The Letter Keeper

by Charles Martin

  The room in which we stood could best be described as a gallery. Thousands of pictures of all sizes and colors covered almost every square inch of every wall. Looking at every one would take hours. Maybe days. In the middle of the room stood a long, thin wall made of two sheets of glass, maybe an inch apart, that ran floor-to-ceiling and divided the room. Between the sheets, suspended in straight, vertical rows, hung thousands of slides. Hand-picked by Bones. A robotic arm, attached to a projector, moved at random up and down the rows, shining a light through each slide and projecting the image on a white wall at the far end, creating a continual slideshow.

  Isolated in the center of the room stood one worn leather chair and ottoman. When Bones wasn’t developing, he’d select something from his wine cellar, sit in his chair, and sip while the memories returned.

  Bones beckoned and Ellie walked into the room. Eyes wide. “Uncle B, what is this?”

  Bones eyed a lifetime’s worth of pictures and shrugged. His honesty was disarming. “I’m never quite sure how to answer that.”

  Ellie studied the walls and put the pieces together. She pointed up, toward Freetown above us. “You mean, all those pictures running up and down Main Street. Hanging in the hospital. Displayed on every wall. Not to mention the show at the Planetarium. You took all those?”

  Bones considered this and nodded. Ellie continued studying the wall. After a few minutes, she jumped back and pointed as if she’d found a golden nugget. “Hey, there’s me!” Another second produced another laugh and more excited pointing. “And here I am with you!”

  I’d always thought Bones’s slides showcased his best work. I can’t qualify this for you or tell you why other than Bones had always told me that slides were very difficult to “hit.” When I asked him what this meant, he said, “They’re finicky.” Over time, I learned that in order for a slide to produce a really great image, the focus had to be crystal and the exposure had to be perfect or the image would be either fuzzy or overexposed. Meaning, out of several hundred slides, he might get only one wall-worthy image. A good slide was a needle-in-the-haystack thing.

  After a few minutes, Ellie’s attention turned to the slideshow being cast on the wall. Mesmerized, she moved to the chair, sat on the edge of the ottoman, and stared for several minutes as the robotic arm silently moved the light source through dozens of slides. Bones watched Ellie staring at the wall and a smile spread across his face. Finally, she stood up and sank her hands in her jeans. “It’s . . . amazing. Unlike anything I’ve ever . . .”

  Bones bowed slightly.

  She turned in a circle. “And here I was the whole time thinking you were just a crotchety old priest.”

  He laughed and studied his life’s work. Then he glanced at me. “I also priest.”

  I loved it when he used the word as a verb.

  Chapter 12

  Ellie had become comfortable walking into my room, sitting on my bed, and waiting for me to resume my story. Being around her was like standing next to a river. So much life held within its banks.

  These times had become precious to me, and I found myself listening and waiting for the creak of the door. And when I heard it, and she sprang into my room and catapulted herself onto my bed, eyes and ears expectant and heart longing, I stretched out the story.

  When I turned eleven, I found myself caught in that weird no-man’s-land of innocence mixed with the beginnings of hormones. Which meant I was both stupid and invincible. Not a good combination. House rules during the summer allowed that I could fish all night provided no boats were involved. Period. Feet on the bank at all times. That wasn’t open for discussion.

  One night a full moon appeared through my window so I slipped out and started walking the bank. A mile from my house strange lights shone through the trees accompanied by a strange commotion. Loud talking. Stuff breaking. Somebody wasn’t happy. All were noises not often heard around there.

  I crept toward the sound and found a dilapidated river boat tied up to a forgotten dock attached to a deserted house. Or it had been deserted. The boat, Black-Jack, was an old troller. Forty-plus feet. And while she’d seen better days, she was very much in service.

  Because black-hearted Jack and his strange boat were invading my home turf, I felt emboldened. Which again supports my stupid theory. I hopped onto the bow and spied through the galley glass where a fat, shirtless, bearded man the size of a bear was roughing up two girls who, judging by the looks on their faces, did not want to be on his boat. The brunette had a black eye mostly swollen shut, and the sandy blonde had blood dripping out the corner of her mouth and nose. They were tied back-to-back, dressed only in their underwear, and I recognized them—they waited tables at a place called the Seagull Saloon. A local burger joint along the docks in town.

  The old man had run out of booze and was turning the place inside out looking for a bottle. Not finding one, he was blaming them. He’d slap one, cuss the other, then smack the second and cuss the first.

  Stumbling, he backhanded the blonde, demanding to know where she hid it. Her voice shook, and while I couldn’t hear what she said, I could tell she didn’t have it.

  Not convinced, he moved to the brunette, who responded no better.

  Enraged, Jack put his fist through the window and split several of his knuckles. Wrapping his hand in what was once his T-shirt, Jack began tearing up the rest of the boat. While he rummaged below, the girls fought their ropes. But that was useless because evidently Jack knew a thing or two about knots, which made me wonder if he worked on a boat other than this one. With Jack occupied in the engine room, and without really thinking about my next move, I climbed down into the galley and—to their wide-eyed surprise—cut the ropes with my two-bladed Barlow. Once free, they grabbed their clothes and we bolted down the dock followed by Jack’s spit-filled tirade. When our feet hit dry land, those two girls took off as if shot out of a cannon. They never looked back.

