Bedtime Story (29 page)

“What do you need, Tony?”

“I’ve got something I’d like to pursue,” he said, the words coming out in sharp, stuttering blocks.

She raised her eyes over her glasses and looked at him.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Are you familiar with the name Lazarus Took?”

She shook her head, pursed her lips.

“He was a fantasy writer, back in the fifties. Young adult stuff. Pretty good. I read a few of them when I was a kid.” He held the e-mail from the journalist in his left hand: it was a prop. The last thing he wanted was to let his boss know that this had dropped into his lap.

The expression on Sharon’s face was one of rapidly dwindling interest.

“It occurred to me,” he said, hurrying, “that with fantasy being so popular right now we might want to take a look at Lazarus Took, maybe relaunch him—”

“What does that have to do with me?” she asked, firmly but not unkindly. “Take it to Maria over at Magic Wand or whatever they’re
calling themselves these days.” The Young Adult division had changed its name several times in the last decade, attempting to capitalize on precisely the trend that Markus was talking about. “God knows she’s overdue for a hit. Or just bring it to the next editorial meeting. We’re always up for a reissue campaign.” She smiled a conspiratorial smile at him. “Especially at a reasonable cost.”

She was studying the covers on her desk again by the time he managed to say, “The thing is, it wouldn’t be just a reissue program.”

She looked up at him again. He wished he weren’t sweating quite so much.

“Imagine what it would be like,” he said, finally able to start the presentation he had worked out, “if someone were to publish a new Narnia book. Or a new Tolkien.”

“Are you saying that there’s a new novel from this … what’s his name?”

“Lazarus Took. And that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“But who cares?” she asked. “Nobody’s heard of him.”

“Exactly,” he said, making virtue out of weakness. “We can use that very fact to our advantage. Rediscovering a lost author, beloved, a big reissue campaign leading to the debut publication of his long-lost, final novel. A nice pretty edition, suitable for kids
and
adults. Pub right before Christmas …” He snapped his fingers, already picturing the sales in his mind.

As he finished his spiel, she was smiling and nodding. “It would be nice,” she said, mostly to herself. “Lock up the film rights. What’s the name of the book?”

It took him a moment to remember. “To
the Four Directions.”

“Hmm. That should probably change … although if we’re looking at the historical rediscovery angle … What’s the book like?”

“I …”

She noticed his hesitation. “You do have the book?”

“I will have,” he said. “Probably in the next couple of days. It’s been a bit of a chore …”

She looked at him over her glasses, and it felt like she was looking right through him.

“All right,” she said. “Keep me posted. I’ll mention it to Peter when it comes in. If it’s any good.”

Peter Oates was the executive vice-president, the hands that held the purse. If he was interested, Peter would get behind a project in a very public way. If he wasn’t interested, or didn’t think it had financial merit, Tony might just as well disappear back into his janitor’s closet.

“Thank you,” he said, backing toward the door. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

Sharon’s attention was already back on the art on her desk, but Tony could feel the weight of her interest. That sort of weight could crush a man.

I had assumed, at the peak of my optimism, that I might hear back from Tony Markus within a day or two. I wasn’t expecting it to be him when my cell phone rang a few hours after I sent the e-mail.

“Mr. Knox, it’s Tony Markus calling from Davis & Keelor. You sent me an e-mail earlier today.” The voice was nasally, with a New York accent.

I had to smile: never underestimate the curiosity of an editor. Especially a hungry one.

“I didn’t want to let this lie. First off, tell me, how did you come by a copy of a book that no one seems to know exists, not even the author’s estate?”

“I bought it,” I said, trying to push a sense of amusement into my voice. “At a used bookstore. For my son’s birthday.”

“Amazing,” he said, with a distracted tone that made me think that he was taking notes. “So it has been published, then?”

“Sort of,” I said, reaching for the book. “The copy I’ve got is a hardcover, from Alexander Press.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Me neither,” I said. “And there’s nothing online. I asked—” I almost said Cat. “I asked someone from the estate about the publisher, and she had no recollection of them either.”

“I see.” Probably scribbling away.

“I wanted to talk to you before I said anything to the estate.”

“Looking for a finder’s fee?” The words were pointed, but said with just enough humour that I could have taken them as a joke, had I been so inclined.

I didn’t say anything. Best to let him think that we had covetousness in common.

“Well, I appreciate you getting in touch with me,” he said, filling the dead air. “Oh, and I have to say, I really appreciated your review of
The Last Family
. I meant to send you a note at the time.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said, laying it on thick. “It really was quite an impressive book.” Gratuitous ego-stroking goes both ways.

“And your son—”

For a moment, all I could wonder was how he could possibly know about David in the hospital.

“—what did he think of the book?”

“He loved it,” I said without hesitation. “David—that’s my son—he’s never been much of a reader, but he devoured
To the Four Directions
. He even got in trouble at school when they caught him reading in class.” I threw in that last comment to really whet Markus’s appetite.

He chuckled and I could hear the faint clatter of his keyboard.

“Well, I should probably see the book,” he said thoughtfully, as if that weren’t the main reason for his call.

