Dead Ends

by JT Ellison

  “I’m not married. Not for many years. Never had kids. I live simply and made the money last. You know, Hollywood optioned a couple of the books. They never made the movies, but I still got some money. Once in a blue moon I get a letter from a reader, someone who found one of my books in a used bookstore or a Goodwill. My editor is dead. My agent still sends me a Christmas card, but that’s about it.”

  “What’s the name of your best-known book?” Emily asked.

  She wore a little knowing smile on her face. It irritated Daniel. That’s what she wanted to talk about. That book, the one that apparently started all of this.

  “The Sleeping Angels.”

  “It was a success?”

  “You know it was.”

  “Tell me.” She sounded more insistent. Almost angry.

  “It did pretty well. It snuck onto the bestseller lists for a week or so. Translated into a few foreign languages. A little review ran in Time magazine.”

  “Oh. Is that a big deal?” Emily asked.

  “It was. Back then.”

  “And what was that book about?” Emily asked. “Why did it do so well?”

  “I didn’t know we were—”

  “Daniel. The Sleeping Angels?”

  Daniel shook his head. He clutched at the robe again, pulling it tighter. He felt a draft from under the kitchen door and shivered. “It’s a pretty simple story, really. Four girls get murdered in a small town. The police find their bodies in the basement of an abandoned estate, all laid out side by side. The killer ends up being the father of one of the girls, the youngest one. A detective tracks the killer down, brings him to justice, and he is executed, bringing closure to the town. But the detective is changed forever.”

  “And why is it called The Sleeping Angels?” Emily asked.

  Daniel shifted in his seat. His feet shuffled below the table. “I thought we weren’t going to—people don’t always understand.”

  “Why is it called that, Daniel?” Emily asked.

  Daniel paused before answering. He looked around at the dripping faucet, the peeling wallpaper. If people started reading the book again, even a few thousand…

  He had so many ideas for new books.

  “Okay. Because of the way the dead girls were found. They were laid out side by side in the basement of the mansion. They were all wearing white shrouds.” Daniel couldn’t help himself. He objected to the direction the conversation was going, but when he started talking about his book—his most famous book—his storyteller’s instincts took over. He could see the scene in his mind, the way he’d described it all those years ago. The way he’d imagined it based on—“They were between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. Innocent. All virgins. When they were found, they hadn’t been dead very long, so their cheeks still looked rosy, their skin almost warm to the touch. Like they were asleep. Like they were… well, that’s where the title comes from.”

  Emily bent over. Daniel heard her rustling around in a bag she’d carried through the door with her. She popped back up, holding a photograph.

  “The girls were found in this house, right?” she asked.

  Before Daniel was able to see the photo, Emily turned it around and showed it to the camera. She held it there a long moment, making sure the viewers could see it in detail. She then flipped the photo around and laid it flat on the table, sliding it across to Daniel.

  But he didn’t need to look at it. He knew what was in the photo.

  “That’s the house, right, Daniel?” Emily asked.

  Daniel kept his eyes on Emily, refusing to look down. He lifted his index finger and tapped it against his temple. “The house is in here. I imagined it. I created it.”

  “Did you? Really?” She slid the photo closer until it touched Daniel’s elbow. “Look at that. You’ve seen that before, haven’t you?”

  “I didn’t agree to this.”

  “You agreed to the interview, Daniel.”

  “I don’t think this is the best course of action. A lot of people—”

  “Just look at the photo,” Emily said. “Okay? It won’t bite.”

  Daniel gave the photo a quick glance, not even bothering to pick it up off the table. His eyes confirmed what he already knew. He’d seen the house before. He knew exactly where it was. He just wasn’t sure why Emily insisted on getting him to admit that on camera.

  “It’s the Hoffman Estate.” Daniel recognized the rusted wrought-iron gates, the crumbling masonry and roof tiles, the boarded-up windows, the overgrown yard, the weeds and trees twisted and thick like a jungle. He couldn’t say how long ago the photo had been taken, but the house didn’t look much different than the last time Daniel had seen it in person. And that was almost forty years earlier. “You knew that before you even asked me.”

