The Sequel (2 page)

She's a librarian. She should recognize him. He was on the
Times
list for forty-two weeks in a row last year.

Tucking the laptop under one armpit, Zachary makes his way to the reading room behind the front desk. It's a big room, deep and wide, lots of dark wood, worn armchairs along one wall, interrupted by a nonworking fireplace. Eight or nine rows of long tables across the middle of the room.

Nearly empty in this late-morning hour. Two bearded Asian men in armchairs reading Chinese newspapers. A middle-aged woman with frizzy, blond-streaked hair, leaning over a table in the front row, seemingly enthralled by an old copy of
People
magazine.

Zachary hurries to the back. Listening hard for the front door to open, for a big man with a gun (or maybe a phone) to burst in, alert to every sound. He drops into the last chair in the back row and hunches low, waiting for his breathing to return to normal, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the pale light from the old cone-shaped fixtures high in the rafters.

A good hiding place. Cardoza must not have seen him slip into the library. He would be here by now.

Do I have to be afraid to leave my apartment?

He opens the laptop. Wipes sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his Polo shirt. His phone rings. His ringtone is an old-fashioned classic phone ring. It's supposed to be ironic but now everyone has it.

Startled, he tugs the phone from his shorts pocket. The Asian men don't look out from behind their newspapers. The woman in the front ignores it, too.

He takes the call. “Eleanor?” His agent.

“Zachary, how are you?”

“Well … I'm having an interesting morning.” He turns his head and talks in a loud whisper. Obviously, phone conversations in the reading room are not encouraged.

“Well, you know my main job. I'm the nudge. How is the sequel coming, Mr. Z?”

He can't hold back an exasperated groan. “I told you, Eleanor. I'm not writing a sequel. Do I have to tattoo it on my chest before you'll believe me?”

“Zachary, should I call back later? Sounds like you're having a bad day.”

“A bad day? I'm hiding in the library from a guy who chased me down the street because he says I stole my book from him.”

“We all have our problems, Z. Know what my problem is? Getting you to write the sequel.”

“Eleanor, please—”

“Why do you think you're having so much trouble getting started on the new book? Because you know your readers want another Howard Striver book. Zachary, why are you fighting it?”

“Been there, done that. Ever hear that phrase?” He sighed. “I don't want to be known as the guy who writes the Howard Striver books. I want to be known as an author. Period.”

“Stubborn, stubborn. Let's look at it one other way, okay?”

“If we have to.”

“Z, let's talk money. You like money, don't you? I know you and Kristen just got back from the Ocean Club on Paradise Island. That's not-too-shabby a resort. You enjoyed it, right?”

“Well, yes. But we had the baby and—”

“Zachary, do the Striver book, and I can get you a million dollars for any book you want to do next. Seriously. Do the sequel. The next book is an instant check for a million dollars. Can you picture that?”

“Of course. Don't talk to me like I'm an infant.”

The
People
magazine woman turns her head and squints at him. He turns his back and hunches lower behind the laptop screen.

“How am I supposed to talk to you when you're acting like a stubborn baby? Hey, think of your baby. Think of all the strained peas a million dollars will buy.” She laughs. “Organic artisanal local strained peas, right?”

He didn't reply.

“One last thing, Z, then I'll go. Think of all the new mind powers you can give Howard. Think of all the brain powers you haven't touched upon yet. There have to be a hundred story possibilities.”

“Well …”

“Think of the story possibilities. And then picture that million-dollar check. Okay?”

Zachary hears his reply as if it's coming from some other body: “Okay, Eleanor. I'll think about it.”

Zachary thinks about his first novel.
The Cerebellum Syndrome
is a science thriller. Part Michael Crichton, part
Bourne Identity
, with a hint of the sci-fi novels Zachary devoured as a teenager.

Howard Striver is a brilliant brain surgeon and neurological explorer. Fascinated by the fact that seventy-five percent of the human brain is dormant, he sets about finding a way to stimulate the unused parts of the cerebellum.

