Except write.
Or sleep.
Or bury the corpse that was decomposing in his closet.
2.
The e-mail was from Cillian.
He’d known he’d eventually hear from the guy again. It had been a week since the creepy young man had approached him at the book signing in New York. He was surprised Cillian’s next step was a harmless e-mail. The address was interesting: [email protected].
Dennis wasn’t sure what Demonsaint meant and wasn’t in the mood to ask. The e-mail was short.
Dear Mr. Shore: Do you remember what it was like when you first wrote Breathe? Did it come easily? Will you ever recapture that energy? Cillian
That pompous little jerk. He’s goading me now. Taunting me.
He started to write a reply, something along the lines of “Get lost” except far more creative, but stopped and canceled the e-mail.
That’s what he wants: a response.
A few moments later, an instant-messaging box popped up on his screen, full of text.
I know you’re there. And I know you want to respond. I’ll ask my question again. Do you remember what it was like writing a book that would go on to sell several million copies? Do you remember when you didn’t have the pressure of a name, of a slot to fill on the NY Times list, of a thousand mouths to feed at a publishing house?
Dennis didn’t answer, instead turning up the music and trying to get some writing done. He clicked off the box in the corner of his screen. But it burst back almost instantly.
You don’t remember, do you?
Then another.
You can never recapture what it was like, can you?
Then another.
You’re afraid you’ve lost it. And this is the thing, Mr. Shore. I believe you have too.
Then another.
You can’t begin to fathom loss, or hurt, or pain.
But you will.
You will, Dennis.
Dennis gritted his teeth and cursed, picking up a paperback on his desk and hurling it across the room. He would’ve done that to his iMac, but he needed it. He shut down his computer and left the room. On his way out, he decided to open his closet door. Just open it. Just in case.
The door sounded like it hadn’t swung open like that for some time. Dennis turned on the light.
There was nothing and nobody there. Just a lot of books.
He turned off the light and closed the door.
Tonight the house felt very still, and very empty.
3.
The old brick church in downtown Geneva had stood there for more than a hundred years. It had character, the kind of church couples put their names on waiting lists for their weddings, the kind that would probably still be there even if someone proved God didn’t exist. Lucy went there with Audrey the last few years of her life. Dennis had gone a few times after constant urging, but not enough to consider it routine, like going to the dentist. At least going to the dentist accomplished something.
Throughout the years, as Dennis and the girls passed by the church, he often remarked at the weekly sayings on the sign outside the building. Whoever put these up had a good sense of humor.
“Why can’t the preacher have a sense of humor like those signs?” Dennis asked his wife one summer day. “That’s the kind of church I want to go to.”
Some of the more classic ones Dennis remembered included “We are not Dairy Queen, but we have great Sundays!”, “Have you read my #1 bestseller? There will be a test. God” (that one in particular made him laugh), “Stop, drop, and roll does not work in hell” (which he said was inspiring—giving warnings about impending fire and brimstone to an entire city), and then the whole series of God is like… including the classic “GOD is like ALLSTATE.… You’re in good hands with Him.”
Even Lucy had laughed at some of the church signs. Dennis, meanwhile, just went off about them.
“Okay, so what’s that trying to say then?” he asked one day after passing a sign.
“Yes, I know.”
“You know what?” Dennis asked, smirking.
“That one was—interesting,” Lucy said.
“ ‘Interesting’?” Dennis had laughed at her. “ ‘Try Jesus. If you don’t like Him, the devil will always take you back.’ Well, that’s comforting. I would love to know what they teach the kids in Sunday school.”
“Those signs are just meant to get people’s attention.”
“And tell us we’re on our way to hell. I already know that based on some of the things my book critics have said.”
“I picture some eighty-year-old janitor putting up those signs,” Lucy said with a gleam in her eyes. “One of those old-timers who always has a saying and a quip.”
“Exactly,” Dennis said. “And I bet the pastors scratch their heads and go ‘Oh boy.’ But it’s Vernie’s job.”
“Vernie?” Lucy asked.
“Sure. Seems like he’d be a Vernie.”
Lucy shook her head. “No. I see him as a Walter.”
“This is why I don’t give you early drafts of my novels.”
She nudged him. “No, it’s because I don’t read your books. I don’t want nightmares.”
“‘You think it’s hot now.… God.’”
“Stop,” Lucy said.
“I think one morning the pastor should just read a list of all the church signs. I’d go to that service.”
Passing the church the morning after his online contact with Cillian, Dennis recalled a host of memories. And it felt like brushing by a cactus.
This was how he grieved. He hadn’t wept bitterly after Lucy’s passing because they had known it was coming. He hadn’t been prepared; one can never prepare to lose a loved one. But he had remained strong for Audrey. And he had immersed himself in work. Or the illusion of work, however unproductive it might be.
But every now and then it came. The stinging barb of memory.
The way she laughed at his jokes, even if they were sometimes terrible. The way she talked. The way she lived her life.
