Jack Bennewitz put his arms around her shoulders before saying anything else. His touch was real. Physical. Just as it had always been.
“You know something?” he said. “It’s funny that your instinct brought you here to this place tonight, a night of such transformation.”
“Funny? What’s so funny about it?”
“Well, Tess. You should know that Teotihuacán means ‘the place where men become gods.’ And now that you and I have died, that’s precisely what we have become. How does it feel to be a god, Tess?”
GARY BRAVER
Before settling in a teaching position at Northeastern University, Gary Braver worked as a soda jerk, newspaper reporter, tech writer, foundry laborer and project physicist, a job that taught him lab work wasn’t for him. But teaching and writing were, and his double-duty as both a teacher and student of the art of writing gave him exceptional insight that he uses to great effect in “Ghost Writer.”
Some thrillers tap into that part of our subconscious where the worst mistakes from our past linger, waiting for an opportunity to come back into the light. Gary’s compelling portrayal of a disillusioned author asks a question that we all must answer eventually. Are we the authors of our own destiny, or is our fate already written? Turn the page to find out.
GHOST WRITER
“I don’t ghostwrite stories. I write my own books.”
Geoffrey Dane uttered those words and felt as if he were chewing gravel. He hadn’t sold a story in five years.
“Professor Dane, please don’t be offended,” the young woman said. “But it’s really a terrific idea and I think you’re the best person to do it.”
“I’m not offended.” But he was. Offended and bitter. Bitter that he wasn’t what she had assumed—a still actively published bestselling author. Offended because if she were the fan she claimed, she’d know he was a has-been. “I just don’t write other people’s material.”
They were in the English department lounge where he had been sitting, sunk in a couch, reading student stories. Since he was part-time, he had no office of his own, rather a room he shared with other adjuncts and TAs—a space so cramped and noisy he did his paperwork in the lounge, a comfortable space usually empty. That was where this Lauren Grant had found him—this student with the scrubbed good looks, the pricey clothes and a gold Movado watch with diamond baguettes.
As she continued to plead with him, resentment rose up like acid. Here he was a forty-nine-year-old former New York Times list resident now teaching workshops for a pittance and entertaining some rich woman half his age offering to pay him to ghost her novel.
“I thought it might be something you could do between your own writing projects.”
Yeah, rewrite after rewrite that your agent can’t place with a fucking vanity press, whispered a voice in his head. Either this woman had no idea about him or the publishing business, or she was patronizing him. “I’m sorry, but I’m really not interested.”
“But it’s really a terrific idea,” she insisted. “Really. And I think you’d agree. The details we could work out in your favor. But, basically, I provide the idea and you write the book.”
“With whose name on it?”
“Mine. I know I can’t pay you enough, but I’m hoping you’d accept a reasonable fee.”
No, she couldn’t pay him enough. He had spent the last four years struggling unsuccessfully to write himself back into print and was barely making ends meet. It didn’t help that Maggie, his ex-wife, kept squeezing him for alimony. Maggie. The very thought of her made his stomach grind.
“Of course, we’d work out the contractual matters with your agent.”
His agent! He hadn’t talked to his agent in over a year, when she had told him that another house had passed on his previous manuscript.
“It’s really a terrific idea.”
That was the third time she made that claim, and he could see how eager she was to share it. “I’m sure, so why don’t you write it yourself?”
“Because I don’t have the talent. I can’t even come up with a decent ending.”
“Maybe you should take a workshop.”
“I tried to enroll in yours this semester, but it was full. Same in the spring.”
“I’m scheduled to offer it again next fall.”
And the following spring and the fall after that, he thought. In fact, that was how he regarded the remainder of his pathetic life—one continuous workshop until the day despair finally stopped his heart. Or, better, a bullet from his Smith & Wesson.
“I could take a hundred workshops and it wouldn’t be good.”
“You won’t know if you don’t try.”
“I have tried, believe me, but I don’t have the gene. I read your works and I’m in awe of how you create characters with depth and dialogue that sounds like real people talking. And the narrative thrust that keeps the pages turning—”
Blah, blah, blah, he thought as she prattled on.
“Frankly, it’s too good an idea to be wasted on me or some hack writer. You can create the tension and sense of dread that it needs.”
Only because I have a paranoid personality, lady. Only because deep down I’m a frightened little man who writes thrillers to get bigger than the things that scare me.
“Really, you have what it takes.”
No, I used to, he thought. Geoffrey Dane—“Boy Genius” they called him on his first novel. “Brings class to the thriller genre.” Now: Adult wannabe. Can’t write shit.
“Plus you always have great surprises at the end. That’s what I love best. Those twists we never see coming. Really, you’re a modern O. Henry.”
He could feel himself begin to soften to the conviction that lit up her eyes. But her flattery only made his heart slump even more. Everything she said was true—but in the past. And the thought of being a ghost writer made him want to vomit. He also didn’t care to hear her idea because if it was good, he’d wish it were his own. Furthermore, he had no interest in entering complicated contractual arrangements with a perfect stranger. Plus she couldn’t pay him enough. He glanced at his watch. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I really have to go.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you have a class. But will you think it over?”
