Plot Line (3 page)

“I’m not going back there.”

“You’re not going to sit around here and do
nothing . . .”

“I’m not going back there!” Ray shouted.
“And I’m not going to sit around doing nothing! I never have, I
never will.”

“Sometimes I just don’t understand you,”
Nora shouted back.

“You’ve never tried.”

“That’s unfair,” Nora protested. Ray could
hear the hurt in her voice. She was frightened, and she had good
reason to be. She was also correct; he did have to do
something.

“This whole conversation is unfair,” Ray
said softly yet firmly. “I’m not going to let the family starve,
Nora. We’re not going to lose the house. Everything is going to be
fine, I’ll make sure of it.”

They fell silent as the night. Ray knew he
was a disappointment in his wife’s eyes. She had never understood
his need to write. To her it had always been a diversion or an
unrealistic dream. Sure there were famous writers, but they were
few. Not for a second had she ever caught a glimpse of his dream.
He doubted she ever would.

Nora wrapped her arms around herself trying
to ward off the cold and bounced on the balls of her feet. After
another few moments of silence, she said, “You should come into the
house. You don’t want to catch a cold.”

Ray smiled. It was her way of showing
concern. “I will in a few minutes. I want to sort a few things out
in my mind.”

Nora turned without a word and trod back to
the house.

A few minutes later, Ray heard the screen
door open and close, this time softly. He didn’t turn. Steps made
soft by the thick grass drew closer.

“Hi ya, Pops.” It was his daughter. Just
hearing her voice made him feel better.

“Hi, Skeeter. How was church?”

“Great. The pastor gave a wonderful Bible
study. You would’ve enjoyed it.”

“Think so, huh?” Ray avoided church except
on Easter. A solitary man, he found the crowds uncomfortable, the
songs foreign, and the sermons unchallenging. He never felt as if
he belonged.

“Mom told me about your publisher. I’m
sorry.”

Ray looked into his daughter’s face and saw
genuine heartache. “Thanks, honey. It was quite a shock.”

“It’s not the end, you know. You have a
great talent. I think God will use it in ways we can’t see
yet.”

“If so, He has an odd way of showing
it.”

Skeeter sat next to Ray. Her thin body
radiated heat. She wore blue jeans and a tee shirt with the name of
a local college imprinted on it. “Odd isn’t always bad.”

Ray put his arm around his daughter. She had
always been the spiritual one in the family, and her faith always
seemed genuine. Since so many children her age involved themselves
with sex and drugs, he considered himself fortunate to have a
daughter who found excitement in religion. At least she wasn’t in a
cult. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m a little on edge.”

“It sounded like mom gave you a hard
time.”

“You heard that, eh? She wasn’t very
sympathetic.”

“I think she’s scared. She always acts angry
when she’s frightened.”

It was an accurate insight. “I guess it’s
hard to be married to a writer, especially one that’s such a
failure.”

“You’re not a failure. Thousands of people
wish they could have a book published. You’ve had two.”

“Not bestsellers. If they had been best
selling books, then none of this would have mattered. Publishers
would be calling me and not the other way around.”

“It will happen, Dad. Give it time.” She
shivered.

“Go inside. You’re freezing.”

“I’m going to stay here with you,” she
answered.

Ray chuckled. “Is this a sneaky way of
getting me to come in from the cold?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you win. Truth is, I’ve done all the
thinking I can do for the night.”

Skeeter put her arm around Ray’s waist and
gave him a hug. “It’s going to work out,” she said softly. “I
believe in you, and God won’t abandon us.”

Ray gave his daughter a quick kiss on her
forehead. “I hope you’re right.”

The evening passed slowly, the sun
rising reluctantly.
Ray Beeman had been up
to greet it. He had been awake for hours. When he stepped from the
backyard into the house he found Nora already in bed although it
was just a few minutes after nine. It was something she did when
upset. Ray walked into the bedroom and saw his wife lying beneath
the covers, her back turned toward the door. He doubted she was
truly asleep, but moved quietly nonetheless. Closing the door to
the master bath behind him, he quickly brushed his teeth and
slipped into his pajamas. Although dressed for bed, Ray was too
keyed up to sleep. Instead, he returned to the living room and
turned on the television. He sat in his dark blue recliner until
nearly midnight, convincing himself he was relaxing. He
wasn’t.

