right now.”
“Don’t think I’m really comfortable with that title.”
“I can tell,” she said, nibbling at her lip ring. “Inside of you, a storm is brewing.”
“Come again?”
“Have you let out a scream yet, a guttural one from the pit of your stomach? You need to do that so you can really begin to heal.”
“I’m fine, Amanda.”
“Trust me, I’m an old soul,” she said. “I’ve had many difficult past lives. I’ve screamed so much that my throat is eternally sore.”
He hurried away from her, not wanting to be exposed anymore. Down the hallway, he walked briskly past Brett’s office, no interest in dealing with him yet. In his office, Carter had a glass of twenty-five-year-old Macallan waiting for Kyle.
“It’s twenty-five hundred a bottle,” Carter said.
Kyle took a whiff, robust with hints of peach and wood.
“Sit down, son.”
Kyle warmed his tongue with a sip and sat across from Carter, who seemed unsure how to begin.
“Feeling rested?” Carter asked.
“The lake house was just what I needed, what Jamie and I needed.”
Carter rapped his desk with his knuckles. “Good … good.”
Silence filled the room. Kyle looked out the window and saw that the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree had gone up, ready to astound thousands of tourists.
“I don’t need to tell you how much attention this all has gotten,” Carter began. “For Burke & Burke as well. Getting work done lately has been … a challenge.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I never meant—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Carter said, and took an indulging sip. “I heard from Sierra Raven recently.”
“Is she all right?” Kyle asked. “I haven’t had a chance to be in touch with her since I’ve been back.”
“She’s severing her contract, no interest in writing the book anymore. In fact, her lawyer was the one who contacted me, claims excessive distress, blah, blah, wah, wah.”
“She told me in the hospital that she never wanted to write again. She’s been through a lot.”
“I’m not fighting her in the courts,” he said. “She’s giving her advance to some women’s antiviolence charity anyway, and I have more important business to discuss.”
“I’ve been editing The Dead Can’t Hunt You Down,” Kyle said.
“The what?”
“Shane Matthews’s novel about the ex–hit man—”
Carter shook his head. “No, no, no. I have more pressing business. Take another sip first.”
Kyle obliged and luxuriated in a long, slow sip.
Carter pulled Devil’s Hopyard from a drawer and placed it on the desk between them.
“I’ve read the entire thing,” Carter said.
“I’m sorry.”
Carter gave a bark of a laugh. “Still haven’t lost that sense of humor, I see.”
Kyle felt himself inching away from the manuscript, wanting to be as far away from it as possible.
“I want to publish it,” Carter said.
Kyle shook his head. “But it’s garbage.”
“Garbage that will make our shareholders very, very happy. This is how I see it…”
Kyle could tell that his boss had already planned this speech, probably practiced it in the mirror this morning.
“One of the big houses will publish this manuscript if we don’t, so bemoaning any ethical reservations is pointless.”
“But this is what William … what he wanted all along.”
It gave Kyle chills to even say William’s name. He hadn’t mentioned him at all since he and Jamie left for the lake house.
Carter wasn’t listening, caught up in his own spiel. “Publishers wait for this kind of gold mine their whole lives, and I want to give you the honor of editing it, Kyle … after all you’ve been through, of course.”
“But—”
“I know Brett was technically William’s editor since you passed on it, but it feels right to have it your hands. Go on.”
Carter kept pushing the manuscript across the desk until it sat under Kyle’s nose.
“This was what he planned,” Kyle said, raising his voice.
“None of the money will go to his estate. The family is up to their neck in legal troubles. The son and the wife are out on bail right now after some new evidence came through. They want us to
publish it.”
“He wins,” Kyle said, softly, a dying man’s final peep.
“This will take your career into the stratosphere. And I’ll be giving you a promotion to executive editor.”
Kyle turned to the first page, seeing the opening lines.
This is my story about the secret to immortality. Read carefully and let me teach you. Take notes, my friend. Welcome to DEVIL’S HOPYARD.
“So what do you say?” Carter asked, giving a sharklike grin.
From deep down, Kyle let out a never-ending silent scream.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am exceedingly grateful to all the people who helped this book come to life.
First and foremost, my awesome editor, Brendan Deneen, who came up with the concept of Cape Fear set in the publishing world, and not only gave me the opportunity to write his stellar idea but also allowed me the freedom to make it into the twisty thriller I’d always dreamed of writing, and then pruned away anything unnecessary. I am truly indebted.
To my fantastic agent, Sam Hiyate, who’s also a great friend and never gave up on me in the early years. Working with Sam has been like getting a second MFA degree, and I’ve become a better writer because of everything I’ve learned from him. Also, to all the other agents at The Rights Factory, who care for and build up their clients and are a blast to go out with when in town.
To my super-supportive readers and all their edits and words of encouragement. Vicky Forsberg and Erin Conroy for their judicious eyes on the early chapters when the book was an infant, and Jennifer Close, Michael Soussan, Vincent Zandri, Margot Berwin, and Dad for their comments when the book had grown. Also to Lila Cecil, for letting me work at an ideal desk in her home where some of the first pages were crafted. And to David Muller and Johanna Bartha, for another great author photo.
To everyone at Thomas Dunne Books and St. Martin’s Press, for making my first book at a big press such a pleasurable experience. Nicole Sohl was very helpful with every question I had, and Jimmy Iacobelli created an amazingly kick-ass cover. And a huge thanks to Elizabeth Curione and Cynthia Merman for their sharp eyes and careful copyedits.
To Jon Bassoff and Jonathan Woods, for editing and publishing my first novel, Slow Down, at New Pulp Press and giving a start to a career that I’ve fantasized about having since I was a kid.
To all my friends and family who were soundboards during this last year and half. Being a novelist is pretty much as solitary a profession as one can choose, so I’m lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life.
To the authors I read between drafts, especially Stephen King and Lou Berney, whose books were valuable guides while creating my own. And to Thomas Berger’s Arthur Rex, for being responsible for the initial spark.
Finally, a good chunk of The Mentor was written outside, so thanks to nature! Specifically, Gramercy Park, Tudor City Park, Santa Monica Beach, and always, my tree in Central Park that perfectly contours to the groove of my back. You rock, tree.
Also by Lee Matthew Goldberg
Slow Down
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LEE MATTHEW GOLDBERG’s debut novel, Slow Down, is a neo-noir thriller. His TV pilot, Join Us, was a finalist in Script Pipeline’s 2015 TV Writing Competition. After graduating with an MFA from the New School, he has published fiction in The Montreal Review, The Adirondack Review, Essays and Fictions, New Plains Review, Orion Headless, Verdad magazine, BlazeVOX, and others. He is the co-curator of the Guerrilla Lit Fiction Series. He lives in New York City. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
Also by Lee Matthew Goldberg
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE MENTOR. Copyright © 2017 by Lee Matthew Goldberg. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photograph © Jeffrey Coolidge / Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-08354-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-08355-5 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250083555
Our e- books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: June 2017