Ghostwriter (34 page)
Men and women white with disbelief, their faces saying it all.
Such utter and absolute horror.
He’s too weak to think anymore, too shocked to put all the pieces together, too relieved, too distraught to ask Hank how come
those big hands of his were so bloody.
Dennis doesn’t ask because he knows. And he doesn’t want to know.
These aren’t the pages of a story. They’re the life he’s living out. Sometimes, on some days, horror and misery and suffering
find their place and a life to terrorize. And thus, a tale is told, grim and unrepentant, with no happy ending.
And after what all these people find on this farm, including what surrounded him for a night he’ll never forget, there will
only be more pain and suffering.
But unlike the character in
Empty Spaces,
Dennis breathes life.
And he knows who allows him to.
At the hospital, finally able to rest, Dennis looks at his friend who had not left his side since finding him in the barn.
“You saved my life.” He states the obvious.
“I was lucky.”
“How?”
“That guy—your friend, the young guy—that night he saw us at Pancho’s. There was no way anybody knew that about me.”
“Knew what? What are you talking about?”
“When he referred to Bailey—the dog I drove over one night when I was plastered. The one I buried in my backyard.
Nobody ever knew about that. I never told a soul, Den. Including you.”
“You said you didn’t remember—”
“He freaked me out. I didn’t know what to say. So I did a little research on him.”
“What do you mean research?”
“I went to talk to his family. And they told me he got to know a man—this guy named Bob. They said they knew his last name
because it was so unique—Holzknecht. They told the authorities that too.”
Dennis had heard that name before.
“Why does that…”
“Yeah, it sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Your neighbors—their last name is Holz.”
Dennis nodded, still trying to figure out the connection.
“Your—fan, or whatever you want to call him. He became good buddies with this Bob character. And I believe that’s who killed
him.”
“You believe he’s dead.”
Hank nodded. “And after what I saw tonight…” He let out a sigh. “I think they’re going to find that guy’s parents. And we’re
lucky because we could have…”
Dennis nodded. He knew.
“But how did you know about—about the barn?”
“I got your message and drove over. You weren’t around. You babbled in your voice mail, talking about the neighbors and about
Audrey. Your car was there, and it looked like you had just disappeared. I decided to go next door to ask the Holzes some
questions, and instead I found—I found a messy place.”
“Not as messy as the farm.”
“Yeah. The farm is registered under a Bernard and Henrietta Holzknecht. It took me about an hour to find an address in that
outhouse I was in. I just—I’m telling you, man, I just knew. I knew something was up.”
“But how?”
“I had a dream. And I saw you—I saw you in mud and darkness and knew you were in trouble. Heck, maybe it was just my imagination
after hearing that from that young guy. I don’t know. I just know that I needed to find you.”
“You did.”
“Yeah.”
Dennis gave his friend a glance that said more than the words he uttered: “Thanks, Hank.”
“If this was one of your books, I’d be dead right now.”
Dennis nodded but didn’t feel like joking about the dead.
There were plenty of them back there at that farm, plenty of bodies to identify, plenty of families the news would destroy.
“Hank, can you do me one more favor?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you go get Audrey?”
All That’s to Come
“You okay?”
“Dad, I’m fine.”
“Just checking.”
“It’s been six months.”
“I can still check.”
“You checked on me yesterday.”
“I know.”
“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”
“All right.”
“How are you?”
“Hank’s still rooming at the house, which has been interesting.”
“Getting any writing done?”
Dennis just laughed.
“I gotta go,” Audrey said.
“Be careful.”
“I have the world watching.”
“You have more than that,” he said as he told her good-bye.
Sometimes when the phone rang he picked it up expecting to hear Cillian’s voice.
Sometimes when an e-mail came in he opened it expecting to see Cillian’s address.
But ever since that grisly morning stuck away in some unseen barn, Dennis had not heard from his writer friend.
Cillian had disappeared.
Just like the words he used to use in telling his stories. The words—the magic as Lucy used to call it—were gone.
He believed he’d used up all of that magic.
But that was okay. That’s all they were in the end. Just words. Nothing more.
It had been a while since he had gone to his PO box in Geneva. It had been before everything happened, before the media camped
out by his property and watched his every move. They had since left, but he knew there was probably a mass of letters and
cards awaiting him.
And sure enough, there was.
Three mail bags worth of greetings and get wells and the typical sorry-you-had-a-serial-killer-living-next-to-you cards from
Hallmark.
It would take him a week to go through everything.
Back home, he took the bags and dumped them out on his dining room table.
One thing caught his attention right away.
But surely…
It made him think of the gift he had given Lucy right after he had discovered she had cancer. He gave it to her as a gesture,
a notion, a symbol of the two of them.
I burned that picture in a field a few days after she died.