  “Just to be clear,” Emily said, “that’s the Hoffman Estate in Camp Henry, Ohio. Built in the mid-nineteenth century by rubber magnate Milton Hoffman. For nearly a century considered to be one of the most glorious homes in the Midwest, it eventually fell into disrepair and then bankruptcy by the 1970s. Abandoned and vacant for over forty years. That Hoffman Estate?”

  “Yes,” Daniel said. “That Hoffman Estate.”

  “You used to live in Camp Henry? You were a reporter there?”

  “Lots of novelists use real-life as inspiration for their novels. You’re making it sound like I committed some kind of crime because I was inspired by what happened in that house. I was a reporter, and I covered the case. Then I wrote a novel about it.”

  “A very successful novel.”

  “Should I apologize for being a success? For being a good writer?”

  Emily smiled. She looked smugly satisfied. “No need to apologize for that.” She pulled the photo back and moved it near the base of the tripod. “But let’s talk about the man who committed those crimes. The man who murdered the Sleeping Angels.”

  Daniel pointed at the camera. “Don’t we have enough already? You said a short interview. And I’m not dressed.”

  “Daniel, if you don’t like the interview when we’re finished, just tell me.”

  “And we can redo it?” he asked.

  “Who committed those crimes?” Emily asked. “The murders of those four girls?”

  Daniel tried to feel reassured by her words about the video, about redoing it. He felt like she was hiding something. Or not telling him the full truth. Back in his reporting days, he could easily sniff out a phony. He could spot a liar within three minutes of starting a conversation.

  But he feared that living alone had dulled his ability to identify those who intended him harm. After all, no one ever intended him harm anymore. For that matter, no one ever intended him good. He rarely saw anyone, kept few friends, talked mostly to his cats. A few times a year he conversed with his neighbor next door, a retired widower, or a local librarian who knew he’d been a writer and liked to pick his brain when he wandered in to check out the latest magazines. But the interview could change all that. A young journalist, Emily, with a pen and a voice, could bring his work back to some measure of attention.

  Wouldn’t it feel good to publish just one more book? To get back in the game one more time… before it was too late?

  “His name was Michael James Hart,” Daniel said. “He wasn’t the father of any of the girls, like in the book. He was a local handyman, had done some work in one of the girls’ homes. He had a history of violent behavior, but nothing like those murders.”

  “You interviewed him. On death row.”

  “A lot of journalists must have.”

  Emily shook her head. “No, they didn’t. He only talked to you. He liked you.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Daniel said. “I don’t know who he talked to and who he didn’t.”

  “He was repentant, wasn’t he?”

  Daniel paused. He leaned forward. “You know, you seem to be asking these questions as though you already know the answers. If you know so much about it, why do you need to ask me? I thought
we agreed to just talk about my books, to maybe drum up a little interest so some publishers would see it. This seems out of bounds—”

  “He was repentant, wasn’t he?” she said again, her face leaning in closer to Daniel’s, her voice rising. She didn’t wait for Daniel to respond before she said, “He converted to Christianity on death row, expressed his sorrow for the crimes. And he told you he had just one wish, one thing that could be done to honor his memory.”

  Daniel pushed back from the table. The chair made a loud, scraping sound against the dingy linoleum as he stood up. “Okay, that’s enough. You clearly don’t want to talk about me—”

  “Sit down, Daniel.”

  “Sit down?” Daniel stared at the young woman. What did she know? She was a child, not even born when he was writing his books, not even aware of how the world worked. And she thought she could push him around? “You need to leave right now. And give me that video or whatever it is. Destroy it. Erase it. I don’t want anyone seeing this. I was a fool to think you wanted to help me.”

  “It’s too late,” Emily said.

  “Too late for what?”

