by Amy Gutman
24
h
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Curled in a wooden deck chair, bundled in a heavy parka, Diane 26
Massey stared out over cliffs and dull gray sea. A cold gust 27
whipped her face, and she burrowed deeper into her sweater. One 28
thing she hadn’t remembered was how long the Maine winters 29
lasted. But cold as it was out here on the porch, she didn’t want 30
to go inside. Back to the cluttered dining room table piled with 31
manuscript pages. Back to the tortured confusion of the story she 32
couldn’t tell.
33
She’d always been a disciplined writer, meeting deadlines with 34
practiced ease. Her true-crime books were read by millions, ea-S 35
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gerly anticipated. Eight consecutive New York Times bestsellers, 2
and she’d never once been late. But, from the start, this project 3
had been different, plagued by repeated setbacks.
4
For months, she’d struggled in her New York apartment, trying 5
to find a rhythm. But the more she worked, the more confused 6
she got. Something wasn’t working. For the first time in her writ-7
ing career, she’d begun to avoid her desk. Started to accept the 8
dinner invitations she’d never had time for before. Even took 9
to answering the phone during the time she’d blocked out for 10
writing.
11
Her subject was Winnie Dandridge, the Houston socialite killer, 12
a charming woman who paid her mobster lover to knock off her 13
wealthy husband. The pair’s ties to organized crime had caused 14
Diane some concern. Especially after two anonymous letters 15
warned her off writing the book. And it wasn’t just the issue of 16
safety, though that preyed on her mind. There were problems 17
with the story itself, in how she wanted to tell it.
18
Then, suddenly, March was almost over, her June 1 deadline 19
looming. It was then that she’d thought of Maine, of her parents’
20
house on Blue Peek Island. The island would be all but deserted, 21
the perfect place to work. Just a handful of year-round residents, 22
mainly fishermen. Three days later, she was packed and gone.
23
Only two people knew where she was, her editor and her agent.
24
She’d arrived in Maine about a week ago, determined to get 25
down to work. But much to her chagrin she’d found that the 26
change of scene wasn’t helping. She took long walks, stared at 27
the sea, and worried about her deadline. Every afternoon at five, 28
she ran a three-mile loop, the daily ritual reminding her how lit-29
tle she’d accomplished. She’d mastered the art of excuses, blam-30
ing circumstances. Light had become an obsession, its absence or 31
profusion. During the day, she blamed the bright sunlight; at 32
night, she blamed the darkness.
33
Of course, she knew deep down that this was all in her mind.
34
If she’d really wanted to work, nothing would have stopped her.
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She’d worked under far worse conditions for many, many years.
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Once she’d written all night in a motel room while a couple made 3 6
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love next door, their cries and moans mingling in her mind with 1
those of the story’s victims. Death and sex. Sex and death. How 2
often they came together, the explosion of hate following love in 3
some sort of cosmic dance. She’d written in a sort of trance, for-4
getting where she was. Then there were the years of reporting, 5
when she’d written in a noise-filled newsroom, colleagues on the 6
telephone, editors screaming for copy. No, if she were ready to 7
work, the words would be right there.
8
In the distance she saw the ferry chugging back to the main-9
land. She might as well pick up the mail now, get that out of the 10
way.
11
The post office was just down the street, a demure white clap-12
board structure with a sprightly American flag. Nothing had 13
changed since childhood, when she’d spent her summers here.
14
She remembered waiting at the counter for stamps, unable to see 15
the top.
16
A bell tinkled as she opened the door.
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“I’m still sorting, Diane. It’ll be at least ten minutes.” Jenny 18
Ward, a sturdy island native, was a few years younger than Diane.
19
She’d taken over as postmistress when her mother retired.
20
“That’s okay. I’ll wait.” The room was bright and warm, smelling 21
of coffee and glue. Rows of small brass-fitted boxes lined the long 22
front wall. Diane sat on a wooden stool tucked beneath a win-23
dow.
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“So how’s the book going?” Behind the counter Jenny was 25
working, her hands flying through the mail.
26
“Oh . . . it’s okay.” Diane’s lips curved in the same false smile 27
she smiled at her friends in New York.
28
“Well, I hope you finish it fast ’cause I can’t wait to read it. I 29
don’t know how you write all those words, I really don’t.”
30
Neither do I, Diane thought. Believe me. Neither do I.