Her name and her face and her touch and her life were all easily conjured up by the smallest or most simple or even the craziest thing.
Like a church sign.
And today he remembered this as he passed. And he noted the sign: “God knows you well and loves you anyway.” Dennis thought about that for a minute. So the implication was that God shouldn’t love him? Because what? Because he was such a sinner?
He suddenly wanted to punch whoever put up that sign. He didn’t want God’s love. In fact, he didn’t want anything to do with God.
Just send her back to me if she happens to be around.
He looked over at the empty passenger seat in the large SUV. He wished Lucy were there. She would have said something uplifting or encouraging. All he could think of right now were profanities.
Staring at the grooves outlined in the leather seat, Dennis sighed.
4.
It was three in the afternoon when Dennis saw him. The figure lurking behind his house.
He first saw the man by accident. Dennis was getting a glass of water in the kitchen and sorting through a stack of mail. It seemed like Audrey’s mail was only increasing. The credit card companies sure wanted her. Occasionally a piece would come for Lucy. He liked seeing mail come to her attention. It made it seem like she was still a part of his life in some way. Today there was nothing but junk. And as he prepared a pile to throw into the garbage, he saw a towering block amble by his window.
Dennis ducked before he had time to think. He went around to the window and caught a glimpse of the stranger’s back.
Too big to be him.
But this still could have something to do with Cillian. Maybe it was a friend that he sent to do the dirty work for him. To vandalize the house or trash the lawn or scare the snot out of Dennis.
Dennis thought about calling the police. But he put the phone down, knowing he couldn’t involve them after what he’d done. Another thought race
d through his head. He should grab something to protect himself with. Dennis watched the man through various windows. At one point he lost the trespasser and rushed upstairs for a better view.
Maybe he’s inside. Maybe he found a way to get inside.
The doors were unlocked. Dennis never locked them. Why should he?
He went to his study and got a baseball bat—a memento from his college days. It felt sturdy, and he knew it would do quite a bit of damage against an intruder’s head.
Halfway down the staircase, he froze.
It was the doorbell.
The door was right in front of him, in front of the stairs.
His heart pounded, his hands throbbing as he gripped the smooth wood of the bat. For a second he thought about not answering, but it rang again.
Hello? Any plagiarizers home?
They had to know he was home.
They? As in the group of them? Are there more outside?
He went to the door and opened it to see immense shoulders, a thick neck, a square jaw.
And death.
“Mr. Shore?”
Dennis nodded, the bat still in his hand.
“Just wanted to let you know I checked and things should all be good.”
“Checked what?”
“Your cable. I’m from Comcast. You called on Friday.”
“Oh, right,” Dennis said.
The bat suddenly felt heavy. The big guy glanced at it, then back at Dennis, then smiled.
“Well, if there’s anything else you need, just give us a call.”
“Sure,” Dennis said, closing the door, looking at the bat, and shaking his head.
5.
That night Cillian e-mailed him again.
It was another simple question.
Scared yet?
For a long time, Dennis just looked at the two words, wondering what Cillian was referring to. He finally broke down and e-mailed him back.
Scared of what?
The reply came swiftly.
Scared of me. Scared of what you’ve done. Scared of what you haven’t done. Scared of tonight. Scared of tomorrow. Are you scared, Dennis?
Dennis typed a response: NO. It was a lie of course.
You will be. I haven’t even started to mess with you and your life, but I will. And I will very soon, Dennis.
Sweet dreams.
2005
A young woman in black pants and a stylish cream jacket walked by, pushing her matching cream stroller. The baby inside was silent. The woman was tall, good-looking. Her striking green eyes glanced at him with a smile that quickly disappeared. She looked away, quickening her pace down the sidewalk.
Cillian had been sitting on this stone bench for an hour now. He had already finished reading two newspapers all the way through. He was getting tired of looking at his watch.
In another fifteen minutes he would leave.
Behind him sat the courthouse with its cannons on the lawn. He sat on the edge of Third Street, watching a sea of wealthy strangers walk past carrying bags from the dozens of local niche stores. A week ago, on this very same street, he had gotten lucky. He had driven past and seen the author getting into his car. He had tried turning his own car around but hadn’t been able to do it quick enough to follow him.
He asked a few people; they said Dennis Shore came by the post office once a day.
It was easy finding out where Dennis lived. Geneva, Illinois. But his home address was unlisted, as was his telephone number. So Cillian had decided to come down and wait. It was close to the time he had seen him in passing last week.
Seven more minutes. Seven more minutes and he’d leave.
The summer day was hot, his forehead probably already sunburned.
An older woman in a wide flowery hat walked by and said hello. He didn’t reciprocate. His eyes peered through sunglasses at the revolving strangers sending out mail.
And then the car pulled up.
It was a silver four-door Volvo SUV. The same one he had seen the other day.
And out stepped Dennis Shore, wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a red T-shirt. He wore sunglasses and looked unshaven.