Of course it wasn’t that.
But Dennis looked at the package, the square, fl at, cardboard box, and he felt his heart racing.
Is this Cillian again? Has he come back? Is this another game?
Dennis left the package on the table along with all the other contents.
He needed some air.
The package waited on the kitchen table.
He had hoped that maybe it was his imagination, that maybe it wouldn’t still be there when he got back.
Dennis was afraid to open it.
He noticed something that he hadn’t originally seen: in the corner on the left-hand side was Lucy’s name.
Written in her handwriting.
No address, no PO Box 222, North Shores, Heaven insignia.
No, of course not. That would be crazy.
The name in her handwriting wasn’t crazy.
It was scary.
So why had she sent something to his PO box and not their home?
It had been marked on the same day he had been knocked out and kidnapped and dragged to a cold barn in the middle of nowhere.
It has to be Cillian. Throw the thing away.
He touched the package. He used to put his hand on her chest, just above her heart. Perhaps this package beat the same way.
I’ll never forget. You know? How can I?
He fingered the package to make sure it was real. What was real and what was made up? The line had long since blurred. First
in his writing then in Lucy’s death and now, after all was said and done, here. With a package she mailed a year after she
died.
And I’m thinking I know what’s inside.
He took a breath.
Then he took the package in his hands.
They’re shaking. God, I’m nervous.
He ripped open the tab in the envelope. He could feel a cardboard backing. Actually, there were two. He carefully slid them
out of the yellow package.
It was a sunny April afternoon. The wind was blowing outside, the temperature cold. The sky looked like orange sherbet, the
cozy glow filling this room with warmth and life. The day held on, not quite done, the busyness not yet finished.
All of these things mattered because they would be cemented into his mind and his soul until his last breath. He would remember
this—standing here, opening this package, peeling the tape from one side of the two cardboard sheets, lifting one of them
to see the color photograph, the square shot that wasn’t a copy but was the original he had bought years ago and added borders
to and named appropriately “Us and Them.”
His handwriting was still there, but it was marked over with the same blue pen Lucy had used to sign the outside of the package.
Us and Them
Next to it Lucy had written something else.
And it made him laugh.
And the orange glow filled his soul.
He knew she wasn’t far away, that she was there, watching, waiting.
And he continued to laugh, shaking his head, speechless and utterly moved.
Sometimes the longer you wait to say the right thing, the necessary thing, the faster time goes by. And sometimes time passes
over it altogether, leaving the words and sentiment lost forever.
Memorial Day was drawing to a close. The day had been full of laughter and baseball, both in part due to Hank spending the
day with them. He drank remarkably very little and eventually bid Dennis and Audrey good night, and as he did Dennis said
words that were obvious but needed to be uttered.
“Thank you, friend.”
“For what?” Hank asked, honestly not knowing.
“For allowing this day to happen. And each day to follow.”
“I shouldn’t get that credit. But I’ll take it anyway.”
And now, a couple hours later, as Audrey sat with her hands over her knees watching reality TV, Dennis knew it was time. Tomorrow
might not come. Tomorrow was not promised to anyone. And this family knew it all too well. There was someone missing tonight,
someone who should have been there but wasn’t.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She obliged as he sat down on the couch next to her and turned off the television. Audrey and her curly hair and wide, beautiful
eyes faced him on the couch.
He sighed, wondering how to start.
“You doing okay?”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“If I hear that question one more time…”
“Okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just—I’ve wanted to tell you something for a long time now. Something I’ve needed to tell you.”
“I know, I know. You love me,” Audrey said, smiling, trying to break the seriousness.
“That’s not it, wise guy.”
“Wise gal.”
Dennis shifted on the edge of the couch, looking at her, feeling strangely nervous about what he needed to say.
“When your mother.… Just weeks before she ended up dying, she told me something to tell you after she was gone. I didn’t want
to hear this, of course. I never truly believed she would die. Never. Part of me always held on to hope that there would be
some miracle. But she did die. And, well, I didn’t want to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“It was just something small that she wanted you to know. And as time passed I knew you already believed this, that you already
knew this. It’s just—it’s just that I never believed it. And I’ve refused to believe it for a very long time. Until recently.”
“Believe what, Dad?”
He smiled at Audrey.
“Your mother had a vision of heaven before she died. It was vivid and real. And she described it to me perfectly. A small
town by a lake, with cobblestone streets and a cool breeze that blew between the buildings. She described the place and the
scene so perfectly, I told her she should have been a writer. But she said mere words couldn’t sum up this place, it was that
perfect. It was perfect, and it was full.”
“Full?” Audrey asked.
“Full in every way. Full of love. Full of life.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought—I thought she was crazy. I thought it was just a dream. You know? Like the kind we all have.”
