Gideon (15 page)

“I suggest you submit your manuscript somewhere else.”

“
Goddamn it
.. I’m sorry. Just let me talk to Bartholomew. All I need is two minutes with him and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“That won’t be possible.”

“Does he know I’m writing
Gideon
? Has anybody even
told
him that?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Granville.”

Click.

* * *

The woman in the pinstriped skirt and jacket stood by the thirty-fifth-floor reception desk. She was explaining to the receptionist how busy she was, that her own assistant was out sick that day, that they were extraordinarily busy, that she needed a few favors. “First,” she said, “call Elliott Allen’s office—here’s the number—tell him that Mr. Bartholomew will meet him at twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons. “Then,” she continued, “if you could type up these letters so they can get out this afternoon. Mr. Bartholomew signs his letters ‘best regards,’ and he likes—”

“Excuse me.”

She looked up at the young man standing before her. He didn’t look like a messenger. Too nice-looking. Too well dressed. A little wild-eyed, maybe, but somehow that became him. Maybe he’d just started working at the company. That wouldn’t be bad. Everyone was a little afraid of her, since she was the doorway to Mr. Big. Someone new wouldn’t be so afraid of her. Someone new would—

“Excuse me. Do you work for Mr. Bartholomew?”

“I’m his executive assistant.”

“I think we’ve talked on the phone. I’m—”

“Carl Granville.”

As he nodded, she froze. Oh, God. It was him. The nut. This was what she was most afraid of. That nuts like him would come up to the office and find her. Now he was pulling something out of his jacket pocket. He was holding it in front of her.
Oh, God, oh, God.

“Look, I’ve written a letter to Bartholomew. I’d like you to give it to him, please.”

“A letter?”

“Unless you have a better suggestion. This is the best I could come up with. Something very screwy is going on, and he’s
got
to know about it. I was going to mail it, but this is fairly urgent. I want to make sure he gets this. Will you please give it to him personally?”

“He’s not going to be able to see you.”

“If you just give him the letter, I think he’ll
want
to see me.”

“You’re not going to leave, are you?”

“I’m not trying to be difficult. Honestly. I just want to make sure he gets this letter.”

“Marcy,” she said, turning toward the receptionist, “would you please call security?”

“What?” he said. “Oh, come on. You don’t have to call security. All I’m doing is dropping off a letter!”

“You’d better leave now.”

“What is everybody so afraid of here? What’s going on?”

“It won’t do you any good to keep coming here. You’re better off leaving.”

“I just want to make sure Bartholomew gets—”

Carl heard the elevator door behind him slide open. He saw her shift her gaze, ever so slightly, to glance over his shoulder. When he turned, he was not surprised to see two uniformed guards walking toward him.

“What seems to be the problem?” one of the guards asked.

Carl thought briefly about lunging for the door that led back to Bartholomew’s office. He thought about knocking one of the guards down in frustration. He thought about grabbing Bartholomew’s secretary and shaking her until she let him in to see her boss. None of the thoughts made too much sense.

“I don’t
know
what the problem is,” Carl finally said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

* * *

Nathan Bartholomew peered out of his office cautiously. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, now this nut was trying to force his way in to see him. One of Maggie’s authors, indeed. As soon as something hit the papers, the wackos came right out of the woodwork. This letter took the cake. What a fruitcake. A secret, anonymous project. A $50,000 down payment. A fifty-year-old murder. Good God almighty. He thought he’d heard it all when, last year, Apex had published a best-selling biography of Janis Joplin. Within a week of the review in the
Times
, a woman showed up at their office threatening to sue. She claimed she
was
Janis Joplin, that she’d never died, had simply been in hiding all these years, and that all the info in the book was wrong. She could have tied them up in court for months, so they paid her $2,500 just to go the hell away.

Nice work if you can get it.

But this, using Maggie’s death to con them—no wonder publishing was in the toilet.

“It’s safe to come out, Mr. Bartholomew.” His secretary smiled politely at him. He didn’t bother to smile back.

“Where’s the kook?”

“Security escorting him out of the building,” she said.

