Ghostwright

by Michael Cadnum

  An inventor, his father could stand in the garage at his workbench while the soldering iron set a rag smoldering and, slowly, began a fire. The fire department had visited Gerald Speke’s garage three times, each time concluding a visit with a demonstration of how to use a fire extinguisher. The big men in black waterproof coats had always been both cheerful and condescending. The firemen had considered Gerald Speke a brilliant eccentric, and, in the clumsy file system of stereotypes so many people use, they expected him to be dangerously impractical.

  Gerald Speke raised two sons after his wife died of kidney failure. She was gone before she could make much of an impression on the memory of either boy. Art, the older brother, would withhold what vague memories he retained until Ham had performed some chore—taking out the trash or making Art’s bed—after which Art would say: “She was tall.” Or, “She had black hair.” Their father, both sons knew, mourned too deeply to discuss her, or even have her photograph on display.

  Gerald Speke died, caught in a downdraft while flying his Piper Cub over Mt. San Gorgonio, when Ham had already left home for San Francisco and a series of failed attempts at college, and Art had matured into the shrewdly unhappy man he remained. The inventor left some money, thanks to a series of improvements on adjustable razors he had sold to Gillette, and a chemical system for cleaning contact lenses, which was now obsolete but had made good money while it lasted. Ham was able to live on his share of the inheritance, often in grand style, if you counted the unstinting quality of the liquor consumed, and Art had perfected his education. Speke still got a quarterly check from his father’s trust, administered by a bank in Santa Monica. Even without the platinum albums and the plays, he would still have been able to live comfortably.

  But Speke had wanted more than comfort. He had ached to do something with his life, something big, something a boy from a dull, suburban past could take pride in. He had wanted a Name. His father would have recognized the need. One gnawing sorrow in his life was that he could not show his father around Live Oak. His father would have loved the place, Speke told himself, and he would have been proud of his younger son. He had not lived to see Hamilton Speke’s name on a marquee, or in TV Guide.

  “I think we probably have a ratio of, oh, twenty bucks to a hundred does.” Mr. Brothers had a wrinkled, tanned face, and a laconic manner which allowed comments about sports, weather and wildlife, but precluded anything beyond that. “That’s about a Coastal Range norm, I’d think.”

  This was Brothers’ usual phrasing, not offering what he actually thought, but what he would think if he were really forced to express an opinion.

  Perhaps he’d found a father substitute in Brothers, Speke thought. Their relationship carried little emotional weight, but he did enjoy their sunlit conversations. Brothers uncoiled a long, green hose and allowed himself some comments on the deer population in general. “Right now they’re going to be showing wear and tear. Acorn fall’s about eaten up.”

  Then, in the midst of a simple, masculine chat, the period of distraction passed and Speke was icy again.

  It’s real. It happened. This day, this solid world and its peacefulness, is an illusion.

  And this man, this wrinkled gardener, was a threat, just as every other human being was. Brothers’ mind was not limited to strict categories, only his conversation. The estate was several miles wide, but much of it was virtually impassable oak wilderness. Brothers could figure out that there was a disturbance in the soil of the estate that hadn’t been there last week.

  “A few years before you came there was a little trouble with a deer hunter,” Brothers was saying. “Heard his gun off to the south. One slug made it all the way to the front drive and died.”

  The thought ate at Speke all the way into the house. A deer hunter’s bullet could reach into their lives, even in this refuge.

  Maria was drying her hair. She looked paler and younger than ever, and he did not know whether to reassure her or take heart from her apparent calm.

  “I think,” he said, sitting on the bed, “people are going to be able to figure out what happened.”

  “How?” She stopped working her hair with the terry cloth, and turned to look at him. “What’s different?”

  “The hole.” He corrected himself. “The grave. And I think I should bury the motorcycle.”

  “No one can see it. I took a peek.”

  He absorbed this thought of Maria checking up on his handiwork.