Unable to find volunteers, Dr. Striver experiments on his own brain—and succeeds in giving himself extraordinary mind powers. His expanded memory, his newly found kinetic abilities, his ability to retain encyclopedic amounts of knowledge make him a powerful superhero of the mind.

Three different governments, including our own, send agents to kidnap Striver. They are desperate to analyze his brain and learn how to use his newly discovered mind powers for military purposes. He escapes again and again, a thrilling chase scenario.

But even while he flees his pursuers, Howard Striver continues his experiments. He knows he is going too far, expanding his abilities too rapidly to analyze what he has accomplished.

To thwart his pursuers, he escapes into his own mind. He begins living entirely in the unexplored spaces of his brain. He transforms reality into an internal reality of his own making.

That's the basis of the first book. Is it ripe for a sequel?

At home, thinking hard, Zachary paces back and forth in his study, holding Emily, the baby, in his arms. Emily's expression is serious, attentive, as if she can read the turmoil in his mind. She makes a gurgling sound. Zachary imagines she is trying to comfort him.

He raises her head to his face and gives it a long sniff. Nothing smells as good as baby skin. He runs a finger gently under her chin, a soft tickle.

“Emily, you are so precious to me,” he tells her. “Should I give up writing something new? Write the sequel? For you?” Her pink mouth crinkles up. She starts to cry, thrashing her arms out stiffly.

He hands her back to the nanny.

I have to get out of here. I have to start writing. I have to think.

He picks up his laptop and carries it outside, down the front steps of the brownstone. He decides to return to the reading room of the little library on Amsterdam. Quiet and nearly empty. He can sit in the back and start to outline a plot.

But before he can go half a block, he sees the heavyset man leaning on the blue mailbox on the corner. Cardoza. He steps up beside Zachary, matches his quick strides. “You have to acknowledge me, Mr. Gold,” he says. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. His big hands swing gently at his sides as he dodges a boy on a silver scooter to keep up with Zachary.

“You can't just walk away. You stole my book.”

Zachary tries to sound casual. But his voice is shrill, suddenly breathless. “You have mental problems, Cardoza. Please don't make me call the police.”

“That would be a very bad plan,” Cardoza replies, still facing forward, keeping pace with Zachary step for step. “You don't want to be exposed. You have only one reputation to keep.”

“As I explained, I've never seen you before. My work … It's my own.”

Zachary stops as the Don't Walk sign locks on red. A yellow cab swerves to the curb to let off a passenger. Zachary steps back and finally turns to face his accuser.

But Cardoza has vanished.

Zachary gazes behind him, then up and down the side street. No sign of the man. Zachary realizes he is sweating. Not because he feels any guilt. He knows he didn't steal anyone's work.

It's the casual menace on Cardoza's face. The certainty of an insane person.

He knows where I live. He was waiting for me.

The reading room is more crowded than the day before. People occupy the tables and the armchairs. One man has spread his papers over a table, taking up at least six places.

Zachary glances behind him. Despite its size, the room suddenly seems more vulnerable. If Cardoza rumbles in, there's no place to hide. Nowhere to run.

Laptop tucked under his arm, Zachary walks along the aisle to the back. He recognizes the same two bearded Asian men, Chinese newspapers spread out in front of them. A broad stairway leads down. The steps are painted bright yellow, red, and blue. A hand-painted monkey on a poster points down. A dialogue balloon above his head: THIS WAY, KIDS.

Zachary finds himself in the children's room. Shelves on three walls jammed with books. Picture books are scattered on a low, round table surrounded by tiny wooden chairs. Tall cardboard cutouts of book characters stand watch. A bright blue Dr. Seuss creature. Tinkerbell dressed as a Disney princess. A
Star Wars
droid.

Behind them, Zachary spots a long, dark wood table. Grownup height. Chairs on both sides. He positions himself behind the cardboard characters. Sets his laptop down. There is no one here, not even a librarian. The kids are all in school.

