sheet, a book collectorâs standard practice. Beneath the plastic, the paper jacket appeared pristine.No nicks, no worn edges. She turned the book over and glanced at the photograph on the back. Half a decade younger with a defiant smile, that milky-skinned young woman was wearing faded jeans and a plaid cowboy shirt, arms crossed over her chest, her ash blond hair cut boyishly short with a part on the side and her shoulder cocked casually against a brick wall that had been tagged with yellow spray paint.
It was an image the rest of her book jackets had consistently imitated. Saucy blond with a hard-core police background leaning against crumbling urban walls marked with gang graffiti. Tough lady whoâd done hard time in gritty back alleys, specialist in crime and grime. But a woman nonetheless, with ruby lipstick in her purse and four-inch heels back home in her closet.
The image wasnât exactly Hannah Keller, but what the hell. As images went, it wasnât as far off the mark as some sheâd seen.
Seven days a week for two years sheâd risen before dawn to tap out that book on the electric typewriter set up on the kitchen table. The rush she got each morning from reshaping her best cop stories into the plot of that first book kept her heart singing all day. In her literary innocence, the characters and dialogue gushed out in great effortless bursts. The coarse talk of the men she worked with, the heart-shaking savagery of the streets and grinding hours of monotony, the bloodstained carpets and shattered lives, all of it bathed by luxurious tropical breezes. Nothing sheâd written since had come so effortlessly. Nothing ever again had been so raw or so true. It wasnât her best work, but it was a book she knew sheâd no longer be able to write, composed as it was under that brief and luscious spell of innocence. Before she knew what the hell she was doing. Before she fully understood the depth of hurt, the confusion and rage an act of violence could produce in those who survived.
She settled the book in her lap and let it fall open to a random page.
And her breath caught in her throat.
The margins of both pages were littered with furious scrawls in a pinched script, the lettering as tiny as the print on the page. She peered at the scribbled words, studying them for a moment, but could make no sense of them. Then as she leafed through the rest of the book, her pulse began to flutter.
It was the same on every page. Passages frantically underlined, twice, three times, the pages nearly torn in places from the pressure of the pen. There was purple ink, red and black. Whole paragraphs highlighted in Day-Glo yellow and blue. Another phrase here, an entire sentence there. Cryptic clusters of scribbled words littered almost every blank space, verbs and unrelated nouns joined together like the garbled ravings of a maniac. Either the scribbler had been insane when he stumbled upon her book, or else the book had driven him mad.
Gathering herself, she flipped to the inside front cover and found several columns of numbers covering the flyleaves. The lettering was so small it was like the leavings of microscopic insects. The columns were made up of strings of one- and two-digit numerals separated by dashes as if someone had jotted down a long list of Lotto picks.
At the top of the list, someone had written: â
This is how to find me.
â
On the back of her neck all the tiny hairs had prickled to attention. She drew a long breath and let it out. In her hands the book had suddenly begun to feel radioactive.
She shut the covers and pressed them tightly as if to keep the lethal fumes trapped inside. She lifted her eyes and looked across at the dog sleeping on its masterâs bed.
She took another long breath and let it out and managed to calm herself by a fraction. She was being silly. She was letting her imagination race. Later when sheâd composed herself, it might be amusing to sit
It was an image the rest of her book jackets had consistently imitated. Saucy blond with a hard-core police background leaning against crumbling urban walls marked with gang graffiti. Tough lady whoâd done hard time in gritty back alleys, specialist in crime and grime. But a woman nonetheless, with ruby lipstick in her purse and four-inch heels back home in her closet.
The image wasnât exactly Hannah Keller, but what the hell. As images went, it wasnât as far off the mark as some sheâd seen.
Seven days a week for two years sheâd risen before dawn to tap out that book on the electric typewriter set up on the kitchen table. The rush she got each morning from reshaping her best cop stories into the plot of that first book kept her heart singing all day. In her literary innocence, the characters and dialogue gushed out in great effortless bursts. The coarse talk of the men she worked with, the heart-shaking savagery of the streets and grinding hours of monotony, the bloodstained carpets and shattered lives, all of it bathed by luxurious tropical breezes. Nothing sheâd written since had come so effortlessly. Nothing ever again had been so raw or so true. It wasnât her best work, but it was a book she knew sheâd no longer be able to write, composed as it was under that brief and luscious spell of innocence. Before she knew what the hell she was doing. Before she fully understood the depth of hurt, the confusion and rage an act of violence could produce in those who survived.
She settled the book in her lap and let it fall open to a random page.
And her breath caught in her throat.
The margins of both pages were littered with furious scrawls in a pinched script, the lettering as tiny as the print on the page. She peered at the scribbled words, studying them for a moment, but could make no sense of them. Then as she leafed through the rest of the book, her pulse began to flutter.
It was the same on every page. Passages frantically underlined, twice, three times, the pages nearly torn in places from the pressure of the pen. There was purple ink, red and black. Whole paragraphs highlighted in Day-Glo yellow and blue. Another phrase here, an entire sentence there. Cryptic clusters of scribbled words littered almost every blank space, verbs and unrelated nouns joined together like the garbled ravings of a maniac. Either the scribbler had been insane when he stumbled upon her book, or else the book had driven him mad.
Gathering herself, she flipped to the inside front cover and found several columns of numbers covering the flyleaves. The lettering was so small it was like the leavings of microscopic insects. The columns were made up of strings of one- and two-digit numerals separated by dashes as if someone had jotted down a long list of Lotto picks.
At the top of the list, someone had written: â
This is how to find me.
â
On the back of her neck all the tiny hairs had prickled to attention. She drew a long breath and let it out. In her hands the book had suddenly begun to feel radioactive.
She shut the covers and pressed them tightly as if to keep the lethal fumes trapped inside. She lifted her eyes and looked across at the dog sleeping on its masterâs bed.
She took another long breath and let it out and managed to calm herself by a fraction. She was being silly. She was letting her imagination race. Later when sheâd composed herself, it might be amusing to sit
Similar Books
