Silent Partner

The Matusec cabin was anchored in stone, but its soul was knotty pine. Mike’s dad had laid the foundation using rocks little Mikey dragged up from the shore one at a time. Mike and his son Kyle had added the pine bookcase to the living room. The case marked the house’s history as surely as a family bible.

The bottom shelf held the westerns Mike’s Dad loved on rainy afternoons. A double row of Zane Greys, Louis L’Amours, and Elmore Leonards were enshrined in dust and the smell of old paper. Middle shelves held the titles Mike enjoyed as a boy: the dog-eared copies of Tolkien, HG Welles, and Robert Heinlein. He even coaxed Kyle into reading some of them before the boy’s tastes changed to video games, Penthouse, and spending time away from the old man. The top shelf held more recent treasure—novels and anthologies by Kevin Lane.

Mike thought of Lane as the master of horror; kind of Koontz, King, and Lovecraft rolled into one. And Lane was just as prolific, with forty novels and more than a hundred short stories to his credit. An aspiring author himself, Mike would have given anything to write half as well. And like most writers, that was the source of his discontent.

Mike had a good pension, relative health, money in the bank, and a stable if somewhat staid marriage. All the things that were supposed to lead to satisfied contentment. But he couldn’t write half as well as the master.

He’d started reading Lane in college and was hooked; binge-reading The Witch Woman during finals had changed his B in chemistry to a C. He’d toyed with many other authors since, but always returned to the one who made him look over his shoulder on a moonlit walk; the guy who tied a knot in his gut when heading down cellar to flip the breaker. Rainy nights at the lake were made for Lane and a crackling fire.

His dad built the lake house as a vacation cabin—fishing, hunting, campfires under the stars. Mike thought of it as a writer’s retreat, a getaway where he could toy with words, create worlds, assemble characters like a modern-day Frankenstein. A world free of urban distractions—at one with nature. It saddened him to think that the volume of work actually produced here was six short stories and one novel—none published. Like the other millions of would-be novelists in the country, Mike dreamed of writing more than he actually wrote. And he read more than he did either.

“That’s why they call them pipe dreams,” he sighed.

Shaking off a touch of melancholy, he tenderly ran his fingers over familiar titles: The Witch Woman, Tales from the Crematorium, Starkweather House, and a score of others. Some were old paperbacks with flattened bindings, others hardbound books with just a few nicks and wrinkles in their otherwise glossy jackets. He was about to select Bloodlines, a collection of short stories he hadn’t read in a while, when a fat paperback caught his eye. It was lying on its side at the head of the row like a derelict cast out for rude behavior.

The book drew his attention because the cover and front matter were torn off. This was unusual. Mike never bought coverless books (a sure sign of theft) and took care of the books he did buy. So, he immediately assumed this was one of Doris’s romance novels. He was the organized one, she the toss it when you’re done girl. But it didn’t look like one of her florid, lusty titles that were read once on their way to the recycle bin. This binding was broken, the pages yellowed with age.

A cloud of dust rose when he picked it up. A lump of pages slipped out, dried glue crumbling from the inside edge. He turned the book over and read “Praise for Catspaw!” followed by a Dean Koontz quote that began “Lane has done it again!” The spine was lined with cracks and cottony blemishes, but “Catspaw” was still visible in fiery print, and Kevin Lane plainly readable in block letters.

Mike gaped at the aging paperback and said, “Huh.”

Maybe Doris picked it up at a garage sale, he thought, and tossed it on the shelf last time she was down. But could there be a Lane title he didn’t remember? Mike hefted the meaty paperback, glanced briefly at the illustrated gore glistening on the newer Bloodlines, and then took the battered Catspaw into the family room.

Settled into the old Lazy Boy surrounded by the smell of dust, pine, and book lice, Mike began to read. He kept waiting for the ‘son of a bitch’ moment when he’d say aloud, “I remember this. I read it in college.” But the moment never came. He read the first chapter and then the second, but still no SOB. By chapter three, he was as hooked as the bass he’d eaten for dinner.

The story revolved around a sweet little girl raised in an orphanage. In his inimitable way, Lane got you to love her. You also loved the childless couple trying to adopt her. And then he dropped the hammer on them. The smiling headmistress was not what she appeared to be, nor was the institution. The plot was set, but this was too simple for Lane. New and ever more bizarre elements emerged. They entered seamlessly, woven one into the other like some grisly tapestry. They no longer seemed outlandish. You believed them. You became part of them. It was masterful. It was magic. It was pure Lane.