Quiet. The air a little warm, a little stuffy and dry. But the perfect place to work, hidden from the world.

He takes a moment to catch his breath. Glances at the framed book cover posters on the wall. All fairy tales.
Rapunzel … Snow White and Rose Red … Hansel and Gretel …

Dark, nasty stories, he thinks.

He opens the laptop and brings up his
Word
program. He likes to start a book by making random notes. Plot ideas. Characters to populate the story. Story twists. Stream-of consciousness thoughts. The research will come later.

To write the first book, he had to learn almost as much about the brain and its functions as Striver. He types the name: Howard Striver. He types: Book Two?

Am I really going to write a sequel?

He left Dr. Striver living entirely inside his own brain. Striver had expanded his consciousness enough that his inner world was big enough and interesting enough to inhabit without any outside stimulation.

But a sequel could not take place inside Striver's mind. Too constricting for even the cleverest, most brilliant writer.

How do I bring Striver back? How do I pull him from living inside his own mind, into the world where he can interact with people once again?

And once he is back, what will his mission be?

Zachary knows he has already done all he can do in the government-agents-out-to-capture-Striver's-Brain department. To pursue that plot would be writing the exact same book again.

What new brain powers can I give him?

Time travel?

Can the secret to time travel be locked away somewhere in the human brain, waiting to be discovered?

“Too outlandish,” Zachary murmurs. “Too science-fictiony. Bor-ring.”

He types: Do I really want to write a sequel? Am I fighting it because I know it won't compare to the first book?

He hears voices upstairs. A woman laughs. Chairs scrape the floor. The light shifts from the narrow, high windows up at street level. A gray shadow slants over the table.

Zachary checks the time on his phone. It is two hours later. He has been sitting here for two hours with nothing to show for it. Nothing on the screen. No idea in his head.

Maybe I'll become like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
. Go crazy. Type the same phrase over and over. Even that is better than a blank screen.

Suddenly weary, he shuts his eyes and rubs them.

He opens them to find a beautiful young woman seated across from him. Round blue eyes, almost too blue to be real. Full red lips, wavy black hair flowing down past the shoulders of her pale blue top.

She reaches across the table and touches the back of his hand. “Can I help you?”

They're making better-looking librarians these days
, he thinks.

“I'm sorry if I don't belong here,” he says. “I just needed a quiet place to write.”

She smiles. “I'm not a librarian.” The voice is velvety, just above a whisper.

He gazes back at her. She is radiant. The high cheekbones of a model. He even notices her creamy skin, like baby skin. She isn't wearing any makeup.

She doesn't blink. “Sometimes I help writers,” she says.

“Help? What do you mean?”

The cheeks darken to pink. The red lips part. “I … do things for them.”

She's teasing me. Coming on to me?

She taps the back of his hand again. “I recognized you, Zachary. I loved your book.”

“Thank you. I—”

“I can't wait for the sequel.” She tosses her hair back with a shake of her head.

Zachary shrugs. “I'm not sure there's going to be a sequel.”

She makes a pouty face.

He's tempted to laugh. The expression is so childlike. “Look, I've been sitting here for two hours thinking about a sequel, and … well, I haven't exactly been inspired.”

“I can help you,” she says. “Seriously. I like helping writers.”

“You want to write it for me?” he jokes.

She doesn't smile. “Maybe.” She tugs his hand and starts to stand up. “Come on. Let's go talk about it.”

He closes the laptop. “Where are we going?”

“To talk about your book.” She has a clear, childlike laugh from deep in her throat. “You look so tense. Come on. Follow me. I can help you.”

Outside, the afternoon sun is high in the sky. Two cherry trees across the street have opened their pink-white blossoms. The air smells sweet like springtime.

She is more petite than he imagined. She can't be more than five-five. Her slim-legged jeans emphasize her boyish figure. He wishes he was better at guessing a woman's age, but he hasn't a clue. She could be eighteen or thirty.

He likes the way she takes long strides, almost strutting, her hair swinging behind her.