  That’s when I heard the third girl scream.

  On the boat.

  It had never occurred to me that he might have someone else tied up in there. The next scream convinced me he did.

  Returning through the darkness toward the water’s edge, I found Jack in a bad way. And from the sound of the screaming, he was taking it out on the girl I’d not seen. I crept back onto the boat, climbed down into the galley, and peered below, where I found not one but two more girls—whom I did not recognize—less dressed and in a worse situation than the first two. Descending the stairs with my Barlow, I was about to cut their ropes when Jack wrapped his bear paw around my esophagus and stopped all airflow to both my lungs and brain.

  Jack lifted me off my feet and stared into my eyes. His breath made me nauseous and would gag a maggot. I nearly threw up. He breathed on me, laughed, shook me hard enough to sprain every muscle attaching my head to my shoulders, and then decided to turn my face into a punching bag—it only took one blow to turn out my lights.

  For which I was thankful.

  I woke the next morning in my bed. My face was swollen and almost every muscle and joint in my body felt as if it had been hit by a truck. I limped to the kitchen, where my suspicious mom asked what happened. Having all falsehood forever beat out of me by Giant Jack, I told her the truth, to which she responded with pancakes, excusal from my chores for a day, and a rather excited phone call to the sheriff, who appeared thirty minutes later with a yellow pad of questions.

  My head was splitting, but I did my best to answer his questions. I ran into trouble trying to answer his last two. For these, I had no response: How did I get away from Jack, and how did I get home?

  “I have no idea.”

  I also had no idea what had happened to my Barlow, and given that it was my only pocketknife, I was in a bad way.

  Two days later, I rode out our driveway on my bike and pedaled to town, where I found the Seagull Saloon in the post-afternoon rush. A couple of the dishwashers were sharing smokes out the back door, but the brunette and sandy blonde we
re nowhere to be found. I walked around front, took a seat at a booth, and kept staring over my shoulder for Jack when a handsome, chiseled man wearing a hat, sunglasses, and long-sleeve shirt appeared on the bench across from me. Given the shadow and stubble, it was difficult to make out the face. But unlike Jack, he did not scare me. For a few seconds, he sat with his hands folded, studying me.

  When he spoke his voice was calm. Kind even. “How’s the face?”

  I rubbed my chin and something told me less was more until I figured out just whose side this dude was on. “Okay.”

  “Your head ache?”

  “A bit.”

  “Jack’s a big man. I can’t decide if you’re brave or stupid.”

  My voice cracked when I spoke. “I felt brave until he started choking me, and then I felt stupid.”

  The man laughed and then, without explanation, he slid my two-bladed Barlow across the table and set it in front of me.

  I wasn’t sure if I should touch it.

  He leaned against the seat behind him. “You dropped that.”

  My eyes lit as that mystery had been solved. “Guess so.”

  “Why’d you go back?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to engage this joker in any more conversation than necessary. I didn’t know what he knew, and I didn’t want to let on to what I knew. “Sir?”

  “Onto the boat. A second time.”

  “You saw that?”

  A single nod.

  I stared at my knife. “Um . . .”

  He gestured. “Go ahead. It’s yours.”

  As I picked it up, he whispered, almost to himself, “So just why did you venture back into a hole that dark when you’d only just escaped?”

  “But,” I stammered, “they were screaming.”

  He nodded. “Yes, they were.”

  I tried to turn the focus off of me. “What were you doing there?”

  He considered my question and his answer. “Watching Jack.” He pointed at me. “You like to run?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “All the medals hanging in your room . . . you must be fast.”

  I guess that solved the next mystery but surfaced another one: How did he know where I lived? My head bobbed on a swivel, but I gathered control of it long enough to nod. “Faster than some.”

  “You like to run?”

  I nodded.

  “How about the training? You like all that running in circles?”

  “Don’t mind it.” I squirmed in my seat. “Sir, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  I looked over one shoulder and then whispered, “Where is Jack?”

  “Jail.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “Prison.”

  “For how long?”

  He considered this and pursed his lips. “Long time.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding since Jack grabbed my throat.

  “Sir, can I ask you something else?”

  A nod.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  He chuckled and shook his head once. “No.”

  “Are you a police officer or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Well . . . can I ask you something else?”

  “You already did that.”

  He was right, I had. “Well, can I ask you another something else?”

  His laughter exited his stomach in an easy exhale. Like a man who had earned it. He gestured with his hand, suggesting I continue.

  “Why were you there?”

  Without speaking, he reached in his pocket, set what looked like a coin down on the table, and slid it in front of me. Then, with the movements of a cat, he stood, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Keep running, kid. It probably saved your life.” After a pause, he said, “And maybe the lives of those girls.”