Eleven clucks of the cuckoo broke the spell. Mike realized that he’d been reading for four hours straight. The gooseflesh on his arms wasn’t from the room’s autumn chill, but from the novel, now more than two-hundred pages old. He felt exhilarated. He also felt oddly uneasy.

Lying in bed, he kept wondering how he could have missed this one. Mike’s first thought was that it might be an early stinker, one of the trunk novels tucked away when Lane was a struggling novice, then brought back to make a quick buck off Lane-o-mania. But this wasn’t the work of an apprentice. This had all the earmarks of a craftsman in his stride. So far, Catspaw ranked among the top ten Lane’s Mike had ever read.

Mike thought back to college and his early marriage, taking the seasons one at a time, hoping that memory begat memory. As the winters blended into springs, the springs into summers, he tried to remember when he’d first seen this book lying on a shelf at Barnes and Nobel or B Dalton. He’d gotten to autumn nineteen-ninety-three when he fell asleep.

The next day was overcast and chilly, with a threat of rain. So, after breakfast, Mike lit a fire and settled in to read. Lunch was cheese and crackers munched on the recliner; paperback balanced in his left hand. Dinner was a sandwich and beer, also in the family room. When the little birdie struck eight o’clock, it was dark out and Mike had finished.

He hadn’t done a six-hundred-page marathon in ages. And it had been just as long since he’d felt such a strong mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. He was tempted to read it again, right now, and he hadn’t done that since Tolkien.  

Doris arrived at five-thirty on Friday. She’d have to leave Sunday morning to make it back for a two o’clock open house but wanted to share the autumn colors with him. After they’d eaten in town at the Dusty Mole, they made love in the big brass bed she’d gotten at an antique store. The sex was pleasant and predictable; after three decades such was to be expected. Lying in the afterglow, Mike asked her about Catspaw.

“It was the strangest thing,” he said. “I couldn’t remember buying it or even reading it before. No déjà vu at all. Did you pick it up for me at a yard sale or something?”

Doris murmured drowsily. “Un uh. You already had all the Kevin Lanes.”

Mike shrugged. “Not this one.”

#

That winter was a cold one and they had a wedding to attend in April, so they didn’t get back to the lake house until May. Mike arrived first, driving down Thursday afternoon, with Doris promising to try and get away the middle of next week.

“May is when the real estate biz starts popping,” she’d said.

He spent Friday morning cleaning and airing out the place, then headed to town for groceries.

Driving back to the cabin, Mike fumbled with the radio, looking for a talk station or some oldies. There was something that sounded like news around 1350 AM, but he was having trouble tuning in. He dialed back and forth in ever decreasing turns until he got a faint but distinct signal.

“Dave Ramsey will be right back after these important words.”

Said important words were an ad for buying gold, then another for Jeff Cougar Chevrolet, which promised four-thousand bucks for any trade that drove through the door. Nice trick fitting a car through the door, Mike thought with a smile.

Pulling onto Shady Lane, just a half mile from Lake Road, he reached to turn off the radio when an announcer-type fellow barked, “Catspaw, a thrilling new novel by Kevin Lane. Now available from Viking Press.” Mike’s jaw dropped as his foot slammed the brakes. If he’d been driving back home in Dayton, he’d have been rear-ended.

“What did you say?” he gasped at the radio. But Dave Ramsey started talking about mortgages as if nothing had happened.

Mike did a three-point turn in the nearest drive, almost knocking over a hand-burnt sign proclaiming ‘Karpinsky Kabin.’ The speedometer topped fifty as he sped back to town, heading directly to Crawford’s Book Nook. He hit the brakes a little too late, the front wheels jarring against the curb.

Mike was in the store in seconds, ignoring the angry look from the old lady he nearly knocked down. There before him was a line of identical hardback books with a cardboard cutout of Kevin Lane staring down at the glossy row of Catspaw Catspaw Catspaw Catspaw.

#

Mike drove home slowly, his mind a jumble of wonder and confusion. The colorful copy of Catspaw sat on the seat beside him. He’d read the summary on the back jacket before buying it. “A sweet orphan girl and a childless couple in need of someone to love. Sounds like a match made in heaven. But this might be a pairing from hell.”

Navigating to the lake on autopilot, he got out and slowly approached the back door, novel in hand, groceries forgotten. He almost dropped the book as he fumbled his key into the lock. Stumbling inside without even shutting the door, he stared at the handmade bookcase. The fat, old, coverless paperback stared back at him from the top row. He reached slowly toward it, half expecting it to snake out and bite him. But his fingers closed normally around the dusty paper, and he sat down with both books on the plaid sofa.