“Think what over? You haven’t said what the idea is.”
“If I can get a commitment, I’ll be happy to tell you.”
He packed the student stories into his briefcase and got up to leave.
“So, we can talk again?”
She was wearing a black shearling coat that probably cost more than the book value of the eleven-year-old BMW he drove. “I’ll think about it.”
Her face looked like a lacquered apple. “That’s great,” she chortled. “Thank you. Thank you.”
As they walked out of the lounge and into the hall, she handed him a card. On it, embossed in gold script, was her name, cell-phone number and e-mail address. No mailing address, probably to be on the safe side, given the rise in identity thefts and sexual stalkings.
“I really appreciate this.” Her eyes were sparking with expectation. “Okay to call you next week?”
“Yeah.” Then he looked back at her. “By the way, what kind of story is it?”
“A ghost story.”
A ghost story! He didn’t write ghost stories. And he didn’t ghostwrite ghost stories. Especially for students. What a bloody insult!
The weekend passed, and he had spent it at his place—a small cape at the end of a cul-de-sac in Carleton, ten miles west of Boston. From dawn to bedtime he tapped away on his keyboard, producing little more than a page of uninspired narrative. He was four chapters into another novel—the last two sitting in mailers on the shelf, cover letters from editors inside apologizing that the book was not right for their lists. The story was outlined, but he did not like the direction it was taking. And he could think of no decent alternatives. He had hit an impasse. He could, of course, just quit—blame the blockage on the imp of discouragement and
take the self-fulfilling-prophecy route: haven’t written anything saleable in years, can’t do it again.
He really didn’t believe in writer’s block. That was nothing more than a phony excuse, a handy cop-out for laziness as if it were a legitimate pathology like viral pneumonia or hepatitis. But, Jesus, he was blocked! Nothing decent was coming—no plot-advancing ideas, no narrative thrust, no belly fire. All that kept coming were bills from Visa, Verizon, Allied Fuel, Carleton Mortgage Co. and e-mails from Maggie to pay up.
It was December and the houses on the street were decorated for Christmas. And through the woods behind his place was a path around Spy Pond. He liked its frozen bleakness, so he broke up the keyboard hours with long walks to open his mind to any inspiration that might wing by. Yet he returned with nothing but a chill.
He spent the next several days teaching his classes and reading student stories. On Thursday he received a voice message at his work number. “Hi, Professor, this is Lauren Grant. It’s been nearly a week. I’m just wondering if you’ve thought over my proposal.”
Proposal. The word jumped out at him. Talk about paranoid, she was probably afraid he’d steal the idea, so she had refused to reveal the story line until he signed a contract. Even if he wanted to, it was ridiculous strategy since you couldn’t copyright ideas, only their execution. Instead of getting back to her, he stopped by the office of his chairman, Lloyd Harrington. “You know a student by the name of Lauren Grant?”
“Lauren Grant? Yeah. She’s a part-timer, auditing courses here and there. What about her?”
“She came to me the other day asking if I’d ghost a story for her.”
“Oh, yeah. She’s been shopping that around for weeks, asking anyone in Greater Boston who’s ever published a thriller to take her on.”
Geoff felt his stomach leak acid. The little bitch. She had come on to him as if he were the one author in creation born to pen her tale.
“When she came in, I suggested you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine.” But he did mind.
“Did she say what the idea was?”
“Not really. Something about a ghost.”
“Whoopie,” Lloyd said. “If it’s something you’re interest in pursuing, that’s your business not the university’s.”
“Okay, thanks.” Geoff started out the door.
“In case you’re interested,” Lloyd added, “I think she comes from money.”
For the rest of the day, that phrase echoed and reechoed in Geoff’s brain. That evening, while sitting at his desk at home, he sent her a brief e-mail to say he was interested and wanted to hear more. The curtness implied that out of politeness he’d suffer her another meeting before outright rejection. He suggested they meet in the student center, wondering just how much money she came from.
The food hall was a large open space filled with tables and chairs and flanked with several fast-food takeouts. Because it was midmorning, the place was half-empty. He bought them each a coffee, and they took a table in a quiet corner. “Okay, but before we get to the story, I think we should discuss the ugly stuff.”
“Ugly stuff?”
“Writer’s fee.”
That caught her off guard. “Sure, of course.” Then from her briefcase, she pulled out a manila envelope. “If you don’t mind, I contacted a literary agent and had a contract drawn up.”
“You’re way ahead of the game.”
“Because I want everything to be aboveboard.”
“Then let’s be straight—you’ve been to other writers with this, right?” He didn’t want to betray Lloyd’s confidence. “I mean, there are dozens of published thriller and horror writers in Greater Boston.”
She studied his expression for a moment, and her eye did an involuntary twitch as she rummaged for a response. “I considered others, but decided that the quality and style of your writing best fits my story idea.”
