Authors: William Diehl
Seven Ways to Die (36 page)
While Cody was still tracking down Hamilton, Dave called his van to carry Charley’s body back to the clinic—to work one of his miracles. Probing the shepherd in the cave, he had detected the tiniest eyelid flicker then detected the faintest of pulses. Charley was deeply paralyzed, and Dave wasn’t surprised that Cody thought he was dead. His heart was on its last fibrillations; but Charley was still, if barely, alive.
Dave had recited the Nez Perce healing prayer—then force-flushed Charley’s stomach out, shocked his heart with makeshift paddles, pumped him with oxygen, and dosed him intravenously with alkalis, the only known antidote to saxitoxin.
After over an hour of Dave’s relentless treatment, Charley, a veteran of near-death experiences, bounced back for yet another shot at life.
Δ
Of course
Metro Magazine
had sold off the newsstands in the first hour of its release, trumpeting Hamilton’s posthumous cover article, “7 Ways to Kill—in 7 Days?” Stinelli pulled every string he could think of to prevent its publication, but the magazine’s attorneys threw the First Amendment at him with that peculiarly American mixture of freedom of speech and crass commercial greed that so often prevails.
The article detailed exactly how, from the comfort of his writing chair—one of the murders’ signatures was that the victims were found seated—he and Victoria, following the coroner’s handbook as their diabolic catechism, planned the sequence of “murders by the book.”
The article’s banner line: “If you are reading this, I am dead. My beloved Victoria and I pushed the homicide envelope beyond all limits,
committing the murders I was reporting!
From the moment I was diagnosed with my own death sentence, we planned to die together, and de-create the world in our own image and likeness in seven days. Neither of us had any interest in losing final control over life and death.”
The closing log line: “Ward Hamilton’s lifelong achievements culminated in his receipt of the Clue Award.” Ward got his vengeful last word on the hated literary committee that had delayed his honor until it was nearly too late. The asshole who wasn’t satisfied with his precious writing awards also wasn’t satisfied with looking through his reporter’s glass at his chosen subject matter. He required a hands-on experience, wanted to redefine the limits of human nature by committing the very murders he was purportedly investigating!
And, yes, Hamilton, in a perverse expression of his southern gentility, had even planned his ultimate double-cross to Victoria. He had promised her that she would kill him first, then changed his mind because he knew her survivor’s pain would be unbearable.
Instead of allowing the love of his life to stalk and slay him, the devil would reverse ambush his Cupid, thus making a final magnanimous and gentlemanly gesture of sparing her the ultimate pain of loneliness. She was “the one human being worthy of my passion,” as the article put it.
Of course because Ward had turned the piece into Sallinger shortly before, ensuring it would remain unedited by him, the article couldn’t have foreseen what actually happened that night in the park. He left the follow-up to the natural inclinations of the magazine’s editorial board. At Stinelli’s insistence, the one concession they made was to abbreviate the events of Hamilton’s suicide and Cody’s survival in the form of an “editor’s note” at the end.
Δ
Fortunately TAZ had broken into Hamilton’s apartment in time to save Patricia from being the seventh way to die.
Cody explained to Amelie that, in case Sallinger’s copy somehow got lost in the morgue shuffle, a second print-out of the article had been tucked to the bomb beneath the barber’s chair. He caught a glimpse of its headline just before it was blown to smithereens inside the robot’s belly.
“I still don’t understand why Raymond had to die,” Amelie lamented.
“If it hadn’t been for Raymond cutting his sister’s support off, she wouldn’t have been writing book reviews,” he guessed.
Of course if Handley hadn’t died, I’d have never met you.
Cody thought better of speaking the observation aloud.
But he did wonder if there was another surprise planted by Hamilton out there somewhere, just waiting for him to discover. He made a mental note to pay his own visit to the Yellow Door.
Δ
It was twilight by the time Cody and Amelie reached the forest that bordered the Nez Perce reservation in far-western Idaho.
The wolves were showing signs of increasing agitation, knocking their heads against the sides of the cage.
“Will it hold?” Amelie said, a worried look on her face.
Cody laughed. “They’re okay,” he said. “They’re just excited to be home.”
