“What's the next step?” he asked me.
“Henri said he'd be in touch. I'm certain he will be. That's all I know so far.”
Len called Eric Zohn, Raven-Wofford's chief legal counsel, and soon a tall, thin, nervous man in his forties joined our meeting.
Len and I briefed Eric on “the assassin's legacy,” and Zohn threw up objections.
Zohn cited the “Son of Sam” law that held that a killer can't profit from his crimes. He and Len discussed Jeffrey MacDonald, who had sued his ghostwriter, and then the O.J. book, since the Goldman family had claimed the book's earnings to satisfy their civil suit against the author.
Zohn said, “I worry that we'll be financially responsible to each and every one of the victims' families.”
I was the forgotten person in the room, as loopholes and angles were discussed, but I saw that Len was fighting for the book.
He said to Zohn, “Eric, I don't say this lightly. This is a guaranteed monster bestseller in the making. Everyone wants to know what's actually in the mind of a killer, and this killer will talk about crimes that are current and unsolved. What Ben's got isn't If I Did It. It's I Damn Well Did It.”
Zohn wanted more time to explore the ramifications, but Leonard used his executive prerogative.
“Ben, for now, you're Henri's anonymous ghostwriter. If anyone says they saw you in my office, say you came to pitch a new novel. That I turned it down.
“When Henri contacts you, tell him that we're fine-tuning an offer I think he'll like.”
“That's a yes?”
“That's a yes. You have a deal. This is the scariest book I've ever taken on, and I can't wait to publish it.”
Chapter 74
The next evening, in L.A., the unreality was still settling in. Amanda was cooking a four-star dinner in her minuscule kitchen while I sat at her desk working the Internet. I had indelible pictures in my mind of the execution of Kim McDaniels, and that led me to multiple Web sites that discussed personality disorders. I quickly homed in on the description of serial killers.
A half-dozen experts agreed that serial killers almost always learn from their mistakes. They evolve. They compartmentalize and don't feel their victims' pain. They keep upping the danger and increasing the thrill.
I could see why Henri was so happy and self-satisfied. He was being paid for doing what he loved to do, and now a book about his passion would be a kind of victory lap.
I called out to Mandy, who came into the living room with a wooden spoon in her hand.
“The sauce is going to burn.”
“I want to read you something. This is from a psychiatrist, a former Viet Nam vet who's written extensively on serial killers. Here. Listen, please.
“ 'All of us have some of the killer in us, but when you get to the proverbial edge of the abyss, you have to be able to take a step back. These guys who kill and kill again have jumped right into the abyss and have lived in it for years.' ”
Mandy said, “But Ben, what's it going to be like to work with this? creature?”
“If I could walk away from it, Mandy, I'd run. I'd run.”
Mandy kissed the top of my head and went back to her sauce. A moment later, the phone rang. I heard Mandy say, “Hang on. I'll get him.”
She held out the phone to me with a look on her face that I can describe only as one of pure horror.
“It's for you.”
I took the phone, said, “Hello.”
“So how did our big meeting in New York go?” Henri asked me. “Do we have a book deal?”
My heart almost jumped out of my chest. I did my best to keep calm as I told him, “It's in the works. A lot of people have to be consulted for the kind of money you're asking.”
Henri said, “I'm sorry to hear that.”
I had a green light from Zagami, and I could have told Henri that, but I was looking at the twilight coming through the windows, wondering where Henri was, how he'd known that Amanda and I were here.
“We're going to do the book, Ben,” Henri was saying. “If Zagami isn't interested, we'll have to take it somewhere else. But either way, remember your choices. Do or die.”
“Henri, I didn't make myself clear. We have a deal. The contract is in the works. Paperwork. Lawyers. A number has to be worked up and an offer made. This is a big corporation, Henri.”
“Okay, then. Break out the champagne. When will we have a solid offer?”
I told him I expected to hear from Zagami in a couple of days and that a contract would follow. It was the truth, but still my mind was reeling.
I was going into partnership with a great white shark, a killing machine that never slept.
Henri was watching us right now, wasn't he?
He was watching us all the time.
Chapter 75
Henri hadn't given me my final destination when he mapped out my drive, just said, “Get on the Ten and go east. I'll tell you what to do after that.”
I had the papers in my briefcase, the contract from Raven-Wofford, the releases, signature lines with flags marked “sign here.” I also had a tape recorder, notepads, and laptop, and in the zipped pocket at the back of the briefcase, right next to my computer's power pack, was my gun. I hoped to God I would get the chance to use it.
I got into my car and headed out to the freeway. It wasn't funny, but the situation was so weird that I wanted to laugh.
I had a contract for a “guaranteed monster bestseller,” what I'd been looking for and dreaming about for years, only this contract had a very literal termination clause.
Write it or die.
Had any author in modern history had a book deal attached to a death penalty? I was pretty sure this was unique, and it was all mine.
It was sunny, a Saturday in mid-July. I set off on the freeway, checking my rearview mirror every minute or so, looking for a tail, but I never saw one. I stopped for gas, bought coffee, a doughnut, got back on the road.
Fifty miles and an hour later, my cell phone rang.
“Take the One-eleven to Palm Springs,” he said.
I'd put another twenty miles on the odometer when I saw the turnoff for the 111. I took the exit ramp and continued on the highway until it became Palm Canyon Drive.
My phone rang again, and again I got directions from my “partner.”
“When you get to the center of town, turn right on Tahquitz Canyon, then a left on Belardo. Don't hang up the phone.”
I made the turns, sensing that we were near our meeting spot, when Henri said, “You should be seeing it now. The Bristol Hotel.”
We were going to be meeting in a public place.
This was good. It was a relief. I felt a burst of elation.
I pulled up to the hotel, handed my keys to the valet at the entrance of this famous old luxury resort and spa, known for its high-end amenities.
Henri spoke into my ear. “Go to the restaurant out by the pool. The reservation is in my name. Henri Benoit. I hope you're hungry, Ben.”
This was news.
He'd given me a last name. Real or fictitious, I didn't know, but it struck me as an offering of trust.
I headed through the lobby to the restaurant, thinking, Yes. This was going to be very civilized.
Break out the champagne.
Chapter 76
The Desert Rose Restaurant was situated under a long blue canopy near the swimming pool. Light bounced off the white stone patio, and I had to shield my eyes from the glare. I told the maitre d' that I was having lunch with Henri Benoit, and he said, “You're the first to arrive.”
I was shown to a table with a perfect view of the pool, the restaurant, and a path that wound around the hotel and led to the parking lot. I had my back to the wall, my briefcase open by my right side.
A waiter came to the table, told me about the various drinks, including the specialty of the house, a cocktail with grenadine and fruit juice. I asked for a bottle of San Pellegrino, and when it came I slugged down a whole glass, refilled it, and waited for Henri to appear.