  “For that.” Emily nodded toward the camera. “You see, Daniel, a lot has changed since you had a writing career. There’s this thing called Facebook Live, and you’re on it right now. Everything we’ve said has already gone out to my viewers. And anyone else who happened to come along.”

  Daniel felt like one of those tribesmen who has lived his entire life in isolation, unaware that the rest of the world was speeding by in cars and on computers and with telephones. He blinked a couple of times at Emily and then turned his head to the camera.

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “Nope.”

  Daniel had heard something on the news recently, something about Facebook Live. Had one man killed another on there? Broadcasting the crime for all the world to see?

  Was Emily that crazy?

  “You’re bluffing,” he said.

  Daniel moved as fast as he could. He took two quick steps around the side of the table, reaching out for the camera.

  But he was too slow. As soon as he moved, Emily moved, too, snatching the tripod and camera and scooting back in her chair. She deftly kept the camera pointed at Daniel as he came closer.

  “Anything you do to me goes out on the air,” she said. “It’s going out now. So if you want to attack me or hit me or something, be my guest. But the whole world will see. Well, maybe not the whole world, but a decent number of people.”

  Emily’s face remained obscured by the camera. Daniel saw the lens, that lone, unblinking eye. His hands were shaking, but he stood frozen in place. What if she were telling the truth? Did he want to throttle a woman on a live broadcast? How would that help his writing career?

  “Why don’t you sit again?” Emily said. “If you do, we can wrap this up. You can try to come off a little better. You haven’t exactly made a great impression.”

  Daniel thought about storming off, but then what? The world had seen him acting like a crazy old man.

  And if there was a live audience, if people were watching him…

  Wasn’t that what he wanted?

  He returned to his seat, sliding it in close to the table. He folded his hands while Emily gently set the tripod back down.

  “Okay? Ready?”

  “I guess so,” Daniel said.

  “This next part really shouldn’t take long. You probably don’t want to say much about the promise you made to Michael James Hart.”

  Daniel made a half-hearted attempt at getting up again but stopped himself. He didn’t have the energy. And he looked at that black, all-seeing eye again.

  “You did make a promise to Michael James Hart, didn’t you? Michael James Hart. Or as I refer to him… Great-Uncle Michael.”

  Daniel felt the cold draft again, but this time it originated inside of his body, not through the crack under the door. Great-Uncle Michael? He couldn’t be.

  But how improbable was any of what was happening in his crummy little kitchen already?

  Great-Uncle? Still, what did any of it prove?

  Then Emily was bending down again, rummaging in her bag. She came up with a piece of paper, one yellowed with age and folded in quarters. Gently, as though handling a fragile bird’s egg, Emily opened the paper.

  “And if you want to grab for this,” she said, “thinking you can crumple it up or tear it, there are copies. And at least one other letter that says the same thing.”

  Emily held the paper up to the camera, just as she did with the photo of the house. She held it there for what felt to Daniel like a long time, long enough for people to at least read some of the words. He did think about reaching out and snatching it, but if she had another one or copies of it…

  But he felt his anger rising. He had a pretty good guess about what the letter said.

  Emily turned the letter around so she could read it. And she did, into the camera, her voice steady.

  “I’ve been talking to a reporter these days, a nice guy. He listens to me very carefully. And he seems to understand me, sometimes better than I understand myself. I’ve told him everything, everything about my crimes and all the mistakes I’ve made. He’s agreed to write my story down.”

  “Stop it,” Daniel said. “This isn’t fair. It happened forty years—”

  Emily continued reading. She didn’t even look at Daniel. “I won’t see it in print, of course, because I’ll be gone by the time he’s finished and the book gets published. I’ve asked him for one promise, one very sincere promise, and he’s agreed to it.”

  “Stop this.” Daniel stood up again, hoping he would intimidate Emily, put some kind of fear into her that she’d stop.

  But again she avoided looking at him. She kept her eyes on the paper.

  Daniel felt ignored. Shut out. It was almost as if…

  He clenched his fists, felt his face flushing.