The dirt road they’d been traveling for the past twenty minutes seemed to taper into nothingness as it reached a wide clearing in the tall pines.
Amelie remained in the front seat, her head turned to watch Cody open the back doors, and the cage.
With yaps of excitement, the two wolves leaped onto the ground and sprinted toward the far side of the clearing.
Amelie opened her door, then Charley’s, and stood with Cody watching the sleek animals bound across the meadow.
“Be fruitful, and multiply,” Cody called after them.
The alpha male and his consort reached the far tree line, where they were greeted with howls and yips of welcome as they reentered the wilderness that was their home.
Then, just as Cody and Amelie were turning back to the van, the alpha male reappeared at the edge of the clearing under the full moon—and looked toward Cody in gratitude.
Charley gruffly barked his approval.
Afterword
I knew William Diehl for almost twenty-five years. The exact date we met was March 24, 1982. I know the date because Bill wrote it in the hard cover first editions of
Sharky’s Machine
and
Chameleon
he signed for me that day. Although our introduction was a writer to a fan, over time Bill became a mentor and, eventually, a writing partner. But first and foremost I was and always remained a fan.
Bill and I often spoke about
Seven Ways to Die
. It was our intention to write a screenplay together based on the novel once it was completed, so Bill discussed the story with me. Bill was a great storyteller, as we say in the south “he could spin a yarn,” and his descriptions were vivid and detailed. The characters always came alive with his telling. His intricate story weave, a trademark of his fiction, mesmerized me. Bill said one thing that set this novel apart from his others was that he knew the ending before he wrote it. He told me his intended ending for
Seven Ways
.
When Bill died at Emory Hospital, November 24th, 2006, my wife Judy Cairo and I flew to Atlanta from Los Angeles to be with his wife Virginia Gunn as soon as we could get a flight. It was sadly fitting that this was a holiday. We had spent many holidays with Ginny and Bill, and a close group of friends. Those memories sustained me that day.
Soon after we arrived, Ginny asked if I would go downstairs to Bill’s office to retrieve some of his personal effects. Alone in the room, I stood for several minutes and quietly soaked in the details. It appeared as though Bill had gone upstairs and would be right back. His reading glasses were to the left of his computer keyboard. The worn, comfortable chair in front of his computer was swung at an angle toward the stairs, ready for Bill to slide back into it. A large map of Manhattan with a detailed rendering of Central Park was on the wall in front of his computer. He had several photographs of Manhattan landmarks and buildings, and there were scribbled notes scattered around his computer. This creative space lacked only one essential element to fulfill its purpose, and that was Bill. Instead, it would now serve the purpose of being our link to Bill’s intent for his last novel.
Based on my conversations with Bill, I knew his road map and destination for the story, which I wrote down soon after his death, so that it would be as close in memory as possible. From his computer we were able to retrieve the largely finished book and an outline of the closing chapters and other notes.
While no writer can be or will ever be Bill, I believe Ken did a remarkable job of fulfilling Bill’s intentions for the novel, as well as complementing Bill’s distinctive writing style. This is a novel for all William Diehl fans, literally his last words, and a fitting tribute to a great novelist and a personal friend.
Four toes, they did right by you. Clear skies. RIP.
Michael A. Simpson, Brussels, Belgium, June 2, 2011
Acknowledgements
Bill’s last novel could never have been completed without the constant inspiration of his widow Virginia Gunn Diehl, and to her belongs the first debt of his and my gratitude. But many others were part of the team, beginning with my partner at Atchity Entertainment International, Chi-Li Wong for indefatigable readings and pointers on the logic of the case. To Judy Cairo and Michael A. Simpson of Cairo-Simpson Entertainment and Informant Media, for bringing Bill to us in the first place, and for their hard work and persistence in making it all come together. To Brett Bartlett, for suggesting the idea and title of this novel to Bill, as well as for his forensics contributions and the coroner’s handbook. Thanks to Robert Aulicino for the cover and interior design, and to Bill’s former publishers at Ballantine/Random House for allowing us to proceed with the publication.
Kenneth John Atchity, Los Angeles, 2011
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