A Twisted Ladder
Authors: Rhodi Hawk
Acknowledgments
Over the many years I’ve spent researching and writing my first novel,
A Twisted Ladder
, I’ve been looking forward to this moment above all others (OK, to be honest, maybe not as much as the actual publication of it!), when I have a chance to publicly thank those who’ve helped me along the way. First and foremost, I’d like to thank Peter Miller, who has become so much more than my manager. Thank you for taking a chance on an unknown entity, Peter, and thank you for your faith. You are my business associate and my friend for life.
I would also like to thank Joanna McAdam, who may very well have read this manuscript as many times as I have. In addition to being my dear friend, Joanna also helped me to pre-edit before handing off to the team, offered opinions, and has been a force of go-tell-it-on-the-mountain vigilance in spreading the word among the community.
Bardzo dziękuje, kochana
. Madly!
There have been several authors, too, who have assisted me in many ways, including offering advice, words of encouragement, making introductions, and above all, helping me to improve my skills as a writer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, F. Paul Wilson. You are a legend in this business, and you’ve done so much for me and the other authors you’ve mentored. Your generosity boggles my mind. Special thanks, too, to Heather Graham, Jack Ketchum, Tess Gerritsen, Lou Arronica, and Joe Lansdale. And HUGE thanks to the fine folks of my writing group, Who Wants Cake: Daniel Braum, M. M. DeVoe, Nicholas Kaufmann, Sarah Langan, Victor Lavalle, K. Z. Perry, Stefan Petrucha, Lee Thomas, and David Wellington. Your no-nonsense tough love has made me a better writer.
Thank you, Eric Raab, my editor at Tor, who has shown so much patience, guidance, and faith in this project. I am so lucky to be working with you.
But at the core, I’d like to thank my family. You have wrapped a blanket of love and support around me from the very beginning. During the writing of this book I’ve gone through some of the biggest changes of my life, and I would never have made it through without you. Rachel, your artistic journey has mirrored mine in so many ways, and we’ve compared notes and bounced ideas off one another. So thank you to Friday Jones, the incomparable tattoo artist and world phenomenon, who is also my beloved sister and friend. Thank you Margaret Burns, my grandmother and guiding spirit. Thank you, Dad and Mamacita, I love you so much! And thanks to the rest of my family, including my younger brother and sister, my darling aunts, all my cousins, and all my friends. I am so grateful to have you in my life. And even Jer—you played your role in this as well, bless your heart.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader. You’re the reason I’m doing this. And if reading this book should prove to be an experience you value, I hope you will tell the people you care about.
NEW ORLEANS, 2009
S
OMETHING MOVED BENEATH THE
kitchen wallpaper. Madeleine was holding the phone to her ear as she tapped the spot with the back of her wooden spoon, half-expecting some kind of response under there. A skitter, perhaps, or another shift. But no. She just stared and listened to nothing while Marc waited on the line.
“It’s all in your mind,” he said.
She laughed and turned back to the stove, shouldering the phone to her ear so she could use both hands to stir the couche-couche. “Could be a mouse in there.”
“No, it ain’t no mouse,” he snapped.
She paused, startled by his tone.
He said, “I’m telling you it’s in your mind. You can’t trust it.”
Marc gave a laugh of disgust. “When you think about it, the whole damned kitchen’s an illusion. What’s a kitchen anyway? It ain’t the walls. It ain’t the floor you’re standing on. It ain’t even the pots or the fridge or the stove or any of that. What’s a kitchen? It’s air. What’s any room? Air. Sectioned-off air. Trying to close off a little mess of space so you feel like there’s something real there. Ain’t none of it real.”
Madeleine had halted in midstir on the couche and was listening, lips parted.
“You think there’s something under there? You ain’t gonna find it unless you do like you’re putting stars to sleep. And then you’ll wish you never looked.”
“Putting stars to sleep?”
He was silent.
“Marc?”
His breathing sounded tense through the Nokia. She’d never heard him speak like this before. He was a simple guy, made his living wiring houses, and had strong opinions about whether you get more action baiting redfish with shrimp or with mullet cutbait. (He would swear by the former.) Marc liked to talk about
those
sorts of things. Not sectioned-off air.
Finally, he said, “Yeah.”
“You all right?”
A sharp sigh through his nose. “I want you to listen to me Madeleine.”
“I’m listening. I’m here. Please tell me what you would like to say to me.”
“Don’t you start talkin’ like a shrink now. I ain’t one of your patients.”
She let go of the wooden spoon and the end of it fell to the side of the pan with a soft clang. “All right, I didn’t mean to sound that way. I’m just listening as your sister. OK?”
When he didn’t reply she added, “Mudhead?”
Another sharp breath, possibly a laugh, but it sounded more like a snort of frustration. She stared out the steamed window, nothing but vague shapes moving on the city street beyond the porch. Beads formed and chased trails of clarity down the glass.
Marc said, “I just want you to hear me when I say there ain’t no goddamned mouse in that wall.”
“OK. I hear you honey. Is there something else?”
He didn’t reply.
She said, “Marc, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I want you to come on out here to Houma.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“You got it.”
He released his breath, but when he spoke again his voice sounded more resigned than satisfied. “OK. OK. That’s good. What’re you cooking anyway?”