The sequel had been sitting eighty or so feet directly beneath Lowell’s desk for half a century.
“Sir? Are you all right?” The young clerk asked, staring at him.
The lawyer looked at her blankly. Then nodded.
He called Preston Malone, got his fax number, and told him to check out what he was about to receive. Lowell then arranged for the transmission and called back a few minutes later. The biographer — breathless and with quivering voice — said, “I’m sure it’s authentic.” He explained that he had one of the original typescripts of Cedar Hills and he confirmed that the typewriter typeface was similar to that of the first manuscript. The writing style was too, reflected in the strikeouts and the all-caps, which meant, Malone speculated, that Goodwin was wondering if it was the best, the most precise, the most lyrical choice of word or expression.
After disconnecting, he walked in a daze to his room, actually feeling feverish with excitement. His face burned, his ears rang. He called Caitlin and told her what Malone had said.
“Frederick, we found it!”
“We did indeed.” He added that he’d be back first thing tomorrow. Then said solemnly, “Whatever else you do, make a copy.”
“You bet, Frederick. I’ll do it now.”
“Oh, and you know that manicure you mentioned? Add on a pedicure too.”
“Yay!”
An hour later he texted the Siblings, telling them that he’d found a copy of the sequel and would be reading it tomorrow. He chose not to call because he didn’t want to be drawn into a long discussion with Stoddard about how much money the book would generate.
That night Lowell lay awake until five a.m., lost in a thousand thoughts, very few of which had to do with the business aspects of the find, the money, rights, licensing. Mostly he was wondering: What would become of Jesse Anderson, the whole world’s marvelous Everyboy in Cedar Hills Road.
A few hours later, he was on the first flight to Charlotte, where he connected to LaGuardia.
He was so eager to get back to the office he didn’t want to wait in line for a cab so he’d arranged for a car service to pick him up, an expense he otherwise wouldn’t have considered. The limo cooperated but the traffic did not. He sat in the back of the Lincoln, hugely impatient as the crush of rush-hour vehicles wormed its way toward Manhattan.
Two blocks from Seventh Avenue, the limo at a standstill, he climbed out, handed the driver an extra tip, and trotted the rest of the way to the office.
An elevator, naturally, was out of order and there was a queue for the remaining one. Lowell debated the stairs but the office was on the seventh floor and he was not in great shape. He knew the Stieg Larsson story. He waited in line.
Finally he strode into the familiar, dim hallway and to his office, swinging the door open and smiling like a gold-medal Olympian.
Caitlin looked up from her desk. And burst into tears.
“It’s been stolen, Frederick. The copy too. They’re both gone.”
Numb, but struggling to remain analytical, Frederick Lowell was playing detective once again.
WWSSD?
The door had been forced open sometime last night or early this morning with a crowbar or other tool. Nothing but the box with the manuscript and the copy from Caitlin’s desk drawer had been taken. The thief wanted only Anderson’s Hope. File cabinets and drawers had clearly been examined, though, probably to make sure there were no other copies.
But who was the thief?
Word that he’d been on the trail of the sequel to Cedar Hills might have spread but he couldn’t imagine a publisher stealing the manuscript. Any editor attempting to bring the novel out himself would get hit by a copyright claim — not to mention risk arrest for breaking and entering.
It had to be for some other reason.
But what?
Absently stirring a dusting of grit on the windowsill, Lowell stared down at all that existed of Anderson’s Hope, the title and first few paragraphs of the novel.
Was it possible that someone did not want the manuscript published?
But this made no sense. It was in everyone’s interest to see the sequel in print. Everybody would make money, the name of Edward Goodwin would be perpetuated, the fans would be ecstatic.
Lowell’s eyes locked on the fax of the sequel’s title page.
And then he started, as if he’d been slapped.
No!
Impossible.
In the upper left-hand corner was the date 8/2/67.
August second.
Two months after Edward Goodwin died.
And suddenly a terrible scenario loomed: That someone else had written the sequel.
Which raised the even more earth-shattering question: Was it possible that Goodwin had not authored Cedar Hills Road itself?
Lowell felt within him dread, almost a physical illness, as a chilling question arose: Was the real author of the classic novel Jon Everett Coe, the man who had murdered and dismembered his mother?
As horrifying a thought as this was, it made sense. The box containing the manuscript was shipped from Statesville, where the prison was located. Goodwin had never written a word of fiction until he’d met the prisoner. Cedar Hills — and the sequel — were written during the months when Goodwin was visiting Coe on a regular basis. And he hadn’t returned to his home in Chicago to write the book; he’d worked in Asheville, North Carolina, largely alone, away from anyone who might have noticed that he was perhaps not actually writing the book at all, but polishing words written by somebody else.
As for Jon Coe, he’d been a savant, Lowell recalled, who in his lucid moments wrote his own appeals and critically acclaimed poetry. And Goodwin had lent the man his typewriter — purportedly to write legal documents, but possibly also to help him pen the novels. Malone reported that the typewriter and the style of writing were consistent from one book to the next, yet Goodwin had never written any other fiction, so there was no other typescript for comparison. Goodwin also struggled with writer’s block. The sequel was delayed, he reported on a number of occasions, because Goodwin was waiting for his muse to speak to him. Well, apparently he did have a muse. One who just happened to be a murderer.
But why would Coe write the novels? Was it his way of giving back to the man who regularly came to prison to see him, who spent hours and hours speaking with the killer, listening to him, treating him like a human being, despite the terrible crime he’d committed?
Lowell sat back, eyes closed, still struggling to come to terms with his realization. My God. The author of one of the most beloved books in the history of the novel might in fact have been a psychotic killer.
As for who’d perpetrated the theft, Lowell believed he had the answer to that too.
The Siblings.
Stoddard, most likely. Lowell had texted him last night about the find. If the sequel were published, revitalizing Goodwin’s career and a critical examination of the two books, it might come to light who the true author was and the publishing contracts would be cancelled. They’d receive no more royalties.
Publishers might even sue them for refunds if it could be proven they knew that Goodwin wasn’t the author. And it wasn’t unlikely that Dr. Samuel Coe, as Jon’s heir, might sue for all the royalties the book had earned over the years. At the very least he might demand a huge settlement.
Lowell hurried from the office.
No longer in private detective mode, he was now a cop.
An hour later, Lowell was in another rental car, angrily bounding over the rough approach to the shack in Westchester.
He noted several cars outside, one he didn’t recognize. Maybe it belonged to the thief they hired. He couldn’t imagine Stoddard sneaking into his office in the middle of the night himself. For a moment he wondered if he could be in danger. But Frederick Lowell didn’t care. He was furious.