31
Jenny kept up a stream of chatter, a running commentary on is-32
land life. Lobster season. A new baby. Last year’s property tax in-33
crease. She seemed so utterly at ease with her life. Diane envied 34
that. Though at this moment she might have envied anyone who S 35
didn’t have to write a book.
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“Here you go.”
2
Jenny handed her FedEx packets from her editor and her 3
agent.
4
Diane turned to her editor’s packet first, quickly ripping it 5
open. Inside were three smaller envelopes in a range of soft pas-6
tels. Pale pink. Pale blue. White. They reminded her of Easter 7
eggs. A note was clipped to the stack in Marianne’s familiar 8
scrawl: “Looks like fan mail,” she wrote. “Thought you could use 9
a boost.” Diane smiled, though a bit uneasily, reminding herself 10
that Marianne couldn’t know how far behind she really was.
11
Diane opened the pink envelope, skimmed the spidery cursive.
12
“My daughter gave me Dreams of Dying and since then I’ve read 13
every one of your books. Are you ever afraid that some of the 14
people you write about might come after you?”
15
The next envelope she opened was white. She unfolded the 16
single thin white sheet and read the short typed message.
17
Happy Anniversary, Diane. I haven’t forgotten you.
18
Happy Anniversary?
19
Puzzled, she turned the paper over, looking for an explanation.
20
There was her AA anniversary, of course, but that was months 21
away. Again, she looked at the envelope. No postmark or return 22
address. Maybe she should call Marianne, find out where it came 23
from. For now she stuck the mail in her purse. She’d open the rest 24
at home.
25
She said good-bye to Jenny and headed up the road. Between 26
buildings she glimpsed the flat sea against the backdrop of sky.
27
Mild cramps pinched her stomach. She’d been drinking too 28
much bad coffee. While she’d brought out a stash of French 29
Roast, it didn’t taste the same. The old aluminum percolator 30
worked a curious alchemy, transforming the beans’ dark richness 31
to something sharp and bitter.
32
Longingly she thought of her home in New York, the lights, 33
the traffic, the noise. She lived in a loft in Tribeca, a sun-34
drenched open space. On an ordinary day, she’d have breakfasted 35 S
at Le Pain Quotidien. She could almost taste the flaky croissant, 36 R
the bowl of caffe latte. After a few hours at her desk, she’d have 3 8
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headed off to the gym. Worked out with Bob, her personal 1
trainer, maybe had a massage. Back home, the mail would have 2
arrived, with its cache of invitations. Book signings and film 3
openings. Requests to come and speak. She had a life in New 4
York, friends and dinners and parties. All those distractions she’d 5
come to escape seemed endlessly alluring.
6
Back at the house, she went straight to her desk and forced 7
herself to sit down. Keep your butt in the chair. No more procrasti-8
nating. She worked for a couple of hours, then made a tuna fish 9
sandwich — a far cry from the take-out sushi she’d have picked 10
up back home. Sandwich in hand she returned to her desk and 11
continued to work as she ate.
12
By three o’clock, she was amazed to find that she’d written 13
more than two thousand words. She stuck another log in the 14
woodstove, then printed out the new pages. At her desk, she 15
reread what she’d written that day, making penciled notations in 16
the margins. It was good, much better than she’d thought.
17
When she next looked up it was almost five. A solid day’s work.
18
The best she’d done in months. Standing up, Diane stretched her 19
legs, then headed upstairs to change. She tied back her hair, 20
pulled on a hat, dropped her necklace under her shirt. On im-21
pulse, she picked up the phone and dialed a New York number.
22
Her editor’s assistant picked up.
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“Hi, Kaylie? It’s Diane. Is Marianne around?”
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“Sorry, Diane. She’s in a meeting. Anything I can do?”
25
“No. Well. Actually, I was wondering . . . I just got the mail 26
you forwarded, and there was a letter, something without a return 27
address. It must have been dropped off. Anyway, I was trying to 28
figure out who it was from.”
29
A pause. “Oh. Yeah. Someone dropped it off in reception. I 30
don’t have a name, though. If you want, I can check to see if they 31
have a record down there.”
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“Great. That would be great.” Diane heard phones ringing in 33
the background, someone calling down a hallway. “One more 34
thing. Do you know when it came in?”
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“Sure, let’s see.” A flipping of pages. “We got it yesterday.”