“What a business,” he said. “Who the hell needed security back in the old days? Did you put the little package together?”

“It’s in your briefcase,” she told him. “The new catalogue, the memo about the Clancy contract, and a copy of the Disney biography.”

He walked to the elevator, nodding at the three or four people he passed in the hallway. He had no idea who any of them were, but he knew by the way they looked at him that they worked for him. Christ, this company had gotten enormous. When he’d started, he knew every single person who worked there.

Oh, well
, he sighed to himself.
That’s progress. You don’t know who anybody is anymore, and you need security just so you can get some work done.

The elevator was an express. It stopped once on the twenty-first floor, then went directly down to the lobby. Bartholomew strode out of the building, and saw his limousine double-parked right in front.

At least something’s gone right today
, he thought.

With midtown traffic in a snarl, it took fifteen minutes to go the six and a half blocks from Apex headquarters to the Four Seasons on Fifty-second between Lex and Park. The limo pulled up in front of a sleek, expensive-looking building, and Nathan Bartholomew didn’t wait for the driver to open his door. He hopped out, briefcase in hand, and headed for what many considered to be the real hub of the book publishing industry—the front room of one of the world’s most famous restaurants. He had done some serious eating there in his time, and some equally serious drinking. He’d had long talks with writers and agents there, had been told of his promotion to head of Apex there, and had made some of the biggest deals in publishing history there.

Nathan Bartholomew realized—and was surprised at the realization—that he didn’t care much about writers anymore. Or books, or deals, or the respect of the publishing community, or about anything else except making his budget and holding on to his expense-account life. But he still cared about the Four Seasons. Coming there, being greeted by the Maître d’, having his regular table. That was what he’d worked for, he realized, all these years—so a little man in an ill-fitting tuxedo would grovel before him and lead him, three times a week, to the same table at the far left of the room by the back.

“Your guest is here, Mr. Bartholomew.” Martin, the Maître d’, led him toward the table for four. Even though there were only two people dining, Bartholomew liked a larger table. He liked the fact that they’d keep it free for him. He was partial to the larger table because he liked to sit facing the wall. There were fewer distractions that way.

But there was a distraction today. A big one.

Someone was sitting at his table.

And it wasn’t Elliott Allen.

This was someone young, in his twenties probably, with blond hair that was disheveled and needed a trim. His face was unshaven and grubby. He was wearing jeans and a sport jacket and a tie, but the tie was poorly knotted and askew. He looked extremely excited. His back was to the wall, and when he saw Bartholomew he half stood. Bartholomew saw that whoever he was, his hands were clenched.

That’s when Bartholomew knew. He didn’t know how he knew. Or how this young man could have possibly tracked him down. But he was certain he knew the identity of the person who had just usurped his table and, it was beginning to appear, his life. It was the nut. The kook. The wacko who’d been trying to see him all day.

And the odds were that he was extremely dangerous.

Most lunatics were.

* * *

“I’m sorry to surprise you like this,” Carl Granville said, as apologetically as he could manage, “but you’re an extremely difficult man to get through to.”

Carl realized he was breathing heavily. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. There was no reason to be. He told himself to calm down. This was his publisher. This was someone who’d know what was going on.

“My guest … my
invited
guest … will be showing up any minute,” Bartholomew said. His voice was surprisingly deep and cultured, although it had a falseness to it, as if it were really higher-pitched and lower-class but had been worked on for many years to give it the proper veneer.

“Not exactly,” Carl answered. “I found out who you were having lunch with, and I called Elliott Allen’s secretary to tell him you were canceling.”

“Oh, shit,” Bartholomew said.

“I told them it was an emergency, and she was very understanding. I mean, I didn’t want them to think you were just blowing him off. And believe me, I know what you’re thinking, but I had to see you,” he concluded.

“Well, your timing is very bad. It’s not only a busy day, it’s an extremely traumatic one. Maggie Peterson was one of my closest associates, and this has not been easy.”

“Yes, sir, I know. But, as I told your assistant, as I told her
many
times, I’m here because of Maggie. Did you read my letter?”

