In an instant the game changed. This wasn’t paparazzi. She was used to their shenanigans. If it were them, they’d be off and away down the road like rabbits in case she had a bunch of legal paperwork to serve them. In the last five years the new privacy laws had worked well for them and infringing them could mean imprisonment. Not that they didn’t keep trying.
Kristen jumped to one side as the car roared past.
‘Bastards,’ she shouted, trying to spot a face through the heavily tinted windows.
Walking back to her car, she felt her knees go weak. She’d been sure that the vehicle wasn’t about to do her harm and hadn’t been afraid. But now she realized how close it had been. What if she’d faced them down and hadn’t leaped aside? There’s no way the driver could have swerved to avoid her. Kristen’s heart hammered as she slid into the body-hugging comfort of her custom seat. Even the clunk of her door shutting was only mildly reassuring.
She had to call the police. She’d only caught the last three digits of the rego—that was a start. Kristen pulled her smartcom from her bag and paused. She knew the cops would take forever to show up, ask a million questions and want a statement before filing it with the hundred or so other reports for that day. Before she called, maybe she really should email Cara and tell her what she’d discovered about Zack’s books and their conversation that morning. For some reason her narrow escape had made it a top priority. She’d do that, then she’d call the cops.
As her fingers flew over the screen she began to feel better. Maybe she was a bit crazy. The whole thing seemed impossible, and insane. With Juan gone, Cara would have her problems, but when everything settled down, she’d give this some thought. They’d get together soon and talk everything through as they always did. Juan, Zack, this shit—absolutely everything.
Jesus, it’s back! Pausing for a moment’s thought and looking up, Kristen could see the Merc’s nose sliding into view around 150 yards away. Bastards, you’ve done it now. She was quickly winding up her email to Cara when the roar of a large diesel engine cut through the street’s quiet somnolence. Mildly irritated at the interruption, she looked up again expecting to see a garbage truck that had somehow diverted from its run. It was a truck alright, but its purpose seemed very definite as it trundled straight for the passenger side of her car.
An enormous grill blotted out the light as Kristen scrabbled for her door handle, but the impact beat her. She was flung wildly to her left for just an instant before her head whip-lashed towards the side pillar at a speed that would splinter her skull into a thousand pieces. But an electronic brain, deep inside the car’s mass of parts, thought faster, deploying a side airbag a microsecond before Kristen’s head smashed against the metal. By that time she was unconscious, bleeding from a gash across her right temple, and completely unaware that her vehicle was being shoved with frightening speed over the sidewalk, through a knee-high fence and onto a steep grassy bank.
Kristen came round as her battered BMW was teetering on its side, and close to tumbling down the bank towards the very cliff edge she’d been standing on a few minutes earlier. Blinking furiously, her eyes focused blearily on the contents of her purse scattered around her face. One part of her mind wondered why her purse always seemed so increasingly heavy no matter what she took out of it, while the rest of her brain realized that she was stuck, dangerously stuck.
Her smartcom swam into view. She could see the glass front was shattered but the email she’d tried to send Cara was still displayed. Suddenly getting that email to her friend seemed like the most important thing in the world. She tried to move her arm to reach the phone, but realized from the searing pain that her shoulder was probably dislocated or even broken. She heard the truck’s engine begin to rev and her car shuddered as something collided with it again.
As her car swayed wickedly, a mental picture of Zack, sitting half-naked at his desk, flashed through Kristen’s mind. He’d be OK. When the cleaner came in two days time, he could explain that one to her. For Kristen, things didn’t look at all good. She looked at the phone again, surprised at how calm she felt. She should be screaming her head off by now.
The phone, there was something about that phone. Kristen flinched as another crunch and a wild swaying motion told her that she had little time. And then she remembered. When she’d gone through all the fiddly stuff of being acquainted with a new smartcom—believe it or not reading the manual for five minutes too, she’d tried the voice activation software a couple of times. She was a bit of a tech dinosaur and found talking at a phone a little embarrassing, so gave up on it. She wasn’t even sure what to do now.