  “They won’t even notice them,” she said, “especially if we keep away from them.”

  Sarah saw them, thought Speke.

  Maria touched his cheek. “Don’t worry, Ham. It’s all over. You’ll never have any trouble at all. Try to relax.”

  He took reassurance from her touch. But he saw how like so many other women Maria was—so many women he had, at one time or another, loved. He had always been quick to become passionate over a certain type of woman, an artistic, mysterious sort of woman who had always, in the past, seemed to melt away, dwindling to yet another human being once the mysteries evaporated.

  “I know,” she said, “exactly what I am doing.” There was, though, something strained in the way she said this. She was opaque, impossible to read. He had never been able to coax her into talking about herself, about her past. “I only want the future, and you,” she would say. His wife was a lyrical enigma. He would never understand her at all, he thought, anymore than he would understand gravity, or the electron.

  Before he could stop himself, he said, “It won’t work.”

  She took him in with a glance, and dismissed his words with a sharp exhalation through her nostrils. It was this soft derision that made him so suddenly cold. She had sounded, for an instant, like Asquith.

  “You don’t have any faith at all,” she was saying.

  “Of course I have faith,” he began to protest.

  “In me,” she said.

  He could say nothing.

  “If the world discovers what you have done,” she said, her voice soft, as though she were reciting a gentle verse, “I won’t be able to survive it.”

  He reached out and took her hand. He said, after much hesitation, “I think Sarah knows something.” Strangely, the person who inspired his greatest faith was Sarah, and Sarah was now a threat.

  Maria folded her towel. “I wouldn’t worry about Sarah,” she said, in a hard voice he had never heard her use before. “I can handle Sarah.”

  His father had immersed himself in work. Work, his father had not had to explain, was a cure for grief. So, Speke promised himself, I’ll work hard.

  He would work hard on his biography. Even so, he did not want to talk to Sarah. She might ask an awkward question, or, even worse, he might offer an awkward lie. He asked for his morning muffins to be served in the office, and he looked over the subjects he had planned to discuss with the biographer.

  He studied his list of favorite movies. There were so many movies he loved, and wanted to see again and again, that the list had flowed onto four pages. Surely the biographer would find this fascinating. Then there was the list of favorite musicians. He kept adding John Lee Hooker, and then scratching him off.

  The intercom made a barely audible tick when it was about to speak. It made that small sound now, but then there was a long silence.

  A long silence that made Speke’s collar tighten at his throat. Was Sarah eavesdropping on him?

  “It’s someone from the police department,” said the intercom in Sarah’s coolest voice.

  That was terrific. Just wonderful. So much for Maria’s reassurance. So much for those random periods of calm. He gripped the edge of the desk. Sarah had called them, a voice within him hissed. This was her doing.

  Still, he told himself, there is no need to disintegrate. Stay cool. He pressed his finger to the last remaining crumb of blueberry muffin, and licked his fingertip. He brushed his hands, and pushed the plate across the desk. The room still smelled of scotch, although the scent of sage was gra
dually breathing into the room through the open windows.

  Sarah was waiting for his response. I am perfectly cool, he told himself. Licking crumbs off my fingers.

  But he couldn’t talk. Act normal, he thought. Clear your throat, shift in your chair, and ask if he had an appointment.

  “Ham? Are you listening?” said the intercom.

  He could dash out the windows and flee the office, make it to the garage, have the Jaguar through the gate and up the highway before Sarah and the cop ever realized he was gone. That was a bad plan, though. And he couldn’t leave a cop alone on the estate. He might poke around. He knew how they did it. They poked sticks into the ground, and sniffed the dirt end.

  “Ham?”

  “I’m fine, Sarah. I was just in the middle of a thought. This muffin is really delicious. Did he, by any chance, say what this was about?”

  The intercom went dead. She was back in a moment with, “He says he really needs to see you.” Her tone said: he is listening to every word.

