Dead Ends

by JT Ellison

  “Sure.” Daniel looked around. “No deadlines here.”

  No fun, either, he wanted to add but didn’t.

  The line fell silent. Daniel thought he might have embarrassed his former agent, made him feel bad for not keeping Daniel’s career alive. Good, Daniel thought. You should feel bad.

  “Well, anyway,” Charlie said. “I don’t want to keep you too long. I just wanted to let you know about something I learned today. I guess you don’t… you’re not on the Internet much, are you?”

  “Not since I became a hashtag. Whatever that is.”

  “Right. Of course. I saw all of that.” Charlie paused. He started to say something and then stopped. Then he said, “And the video. Anyway. I wanted you to hear from a friend, someone who would soften the blow a little.”

  “Hear what?” Daniel asked. His coffee grew cold. He hated when the coffee grew cold. But he couldn’t drink it. Charlie had hooked him.

  “It’s about that young woman, Emily Francis. Do you know what I’m going to tell you?”

  “That she ambushed Joyce Carol Oates? Started a bar brawl with Stephen King? I give up. I’ve tried to forget about her.”

  “Well, she’s written a book.”

  Daniel considered the news for a moment. He knew she was a writer, a journalist. Didn’t every journalist want to be a novelist? Isn’t that the path he once took?

  “Okay,” Daniel said. “I guess that makes sense.”

  When Charlie started talking again, Daniel understood even more.

  “Well,” Charlie said, “it’s really quite fantastic. It’s part memoir, part true crime. She must have been working on it for years, given the level of research into her great-uncle’s crimes. But then she must have finished it… I mean, just in the last month or so.”

  “After she came to my house,” Daniel said, starting to understand.

  “Yes,” Charlie said. “You figure prominently in the final chapter, of course.”

  Daniel reached out and sipped his coffee. Lukewarm. The day kept getting worse. “Why are you telling me all of this?” As if I don’t know…

  “We’re taking it out for offers today. I expect to get quite a few. I think the amount could go into the high six figures. Movie interest is there as well. With her public profile… I mean, ever since the thing with you. The viral video and everything. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eyes. She’ll look great in photos and on TV. She’s great on social media.” Charlie laughed a little. “Why, she’s already thought to give a portion of the profits from the books to the victims’ families. She thought of that all on her own. The kid’s golden.”

  “Again, why are you telling me this?” Daniel stood up and carried his coffee across the kitchen before splashing it into the sink. It made a dark mess. “Are you rubbing it in?”

  “No,” Charlie said. “Look, this is all going to break soon. And the book’s going to be everywhere. I guess I wanted you to hear it from a friend, so you could prepare for what’s going to come. I know you had a bad time before with her, and I don’t want that to happen again. I fear it could.”

  Charlie dropped the mug into the sink. It clattered so loudly it hurt his ears. “Maybe I’ll sue you. Maybe I’ll sue her. And the publisher. Maybe I’ll bring you all down for slander.”

  “But it’s all public, Daniel. The letters, the video. Hell, Emily’s grandmother is quoted in the book. You should see her. She’s as good on camera as her granddaughter.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Daniel. Like I said, I wanted to tell you this way, friend to friend.”

  Daniel stared out the window above the sink and into the backyard. The grass was high and needed to be cut. The weeds were thick and hearty. Daniel’s knees ached, his back ached. He wasn’t sure how long he could live in the house and maintain it. But to get into assisted living cost money he didn’t have. He remembered his own father after his stroke, wasting away in a nursing home all those years ago, surrounded by screaming, dirty, broken people.

  Daniel’s future. A one-way trip.

  “Let me ask you something, Charlie. Okay, so this Emily kid hit the jackpot. Great story. Great writing.”

  “The writing’s just okay,” Charlie said. “The story’s great. Actually, the hook is great. That’s what gets me. That’s what I can sell.”

  Daniel paused, took that in. Then said, “Okay, so she’s set because of this video, because of what she did to me. The social media and the hashtags and whatever else.”

  “Bathrobe Man,” Charlie said.

  “Right. Okay.” Daniel felt his blood pumping, felt himself getting excited about what he was ready to say. “Look, if she’s hot because of that, then isn’t the same true of me? I was just as much a part of the story as she was. And you know me, I’ve got seven manuscripts ready to go. I’ve been writing all along, the same kind of stuff I wrote all those years ago. They may need a little polishing, but you can help me with that, just like you always did. Now, do you want me to send something your way—”

  “Daniel, wait.” Charlie’s voice was firm, cutting him off before he could go any further into his spiel. “Maybe now isn’t the right time.”

  “Not the right time? Look, I don’t know much about anything, certainly not about the way publishing works now, but I understand the idea of striking when the iron is hot. I’m Bathrobe Man. I’m hot now. Why not get the books out while the getting is good? Do you want me to write another one, something new? I can do that. I’m full of ideas. I have outlines and ideas. That’s all I think of all day.”