‘Send …Send,’ she croaked and then cleared her throat. ‘Send …send you motherfucker, send.’ The phone’s shattered screen stared back at her mutely. As she felt the car tip towards the cliff edge, a tear slipped from her eye.
‘Send,’ she sobbed, ‘just send.’
Kristen looked out of the splintered side window. The Merc was rolling by with the passenger window down. It wasn’t the scarred face that frightened her so much. It was the cruelty in those sharp, unblinking eyes.
The Boy
When the boy landed in White Plains, he fell on his feet. He was scooped up by a childless couple looking for an older child, and for Jilly and Brett, who were both teaching at Fordham and not up for dealing with the diapers or child care years, he was easily their perfect choice. As with all things, it was a matter of timing.
‘That’s interesting,’ Brett said, nudging his wife.
The couple, as regular guests of the institute, were having dinner with the boys. They would spend two evenings a week there, coaching and cajoling any of the slower readers who showed the slightest inclination to learn.
The boy, deep in thought and apparently unaware of the Kovac’s interest, or the boisterous conversations that echoed around the dining hall, had a hardback book close to hand. He’d been there for almost a week and was beginning to get a handle on the place. Two of the older ones had bailed him up on his first day, demanding more than money, but they’d learnt not to do it again.
They took him as he came out of one of the toilet cubicles, pinning his arms from behind and shoving his face hard against the wall. The boy felt slivers of peeling paint prickle against his cheek as one of his attackers searched him. He gasped when a sweaty hand found his genitals and lingered there, massaging his penis. Feeling his body’s involuntary response, the blood rushed shamefully to his face.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, trying to ignore the pounding in his groin. He could hear the panting breath close to his ear and shuddered.
‘Ooh, you like that, do you?’ came a sticky whisper.
‘Maybe we should give him a poke,’ the one holding him said.
‘I’d like that,’ said the boy, huskily, ‘let me go and we’ll lock the door.’
The two of them, hardly believing their luck, released him. One scurried to the door while the other fumbled with his belt, intending to be first in line. With all his strength, the boy kicked him between his legs. As the kid, hardly able to draw breath, dropped to the floor gulping with agony, the boy reached into his bag and pulled out a thin bladed knife. It turned easily in his hand. Joey’s hidden box had produced more than cash and the boy had made time to practice. As he advanced towards door, he watched a growing patch of urine stain the kid’s pants.
‘This won’t hurt too much,’ he said.
*
‘What about him?’ Jilly asked, trying to peer unobtrusively across the hall.
‘Have a look at his book cover Jilly.
‘He’s too young for that,’ Jilly said, thoughtfully. ‘All the symbolism and metaphorical shit in that thing’s way over his head. It’s not a read for the faint hearted.’
Brett laughed.
‘It was too much for me,’ he said, ‘I never finished it. But there’s only one way to find out.’
That evening the couple found the boy reading in the institute’s sparse lib
rary. They’d watched him throughout the remainder of the meal, noting his indifference to the chaos and his polite almost old-fashioned way of eating. When the level of noise fell sufficiently, they saw him chatting to some of the lads around him, paying particular attention to an unfortunate older child wearing a bandage over one ear.
‘Enjoying your book, young fella?’ Brett said, as they entered the room.
The boy looked up and smiled so delightfully that Jilly felt her throat constrict. He had beautiful eyes.
‘Yes sir,’ he replied, nodding at Jilly. ‘I have to read this one quite slowly—there’s a lot to it.’
‘Too right there is,’ Brett admitted, sitting on one of the overstuffed armchairs. Jilly sat next to him.
‘What else are you reading?’ she asked.
The boy thought for a moment.
‘I’ve got a lot on the list my Mom made me before she died. But she told me to read fun things as well as serious stuff. I’d like to try The Hobbit, I think.’
