Last Night in Twisted River

"Maybe they've come and gone--shall I have a look?" Jimmy asked him.

"I'll come with you," Danny told the trooper.

"Have you had any letters from a crazy fan lately?" Jimmy asked the writer. "Or any hate mail, maybe?"

"Nothing like that for a while," Danny told him. There'd been the usual religious nuts, and the assholes who constantly complained about the writer's "unseemly" language or the "too-explicit" sex.

"Everyone's a fucking censor nowadays," Ketchum had said.

Once he published East of Bangor--his so-called abortion novel--the hate mail might heat up for a while, Danny knew. But there'd been nothing of a threatening nature recently.

"There's nobody out to get you--no one you know about, right?" Jimmy asked.

"There's someone who thinks he has a score to settle with my dad--someone dangerous," Danny said. "But this can't be about that," the writer said.

Danny followed the trooper into the kitchen of the new house first. Little things were amiss: The oven door was open; a bottle of olive oil lay on its side on the counter, but the cap was screwed on tight and the oil hadn't leaked. Danny walked into the living room, where he could shut off the loudest of the head-pounding music, and he noted that a coffee-table lamp now lay on the couch, but nothing appeared to have been damaged. The deliberate but small disturbances signified mischief, not vandalism; the television had been turned on, but without sound.

Though Danny had walked through the dining room on his way to the living room, which was the source of half the music, he'd noticed only that one of the chairs at the dining-room table had been upended. But Jimmy had lingered there, at the table. When Danny turned the music off, Jimmy said, "Do you know whose dog this is, Danny? I believe it's one of a pair of dogs I know out on the back road to Westminster West. The dogs belong to Roland Drake. Maybe you know him--he went to Windham."

The dead dog had stiffened since Danny last saw him--he was the husky-shepherd mix, the one Rooster had killed. The dog lay fully extended, with a frozen snarl, on the dining-room table. One of the dog's paws, contorted by rigor mortis, pressed flat the note Danny had composed to the hippie carpenter. Where Danny had typed, "Enough is enough, okay?" the hippie had replied in longhand.

"Don't tell me--let me guess," the writer said to the state trooper. "I'll bet the asshole wrote, 'Fuck you!'--or words to that effect."

"That's what he wrote, Danny," Jimmy said. "I guess you know him."

Roland Drake--that asshole! Danny was thinking. Armando DeSimone had been right. Roland Drake had been one of Danny's writing students at Windham College, albeit briefly. Drake had dropped the course after his first teacher's conference, when Danny told the arrogant young fuck that good writing could rarely be accomplished without revision. Roland Drake wrote first-draft gibberish--he had a halfway decent imagination, but he was sloppy. He paid no attention to specific details, or to the language.

"I'm into writing, not rewriting," Drake had told Danny. "I only like the creative part."

"But rewriting is writing," Danny said to the young man. "Sometimes, rewriting is the most creative part."

Roland Drake had sneered and walked out of Danny's office. That had been their only conversation. The boy hadn't been as hairy then; perhaps Drake hadn't been as drawn to the hippie persuasion when he was younger. And Danny had trouble recognizing people he previously knew. That was a real problem with being famous: You were always meeting people for what you thought was the first time, but they would remember that they'd already met you. It was probably an additional insult to Drake that Danny hadn't remembered him--not just that Danny had told Drake to mind his dog (or dogs).

"Yes, I know Roland Drake," Danny said to Jimmy. He told the state trooper the story--including the part about Rooster killing the dog that now lay stiffly on the dining-room table. From Danny's typed note, Jimmy could see for himself how the writer had tried to make peace with the asshole hippie. The writer carpenter, as Armando had called him, didn't know when enough was enough--no more than Roland Drake knew that rewriting was writing, and that it could be the most creative part of the process.

Danny and Jimmy went through the rest of the main house, turning off lights, putting things in order. In Joe's bathroom, the bathtub had been filled. The water was cold, but there was no mess; there'd been no spills. In Joe's bedroom, one of the boy's wrestling-team photos had been removed from the picture hook on the wall and was propped up (by a pillow) against the headboard of the bed. In Danny's bathroom, one of his suit jackets (on a coat hanger) had been hung on the shower-curtain rod; his electric razor and a pair of dress shoes were in the otherwise-empty bathtub. All the bath towels were piled at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom.

"Drake is just a shit-disturber, Danny," the trooper told him. "He's a little trust-fund fuck--

they never dare to do any real damage, because they know their parents would end up having to pay for it."

The same small nuisances were everywhere, throughout the house. When they went to turn the lights out in the garage, Danny discovered a tube of toothpaste on the driver's seat of Joe's car; a toothbrush was tucked under the driver's-side sun visor.

There was more of the same juvenile mischief in the guesthouse--the original farmhouse--where the music had been cranked up as loud as it would go and the soundless TV was on. Lamps were tipped on their sides, a pyramid of lampshades decorated the kitchen table, several pictures had been rehung (upside down), and the beds were unmade--in a manner that made you think someone had slept in them.

"This is irritating, but it's mainly childish," Danny said to the trooper.

"I agree," Jimmy said.

"I'm selling the whole property anyway," Danny told him.

"Not because of this, I hope," the state trooper said.

"No, but this makes it easier," the writer answered. Because Danny knew he was moving away, and the Putney property would have to be sold, maybe Roland Drake's violation of the writer's personal effects felt like less of an invasion than it truly was--that is, until Danny and Jimmy came to the famous author's writing shack. Yes, all the lights were on, and some papers had been misplaced, but Drake had overstepped; he'd done some actual harm.

Danny had been proofreading the galleys of East of Bangor. As testimony to the novelist's ceaseless need to rewrite--to tamper with, to endlessly revise--Danny had written more than the usual number of notes and queries in the margins of the galleys. This demonstration--namely, that Danny Angel was both a writer and a rewriter--must have been too much to take for a failed writer (a writer carpenter) like Roland Drake. The evidence of rewriting in the galleys of Danny's soon-to-be-published next novel had pushed Drake over the edge.

With a Sharpie permanent marker, in deep black, Roland Drake had scrawled on the cover of the uncorrected proofs of East of Bangor, and inside the galleys, on every page, Drake had written his comments with a Sharpie fine-point red pen. Not that the writer carpenter's commentary was either insightful or elaborate, but Drake had taken the time to defile every page; there were more than four hundred pages in the galleys of East of Bangor. Danny had proofread three quarters of the novel, and--notwithstanding what a rewriter he was--he'd written notes or queries on only about fifteen or twenty of the pages. Roland Drake had crossed out Danny's notes and queries; he'd rendered the author's revisions unreadable. Drake had purposely made a mess of the galleys, but it needn't have cost Danny more than two weeks' additional work--not even that, under normal circumstances, though Drake's destruction of the writer's uncorrected proofs seemed greater than a merely symbolic assault.