by Hart, Jerry
Unfortunately, Don knew of no one who could help him find the man. He didn’t want to risk hiring another private investigator after the incident with Ethan. He thought of Cynthia and wondered if she had ever met his father. Being Mom’s sister, it was a possibility.
* * *
During Monica’s day off, she agreed to watch the boys while Don visited his aunt. Monica had been a tad reluctant to take on the task, though Don didn’t blame her. He promised he wouldn’t be gone long.
As he drove down that scenic highway to Cynthia’s place, he told himself he wouldn’t leave without answers. Cynthia had to know something about her sister’s boyfriends; sisters told each other things.
He pulled up to his aunt’s house and climbed those annoying brick stairs to the front door. She had told him to just come in when he arrived, but before he entered, he glanced across the street, to the little cemetery. Zombie Ethan, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.
Cynthia was sitting on the floor in front of her couch, changing the diaper of one of her youngest charges. The baby was no older than two and was giggling. “Who’s a stinky baby?” she asked the boy. “You are.” She looked up. “Hey, Don. I didn’t hear you come in.”
He hadn’t told his aunt why he wanted to talk to her; he wanted to catch her off-guard. He sat on the love seat and waited for her to finish.
After returning the baby to the others, who were all napping, she sat on the couch. “So, what’s on your mind?”
Don decided to cut to the chase. “I know Patrick Scott wasn’t my biological father.”
Whatever Cynthia had been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “Of course he was your father. Why would you say that?”
She sounded like she was telling the truth, and it disheartened Don. Maybe she didn’t know anything.
“Aunt Cynthia, Mom and Dad both told me about it, so you don’t have to pretend. I know Mom was pregnant with me before she met Patrick.”
His aunt simply sat there. Had he just dropped a bombshell on her? But then she asked, “Why do you want to know about him?”
Don took a moment to process her question. She did know. “Who was he?”
She sighed. “His name is Stephen.”
“Is? I thought he was dead.” Don instantly thought back to the man on the beach.
“He’s very much alive.”
“How do you know? Do you keep in touch with him?”
“I guess you can say that, yes.”
Don rubbed his sweaty palms against his lap. “Why does everyone think he’s dead, then?”
She looked about her living room, at her baubles and trinkets. “He did die,” she said. “And then he came back.”
“Excuse me?” Don couldn’t have heard correctly.
Cynthia looked at him. “He faked his death.”
“Why?”
“To hide from something.”
Don stared at his aunt in disbelief. How much did she know about the curse? “Did he tell you what he was hiding from?”
“No, but it must’ve been important enough to start a new life.”
“And you kept in touch with him after his...resurrection?”
She nodded. “He actually contacted me. He wanted to know how you were doing. I was his proxy, I guess you can say.”
Don couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His birth father was indeed alive and curse-free. “Where is he?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I can tell you that,” said Cynthia. “I shouldn’t have even told you this much.”
“I have to know. I have to talk to him. My family might be in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think Stephen passed something on to me, some kind of mental illness. I need to talk to him.” It wasn’t a lie.
Cynthia bit her lip. “I don’t know exactly where he lives. All I know is that he’s in Florida.”
Don sighed with relief. “I think I saw him on the beach when we were down there.”
She tilted her head. “How could you possibly know what he looks like?”
Don smiled. “I just know.”
“Stephen often worried about you as a kid. I figured there was more to it than just regular parental duty. You said something about mental illness?”
Don didn’t want to talk to his aunt about the curse. It had taken Cynthia’s sister; she had a right to know something.
“I don’t know what else to call it,” he began. “Something is wrong with my family. I thought it began with Mom and Ethan, but it seems to have been before that. Mom was infected by a dog.”
“Like rabies?” Cynthia asked.
“The worst case of rabies, if that’s it. Stephen passed it to me, Mom to Ethan.”
Cynthia nodded, taking in his words. “And you think you and Ethan passed it to your kids?”
“Yes.”
“And how can your dad help with this?” she asked, and Don tried to ignore the familial term she used for Stephen. “Can’t doctors help?”
“Doctors can’t even detect it. I’d gone to the hospital dozens of times as a kid and they never found anything wrong with me.”
“So, this...illness that affected my sister. Is that what made her go crazy and try to kill Patrick?”
“If Dad hadn’t stopped her, she might have killed us both.”
Cynthia thought on that, unable to say another word. She clearly missed her sister very much, and Don wished he could undo the harm the curse had inflicted. All he could hope to do now was prevent future tragedy.
“How did you stay in contact with Stephen?” he asked his aunt.
“Phone calls. I can definitely tell you he lives in Florida; he told me so a few years ago, when I last spoke to him.” She grabbed Don’s shoulder. “Good luck, Donovan. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
* * *
A week passed since Don had spoken with his aunt. He still couldn’t believe she’d been in contact with his father all these years. Why? Aunt Cynthia said it was because Stephen had wanted to know how Don was doing, but Don couldn’t help feeling that there was more to it than that.