Cillian wondered if this was how Dennis Shore always dressed up when running errands in town. He couldn’t help smiling. He stood and walked to his car. In the hot leather seat, the air conditioner cooling him down, he waited to see the author again. Ten minutes later, several items of mail in hand, Dennis Shore climbed back into the Volvo. Soon the silver vehicle passed directly in front of him.
He turned his car right to head down Third Street, following. And in less than ten minutes, maybe even five, he watched the silver Volvo pull into the street flanked by walls and trees and bushes off of Route 31.
A sign said Private Property.
He slowed but sped up as the car behind him pulled up to his bumper. He drove down 31 for a few minutes, then turned around, driving past the driveway again.
The private dirt road headed down toward the river. He could barely make out the two houses down there because of the tall, aged trees. One was a stately Victorian house, another a lackluster two-story brick house.
He guessed which belonged to Dennis Shore.
And he smiled, knowing it wasn’t private property anymore.
Breathe
1.
The doorbell rang and someone tromped in before Dennis could get to the front entryway.
“Hey, man, your neighborhood having a cleaning day or what?” Hank McKinney always came over on Sundays during the football season. He was a jock who used to play hockey and had a face that proved it. His muscular arms carried a box full of food and beverages.
“Why do you say that?” Dennis asked.
“’Cause the Addams Family next to you has a lawn full of garbage that’s blowing over into your yard.”
Dennis stepped through the front door as Hank headed toward the kitchen. There were newspapers scattered over his lawn, stuck in his bushes, even somehow lodged in his trees. Then he noticed other things. A sock. A cardboard box. A couple of milk jugs. And sprinkled like snow all across his yard, shredded Styrofoam. He shook his head and shut the door. He’d deal with this later.
In the kitchen, the stout guy wearing the Bears jersey was almost finished unloading everything he’d brought.
“Expecting company?” Dennis asked as his friend finished putting the beer in the fridge.
Hank just grunted. “What’s the story on those neighbors?”
“I have no idea,” Dennis said, stacking dirty dishes in the sink. “They’ve been there since we moved in. They’re reclusive—they never have the lights on. Sometimes I see the old man using an ax in his front yard, chopping something—I don’t know what. It’s strange.”
“Yeah, they’re weird all right.”
“Every time I try to make conversation they either act like they don’t understand English or simply are completely unsocial. Yet then I see them talking to the mailman, so I have no idea.”
Hank uncapped a beer and offered it to Dennis.
“I still have a stomach full of coffee,” Dennis said.
“You suck at tailgating, you know that?”
“We’re not twenty-five anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. How’s the bachelor life?”
“Quiet,” Dennis said.
“Any more strange girls knocking on your door?”
Hank was one of the few people he’d told about Samantha.
“Yeah, this time a trio of beauties showed up at my door. I sent them away.”
“Send them over to my pad.”
They went to the family room where Dennis’s state-of-the-art television hung against the wall. He had bought an entire package—the high-definition television, the Bose surround sound system, the one remote to rule them all. Lucy would never have allowed him to spend that much money on technology, no matter how big his savings account was.
As the announcers blathered on about how the Bears were sure to lose today,
Hank quickly polished off his first beer.
“Nervous about the game?” Dennis asked.
Hank had a few days’ worth of reddish beard, deepening the color that was already there from so much time in the sun. He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “Nah. Julie came over.”
“To your apartment?”
“Yeah. Must be the apocalypse if she came over, right? That or the fact that she’s getting married and moving to Santa Barbara or Santa Ana or Santa Claus. Somewhere in California.”
Dennis watched as Hank sucked down half of his second beer, his eyes glued to the television. He’d seen Hank before when he was in this mood, and he was like a loaded gun. Eventually he was going to go off.
“I mean, I knew she was dating, you know, but I didn’t think it was that serious. And maybe it’s not that serious. Maybe it’s a serious rebound from us being official six months ago.”
Hank and Julie had been married for eight years. It was Hank’s second marriage and her first. Part of the issue, an issue that had always been there, was Hank’s first go-around and the three children he had with his first wife. Dennis was glad there had been no children for Hank and Julie. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“Tell me you were right,” Hank said, cursing as he looked at his friend. “You can say it. Go ahead.”
“I think I might go ahead and have a beer,” Dennis said.
“No, come on. I mean, you were the best man. A guy’s supposed to listen to his best man, right? And what’d you tell me—Lucy and you in fact.” He cursed again. “What’d you guys tell me before I proposed, and then again before the wedding?”
“It’s done now.”
“You were right.”
“Life happens,” Dennis said. “We’re both alone and neither of us expected it or wanted it.”
“Yeah, but for you—I mean, women like Lucy don’t come along. Ever. And I mean—she was something else, you know? What she went through, that’s just not right. For me it was my own stupid fault, you know, but not you. It wasn’t your fault Lucy died. You didn’t have me telling you the night before the wedding not to go through with it.”
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