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After she hung up, Diane grabbed a Polartec jacket and headed 2
outside for her daily run. Every day her route was the same. Up 3
Harbor Road, the main island thoroughfare, then off toward Car-4
son’s Cove. Down a spruce-shaded dirt path, past Fischer’s aban-5
doned boatyard, then onto the rocky promontory that ran along 6
the water.
7
She always felt better once she started to run, and today was no 8
exception. The wind rustled in the tall old trees; empty sky arced 9
above. It was easy to lose perspective, to forget how lucky she 10
was. She found herself thinking about Nashville, the place where 11
it all began. Remembering the chance meeting from which every-12
thing had followed. From the vantage point of where she sat, it 13
could seem inevitable. But when she was honest, she had to ad-14
mit how much she owed to luck.
15
Her first job was at Nashville’s morning paper, general assign-16
ment reporting. Weather stories and car crashes. Filling in at school 17
board meetings. Tedious in retrospect but exciting at the time. Of 18
course, she hadn’t stood a chance of covering the Gage trial.
19
That plum had gone to Bryce Watkins, the paper’s veteran court 20
reporter. But like readers everywhere, she’d been riveted by the 21
story, mesmerized by the drama unfolding in the Davidson County 22
Courthouse. She read every word she could get her hands on, 23
pumped Watkins for information. A couple of times, she played 24
hooky from work to watch parts of the trial.
25
Still, she would have stayed on the sidelines if it hadn’t been 26
for Laura Seton. They met at an AA meeting at a church in 27
downtown Nashville. Because she was seated at the side of the 28
room, she saw Laura walk in, watched her slip quietly into a seat 29
in the very last row of chairs. Despite the dark glasses and hat, Di-30
ane recognized her. She lost all track of what was being said as 31
she concentrated on Laura, wondering how she might approach 32
without scaring her off. She had a brief tussle in her mind about 33
the ethics of this maneuver, knowing that she’d be taking advan-34
tage of Laura’s vulnerability. But even as she argued with herself, 35 S
she knew what she had to do. Gage’s former girlfriend was the 36 R
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prosecution’s star witness. An exclusive interview with Laura Se-1
ton would be the story of a lifetime.
2
At the end of the meeting, she rushed forward, caught Laura 3
on the steps of the church. “You looked upset,” she babbled. “I 4
wanted to give you my number. If you ever want to talk, call me 5
anytime.” She handed Laura a piece of paper with her home 6
number scribbled on it.
7
Laura was looking down. “Thanks,” she muttered softly. She 8
stuffed the paper into a pocket and quickly turned away. After 9
that, weeks passed, but Laura didn’t return. Not that Diane was 10
really surprised; it happened all the time. A newcomer checked 11
out a meeting or two, then went back to drinking.
12
Steven Gage’s trial continued.
13
The night after he was sentenced, Diane awoke to a ringing 14
phone sometime after 2 a.m.
15
“I need to talk,” Laura said, sobbing, the words barely audible.
16
“I’m sorry, but I had your number. I didn’t . . . know who to call.”
17
Diane rushed over to Laura’s apartment, where she dumped 18
out half-empty bottles of vodka, then listened as Laura talked.
19
For hours, the words poured out in a self-lacerating stream. Laura 20
seemed to assume that Diane knew who she was. Either that or, 21
because of the booze, she wasn’t thinking clearly.
22
“I loved him so much,” Laura said, weeping. “And even 23
with . . . everything that’s happened, I still do. Love him. I can’t 24
believe I’ve done this. I’ve killed the man I love.”
25
“You didn’t kill him, Laura. You had to tell the truth.” She said 26
the words mechanically, patting Laura’s shoulder. One part of her 27
present, comforting, another part taking notes. Her mind was al-28
ready on overdrive, thinking about the book.
29
More than ten years later, she was slightly appalled by the am-30
bitious young woman she’d been. Appalled but also grateful. While 31
all her later books had been bestsellers, her first had been a smash.
32
Eight years after its initial publication, The Vanishing Man was 33
still in print, having sold millions of copies in twenty-three lan-34
guages.
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Diane had emerged from the woods and was back on Harbor 2
Road. She ran past a timeworn wooden barn caving in on itself.
3
She was thinking about what to make for dinner; she didn’t have 4
much at the house. Maybe pasta with red sauce, something sim-5
ple and quick. Then she’d go back to work until it was time for 6
bed. If she could keep up today’s momentum, she might even 7
meet her deadline. Today was, what? April 6. She had almost two 8