  The news was getting better and better. Fine. This was it. How did he want to play this? Jimmy Cagney? Humphrey Bogart? A shootout was not quite the way to end his career, although Bell could make it sound romantic, somehow. It would be the second-to-the-last chapter of the bio. “Speke’s Last Stand.” He didn’t have a gun though. He hated guns.

  This was the end. Maybe Sarah hadn’t called them. Perhaps there had been a note left behind by Asquith. Something like: if I don’t come back by midnight call the police. Because here it was only the next day, and they were already sending men with Police Specials out into the woods.

  He drew himself up, and spread his legs like a man awaiting combat with sword and buckler.

  Don’t make it easy for them, he thought. Make them drag you out of here.

  15

  The cop was gray-haired but youthful, one of those dapper small men whose company Speke had always enjoyed. The man sported a bright red silk tie and black Italian loafers. He could have been an assistant movie producer, except he had one brown tooth.

  Speke read the business card, and ran his finger over the words, feeling suddenly dyslexic: Franklin Holub. Detective, Police, City of San Francisco.

  He took a deep breath he hoped Holub would not notice. Okay, he thought. It’s missing the word “Homicide.” So don’t panic. Did you think you’d never hear from anyone about this? An investigation was inevitable. Stay calm. Don’t smile too much.

  Things were happening quickly. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Asquith—since the accident. Even romance can be quick. He had met Maria at a gallery. It hadn’t been entirely accidental. He had responded to a telephone solicitation to see a series of watercolors dedicated to Hamilton Speke by Maria Merriam, the artist who was all the rage. So he had naturally, out of vanity and curiosity, wandered by Sutter Street after a drink at the Redwood Room and a week later they were married. It had been fast. Fast, and very lucky. Maybe this would be lucky, too.

  Of course, he told himself. Everything’s going to be fine. But the man had steady, dark eyes. He sat down as though he owned the chair, and slipped a yellow lined tablet from an imitation leather folder.

  “You’re quite a way out of your normal territory,” said Speke. He had nearly said “jurisdiction,” but that word smacked of judges and gavels—of prison.

  “It’s a nice morning for a drive.” It was worse, in a way, this attempt at pleasantry. The man did resemble a gentle excecutioner, the kind that used a needle.

  “I think we usually call the San Mateo county sheriff if we have a burglar.”

  Of course, Speke reminded himself, there had never been a burglar here at Live Oak. There had never been any trouble at all.

  “I saw you on the Academy Awards,” said Holub.

  “Thank you.”

  “Too bad you didn’t make it.”

  That’s true, thought Speke. Too bad. He said nothing, but gave one of his—he hoped—manly smiles, the kind that always worked.

  “I’m here to ask you some questions about Timothy Asquith.”

  Hope, that fragile creature, fell dead. Speke coughed.

  Holub kept talking. He would be quick, and not take any more of Speke’s time than he had to, he said while he got his pen in hand. “You don’t mind too much, I hope.”

  Speke stared, twitched, and opened his mouth. “I love talking about Timothy Asquith.”

  “You know him.” It was not a question.

  The English language slithered away, and could not be commanded by any effort. “Sure. A brilliant guy.”

  “Have you seen him recently?”

  A tremor passed through Speke’s body. “It’s been years. Many years. Why? What’s the matter? There’s nothing wrong with him, I hope. I hate to even ask. I mean, I’m sitting here talking to a—you’re a detective.”

  “That’s right.”

  Holub was trim, with muscular arms beneath his French-fit shirt. Speke decided to be bold. “I’m working on a book right now. My biography. Not an autobiography—an official life.” Speke was impressed with his own smoothness. “It’s a pretty major undertaking.”

  Holub made a note with his pen. What was he writing down? “Not an autobiography?” Speke was going to have a heart attack, or a duodenal hemorrhage, or simply explode in about three seconds. He struggled to keep still.

  “What I’m trying to say is,” Speke continued, “I want to help. But I’m under a tight schedule.”