  Did she want him to grab for the letter? For her?

  Did she want him enraged?

  “He has promised me that he will give the profits, all the profits from the book, to the families of the victims of my crimes. Split four ways. That is my dying wish—”

  Daniel leaped forward. His hip banged against the side of the table as he reached for the camera. Once again, Emily deftly moved out of the way, managing to keep the camera going and pointed at Daniel’s face as he scrambled forward.

  But Daniel refused to stop. He lunged again, feeling his robe come open. With the grace of a dancer, Emily avoided Daniel’s charges at her. He heard her saying, “You’re seeing this, right? You’re seeing the level of rage at the truth. And I’m not feeling safe. Okay? Okay?”

  Daniel stumbled over Emily’s vacated chair, banging both his shins and nearly falling over. He steadied himself and again saw the unblinking camera eye. He looked down, saw the open robe, his dirty pajama pants, his ragged slippers. He felt a loose strand of hair on his forehead.

  What am I doing?

  But then the back door opened. Daniel turned to see a young man, also in his twenties, fit and muscular with a handlebar mustache and tattoos on his forearms. He entered the kitchen with confidence and came directly toward Daniel.

  “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got him.”

  The young man easily wrestled Daniel to the floor, restraining his arms and pressing his body against the linoleum with his superior strength and weight.

  Daniel couldn’t tell for certain, even though he tried to crane his head around to see, but he just knew Emily continued to film, making sure to capture every moment of Daniel’s humiliation.

  She kept filming when the police came through the door a few minutes later and placed handcuffs on Daniel’s wrists.

  Daniel puttered around the kitchen. He brewed coffee, fed the cats, cleaned a few dishes from the night before, and then sat down with the daily paper. It had been nearly two months since the day Emily came over with the camera, broadcasting their confrontation to th
e whole world of social media. Two months since he spent an uncomfortable twelve hours in a jail cell before a cop came back, opened the door, and told him he was free to go.

  “You’re lucky,” the cop said. “She’s not pressing charges.”

  “What about me?” Daniel asked. “Didn’t she violate my privacy?”

  “You could try to press charges, I guess.” The cop chuckled. “But with that video having gone viral…”

  So Daniel just went home, retreating into his house and his limited life even more than before. He ordered food from places that delivered. Skipped his trips to the library. Stayed inside during daylight and walked to the mailbox only after dark.

  Despite his efforts, he learned what was going on in the world. Information and people slipped through.

  Reporters came to the door. Cranks called on the phone until Daniel changed the number.

  A delivery guy for the local Chinese restaurant snapped his picture one night when he opened the door. “I knew it was you. I knew it. You’re even wearing the robe.”

  He snapped a few more pictures before Daniel shut the door, neither collecting his food nor paying.

  He’d even heard that a hashtag had been made about him, whatever a hashtag was. #bathrobeman

  It all died down after a few weeks, and Daniel hoped that one day, maybe in another month or so, he could venture out again, like a bear emerging from slumber.

  The phone rang.

  Who had the new number? Daniel thought he knew. Telemarketers. People eager to sell him a cruise or a home security system.

  Where were you when I needed you? he wanted to say.

  He’d been alone so long, he reached for the phone, happy just to hear another voice.

  “Daniel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Daniel Stone? It’s me. Charlie Goodyear.”

  Daniel hadn’t heard the voice in… how many years had it been? Twenty?

  When did the last rejection letter come? Twenty years ago?

  “Oh,” Daniel said. “Hi, Charlie. This is rather unexpected.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Are you still working in New York? Still running the agency?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlie said. His voice sounded thinner, scratchier. How old would Charlie be now? Sixty-five? Just a bit younger than Daniel. “I keep thinking of retiring since the business has changed so much, but I’m still in New York, and only taking on the projects I really love. It gives me time to enjoy a life where I don’t have to always read with a deadline. Sometimes I actually read a book for fun. You know?”