Skeeter had gone to her room to study. Ray
knew she would stay there until bedtime. She never brought home a
report card with anything less than an “A” for every class. Kids
said she was smart, but she worked harder than anyone he knew.

Once in bed, Ray lay in the dark staring at
a ceiling he could not see. The day’s events moved in and out of
his thoughts like ghosts haunting a dilapidated Victorian mansion.
Although weary, Ray struggled with sleep. His mind raced like a car
engine and he had no power to slow it. He could only wait
helplessly until sleep overtook him.

When the sun rose, Ray estimated he had
slept three hours at most. His eyes were gritty, and a thick film
coated the inside of his mouth. Rising gently from bed, he showered
and dressed for the day.

With a mug of coffee in his hand, he walked
into his office a converted bedroom filled with books and
magazines. Mismatching bookshelves lined three of the four walls.
Next to the fourth wall was a computer hutch with a Gateway PC
nestled inside.

Ray flicked on the overhead light and looked
around the room. It was disorganized with manuscripts lying in
piles near his desk, and books, which found no room on the shelves,
teetered in precarious little towers, ready to fall at the
slightest bump.

The computer hummed and the overhead light
bathed the beige walls in bright illumination.

The room felt different. He
loved his office. It represented him in many ways. Disorganized yet
still productive. Here he felt most like a writer; here he could
sit hour upon hour typing one letter after another, placing one
word after another until a thought was formed and a story told.
Today was different. It reminded him he
used
to be a writer. That letter had
changed everything.

Taking a seat at the computer, he moved the
mouse bringing the device back to life. A mouse click later he was
staring at “Number Three”—his third book: 200 pages of a planned
450. Not quite halfway done. Although he was 50,000 words into the
novel, it had no name, no title. He just referred to it as, “Book
Three.”

He wanted to write, needed to string his
ideas together on the page, but it was so futile now. He could
finish the book and place it with another publisher but that would
take time—longer if he had to get a nine-to-five job. Despair
washed over him.

Leaning back in his chair, he reached for
his coffee cup when something poked him in the chest. He wore the
same shirt and pants he had worn yesterday. The gentle stick
puzzled him at first, and then he remembered. Reaching into the
breast pocket, he removed the business card of Devlin Chambers. He
studied it for a moment and a portion of the previous day’s
conversation returned. Devlin had said, “This isn’t full time
employment. You will be needed from time to time and when we need
you, you must be there. The rest of the time is yours to do with as
you see fit.” Devlin also said the pay was “substantial.”

Ray flicked the card in his fingers,
reliving every word Devlin offered. Twenty minutes later, Ray had
made up his mind. If what Devlin offered was true, then he had to
make the next step.

A sound behind him made Ray turn. Nora stood
in the doorway to the office. She was dressed for work in tan
slacks and a chocolate brown, long sleeve blouse. He had heard her
rise from bed and shower. Uncertain about her mood, he chose to
remain cloistered in his office. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” she replied softly. “Amy tells me
I was a little too harsh last night. I’m sorry.”

Nora was a strong woman of Irish stock. Her
keen mind could be abducted by her volatile anger. She seldom lost
her temper, but when she did the sun and moon backed away. “I know
it was a shock. The news didn’t sit well with me either.”

“I could have been more supportive.” Nora
leaned against the doorjamb and looked down at her fingers. “I’m
just worried. Amy has several school functions coming up and she
needs new clothes. I don’t know where the money is going to come
from.”

“Did Skeeter say she was worried?”

“No, of course not. She never complains
about anything. I don’t think she knows how to worry.”

“How did we ever end up with such a
wonderful daughter?” Ray flashed a broad smile.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“I disagree. I think she comes from good
stock.” He winked at her.