Were the two adults seeing each other? Cynthia had said they’d only talked on the phone, but perhaps they rendezvoused every now and then. Don didn’t know how to find Stephen other than to hire another P.I. He thought about hiring the same one who’d found Ethan, but doing so would be risky after Ethan’s death.
Feeling helpless, Don buried himself in his writing. He was more than halfway done with the manuscript, yet he had no idea what it was about anymore. He just let his fingers do the typing. He decided he would read it once he was finished with the current chapter. He was almost afraid of what he would discover this time.
* * *
He and Monica grew distant the more he worked on his writing. He barely paid attention to his surroundings anymore. He could feel the distance between him and his wife, but when it came to actually acknowledging it, he simply couldn’t find the willpower. It felt like a mental block that he just couldn’t get past, and it was frustrating.
Everything was frustrating.
Monica begged him to stop writing for one whole day. He said okay but regretted it later on. His fingers itched for the keyboard. He felt compelled to get the story out, and that he would die if he held it in any longer.
Whenever Monica wasn’t looking, Don wrote in a notebook so he could transcribe later. He was cheating, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And what he didn’t know was that she’d seen him writing that day. She didn’t tell him until they went to bed that night.
“You just couldn’t stop for one fucking day,” she chastised.
“I write for a living, Monica. And I’m on a roll. I don’t see anything wrong with that. And the more I write, the faster I’ll finish. I would think that would be a good thing.”
“I don’t like the way you get when you’re writing. I don’t think you even realize where you are when you’re ‘on a roll.’ ”
&n
bsp; “How do I get?” he asked, though he already knew.
“You’re not yourself.”
“Who am I, then?” He was raising his voice but didn’t care.
“I don’t know who you are, and that’s the fucking problem.” Monica wasn’t raising her voice, but her words still had power.
“Honey,” he soothed, “I love writing, and I get paid to do it. I’m trying to finish as fast as I can so I can spend all my time with you and the kids.”
He leaned over and tried to kiss her, but she backed away. “I’ve read some of what you wrote,” she said.
Don’s heart sped up. “You did?” His voice was choked. He didn’t even know what he was writing anymore and his wife had read it behind his back.
“Yes, I did. I don’t like it, Don. It’s dark and scary.”
“It’s supposed to be dark and scary.”
“You wrote the kids into the story. You’re putting them into horrible situations.”
Don sighed. “Those are just characters in a book.”
“Who are you trying to fool? The whole story is about your life. The characters are based on people you know. Even I recognize them.”
“That’s not true,” he said quietly.
“Yes it is.” Monica sounded angry again. “I’m learning more about you from your writing than I am from you.”
“The books aren’t about me.”
“Yes, they are. I know they are.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you wrote our recent vacation into it. You wrote the incident at your aunt’s house into it. You even wrote your brother’s death into it, except in the book, it was cold-blooded murder.”
Don didn’t remember killing off the main character’s little brother. Christ, he really should have read what he’d written.
“Don, look at me.” He did. “Did you murder Ethan, or was it self-defense, like you said?”
Don couldn’t answer or she would leave him. She would pack her bags and demand a divorce and leave him alone with his terrible curse.
“It was murder,” he whispered.
Instead of replying with words, Monica got up and left the room.
* * *
For the next two days, she didn’t speak to or look at Don whenever they crossed paths. She took on more shifts at the hospital so she wouldn’t have to spend as much time at home. As much as that hurt Don, he felt it was more unfair to the kids.
Don eventually migrated to the couch at night without Monica asking him to. Since she wasn’t speaking to him, he continued to work on the manuscript. He still didn’t bother to read it and simply let his fingers do the typing. He was getting to a point where he didn’t care what he wrote, just as long as he was writing. If he didn’t write, he ended up sleeping poorly at night, or his mind would race during the day and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate.
A month after the argument with Monica, Don’s agent called. Don had been sitting at his computer, winding down from a few hours of continuous writing. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like he’d finished the manuscript. He told his agent that much and they planned to meet for lunch that week.
He printed out all seven hundred pages of the manuscript but didn’t read any of it. Truth be told, he was terrified of it. Monica had said it was dark and scary, and Don’s agent loved that stuff. Let Stan read it and share his thoughts. Don just hoped the grammatical errors were kept to a minimum.
Stan McCloskey flew in from New York days later and Don met him at the nicest restaurant around. Monica seemed fine staying with the kids as long as Don wasn’t there, apparently.
He felt a little self-conscious carrying the large manuscript box into the restaurant, but it couldn’t be helped. Stan, a short man with a brown perm, noticed his client as well as the box. His jaw dropped.
“My god, Donovan!” he said as Don joined him at the table. “How many pages?”
“Seven hundred.”
“How many words?”
“Two hundred thousand. Give or take a few hundred words.”