He read the first page of the old paperback. Then, leaving his left thumb as a bookmark, opened to the first page of the hardback. He scanned forth and back for five minutes before closing both books with a gulp. “They’re the same.”

How could this be? He’d read the battered paperback last year, and it had been ancient then. Yet here was a glossy, brand-new hardback with this year’s copyright.

Mike continued to stare back and forth at the two copies, his mind refusing to come to grips with it. Then, something, a feeling of being watched, made him look up at the bookcase. It was as he remembered it from last year, the volumes lined up just as he’d left them, except that the top shelf was now flipping him the bird.

Mike always arranged the Lane books by height, hardbound first. Now there was a tall hardcover sticking up like a middle finger. It looked newer than the others, dust cover bright and shiny. He could read the title in big, black letters on the spine. The Killing Jar Kevin Lane. Cold beads of sweat dripped into Mike’s eyes.

The two Catspaws tumbled to the floor as he bounded to the shelf, almost tripping over the coffee table. He held his hand inches from the new entry, then snatched the spine like a hot potato.

Mike didn’t bother reading the back-cover blurb, instead he quickly opened to the copyright page. His eyes caught the date -- MMXXVI. He gasped as he translated the Roman numerals. “2026,” he whispered. That was all he remembered.

#

Mike’s eyelids fluttered open. He was lying on the floor. Pain throbbed from the back of his head. At first nothing registered, and then he thought, ‘Did I swoon?’ An image floated by of a frilly Victorian lady with a touch of the vapors. Mike chuckled to the empty room, then he remembered, and the laughter ceased.

He rose so fast that he almost fainted again, pain strobing between his temples. He frantically searched the floor before spying The Killing Jar under the coffee table. Kneeling down, he carefully retrieved the novel, took it to the sofa, and started to read.

After thirty pages, he shut the book and held it to his chest. Closing his eyes, he softly said, “Wow.”

It had the makings of the best Lane ever. He could tell that from two chapters. But how? How did it get here? Why did it get here? Had the top shelf of the bookcase he’d cobbled together as a father-son project been transformed into a time machine? And why now? The questions were too many to sanely consider. Then another thought punched him like a Tyson haymaker.

Mike rushed into the spare room he used as a den, clutching the strange new book to his bosom like a talisman. A part of him already knew what he was going to do, but that part kept its mouth shut.

Mike placed his newest Lane on the desk and opened the computer browser to Amazon. Catspaw was listed as the newest Lane entry, along with lurid marketing. There was no Killing Jar. Ditto for Barnes and Noble. Ditto Books A Million. Ditto Half-Priced books. A Google title search netted a bad 2010 movie and a 2006 chick book. That was it.

He stared at the book for what he thought was seconds, but the clock said thirty minutes had passed. He started to place his hand on the cover, then paused and picked up the phone instead.

“One more thing to try.”

Mike was expecting to get a machine, but his party answered.

“Hello. Samir Abbaza, Jerkins and Watkins publishing.”

“Um. Hi Sam. It’s Mike Matusec.”

“Hi Mike. Nice to hear from you. Writing any blockbusters I should know about?”

There was a chuckle in Sam’s voice that said this was more joke than question. Mike had sent him a copy of the one and only novel he’d completed, a three-hundred pager with the pretentious title “Horror Island.” Sam had passed along some kind words, those reserved for rejecting friends, the gist being that the writing was “good,” the plot “interesting,” the characters “nice”—but don’t quit your day job.

“I don’t know—maybe. But that’s not why I’m calling. You know Kevin Lane?”

“Does the pope know Latin?”

“Yeah, right. But, I mean, you know his work. What he’s published. What he may be working on, right?”

“Well, we’re not his publisher, wish we were. He’s been with Viking for six, eight years now. But, yeah, I follow him just like the rest of the industry. Why?”

“Did he ever publish Catspaw before? I mean is it a rerelease or something?”

“What? You mean the one that just came out? The current Times best seller? That Catspaw?”

“Yeah. I know. I was just wondering if maybe…”

“Maybe it will sell a million copies. And maybe I would kill to get him to change publishers. But it was not might be maybe published before. Why do you ask?”

“How about The Killing Jar? Has he ever published anything with that title?”

Samir paused for a moment. “Not that I know of. In fact, I can’t think of any authors who used that one. Why? Is that the working title for your new blockbuster?” More chuckles.

“Yeah, maybe. I, um, just wanted to check to see if Lane ever used it. I, you know, I’m influenced by his style and I wouldn’t want to steal a title.”

“Don’t worry, my friend. You’re on safe ground. Titles can’t be copyrighted.”

“But you’re sure that Lane never used that one?”

