by Mark Frost
Now, time for a riddle.
If a plane crashes on the U.S.-Canadian border, on which side do they bury the survivors? That's an easy one.
Answer: Neither side. You first have to kill them.
Here's another one. Why do you think Bobby Fisher turned to God and gave up chess?
Answer: To get to the other side.
Meet any nice girls lately?
See you soon, Dale.
Windom Earle
June 10, 1 P.M.
If evil is a thread that winds like a string around the globe, then I fear those threads all end up in the cell where Windom is held. Authorities report that shortly before his brief escape, two patients whom Windom had befriended had been found hanging by their necks in their cells. They were both reportedly in high spirits, and scheduled for release within the next two weeks.
Diane, I've never asked you this before, and as a general rule I try never to mix my private and public life, but I would consider it a great honor if you would consider having dinner with me. If this in any way crosses over a line that we have long ago set for our relationship, I will understand. If not, how does eight o'clock sound?
* * *
Chapter 4
"Special Agent Cooper . . . Dale and I had dinner once. We ate Chinese. We had wonton soup, egg rolls, and Peking duck. That's the one where they inflate the bird with air, swelling it to over double its original size. Without a doubt the most delicious skin I've ever eaten, firm and at the same time delicate. And the meat itself takes on a flavor when slid into the mouth. . . . Well, I couldn't get enough of it."
Diane
Federal Employee
June 11, 7 A.M.
It occurred to me last night while in the middle of a very fine duck that I do not know Diane's last name.
July 2, 9 P.M.
I find myself once again faced with the terrible prospect of vacation time. Some man in a little office staring at a computer screen insists that I need a rest.
July 20, 3 P.M.
Medicine Hat, Alberta. Diane, never judge a town by its name when planning a trip. Bought a pair of damn good snowshoes, hand-made, built to last. Next stop Moose Jaw, looking for a good sturdy ax.
July 24, 4 P.M.
Had hoped to find my brother while north of the border but was too late. He is now in South America. I have not seen Emmet in over twenty years, Diane. I fear we are now strangers. I wish it were otherwise, but we have each chosen a different path.
August 5, 9 P.M.
Diane there is nothing quite as rewarding as returning home from an adventure. I don't know if this is a cultural difference or whether our Canadian neighbors just like sugar, but I ate some damn good pies. If you ever happen to be in Flin Flon, stop at the Florida Café for a piece of strawberry mousse pie.
September 24, 4 P.M.
Diane, I'm heading to Philadelphia. My father is ill. I will check back in when I am better able to assess his condition.
September 26, 1 A.M.
Diane, I've spent the last several hours wandering the streets where I grew up. So much has changed. Duva's is closed, the Band Box Theater was lost to a fire. I saw Bonnie and Clyde there. I think I was the only person in the audience who was cheering for the G-men.
Old man Simms and the hardware store are both gone. He died a number of years ago and his son sold the business shortly thereafter. Even the 24th Street gang isn't the same. They now carry guns.
Our old house has been torn down to build a parking lot for a fried chicken restaurant. All that is left are the concrete steps that used to lead to the front door, and a couple pieces of the awnings.
The Schlurmans moved away several years after Marie died. I don't know what happened to her bean bag chair. The school is still the same. I sat in the meeting hall for several hours this afternoon. An eternal silent place. The headmaster told me that Mr. Brumley, the janitor who caught me taping the sex education class, won fifty thousand dollars in Atlantic City and retired.
All that existed that made this place mine is gone. The people, the buildings, the sounds and smells. What's left no longer belongs to me. I'm a time traveler, slipping in and out like an archaeologist, hoping I will find clues to forgotten secrets, or guideposts to future destinations. I find neither. You can no more hold the past in your hand than you can see tomorrow.
Only the graveyard remains unchanged. There may be a few more stones. The grass less green. The visitors older. It matters not to the residents. Theirs is the only truth. What we do up here, our problems, the victories, the loves, hates, lies, truths, and promises, are fleeting. It must be quite a show. The little glass pyramid on Marie's grave is gone. I hope that whoever has it now had better luck with it than the two of us did.
My father has recovered, though he was frighteningly close to death. He has a faulty valve in his heart. He told me this afternoon that when he is discharged from the hospital, he and Shamrock will sell the printing shop and leave Philadelphia. He said something about looking for a boat. I hope he finds one that doesn't leak.
Tomorrow I'll visit the place where we placed my mother's ashes in the stream. After that I don't think I'll return to this part of the country. There's nothing here for me anymore.
I don't think I've ever told you this, Diane, but in 1970 my father discovered a new crater on the moon. It's called Cooper's Crater, and you can just see it on the edge of the dark side's shadow.
September 27, 3 P.M.
Diane, the Civil Corps of Engineers is a menace to the spiritual life of this country. I am now standing on the shore of a large algae-infested slew that was once the quiet little stream my mother drifted out to sea in. The bastards built a dam.
November 11, 10 P.M.
Diane, heard from my father today. He is out of the hospital. The printing shop is on the market. He sent a picture of a retired tugboat that is for sale in Florida. Cannot seem to shake the image of my father being swallowed by a whale.
November 20, 11 P.M.
A slow week, one bank robbery, a case of extortion, and one failed kidnapping. Gave a talk at the Rotary tonight on white collar crime in the workplace. In a nutshell, Diane, I am bored, and have not found a way to combat this malaise. Holmes used cocaine, an alternative I find unacceptable. What I need, what any detective needs, is a good case. Something to test oneself to the absolute limit. To walk to the edge of the fire and risk it all. The razor's edge. Are there any great cases anymore, Diane? Is there a Lindbergh kidnapping, a Brinks robbery, a John Dillinger, a Professor Moriarty? If I was to say that in my heart I hoped there was, then I should hang up my badge and gun and retire. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for, you may just get it.
February 18, 1989, 9 P.M.
Diane, I received the following letter in the mail today.
Dear Coop,
Seems I've not quite been myself for the last several years. I would like very much to make up for all the lost time between us, and I think I know just the thing. A test of skill, one last game. Me the brilliant teacher revered by all inside these dreary powder-blue walls, and you his promising if not predictable student. Is it a deal? . . . Good.
I will make the first move very soon.
Windom Earle
The ramblings of an insane man, or something much more sinister. I fear a wind is about to begin blowing, Diane, and no one knows what will be left in its path.
February 20, 3 A.M.
Unable to sleep, have sat up all night looking out at San Francisco Bay. Diane, if a person, as one theory goes, is chosen to live in a particular time for one specific reason, then why am I here now? What moment in history is my life destined to intersect with? Or has it already happened, and I just didn't understand that that was my moment?
My mother, Marie, and Caroline. Those are the names on the signposts past which I've traveled. But where is the next one, and whose name will be on it? My own? Windom Earle's? Or another? Diane, as Groucho Marx once said, "Harpo, you talk too much."<
br />
Good night, Diane.
February 24, 6 A.M.
There's been a body found in Washington state, Diane. A young woman, wrapped in plastic. I'm headed for a little town called Twin Peaks.