John Draper faced Andy. “I didn’t have an ending for my story until now. Maybe it’s because I didn’t believe in it myself. But together we have a tale; maybe a tale no one would believe.”
Andy moistened his lips and felt an electric tingle across his skin because of what he was about to say. “Should we end it by having the retired cop kill the boy?”
“Kill the boy,” John repeated. “Too many things to explain.” It was a long moment until he continued. “Besides, there’s a complication. In my story, Andy, the therapist kept running into something strange. It was a curious lack of exact correspondence between the test results of her client and the tests she had done on Billy Stark. Her client wasn’t the killer. He was different. A new person. He had some memories belonging to the killer, but he had his own unique feelings. Her client was a little boy who would not be a victim and who could protect himself, regardless of the rules, regardless of what others think possible. More than that, he would protect others, as well. The boy couldn’t tolerate a bully.”
“My story, too.” Andy glanced down at his hands. “But in my story, the boy still feels awful. He feels like he owes something to the retired police officer. He doesn’t know what or how, but he’s got to settle it some way or he’ll die.”
“Settle it?” The man looked through the window again until he let his gaze drop to his lap. “Maybe our story needs some more work.” John stood and made a second visit to his mantelpiece. Instead of fondling one of his pipes, however, he turned and faced Andy. “You know, that story your father gave me was very good. I sent ‘The Red Dot’ in to New Detective. I got a call from the editor this morning, and he told me to pass on that you’ve got an offer to publish it. Twenty cents a word. That’s a pretty good rate. I gave him your address and you should get a contract offer in a couple of days.”
Andy frowned and looked down at his lap. “That’s great, John, but I still feel like I owe you. I mean, everything I know about writing I got from reading your stories. I feel like I owe you a lot. You know. For the stories.”
John Draper scratched his chin then clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed to be fighting something. At long last he appeared to cross some kind of internal line and reach a decision. He nodded and said, “Andy, every now and then I do these writing clinics in the local schools. Mostly sixth and seventh graders; sometimes high school. It’s a chance to introduce kids to fiction writing. If you want to do something for me, you could help.”
“How?”
“Well, as I said, you write very well. There’s this sixth grade girl I know who could use some help. Her name’s Sally Scott and she was in one of my clinics.”
“How can I help her? I’ve only been writing for a couple of days.”
“Go to her house and talk to her. She’s over on Addison. She has a story, too. Once you see it, I think you’ll know what to do. It’s about a twelve year old girl who is consumed with making herself ugly. She doesn’t wash, doesn’t change her clothes, and she’s eaten herself to almost two hundred pounds hoping that somehow, some way, she can make herself ugly enough to keep her stepfather away. Understand?”
Andy’s face was like stone. “I understand.”
“The stepfather in the story makes a great villain. He drinks, beats the girl and beats her mother, too. The villain is almost too good, though. Sally can’t figure out how her heroine can escape or eliminate the villain. She doesn’t have an ending for her story.” John Draper rubbed his eyes, lowered his hand, and looked at the boy. “I thought you might be able to help her work out something.”
Andy stood and faced the man. “If I do come up with a good ending, are we even?”
Draper rubbed his eyes and sighed as he shook his head. “I don’t know if we’re ever going to be even, Andy. I’m not real good at putting things behind me.”
“I’ve put some big things behind me.”
“Boy, I still haven’t convinced myself that this is something I should put behind me.” He shook his head and held out a hand. “Look, if you decide to help Sally with her story, do it because it’s something you want to do, not because you figure you owe me. I don’t know that you can pay off that one.” He lowered his hand and shrugged. “Maybe it’s just something I have to square away with myself. If you want to help, help. If you don’t, don’t.”
“I’d like to help, John. Sally Scott on Addison. What number?”
“Nine thirty-seven. It’s a gray duplex. The stepfather is an ex-boxer who runs a gym. A very rough character. He keeps guns in the house and likes to play with them.”
“The man in the story?”
“Sure. The man in the story.” John Draper smiled and raised his eyebrows. “He’s not as rough as King Girard used to be, but he has a lot of people scared. You look like you have a question.”
Andy nodded once and leveled his gaze on the man’s eyes. “I suppose if someone reported the stepfather, child protective services would take the kid away and the stepfather would be put into counseling.”
“That even happened once, Andy. The child reported her stepfather to the police, the mother refused to back up her kid, the stepfather was forbidden by the court to enter the home, but no one was watching him. So he went back home and beat the kid until she almost died. Broke five bones. The kid knows the score, so now she keeps her mouth shut. The ban was lifted and everything went back to normal. The kid writes a tough story.”
Andy picked up his papers. “John. If I like this, helping the kid from your writing clinic, can I help more kids?”
“There are a lot of them out there, Andy. An army. They can use all the help they can get.” John looked at his hand for a moment, then held it out. “It was good talking to you.”
Andy shook hands with the man. “Can I come and talk to you some more about my stories?”
“Yes Anytime.”
Del Scott took a long pull from his beer and squinted his eyes as he tried to read the sports page. He scratched beneath his armpit as he heard a whimper from upstairs and glared in that direction. That girl and her mother had been sniffling and whimpering ever since he had gotten home from work. How can a man relax with all the crying and fighting.
He balled up the newspaper and threw it against the kitchen wall. “Hell, if I can’t read in peace, then there are some that’re going to pay.” He pushed back the chair, lurched to his feet, and smiled as he took a swing with a massive fist at Kid Duggan’s memory. That was a fight. Six rounds and the Kid never did get up. “Killed him,” grunted Del, “with this!” He swung again, threw himself off balance and stumbled into the refrigerator.
While he was trying to remember why he was on his feet, there was a knock at the door. He leaned away from the refrigerator and peered through the kitchen door into the hallway. He could see the front door, the top half of which was cracked and taped glass. No one seemed to be there. Another knock and Del saw a movement toward the bottom of the glass. It was a little kid.
He launched himself from the doorway and staggered down the hall, coming to a stop at the door. Pulling it open, he looked down and saw a boy only six or seven years old. “Well?”
The boy smiled warmly. “Mr. Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“Hi.” The boy walked around Del as he talked “I’m Andy Rain. I’m here to help Sally with her homework. You look like you could use a beer.”
“You’re just a little kid. Hey!” The boy was already inside and heading toward the kitchen. “Hey, kid! What the hell? Come back here!”