“Yep. I think your reputation is safe. No one will accuse you of writing like Kevin Lane.” More chuckles.

“Great. Fine. Ah, when I finish this blockbuster, is it okay if I run it past you?”

“Gee, Mike. I’d love to, but I’m pretty busy these days.” An embarrassed chuckle. “That’s why I’m still at my desk at Friday closing time.”

“Just read the first three chapters. If you don’t like em, we can stop there. Friendship intact.”

“Well… Okay. Sure. Be happy to. Three chapters.”

“And if you like it, maybe love it, promise to send it higher up the chain?”

Now there was a long pause. “Listen, um, Mike, I’m not really in the acquisitions loop for new authors. I’m in…”

“I know. Just see it gets in the hands of an editor. Only if you like it. Really like it.”

Another pause, a pregnant one, the kind that stretches friendship to the snapping point. Finally, Sam said, “Ok. Fine.” There was no chuckle now. “But only if I think it’s a blockbuster.” The implication was he was going to think no such thing. Also left unsaid was let’s not make a habit of this if we want to stay friends. “But, hey, I’ve got a late meeting in about five minutes, so I’m gonna have to run.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. Thanks a bunch.”

“Give my best to Doris.”

“I’ll do that. Love to Janelle.”

Still in a bit of a daze, Mike hung up the phone with one hand and picked up The Killing Jar with the other. He let the heavy hardback bob up and down, as if a decision hung in the balance. On one side hung ethics, integrity, perhaps even self-respect. On the other, fulfillment of a lifetime dream, fame, perhaps even immortality. He kept holding the book, feeling the weight of it, letting the gravity of it fatigue his hand as his mind tennis-matched the options and their consequences. Finally, when his arm muscles screamed with pain, he dropped The Killing Jar next to his computer. He’d made his decision, or at least accepted it. He had a feeling the decision had been made when he saw the copyright date.

“Opportunity only knocks once,” he said. Then he fired up his word processor.

#

Mike had learned to type in high school on actual typewriters, just before computers took firm hold on society. Over the years, he’d gotten lots of practice and was now pretty fast, averaging seventy-five words per minute when in the groove. He was in the groove now.

Lunch was forgotten, and dinner was a sandwich wolfed down with a glass of milk at the kitchen counter. Dessert was two Tums. Sleep consisted of a nap on the living room sofa.

Doris called in the morning to say she wouldn’t be able to make it down after all; something about a sales conference at her office. But she was looking forward to seeing him back in Dayton.

Mike put the phone on speaker and shook cramps from his fingers.

“That’s too bad, hon. But I’m thinking of staying here for a week or two. I’ve gotten an idea for a novel and the juices are really flowing.”

“Oh well,” Doris said, with a verbal roll of the eyes. “You and your writing. Maybe I can come down the next week?”

Panic stabbed him like a misplaced needle. “Ah, well, well, let’s play it by ear, OK?”

Now she sounded hurt. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure, sure, I just really want to get a good start on this one.”

There was a pause before she said, “Well, be good and I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.” She did not sound pleased. Mike found he didn’t really care.

#

His pal the cuckoo was chiming the witching hour when he finally finished. He saved the document on his hard drive and a flash drive, and then emailed it to himself. Then he slept for twelve hours.

The next week was consumed with proofing the manuscript and actually reading what he’d typed. It was good. Very, very good. The best Lane had written in twenty years, or at least the past twenty years. Who knew what he’d write between now and 2026.

This is crazy, Mike thought. But that didn’t stop him. He used the book jacket description to craft a query letter. He figured he’d only need the one.

#

The next few months were the hardest. Mike had to ‘write’ for several hours a day, at least while Doris was around. When she was off selling, most of the writing took the form of watching old movies, reading, and walking in the park. But he did manage half a dozen short stories, two of which were accepted in anthologies.

Finally, on August first, he attached a PDF to his query email and addressed it to s.j.abazza@jerkins&watkins.com. Then he pressed send. He’d diplomatically reminded Sam of his promise to hand-carry the book to an editor, if he liked it. Sam replied within an hour that he’d give the first three chapters a read (‘three chapters’ were in boldface for emphasis). Mike could almost hear his friend sigh “why me?” through cyberspace. 

Two days later the phone rang.

“Hello, my friend.”

Mike recognized Sam’s voice.

“Good to hear from you buddy. I know it was a big…” Sam cut him off.

“I loved it!!”

“The first three chapters?”

“The first three, the second three, the last three. Couldn’t put it down. I’ve already taken it to our senior editor with my recommendation. If she likes it half as much as I do, you should be getting a contract in the mail in about a week. Do you have an agent?”