  Charlie was slow to answer. When he did speak, the words came out reluctantly. “Yeah, you see, you’re a different kind of hot right now. To be honest, Daniel, you’re kind of radioactive. No one wants to touch you. The combination of the way you went after her on that video and what you did to the families of those murder victims… it’s just a tough pill for everyone to swallow.”

  “But she goaded me,” Daniel said. “Yes, I was supposed to share that money, but my father was ill and I… Okay, what if we do it under a pen name?”

  “That kind of defeats the purpose of being hot, doesn’t it?” Charlie paused and let out a long sigh. “Can I be honest with you, Daniel? You know why your career dried up back then? After you wrote Sleeping Angels, you just started to repeat yourself. Sure, the stories were compelling, but it was just the same thing, over and over.”

  “That’s what the publisher wanted. You, too. They all wanted that. Another hit. Another one just like the last.”

  “But you repeated yourself too much,” Charlie said. “Daniel, I really think you just holed up and wrote. You didn’t get out, you didn’t engage with the world. I think you lacked any real experiences to write about at some point. So you repeated yourself. And now we all know Sleeping Angels wasn’t your story, either. I guess I don’t know who you are as a writer.”

  “Okay, what about—”

  “Daniel, I have a busy day here. Real busy. But let’s say we’ll check back in with each other in a few months or so. Okay? That sounds like a good idea. Maybe by then…”

  Daniel hung up. He knew he’d never hear from Charlie again.

  The lights in the TV studio were bright. Emily tried to concentrate on the host, a handsome middle-aged man with a shaved head. He sat with his legs crossed knee over knee and held papers in his hand, as well as a copy of her book.

  “We’re back this morning with author Emily Francis. Her newly released book is called The Sleeping Angels and Me: My Journey to Understand My Family’s Past. Critics are saying this book is part memoir, part true crime hybrid. Emily, the book isn’t without controversy. Some of your critics have already pointed out that you have claimed in the past, most notably on that famous Facebook Live video, that you are the great-niece of Michael James Hart, the man who committed these horrible crimes. You wanted to provide some clarification on that point. You’re not actually his great-niece.”

  Emily maintained her smile. “Not by blood. But our families
were very close. My mother was friends with Michael, so we’ve always referred to him as Uncle Michael. It just felt that way to me growing up.”

  “But some of the victims’ families have objected to your use of the word ‘family’ in the title of the book.”

  The lights were hot. Emily felt the heat brushing her face. “Right, but don’t we all agree family is more than just blood?”

  “And it should be noted that you are giving a portion of the profits from this book to the families of the victims. Not a small gesture, considering how well the book is expected to do.”

  “I didn’t want to forget those girls. That’s really what this journey has been about for me. Remembering them.”

  The host looked impressed by her answer. Emily delivered it exactly as the publicist had told her.

  “You did quite a bit of research on this,” the host said. “It’s always impressive when a writer digs in and throws herself into the research process on a book. You also did something interesting to fully understand the story of these girls. Can you tell us about that?”

  “I wanted to know everything I could, of course. So I arranged to have myself locked inside the basement of the Hoffman Estate where the girls were killed. I spent the night alone in there just so I could experience some measure of the terror they did.”

  “Not many writers would go to such lengths.”

  “That’s just part of my process,” Emily said. “I needed to know I could get the details right, and then I could give myself permission to write the book.”

  “And there’s a movie in the works,” the host said, his voice brightening. “Any details you can give us about that?”

  Emily tried to look coy. “Well, it’s awfully early for details, but I’m very excited by it.”

  “Not even a hint about the stars—”

  “Well—”

  “I’m sorry, Emily.” The host lifted a finger, pressing it against the device in his ear. “We’re getting some breaking news now. Are we going to cut over to that?” He waited a moment. “You want to do it side by side? Do we have that?”

  Emily wasn’t sure what to do. She worried that something awful had happened, that a plane had crashed or a school had been shot up by a crazed gunman. She looked to the host for guidance.

  “Can you see that monitor right there, Emily?”

  The host pointed off camera, and it took a moment for her to locate it, the live shot of the interview. When she saw it, she couldn’t really process what she was seeing.

  She saw herself, sitting on the nicely appointed set in her new dress. But next to her she saw an image of Daniel Stone. He was speaking into a camera.

  “I know you recognize that man, Emily,” the host said. “That’s Daniel Stone, the infamous Bathrobe Man from your viral Facebook video. Our viewers will note that he’s dressed in a nice suit today and seems to have mastered the use of a smartphone. He appears to be on Facebook Live. Is that where that feed is from?” He listened. “Yes, it is. Facebook Live. Do you know where he is, Emily?”

  Emily studied the screen. She felt a small surge of anger rising inside her. Was he really doing this on the day of her release?

  “He’s… He’s at the Hoffman Estate. He’s standing in front of the house.”

  “The Hoffman Estate, that’s the house where the Sleeping Angels were found murdered. The frightening house where you spent the night in order to research your book.”

  “Why is he there?” Emily asked. “What is he saying?”