  As he walked away, my voice stopped him. “Sir, are they okay?”

  As the question left my mouth, a beautiful waitress with sandy-blond hair walked out of the kitchen carrying a glass of ice water. She wove through the tables, set the water on mine, and asked, “Ready to order?” Her bottom lip was slightly puffy and she’d attempted to cover a single scratch beneath her eye, but the sweat from working had washed off the makeup.

  And to my surprise, she did not recognize me.

  I didn’t see the man again until the following spring. Track season. He appeared at three of my meets. He’d stand off to the side, watch me run, and then disappear just as quietly. And while he never said a word, he stood there long enough and allowed me to see him—to know he’d been there—which said plenty.

  As for the coin, it was either platinum or pewter. Something silvery. But not fancy. Worn from what I could only guess were years in his pocket. Engraved. Six words on one side. Five on the other. Looked like he had it made a long time ago to remind him of something he didn’t want to forget. That day at lunch I had placed it in my palm and read it. Again that night. And every day for months and years thereafter. It was a puzzle. A riddle even. It became as constant in my pocket as my Barlow. Many a night I sat awake staring at the engraving, wondering what on earth it meant. And why he gave it to me. A couple of times I even tossed it in my trash can only to dig it out hours later. Eleven simple, universe-shattering, paradigm-wrecking words that, when strung together, made about as much sense to me as the man who gave it to me.

  Who was he? Where’d he come from? Why was he there? And what was his interest in me? I had no answers for any of these questions.

  Ellie didn’t like ending on a cliffhanger. She raised an eyebrow. “You still have it?”

  I slid it from my pocket and laid it in her palm.

  She ran her fingers across the worn edges. “This is it?” Then, looking up at me, she said with disbelief, “Really?”

  A nod.

  “You’ve carried this with you?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Even while you were looking for Mom?”

  “Especially while.”

  Chapter 13

  Weeks passed. As I busied myself in telling my story, or better yet our story, to Ellie, Casey buried herself in the telling of her own story. The unpacking. She cried. She screamed. She vomited her life both in the toilet and on the page. Days with no sleep. Weeks without rest that bled one into another. Throughout her life of inconsistency, one thing had remained consistent. Casey had kept an electronic journal. A cloud record of her life. Wherever she went, it went. Its presence known only to her. Because of this, the telling of her story was quick, honest, and raw.

  And true.

  Finally, she brought it to me. Afraid at first. “I was wondering . . .” I waited. “If you wouldn’t mind . . .” She handed me a hundred pages. “It’s pretty rough. I just . . .”

  A beautiful offering.

  From page one, she had me. Seldom, if ever, have I read a heart so open. So inside out. I wept, I laughed, I wanted to kill several people, and I wanted to lift her out of that sick world and place her anywhere but. I’d never read anything like it. The next morning I knocked on her door. The sound of clicking keys stopped. The hummingbird resting on the edge of the desk. I set the pages next to her and she bit her lip.

  “You can be honest. Really. I can handle it.” She faked a smile. “I’ve probably heard worse.”

  “I’d like your permission to send it to my publisher.”

  She sucked in a breath and pulled her knees to her chest. Tears immediately appeared in the corners of her eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should publish this.”

  “Nobody would ever buy this—”

  I interrupted her. “We don’t write books because they sell.”

  “Why then?”

  I pointed at the printed pages of her electronic journal. “Because we can’t not.” This she understood.

  “You think a publisher would actually . . .”

  I nodded.

  “But . . .”

  I waited
.

  She stared at the pages and shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  She bit her lip again. “What if . . .”

  “Casey, we’re all afraid.” I sat opposite her. “And fear is a liar.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me.”

  “What about terrified?”

  “Terror is a liar too.”

  She was still hesitant. “There are people who do not want this story told.”

  “I know.”

  “What if they come for me?”

  “It’s a risk.”

  “Can you protect me?”

  “I can.”

  “Will you?”

  “I will.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Her lip was trembling again. “You promise?”

  “With all that I have.”

  She slid the papers back across the desk to me while the hummingbird returned to the edge of the feeder—and gorged.

  A contract quickly followed. Accompanied by a small advance.

  My publisher sent galley copies to media outlets around the country. As Casey was unknown and her rescue not covered by the nightly news, most tossed it, thinking, People don’t want to hear this right now. It’s . . . too painful. Too . . . real. She’s just one girl. The few who made inquiries never followed through. The book died before it had a chance to breathe.

  While my publisher truly liked Casey and wished the environment were different, she gave me all the really good business reasons why this book would never sell and why they were now slating it for a limited release. “People just aren’t ready to hear this. People read for entertainment, and this . . . is not all that entertaining. So we’re pulling back the reins and going out with a little more discretion. Just enough to make Casey feel as though she’s had a book released to the world. You and I both know I’m doing you a favor, and . . .”

  I told her that if she ever wanted another book from me she’d put everything in her arsenal behind this book. And I meant everything. She thought I was kidding. I convinced her otherwise.