Applause. Cheers. I join Bennett at the podium; he shakes my hand and moves away to give me room.
“Good evening,” I begin. “When I was growing up on Chicory Lane, this park was a sanctuary for me and my friends. Some of you older folks might remember there was the hulk of an old World War II–era airplane sitting right over there that we could play on top and inside of. Ultimately, I guess the powers that be decided it wasn’t the safest contraption to have in the park. There were some jagged edges here and there, and of course we didn’t have the kinds of safety rules in place back then. And right in the spot where we’re standing, there used to be an old yacht sitting in the grass. I think the authorities took that one away because the teenagers used it as a place to neck.” A little laughter from the crowd. “At any rate, it’s been fifty years since those days, and the park has changed a lot. The surrounding neighborhoods have changed, too. When I was a young girl, everything beyond the eastern edge was still desert land. Development happened pretty quickly in the seventies, and now Limite extends several miles in that direction. But for me, this park will always be the unnamed haven where I would go to escape. I suppose I didn’t really know what I was escaping from until much later. I’m sure you know to what I am referring.
“But enough of that. Let’s do this, all right? I am very pleased that the Limite Parks Commission allowed me to make a change in the dedication at such short notice. It means a lot to me. It brings closure to a very painful period of my life, and hopefully also to a dark mark in the history of Limite.
“I hereby dedicate this park to the memory of my little brother, who died in July 1966. Hereafter, this plot of land shall be known as Michael Truman Memorial Park.”
There is applause.
Refreshments are served under a small canopy. I sit at a table and sign books and greet everyone who showed up. It isn’t as bad as I’d feared. It’s all over in thirty minutes.
And by then, Eddie Newcott is dead.
31
I’m back in Chicago on Saturday. Mr. Crane phones me to say that the execution went “smoothly,” as if it had been a routine medical procedure. Eddie had offered no final words and went peacefully. I thank him, hang up, and set about catching up on correspondence and business that had accrued in my absence. Billy has been on top of everything, so there isn’t much to do. Surprisingly, I had a very good sleep Saturday night, and I awake on Sunday morning with a clear head and a renewed sense of purpose.
It’s time to get back to starting that next Patricia Harlow novel, but somehow it doesn’t feel right. How can I possibly get back into the swing of churning out fantasy romance fluff after the revelations I’ve uncovered? There’s nothing wrong with romance fiction—it’s been good to me—but perhaps now it’s time to try something different. My publisher will give me hell, but so what? I’ll convince them.
But one of the most frightening and challenging things a human being can do the first thing in the morning—and by that I mean after you get out of bed, pee, put on something warm, and have some breakfast and coffee (that last part is essential)—is to sit down at a computer and begin to write a new novel.
My instinct is that this one is going to be about the nature of Evil. Evil with a capital “E.” After all, I have some experience with that creature. “Write what you know.” Ha. I’ve looked Evil in the face, touched it, and bared my heart to it. It insinuated itself into my existence. It paid a visit to the street where I grew up and changed many lives. It destroyed two families. I’m now an expert on Evil. I know now that Evil can visit anyone, anywhere, anytime. It is a powerful energy within nature that resides where you least expect it. I’ve also come to believe that it is the dominant force when compared to Good. That’s why human beings have to work extra hard to fight it and be Good.
It’s tragically easy to be Evil.
The new work won’t be about a heroine in a tight bustier. Whatever the book turns out to be, it will become my catharsis, an exorcism of the demons that have plagued me since the summer of 1966. And it will be a tribute to the love of my life and the burden of my soul.
A story of absolution for the boy across the street.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Raymond Benson is the author of over thirty-five books and previously penned The Black Stiletto (2011), The Black Stiletto: Black & White (2012), The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes (2013), The Black Stiletto: Secrets & Lies (2014), and The Black Stiletto: Endings & Beginnings (2014). The ebook anthology, The Black Stiletto: The Complete Saga, has been a digital #1 bestseller.
Between 1996 and 2002, he was commissioned by the James Bond literary copyright holders to take over writing the 007 novels. In total, he penned and published worldwide six original Bond novels, three film novelizations, and three short stories. His book The James Bond Bedside Companion, an encyclopedic work on the 007 phenomenon, was first published in 1984 and was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by Mystery Writers of America for Best Biographical/Critical Work.
Raymond recently co-edited with Jeffery Deaver the anthology Ice Cold—Tales of Intrigue from the Cold War. His original suspense novels include Evil Hours, Face Blind, Sweetie’s Diamonds, Torment, and Artifact of Evil. The “rock ‘n’ roll thrillers,” A Hard Day’s Death and the Shamus Award–nominated Dark Side of the Morgue, appeared in 2008 and 2009, respectively. A prolific tie-in writer, Raymond has also penned original and adapted works based on various video game franchises such as Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell (using the pseudonym “David Michaels”), Metal Gear Solid, Homefront (co-written with John Milius), and Hitman.
The author has taught courses in film genres and history at New York’s New School for Social Research; Harper College in Palatine, Illinois; College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and currently presents Film Studies lectures with Daily Herald movie critic Dann Gire. Raymond has been honored in Naoshima, Japan, with the erection of a museum dedicated to one of his 007 novels, and he is also an Ambassador for Japan’s Kagawa Prefecture. Raymond is an active member of International Thriller Writers Inc., Mystery Writers of America, the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers, and ASCAP, and served on the Board of Directors of the Ian Fleming Foundation for sixteen years. He is based in the Chicago area.
www.raymondbenson.com
www.theblackstiletto.net
The Secrets on Chicory Lane Page 22