Bullshit! he thought. She’s saying that none of the others were interested, and she bottomed-out with you. “Okay.”
“If you agree, you will be paid a flat fee—twenty percent up front, the balance upon acceptance.”
“Acceptance by whom?”
“By me.”
“So, there’s no stipulation that it has to be placed with a publisher first.”
“No, just to write an acceptable synopsis and then an acceptable book.”
“A synopsis?”
“Yes, I know from other students and your own Web site that you’re big on writing a synopsis—that you don’t start a novel until you’ve got a ‘slam dunk’ summary as you say. This way I’ll see how everything fits into place and how it ends. When that’s done to my liking, you’ll be paid the advance.”
He let that sink in, humiliating as it was.
“Okay, and if I write the book and it sells, what about royalties?”
“Well, actually, no royalties, just the flat fee, which I hope you’ll accept.”
“But your name on the book.”
“Yes, and the copyright under my name.”
He could hear the advice of her agent cutting through her nervousness. “And what if you don’t like it?”
“I will because I will be reading it as you go along.”
Jesus! This was like his workshops in reverse: he writes installments and submits them to a student for approval. “And what if you like it and your agent can’t place it?”
She smiled self-consciously. “First, that won’t happen since you’re too talented for the book not to sell. Second, selling it is his problem. You will still be paid, no matter what.”
He wondered about her agent. “You’d be putting a lot of trust in me.”
“That’s right.” She nodded and smiled warmly.
He wished she’d stop that. The Geoffrey Dane she kept fawning over was all but dead. “How long a synopsis?”
“Ten pages.”
What he suggested as maximum on his Web site. “And what exactly do you have in mind for a total fee?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
Jesus! Where do I sign? he thought, trying to contain his astonishment. “That’s a lot of money.” The advance alone could get him out of hock with his creditors and Maggie for months. Ten pages! He couldn’t write a decent novel anymore, but if her story line was viable, he could crank out a synopsis in a week.
“My grandparents were generous when I graduated from college.” From the envelope she removed a multipage contract with his name on it and the breakdown of payment. There was a lot of legal jargon, but the important details were there: an advance of twenty thousand dollars, payable upon the completion of an acceptable synopsis. The balance to be paid upon acceptance by her of a completed manuscript.
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure it showed—like the throat of a bullfrog.
“Seem fair enough?”
The light in her eyes said that she was enjoying this, probably because she knew how destitute he was. It also crossed his mind that it might be interesting working with her. She was good-looking and clearly passionate. In a flash he saw her naked and in bed with him between chapters.
“Okay, so what’s the story line?” He took a sip of his coffee and settled back.
“It’s quite simple,” she began. “It’s the story of a vengeful ghost returned to kill her fiancé, who abandoned her.” She paused for a moment as if to gauge his reaction.
It sounded corny, but he nodded her on. “Okay.”
“What I’m imagining is a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl who’s been dating this older boy for months. She’s crazy about him and they talk of getting married someday. Then a few months before he’s to go to college, she discovers she’s pregnant. As the due date approaches, the boy abandons her—goes off to school hundreds of miles away and drops out of her life for good.”
Again she glared at him with a strange expectancy. And a stir of discomfort registered in his gut. “Then what?”
“Well, she’s very
upset that he left her flat and wasn’t there for the birth, not even moral support. Her parents are disgusted with her, but forbid her to have an abortion. Of course, her own plans for college are dashed.
“So she has the child. But a few days later, she dies from complications of childbirth. The daughter is raised by her grandparents. Meanwhile, the boy finishes college, never making contact with the girl’s family, never learning what happened to the girl or his child. We jump ahead twentysomething years—the boy’s a man, successful in his profession and happy with his life.”
“And?”
“And the ghost of his dead girlfriend suddenly appears to take vengeance on him—a revenant.”
“A what?”
“Revenant. A vengeful ghost.”
His mouth was dry, and he swallowed some coffee.
“So what do you think?”
“Interesting, but execution is everything.”
“Yes, it is.”
“What will he be doing in the present? Is he married? Does he have a family? How does he spend his days? I’ve got to know what to have him do from chapter to chapter.”
She nodded. “He’s divorced with no kids,” she said. Then like a half-glimpsed premonition she said, “He’s a writer.”
“A writer,” he repeated, as if taking an oath.
“Yes, I like the irony of him being the supposed artistic sensitive type. Yet he’s bad—if you pardon my French, a son of a bitch.”
Geoff simply nodded.
“I’ve got some of their back stories in notes, which I can share with you—stuff that you can use to flesh things out. But it’s the ending that I can’t come up with. How the ghost shows up and gets back at him. That’s where I’m stuck. And I want the best possible retribution.”
“Uh-huh.” He drained his cup and a prickly silence filled the moment.
“But I’m sure you can come up with the perfect justice.”
“I take it you believe in ghosts.”
“No, but I’m afraid of them.” She smiled at the old joke. “What about you?”