For a moment, Nora smiled at the compliment,
but the smile quickly melted away. “Are we going to be all
right?”

Ray rose, crossed the small office and took
his wife in his arms. “It’s going to be fine. Things always work
out.” Nora returned the embrace. Ray let a few moments pass as they
drew strength from one another. “I was offered a job
yesterday.”

Nora pulled back and stared at Ray through
eyes brimming with tears. “What?”

Ray recounted his meeting with the
mysterious Devlin Chambers. Nora listened intently then said, “Why
didn’t you tell me this last night?”

With a shrug, Ray answered, “I wasn’t
interested in the job last night. I was still stinging from the
news about my publisher. Besides, you weren’t in a listening
mood.”

“I suppose you’re right. Do you think the
offer is real? People don’t usually just walk up and offer
employment out of the blue.”

“I’ve thought about that.” Ray walked back
to his desk and picked up Devlin’s business card. “He wasn’t
offering jobs to everyone, just to me. He seemed to know my work
and that’s what prompted the offer.”

“What do they want you to write?”

“He wouldn’t say. I plan to call him a
little after eight and see if I can’t get some more information.”
Ray paused, and then added, “He implied the pay was good.”

“That would be nice . . . and it’s a
government job too. Those are stable. You could have a long
career.”

Ray chose not to remind her the only career
he was interested in was being a novelist. This was only a way to
meet needs, a bridge over troubled waters, not a career choice.
“I’ll let you know what he said when you get back.”

Nora nodded. “There’s a staff meeting after
school, I’ll be a little late, but I’ll get home when I can.”

Ray returned to his wife who hadn’t moved
from the door and kissed her on the forehead. She seldom stepped
into his office, as if doing so would encourage him to continue the
nonsense with his books. “Try not to worry.”

“I’ll try, but that’s asking for the
impossible.”

Three

The building where Ray was to meet
Devlin
was a four-story, white concrete
structure in San Bernardino, a twenty-minute drive from Ray’s home.
To Ray it looked like so many other government buildings: dark
windows, flat roof, uninspired architecture all surrounded by
anemic landscaping and five acres of asphalt parking. Inside, Ray
found Devlin waiting for him dressed in a black polo shirt and gray
slacks.

“You’re a punctual man, Ray.” Devlin
extended his hand and beamed a bright smile. “You’re right on
time.”

“It’s good to see you again, Mr.
Chambers.”

“Call me Devlin. No need for formalities.
Let’s go to my office.” Devlin turned sharply and started for the
stairs. Once there he jogged up the steps. Ray followed and tried
not to look winded when he reached the next floor. Sitting hour
after hour at a computer had left him well out of shape.

At the top of the stairs, Devlin turned left
and walked along the balcony that overhung the lobby. Ray struggled
to keep up with the man’s quick steps. Thirty strides later, Ray
found himself standing in another lobby, this one much smaller.
Inside was a tired looking sofa and a broad metal desk. The walls
were white and bare. Behind the desk was a young man Ray judged to
be in his late twenties. His hair was bleached blond and cut near
the scalp. His eyes were a chocolate brown. He stood when Ray and
Devlin entered.

“Ray, this is Larry Quinn,
my assistant,” Devlin said easily. “
One
of my assistants I should
say.”

Ray held out his hand and Quinn shook it,
offering a friendly smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Quinn’s voice was a
smooth baritone. “Devlin has been bragging about your books.”

“Don’t ask,” Devlin said to Ray. “Young Mr.
Quinn doesn’t read fiction. It gets in the way of his television
viewing.”

“Not true,” Quinn countered. “I prefer
nonfiction, that’s all.”

“I understand,” Ray said.

“To each his own, I suppose,” said Devlin.
“We can talk in here.” He motioned to an open door that led to
another office. The office was larger than the lobby, and just as
Spartan. There were no pictures on the walls, no potted plants, and
very little furniture. What furniture there was, was a wide oak
desk, a high-back office chair and two chairs situated in front of
the desk. A laptop computer sat on the desk’s surface. “Have a
seat,” Devlin took his place in the high-back chair.