  “We’ve got the audio coming up… right now. Listen.”

  “…understand why I didn’t honor that promise I made to Michael James Hart. It’s true I agreed to share that money with the families because it was based on those horrible murders.” Daniel paused. He lifted a whiskey bottle and took a long drink. And then another. He stumbled a little. A number of thumb icons started floating across the screen, indicating the approval of viewers. “Just before the book came out, my father suffered a debilitating stroke. I’m an only child, and my father needed a lot of care, so I used the money I received to take care of him. I always intended to make up for it later. I always thought I’d be making much more money from my writing than I ever did. I quit my job to chase the dream of being a bestselling novelist, but it didn’t quite work out. I never honored the promise, and people mostly forgot about me.” He took another long drink, let out a mild belch. “Until I became Bathrobe Man.”

  “He’s obviously disturbed,” Emily said, unable to take her eyes off the spectacle. “He’s trying to take advantage of my big day.”

  “I wish we could talk to him,” the host said. “Is someone working on that?”

  “So I’m here to fulfill that promise,” Daniel said. The number of floating thumb icons increased. “Back at the place where it all began.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a bottle of pills, rattling them in front of the camera. “Sometimes people, like houses, outlive their use. And it’s best to tear them down and make way for something new. I’m going to do that today. But consider this my last will and testament. I want all proceeds from my literary estate to go toward the families of the victims of the Sleeping Angels murders. In perpetuity. I don’t know if that will help them or not, but if this video goes as viral as the last one starring me, maybe it will.”

  He opened the pill bottle and filled his palm.

  “Cheers!” he said, and threw the pills into his mouth.

  Emily looked at the host. He watched the screen with his mouth open.

  “Oh yes,” the host finally said. “We’re not going to show this disturbing content.”

  The screen became obscured by an avalanche of floating thumbs just before the feed was cut, leaving half the screen in darkness before it shifted back to the full shot of the set.

  For a moment, Emily and the host sat stunned, staring at their own images reflected back at them. Then the host moved into action, turning to Emily.

  “Well, okay… uh….” He pointed at her.

  “Emily.”

  “Thank you, Emily,” he said. “And we’ll be right back.”

  Charlie Goodyear sat in his office in Greenwich Village. He wore his half-moon reading glasses as he flipped through a newly submitted manuscript from an unknown author. He liked the voice and the story but wasn’t sure if he could sell it.

  The truth was he really couldn’t focus on the work before him. He anticipated getting news and so kept looking at his watch and then the closed door of his office.

  Come on, he thought. Come on.

  As if she heard his unspoken urging, Charlie’s assistant, a twenty-something with a bright smile named Rachel, knocked and came through the door. Her smile was even brighter than usual.

  Charlie looked up. “You got the call?”

  “I just got off the phone,” Rachel said. “We’re on the list!”

  Charlie let out a tremendous sigh of relief. He jumped out of his chair and came around the desk. For an awkward moment, he and Rachel stared at each other, unsure if they should shake hands or hug. But Charlie decided to go in for the hug. It wasn’t every day one of his clients hit the bestseller list.

  When he let go of Rachel, he started making plans. “Get the rest of the staff. Have them meet in the conference room. You know where I keep the champagne and the glasses, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good. I’ll give a little toast, say a few words. And, of course, say something in memory of good old Daniel, the man who made all of this possible.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Can you imagine, Rachel?” Charlie said. “We’ve got six more manuscripts of his. And the price just went up. Way up. I have to think about how often to dole them out. Maybe we can get a cowriter to step in. I bet he has some outlines we could use in all of that paper he left behind.”

  “You don’t even need the outlines,” Rachel said. “Just use Daniel’s name.”

  “Of course. But don’t say that out loud.” Charli
e clapped his hands together with joy. “That champagne is going to taste so good. Okay, get going.”

  But before Rachel was out the door, Charlie thought of something.

  “Oh, wait, what did they say about Emily’s book? Any good news on the paperback?”

  Some of the happiness leaked from Rachel’s face. “It didn’t make the list again. Sorry.”

  “Shit,” Charlie said, but he wasn’t that surprised. Daniel’s suicide had come on top of the revelations about her fudging her family connection to Michael James Hart. And then when it came out that she really hadn’t spent the night in the Hoffman Estate but instead just walked around the grounds for fifteen minutes… well, the worm really turned. The hardcover made the extended list briefly, and then tanked. The paperback looked to be dead on arrival.

  “You still want the champagne, right?” Rachel asked.

  “Of course, of course. I was just thinking… you know, maybe we could get Emily Francis to do one of those tearful apology videos. Maybe we can get her back on one of the morning shows…”

  “Sounds good, sir.” Rachel left the room.

  Charlie turned and looked out the window, taking in the expanse of the city below him.

  He was starting to understand this new world quite well.

  It felt good to be back.

  Catwood

  J.T. Ellison

  I had forgotten how the frogs must sound

  After a year of silence, else I think

  I should not so have ventured forth alone

  At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

  —Edna St. Vincent Millay

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