“That’s twice as long as the last book. Inspiration struck?”
“I couldn’t stop writing,” he replied. The meaning was lost on his agent, however.
“Gimme,” said Stan as he reached over the table like a child wanting his favorite toy.
Don handed the box to him. He wasn’t as enthusiastic as his agent. Instead, he was tired and depressed.
Stan seemed to notice. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Monica and I are fighting.”
“Uh-oh. I know what that’s like. Just ask my four ex-wives.”
“So, I guess it wouldn’t be a good idea to ask you for advice.”
“It wouldn’t be prudent, no.” Stan glanced from the box atop the table to Don. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that, does it?”
“It has almost everything to do with that, Stan.”
“Did she read it?”
“Some of it. She said it was too dark and scary.”
“Sounds perfect to me,” Stan said as he took a sip of his beer. “Is that all you’re fighting about?”
“No.”
“Neither one of you has been unfaithful?”
“No. I wish that’s all it was. It would be simpler.”
Stan smiled. “Do you still love her?”
Don looked at him. “With all my heart.”
“Then tell her that. Whatever is wrong, you can work through it if you have love in your hearts.”
“Then why you do you have four ex-wives?”
“Leave it to me to meet the only four women in the world without hearts.”
* * *
Stan called a few days later. “Hey, Don, I just finished reading the manuscript. Where’s the rest of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it just trickles down near the end, but it doesn’t have an ending.”
Don felt ashamed for not properly editing his work. He should’ve known it was incomplete, but he had been too afraid to see what he had created. “I’m pulling up the document now,” he told his agent as he opened the file.
He quickly read the last paragraph. It involved the main character, along with his son and nephew. He read the last sentence out loud: “ ‘He killed the boys.’ ”
“Pretty grim, don’t you think?” Stan asked.
“I thought you liked grim,” Don said absently, still staring at the screen.
“Not simply for the sake of being grim. Is this really how you want to end it?”
“No,” Don replied honestly, though his subconscious had written the story. “I’ll fix it and get back to you in a day or two.”
* * *
Unfortunately, Don found it impossible to change or even elaborate on the ending. He hadn’t told Stan about Conner—if he had, the agent might have connected the dots and worried about his client’s sanity. Don wouldn’t be able to blame him; he murdered his “son” and “nephew” in the story. If Monica read that ending, there was no telling how she’d react. He had to change it.
But how? He didn’t even know the context. He would have to read the whole manuscript. He read straight from the monitor, not changing a thing. He skipped lunch and even dinner.
He read well into the night, when Monica watched him from their bed. He read until morning. His eyes hurt, but he barely noticed. He was haunted by the story he just finished. It contained events that recently happened to him (discovering his birth father was still alive) as well as events that had never occurred.
He now understood the context of the ending. The main character’s son and nephew had become consumed by the curse and had gone on a killing spree together. There had been no other choice but to kill them. The wonderful “cure” from the first book hadn’t worked on them.
It couldn’t end that way.
Stephen had found a cure, and it didn’t involve death. The boys in the story hadn’t started killing until well into their teenage years. Did Don predict the fu
ture in this novel? Would the curse take hold of his boys soon? They were almost six—the boys in the story changed when they were sixteen.
Don decided to worry about that later and work on the ending now.
* * *
Stan loved the new ending, though Don couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. In the first book, a serum had cured the characters of the curse. In the sequel, Don found that he had written that that very serum proved merely a temporary fix, resulting in one of the characters (the younger brother) reverting to his monstrous state.
Unable to come up with anything new, Don simply concocted another, better serum for the younger boys. Everyone was curse-free and happy. Except for Don. The new ending just felt so false to him. He actually liked the original better...even if it resulted in the death of the boys. It was just more honest, if not more horrific.
Things with Monica only grew worse. Now that he’d finished writing, he’d hoped to spend more time with her and repair their marriage. She only seemed to grow more distant the harder he tried.
He considered himself truly lucky that Monica hadn’t gone to the police about Ethan’s death. Don wouldn’t have blamed her had she turned him in. He didn’t deserve her.
* * *
He was blindsided when Conner came up to him one day. Don had been sitting at the dining table, thinking about the best way to locate Stephen, when the boy asked, “What happened to my daddy?”
Don stared at him with wide eyes and said, “Your daddy went to heaven.”
“Who sent him there?”
Don’s mouth went completely dry. He just remembered who he was talking to—his brother’s son. “I did,” he finally replied.
“Why?”
“Because he was bad.”
“How was he bad?”
Not why was he bad; how. Conner knew more than he was letting on. Had Monica told him?
“Why are you asking me?”
“I wanna know why Daddy had to go to heaven.”
So cute. So angelic. So manipulative.
“He tried to hurt me,” Don found himself saying.
Conner said nothing after that. He just stood there by the table. After a moment, he said, “If I try to hurt you, will you send me to heaven too?”