‘Whoa,’ Brett said, ‘that’s pretty heavy too. You’ll be reading War and Peace next.’
The boy laughed. Jilly thought it was a pleasant sound.
‘I tried that, sir, maybe again next year.’
He turned and smiled at Jilly.
‘What do you think I should read ma’am?’
She smiled, remembering her own mother’s advice. She was strictly Jane Austen and would have been appalled at her only daughter’s choice of after-hours reading. It was a time of feisty slave novels that kicked D.H. Lawrence into the minor leagues for racy sex. She thought to mention one of her present favorites, Stephen King’s, The Stand, and then thought better of it.’
‘I might have to do some research for you there,’ she said, grinning, ‘some of my choices might be considered too strong for these walls.’
‘Some of yours would be,’ Brett agreed, chuckling. ‘How about we get together on the weekend and talk it over. I’ll ask the chief if you can stay over Saturday night if you like.’
11.
Book burning
Two hours after his wife slammed the door on him, Zack jerked his head out of a doze and looked morosely around his study. Not a thing had changed. She’d planned it well. There was nothing in reach that could help him get out of this.
Zack thought he would feel marginally better. The torn flesh on his wrist still stung but that wasn’t the cause of his despair. Frowning, he looked at the time on his laptop. Even as angry and determined as she was, she should have been back by now. He’d slept fitfully, jumping when he thought he heard Kristin’s car coming back down the drive. At one time, he dreamed of sirens.
He’d done as she’d asked. The letters were drafted and ready to be copied and pasted into emails. After he’d calmed down, he’d seen little point in holding out. Ducking out of the contract had crossed his mind a number of times, and for no better reason than the fact that he just couldn’t do it. Giving some of that huge advance back would cost them a shitload of money but he no longer cared. They had everything they wanted in material terms and none of it mattered to him any longer. After downsizing from this sprawling bloody mansion, whatever dough they made on the sale would keep him in whiskey for a goodly while. And drinking himself to death seemed like a reasonably interesting project.
Zack felt no relief that someone had come up with an excuse for him, however absurd, to abandon that third book. But that someone, his wife, had really lost it hadn’t she? Who else but a person having an extreme hissy would handcuff her husband to his desk to make their point? At the same time, it occurred to him that some of Kristen’s wild points did make an obscure kind of sense. His gloomy thoughts kept coming round to the brutal facts she’d thrown at him earlier.
Zack’s hand automatically moved to answer the phone before he realised that Kristen had moved it onto the sideboard out of his reach. He had to let it ring until it went to voice mail. What he then heard changed everything.
‘Ah,’ the voice said, ‘Mr Corsfield. This is Sergeant Bullen of RoseBay police station. We, er, we’d like to talk to you urgently, sir. There’s been an accident regarding your wife. Quite serious I’m afraid. If you can call me on …’
Zack mechanically recorded the number on his old-fashioned blotter. The idiot, as if he could call back. His mind dropped into a swift spiral of panic. How the hell was he going to get free now? Why didn’t cops some round with news like this the way they used to? They could undo the cuffs—have a laugh at the same time. Shit, she’d probably been hooning in that overpowered Beemer of hers and bowled someone. This time they’d throw away her license. She’d better get home today or he’d be crapping his pants. What if she didn’t? What if she’d pranged the car and put herself in hospital for a few days. They hadn’t replaced the cleaner, due in the day after tomorrow. In fact he hadn’t even told Kristen that the second cleaner this month had walked out in disgust after he’d thrown up in the hall again. Fucking cops. Fucking cleaners. Fucking, fucking wives.
Zack, fiddling with the TV remote to keep his fingers occupied, finally managed to catch the news. His mind was still processing possible avenues of escape, including setting fire to his desk, when he saw the wreck. He didn’t recognize the car—he couldn’t. It was a mangled heap of metal. He could only see the front plate, or was it the back? He couldn’t even tell which. They were personalized and he’d ordered them for Kristin in a moment of weakness, along with the car. It was a surprise gift when he’d received his first advance payment and he been awed by the look of appreciation he’d got when he handed it over. For a couple of weeks it was as if they’d just met again. But he had to go back to work and ruin it.
