"If she only brought a copy for me, you'll have every right to be," I said.
She was waiting at the end of the hallway, smiling as I approached. It'd been almost seven months since I'd seen Chris Havel last, and she didn't look different, but there was a new air about her. Her short hair was artistically disheveled, and her skin had the luster that people get from either healthy living or expensive salons. What I knew about her led me to believe it was the latter. She had a book-bag hanging from one shoulder, black leather, Italian, and that was new; her old book-bag had been canvas, olive drab, Kmart. In her left hand she had a paper shopping bag.
"Thanks for seeing me," Chris said. "I probably should have made an appointment, huh?"
"I can give you ten minutes without the world ending," I assured her, then gestured to my office. When we got inside, she moved straight to the gallery wall, studying each frame. I settled behind the desk and waited for her to finish. When she had, she flopped on the couch like an exhausted teenager, letting her book-bag drop to the floor and putting the shopping bag on the coffee table. From inside she removed a stack of gift-wrapped packages, gold foil paper with a blue ribbon tied neatly around each.
"That it?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah." She took the top package from the stack, then flipped it my way as if throwing a Frisbee.
It was a hardcover copy of her book. The dust jacket was in matte black, with two traditional theatre masks on the cover, both in an embossed, glossy silver. One of the masks was Tragedy, the other Comedy. In Tragedy's left eye glistened a tear of blood. On the back of the dust jacket were quotes from a whole bunch of people I'd never heard of before, saying things like "Terrifying!" and "A revelation!" and "Possibly the most definitive work on the subject ever!"
Her signature was on the title page, with an inscription. The inscription read, To Atticus- Thanks for almost blowing me up.
"You're welcome," I told her. "Next time I'll try harder."
"That was murder to come up with. I never realized how damn hard it is to inscribe a book." She patted the stack. "You were the easy one, too. I had no idea what to say to Corry and Dale. Are they here?"
"Dale's working in the conference room. Natalie and Corry are out right now. If you want to leave the books with me, I'll make sure they get theirs."
"You're busy."
"We are," I agreed.
"I'll leave these with you, then." She settled back on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table, giving me no sign that she was ready to leave. "I tried to do well by you guys. Tried to be honest. You'll have to let me know what you think."
"I will," I said, closing the book and putting it to one side of the desk, by the phone. "Any word on how it's doing?"
"The book's not officially out until Monday, and we've already sold through the first print run just on the advance orders. My publisher is going back to press, this time fifty thousand copies in hardcover, can you believe it? They're talking about the Times list like it's a sure thing."
"I'm impressed."
She shook her head and made a vague gesture with her hands, telling me to wait, that there was more to come. "Gets even wilder. I mean, I've got a literary agent, he's just sold my second book, the publisher wants it ASAP, and the advance is an embarrassing amount of money, believe me. I've got another agent, the Hollyweird one, and he called this morning with an offer for the movie rights, and that makes the advance for book two look like the change you'd find in a gutter."
I realized that what I'd thought was delight in her was actually shock.
"I go on tour next Monday, I'm supposed to do radio and television and Internet chat rooms and PBS and the whole shebang. People are calling my agent, badgering him to get interviews scheduled and crap like that. I'm waiting to wake up, Atticus, waiting for someone to call and say there's been a terrible mistake, they don't mean my book, they mean someone else's book, some other Chris Havel."
"I'm happy for you," I said, and I was, but my voice didn't carry the sincerity, and she caught it. Hurt crossed her face for a second, then vanished.
"No, no, I didn't use your names," she said. "All the names were changed."
The relief was like a car rolling off my chest.
"Was that it? What was bugging you?"
"That was it," I said. "Thank you, Chris."
"Maybe you shouldn't thank me, yet. You're in the acknowledgments, you and the rest, and I mention the firm, too. Anyone paying close attention, they'll figure it out, but…"
"We can survive that."
Havel straightened on the couch, letting her feet drop back to the floor. "That scared you?"
"The thought of more publicity actually makes my blood run cold," I confessed.
"Is that it? Not that you're afraid she'll, uh…" Havel made a gesture with her right hand, as if shooting a gun.
"Not anymore."
She came forward on the couch, perching on the end, actively curious. "Really?"
"It would be pointless. It's too late to keep the book from being released, so the only other reason to come after us would be revenge, and I don't believe that factors into her world."
Havel considered, then sighed, leaning back once more. "There were a couple of times when I was writing, I got really scared. Working on a passage, and it would hit me that this was real, that I was writing about this secret, that she was out there, she and others… and I was afraid to go outside, I was afraid to stay indoors, I was afraid to be with people, I was afraid to be alone…"
"Been there," I said.
"Yeah, I'm sure you have."
For a couple of seconds we shared a silent appreciation of fear.
"I'm supposed to be working on the next one," Havel said. "My new book. They want it yesterday, kind of a sequel to the first one, something along the same lines. Another book about The Ten."
"Good luck with the research," I said.
"I was kind of hoping you could help me with that."
I said nothing.
Havel looked over at the wall of photographs. "I want to talk to her."
I choked on a laugh.
"Yeah, I know how it sounds," she said. "But she talked to you, a couple times, so it's not that outlandish an idea, is it?"
"No, it is," I assured her. "Chris, you don't want to interview this woman, trust me on this. And come to think of it, I don't imagine she'll be all that willing to grant an interview."
"Have you heard from her? Since the Pugh thing?"
She said it like Drama was my ex-girlfriend, as if we'd parted amicably. "Are you nuts?" I asked curiously.
"I was thinking that if you had, you know, then you could arrange it." She rose, looking at the wall, crossing back for a closer look at the photographs. "I'd be willing to pay her for her time."
"You're not listening to me," I said. "I haven't talked to her. I don't want to talk to her. And honestly, neither do you."
"No," Havel said. "Don't tell me what I want, Atticus. It would be an amazing interview, it would be an amazing book."
"I can't help you."
"Meaning you won't?"
"Meaning I haven't heard from her, Chris. Leave it at that."
She turned away from the wall, studying me at my desk. "She hasn't been in touch with you?"
"You sound like the Feds. No."
Her frown was brief, gone again when she asked, "Can you tell me how to contact her?"
"I already said…"
"That's not what I mean, I'm talking about like, if I wanted to hire her, you know? How would I do that?"
I gave her a stare that was hopefully more eloquent than everything she'd been ignoring out of my mouth. She met it with a stare of her own, then shrugged and moved back to the couch, gathering up her book-bag.
"I can figure it out, you know," she said. "Asking you was just the quick way."
"Chris," I said. "You really don't want to do this. You start trolling for one of The Ten, they'll investigate before they even begin to make contact, and they'll find out who you are. This time, they'll know about the first book, and they'll see you coming a mile away. You'll be lucky if they simply ignore you."