  “We think Asquith has been living in San Francisco for the last few months.” Holub toyed with the pen, a black ballpoint, and gazed at Speke in a way that made him feel very cold.

  He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know that. I thought he lived in the East somewhere. Well, actually, I more or less assumed he was either dead or hospitalized.”

  “Dead?”

  Keep talking, Speke commanded himself. “He was into drugs. Heavily. I don’t ever expect to see him again.” It was true, and, even better, it sounded true.

  Something switched off in Holub, some current of skepticism. Maybe it was Speke’s handsome, famous grin. Maybe it was the apparent truthfulness in his voice.

  “Asquith got himself into some legal trouble. Your name turned up.”

  This was not as informative as it sounded. He echoed, “Legal trouble?” Speke savored the phrase and found it wanting. “I haven’t seen him for fifteen years.”

  “He has a history of mental illness, although he struck a lot of the people we talk to as reasonably sane.”

  People? He knew actual people? The old Asquith had loathed conversation. He had cherished music, and the heroic wherever he had found it, but actual people had disturbed him.

  Besides, Holub was telling him nothing. “Why are you here?” Blunt, but Speke wanted to get this over with, one way or another, as soon as possible.

  “We’re in the process of finding this man. People on the East Coast have some questions for him.”

  Questions. Another useless word. “You don’t look for someone just because you have questions.”

  “That would depend on the nature of the questions involved.”

  This cop was as smart as he looked. Speke could be coy, too. “What’s he done?”

  “He’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals. Discharged once, escaped once, caught and readmitted.”

  Even a euphemism packs power. “Caught and readmitted.” It sounded desperate, anguished. “He was dangerous?”

  “They aren’t sure.”

  “We used to know each other. I do get my share of crank letters—all kinds of people have songs they want to sell me, or … other ideas.” He stopped himself before he added, plays, tunes, titles, whole works of art that could make a lot of money.

  “Of course.” The pen made a note. “But Asquith vanished from custody—excuse me, from the hospital—two years ago. He was considered criminally insane, but a low priority. No one looks for insane people any more. There are too many of them. But recently he beg
an becoming a subtle kind of nuisance.”

  Speke opened his hands to say: tell me more.

  “He began frightening people. He appeared in the living room of the owner of the Mason Theater, seemingly lucid as hell, but promising that he was going to prove that he was the author of … one of your early plays, the one they made the movie of with … the one about the man who killed his wife and tried to—”

  “Kingdom of Daylight.”

  “He phoned television stations, newspapers. The same story. He wrote the songs, the plays—and he would prove it in a few days. We put the stories together, and bent a rule or two and looked into his apartment when we finally found out where he was living. He was living a comfortable life. Supported by some means we haven’t figured out yet. And his place, a pretty nice one-bedroom in Pacific Heights, was a shrine to you. Your picture, reviews, articles, all over the walls.”

  Speke said nothing, his face, he was virtually certain, a perfect mask. He silently chided himself for being so out of touch that he had heard nothing of Asquith’s recent activities.

  Holub ended the silence. “The man has vanished. No one has seen him. We think his intent is criminal.”

  Speke did not blink. He waited.

  “I was hoping, to be honest with you, that he’d called you up, or paid you a visit, and threatened you. A big name like yours would be more than enough for us to have a strong case. You can’t go around threatening people. Some people think we should send him to Napa State, or Atascadero. Personally, I think a few months of exposure would do him good.”

  “Exposure?”

  “Prison.”

  Talk, Speke commanded himself. And you better sound good. “But the poor guy is obviously a mental pancake. He doesn’t belong in prison. Asquith was a man who had compassion for people.” Speke’s voice began to rise. “You can’t treat a man of his sensitivity like a thug.”

  “Theater owners, reporters, ordinary citizens—even famous ones. They deserve to be protected, too.”

  “I can’t see this as a threat.”

  “You deserve to be protected, Mr. Speke.”