“I certainly did.”

Carl breathed a sigh of relief. “So you understand what’s happening.”

“The only thing I understand is that you’re playing a very disturbed game.”

Carl stared at him for a moment, tense and confused. Then he suddenly relaxed, his shoulders sagging a bit, and he shook his head, in on the gag. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I know it’s got to be a big secret. I probably shouldn’t have put it in writing, but I didn’t know how else to get through to you. I’m having problems … with the book, I mean. I’m having some second thoughts. I was going to talk to Maggie about it, but, well … You’re looking at me as if you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Bartholomew stared at him without speaking.

“Mr. Bartholomew, it’s okay to talk to me. Believe me, I know all about
Gideon
. Well not
all
about it, but I know enough.”

“And what is it that you know?”

“How important it is. And what a rush it is. I know enough to know that we’re all going to need some serious help now that Maggie’s dead.”

The publisher looked away. Carl saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes.

“I’m not going to do anything rash. But I need to know who my contact is. And I have questions. I need to know certain things before I write any more.” Carl hoped the urgency he felt was in his voice. “It’s okay. You can
trust
me.”

The waiter now came to take Carl’s order. There was no need for him to ask about Bartholomew’s lunch … he had exactly the same thing every time he came in—a baked potato, plain, a small salad with vinegar and lemon, no oil, and a glass of red wine.

“He’s not eating,” Bartholomew said quickly, and the waiter scurried away. The publisher then said, in a slower, more deliberate tone, “Mr. Granville … do you need money? Is that why you’re here?”

Carl smiled, relieved. Jesus. For these few minutes he’d really believed that Bartholomew hadn’t know about him, had never heard of
Gideon.

“No, no. I mean, I wouldn’t
mind
some more money, but I got the check for fifty thousand dollars. I’m supposed to get the rest when I deliver, which is going to be soon. And I’m supposed to be paid for a novel, too.”

“We’ve hired you to ghostwrite a book
and
write a novel?” Bartholomew said.

Carl leaned across the table and grabbed hold of the publisher’s arm. “Mr. Bartholomew, I
swear
I can be trusted. But I need to know what’s going on. There’s something wrong here, and I don’t know exactly what it is.”

“Mr. Granville,” the publisher said slowly, “there’s something
very
wrong here.”

Carl nodded and released his grip on Bartholomew’s arm.

“What’s wrong,” Bartholomew said, “is that in all the years I’ve been publishing, I’ve never heard anything quite as preposterous as the story you tried to pass off in your letter. A check for fifty thousand dollars without a contract? Wouldn’t happen. Impossible.
Couldn’t
happen. My CFO wouldn’t let it. A two-book deal—and I’ve never heard of either book? Also impossible. There’s no book that we buy that I don’t sign off on. This is the sleaziest, clumsiest move I’ve ever encountered. Maggie Peterson hasn’t even been buried yet, and here you are, sucking around, tracking me like some kind of stalker—”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“I understand
very
well.”

Carl leaned forward. He clenched his right fist, could feel the sweat forming on his palm. “I’m writing
Gideon
. You
have
to know that. Why are you doing this?”

“Young man, listen to me. There’s no record of anything called
Gideon
,” Bartholomew said quietly. “No deal memo, no correspondence, no folder—”

“There wouldn’t be,” Carl interrupted. “She wouldn’t have kept anything in the office. You know that.”

“There’s no book called
Gideon
that’s in the budget anywhere over the next two years. There’s no author by that name, either. There’s no contract, there’s no mention of it in any of the editorial minutes. I checked with our lawyers, with sales, subsidiary rights … it doesn’t exist. Neither does any kind of deal for one of your novels.” The publisher was not speaking so quietly now. “And according to accounting, there has never been a check issued to anyone named Granville, not for fifty thousand dollars, not for five dollars. Maybe you believe what you’re saying; maybe your motives aren’t as crooked as I first suspected. I’ll even give you that. But that doesn’t change the facts. You’re living in a fantasy world, son, and I don’t want any part of this fantasy.”