“I’m not really comfortable sending the only copy of it across the continent.” I had rehearsed the line in my head, expecting this to come up.

“No, of course not.” He dismissed the request I hadn’t given him a chance to make. “I don’t suppose you’re going to be in New York anytime soon?” he asked.

“I was supposed to be, but—” I didn’t want to give too much away. “I’ve had to cancel my trip.”

“Ah, well. That’s too bad.” A leading silence.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something. Say,” I began, as if the question had just occurred to me, “did you have a chance to look into the rights situation?”

“Oh, it’s a mess,” he said. “Apparently the older books by Lazarus Took were published by a company D&K bought out in the 70s.” Just like I had written in my e-mail. “All of their papers are warehoused
off-site. If they even exist anymore. I’m sending an intern over to sift through the boxes.”

As I listened, I realized that my real question about the book had already been answered. How many different ways did I need to hear that
To the Four Directions
didn’t exist, save for the one copy? I wasn’t going to learn any more from D&K.

So what was this book? Had it really caused David’s first seizure on Saturday night? I was pretty sure it had. Why, then, did the same book ward off seizures now? I knew how ridiculous the questions sounded, but there had to be answers.

“Well, please let me know what they find out,” I said, trying to bring the conversation to a comfortable close.

“Oh, I certainly will,” he said. “Listen, Mr. Knox, what would you think about photocopying the book and overnighting it to me? Of course, I’d reimburse any expense.” He made the suggestion quickly, as if he was aware of my attention waning. I started to feel a little sick again about leading him on.

“We should probably wait until we hear about the rights situation, shouldn’t we?”

“Oh, of course. I just thought that we might save some time if I could see the book now, rather than waiting for the rights department. It’s a pretty big job that they’ve got, sorting through all that stuff.” His voice never lost its cool tone, but the words were increasingly desperate.

“That’s a good point,” I said. “Still, it wouldn’t be fair to go further down this road without knowing where we are, legally speaking, would it?”

“Certainly.” Clipped and cold. “Of course, Mr. Knox. I’ll get back in touch with you once I hear from our rights department, then.”

Hanging up the phone a few moments later, I almost felt bad for Tony Markus. To have something dangled in front of him like that, an opportunity he probably desperately needed, only to have it jerked away.

I felt worse, though, knowing that David’s condition was becoming more serious by the day, and there was still nothing I could do.

I looked down at the book lying next to my laptop. The answers were all there, between those covers. But how to get them out?

David choked and coughed as his eyes opened to bright sunlight. He managed to turn slightly to his side before he threw up, coughing up river water from his stomach and lungs. Bright patches danced in his eyes as his body heaved, struggling to purge as much water as it could.

For a long time, David knew nothing but the agony of waking, and the dull cold that suffused his belly. He wondered if he had died, if this was what it felt like to be dead: hanging suspended in a space of warm light, but unable to shake the cold that had worked its way into his bones.

After a while the world started to come into focus around him. He wasn’t suspended: he was lying on rough ground, rocks digging into his back. He couldn’t get warm because he was half submerged in icy water, no longer able to feel his legs and feet.

It all came back to him in a rush: the fall into the river, the struggle not to drown. He must have blacked out and drifted along on the currents who knows how far.

As he struggled to sit up, his arms buckled beneath his weight. His teeth were chattering, his hands shaking. But he had no choice. He had to get out of the water, figure out some way to warm up before hypothermia set in.

Turning onto his stomach, David half crawled, half dragged himself up the rocky bank until he was out of the water. In the distance, a green strip looked like it might be the edge of a grassy plain. Someplace soft, warmed by the sun. He pulled himself forward. A few feet, and he collapsed again.

As he fell back onto the rocks, he heard a dull, metallic thunk, and something dug into his ribs. Something large, cylindrical, inside his shirt.

The Sunstone!

It took all his energy to smile before his eyes sank shut once again.

The doctor laid the file carefully on the bed.

“We need to broaden our parameters,” Dr. Rutherford began. “The continued seizures, and the increase in their severity, are at odds with
both the medication and the results of the tests we ran on David on Sunday. Now, those results are five days old—I’ve got your son going in for a CT scan and an MRI this morning—but going over the existing tests, there’s nothing to indicate David should be experiencing continued seizure activity.”

All of which was to say that he had no idea what was going on, either.

“It’s possible that this is an allergic reaction. Do either of you wear perfume or cologne?”

We both shook our heads.

The doctor picked up the chart and made a note. “Do either of you smoke? Vestigial tobacco smoke—”

“I do,” I said. “Are you saying that he could be having these seizures because I have an occasional cigarette?”

“Not typically.” The way his voice trailed off left no doubt where he was leading: this wasn’t a typical situation.

“It’s something else to check,” he finished, making another note. “We’re trying to eliminate as many possibilities as we can.”

“Would mould be a possibility? Or dust? The sort of thing that might have come off an old book?”

Jacqui shot me a look but I ignored her.

The doctor made another note. “It’s certainly something to consider,” he said. “Mould in particular could be a factor, either as an acute allergen or as a source of infection.”