His brain numbed, Zack could hardly take in what the newscaster was saying.
‘The occupant of the vehicle has been cut from the wreckage and is now in a critical condition—a terrible accident—back to you at the studio Justin.’
Zack didn’t remember switching the TV off. He just found himself staring at a blank screen, alone, alarmingly sober and increasingly aware of a crushing silence in the house. It seemed to be creeping towards his study from every corner, accusing and remorseful.
She was right. She always was, wasn’t she? He resented that. Not the rightness, it was the way she slammed the facts down his throat. That’s why he always fought against her good sense and logic until time made it palatable enough to bear. She always won because after a decent amount of time he’d end up apologising and everything would be OK again. But, this time his morbid obstinacy and his inability to face truths, even when they stared him in the face, had cost her life. He loved her and he’d killed her, there was nothing surer than that.
Secretly, he felt like a fraud and had done since his second novel went stellar. He wondered if all authors, whose work reached absurd pinnacles of success, felt the same way. Deep down, he’d known all along that his books had sold because of the greatest promotional campaign in the history of writing. Now it all made sense. He’d been well and truly set up and his books used as the perfect medium for fuck knows what to be served up to the millions of readers bludgeoned by advertising to buy in.
Zack knew what he had to do. Without Kristen’s help there’s no way he could extricate himself from the publishing deal, even if he got free. He didn’t have the guts to stand up to them. He’d send the emails and then expect to be badgered, bullied and threatened by his agent and publisher until he knuckled under. He was too easily influenced. Pathetic.
Zack pulled open his top drawer. The only sharp implement he could find was a letter opening knife he hadn’t had reason to use for years. He shuddered and placed it to one side on his desk. A packet of pain killers yielded a strip of foil and five remaining tablets. At least that would fix his pounding head, but it wouldn’t extinguish his life. There was nothing to help him. He eyed up the pencils briefly. Well sharpened and driven with considerable force through his eyeball and into the brain may cause death, he wasn’t quite sure. But, like using th
e letter opener, it would take enormous resolve and be excruciatingly painful.
His second drawer only contained files. It was the contents of the third that gave him the idea. He spotted the Zippo lighter first, under a pile of discarded pens, pencils and a tangled mass of document clips. The battered lighter had been a gift from a friend, who told him that his father had used in during the Second World War. Enthused more by the history than the mechanics, Zack had tracked down genuine Zippo lighter fluid and fired the machine up to light a celebratory cigar. That had been the last time he’d used it. The taste of lighter fluid had been appalling. His sense of disappointment had been exacerbated by Kristen’s mockery, who for some arcane reason found his complaint that the burning fuel had impregnated his carcinogenic-laden, poisonous smoke with a nasty taste the perfect irony.
But it wasn’t the lighter he was looking for. There was a perfectly good one on his desk and the Zippo would be dried out. It was the can of fluid he was after. His plan was simple. From his position he could spray the accelerant liberally around his study, aiming it at highly combustible areas. The curtains would be good, as would the stacks of books and magazines he’d been meaning to clean up. And then there was his stinking couch. It would virtually explode, he thought, barely suppressing a sickly grin. Zack almost felt excited as his fingers scratched around the back of the third drawer, his gaze wandering around the room, assessing the comparative burning power of his possessions. He was almost enjoying himself and the scenario would have made a great book plot.
For the first time in months, Zack smiled. He could imagine the field days the media would have. ‘Famous author left to die in fatal book burning,’ ‘Mystery surrounds author and wife double-deaths.’ The conspiracy theorists would have a ball and his book sales would go through the roof.
The Last Book. A Thriller Page 7