#

The following eighteen months were a jumble. The publisher went into a full-court press. There were interviews on NPR and at least a dozen local stations. Then there were the book signings in Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, Louisville, and New York if you please. Even a guest spot on Kimmel.

And to Mike’s surprise, there were groupies; six in total. Doris didn’t seem to notice, or maybe the money and celebrity status made up for it.

The first banger sister was in Chicago. A tall blond stretching the confines of a cashmere sweater handed him her book to sign. He opened the cover and a room key slid out. He picked it up to hand it back to her and she whispered, “I’m at the Hyatt just across the street. 612.” Then her green eyes smiled a fuck-me grin. His eyes never left those eyes as he handed back the book. He wasn’t sure what he’d written inside. He was sure he kept both the key and the memory of that night.

The Killing Jar stayed on the bestseller list for twenty-seven weeks, topping out at number two. Jerkins & Watkins also wanted to publish Mike’s first book; Sam the naysayer now saying, “What do you mean? I told you it was good.” And with a lot of help from Sam, it was.

Everyone wanted to know what was next.

In the spring, Mike drove to the lake hoping to answer that question. He had taken care of the evidence, with both the Lane copy of The Killing Jar and the paperback Catspaw turned to ashes. The space where they’d been was now vacant, ready for a new occupant.

Mike pulled his sixty-two Corvette up to the back porch and hastily went inside, heading directly to the bookcase. The top shelf contained all his old Lanes, and that was it. He flipped a couple over to see if they were unknown titles, but all were well remembered.

“Good morning, Mr. Matusec.”

Mike snapped around to confront a nattily dressed man who had somehow entered the house unheard. He was a sixtyish, portly gentleman in an expensive three-piece suit. His hair was well groomed, but his complexion was on the greasy side. The smell of expensive cologne wafted from him, mixed with the hint of something else -- like sweat with an acrid undertone.

The stranger held a homburg hat in his left hand and a copy of The Killing Jar in his right. “Quite a novel you’ve written, wouldn’t you say?”

Mike stared and grunted “What… How…?”

The stranger interrupted. “I quite enjoyed it. Now let me ask you, have you enjoyed it?” 

Mike fumbled again for words.

“I mean, has the experience been pleasurable? The fame, the money, the ah, women?” His face lit in a mischievous grin. “Now don’t worry, I am not going to tell your wife, who quite suspects by the way.”

Mike managed, “But.. I don’t…” before his guest interrupted again.

“My name is Smith, Josiah Smith. And you might say I’m in the publishing business, among others. In fact, you might say I am your publisher as it were.”

Mike tried to speak again, but Smith continued.

“I’ve seen to it that your novel was published, as per our agreement. I just wanted to confirm that you are satisfied.”

Mike finally broke through his shock. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know you, and I certainly don’t know anything about any agreement!”

Mr. Smith shot him a single sinister glare and Mike went dumb.

“Really, Mr. Matusec? That’s not how I remember it.” He winked. “Let me help your recall.”

With brilliant clarity, images danced across Mike’s mind like butterflies over daffodils. It was three years ago at the lake, and he’d just reread The Catcher Man, his favorite Lane. Well, what used to be his favorite. The memory was clear as a summer morning. It’d been drizzling all day, darkening his mood. The Catcher Man was as good as he remembered, ratcheting up his jealousy. After his third bourbon, he’d clutched the book in his right hand, like the Bible, and thought, I’d sell my soul to have my name on something this good, even once. Mike’s gut turned cold. With uncanny certainty, he recalled that for that brief moment, he’d meant it. He’d really meant it.

As if reading his mind, Mr. Smith said, “I threw in the months of fame and fortune for good measure. A little, shall we say, goodwill gesture. Can’t have unsatisfied customers.” The mischievous grin was back. “Most of my business is word of mouth, you know.” He paused before adding, “Well, are you satisfied?”

Mike nodded numbly.

“Then time to fulfill your part of the bargain.”

#

Courier News-- Pawettville, KY

Famous author dead: Pawettville’s most famous resident was found dead at his lakeside home of an apparent heart attack yesterday. Mike Matusec’s meteoric rise produced just two published novels, but he has already been heralded as a master of the macabre. His first book, The Killing Jar, was proclaimed a horror classic, with noted author Kevin Lane quoted as saying, “It is as good as anything I’ve ever written.”  

John Bukowski was previously a researcher and medical writer with professional publications ranging from journal articles to website content to radio scripts. In fiction, he has two novels and fifteen short stories in publication (see website). He’s a native of the Midwest, but currently lives in eastern Tennessee. More at: www.thrillerjohnb.net