Escape the Night (27 page)

“Phillip looked amused, almost indulgent. ‘Fine,' he said, and went on to the next topic, as if
Tunnel
were dead.

“Peter sprang his first surprise at the next meeting. He'd gone to Royal Books and returned with a backup offer of one hundred thousand dollars, assuming we committed thirty thousand for advertising. So Phil had to choke back his objections. He bargained Santini's agent down to thirty-two thousand, and bought the manuscript.

“The rule is to sell paperback rights to a first novel before it's even published, when bad reviews or sales may keep you from selling rights at all. We'd only bought
Tunnel
because the hundred thousand Peter'd lined up in advance was an amazingly good deal for both us and Santini—all Peter had to do was close the deal.

“He never did.

“When Phillip found out he stalked into Peter's office absolutely livid, and interrupted a conference we were having. ‘Don't you understand this job at all?' he asked.

“Peter looked at him. ‘I understand that you gave it to me. I'd hoped it was because you admired my talent.'

“‘It was a
kindness
, Peter.'

“Peter just smiled. ‘Then I certainly hope it wasn't also a mistake.'

“I couldn't believe it, and neither could Phil. He ordered Peter to call Royal while he stood there, just to make sure he got it right. Peter pushed that morning's copy of
Publishers Weekly
across the desk. Inside was the first advance review of
The End of the Tunnel
, calling it ‘a first novel of astonishing power and maturity.'

“Phillip pointed at the telephone. ‘Sell it.'

“Peter shook his head. ‘There'll be more reviews like this. I'm going to collect them and auction
Tunnel
to the highest bidder.'

“Phillip waited until the next pub board meeting to recite, in front of everyone, Peter's handling of
Tunnel
in a way that made him sound pitifully inept.

“We were all sitting around John Carey's long mahogany conference table—Phil, the marketing director, the treasurer, three male editors, and me. Phil sat at the head, in Black Jack's leather chair, the three editors and our marketing and finance guys clustered around him, with me along the side.

“Peter faced Phillip from the other end of the conference table.

“‘Royal just came back with one-fifty,' he told Phillip. ‘I turned it down.'

“Phillip looked almost too amazed. ‘On what basis?' he demanded. ‘You're acting as if it were your
own
money at risk, not the firm's.'

“‘Perhaps'—Peter faced him directly—‘I have trouble seeing the difference.'

“The rest of us fell dead silent: it was the first time Peter had mentioned the old man's will, even by inference. Phillip folded his hands. ‘I wonder if you'd feel quite so strongly, Peter, if your future rested on getting more for
The End of the Tunnel
than you've just rejected.'

“Peter flushed: Phillip was daring him in front of us to stake his future on Larry Santini's. Without thinking, I said, ‘I'm sure that's unfair to Peter …'

“‘It's perfectly fair,' Peter cut in. He turned to Phillip. ‘We'll leave it this way: if I sell paperback rights to
Tunnel
for less than one hundred thousand dollars, I'll leave.' He smiled briefly. ‘It wouldn't take much time to clear out my office, as you've suggested. All I ask is authority to sell this book as I see fit.'

“‘Very well.' Phillip shrugged: Peter had walked right into his maw, smiling.

“I collared him as soon as we left the conference room and asked why he was so hellbent on reminding me of a lemming. He just laughed. ‘I had to do
something
to distract Phillip. Someday it'll hit him that he's got nine more years to fire you.'

“His answer was so much like Charles, I felt twisted up inside. ‘Or a lifetime,' I managed.

“He reached out to touch my shoulder, saying softly, ‘I appreciate your help.' There was still a trace of laughter in his voice. ‘You know, my grandfather never told me it would be this hard. I guess he was waiting till I could read.'

“He turned and went back to his office.

“The next day he turned down the one-fifty for the second time.

“Peter's phone just stopped ringing—no one else wanted to pay that much. I was certain that he'd cut his own throat: all he could do was send the advance notices on
Tunnel
to an old professor of his who reviewed books for the
Times
, and try to interest
People
in profiling Santini.

“On the date of publication there was no
Times
review, and no article. Royal cut their offer back to one hundred thousand—Peter's last chance to win his bet.

“Peter turned it down.

“Phillip began to stop by Peter's office, very chatty, and ask how things were going. How Peter felt I couldn't even bring myself to ask.” Ruth paused, smiling thinly. “I shouldn't have worried.

“Three weeks after publication the lead review in the Sunday
Times
was of
The End of the Tunnel
, by Peter's ex-professor. He called it things like ‘a literary event of singular importance,' and ‘the most profound war novel since
The Naked and the Dead.'
Even by the standards of literary events—in the seventies we'd begun having two or so a month—this became pretty eventful.
Newsweek
called Santini ‘one of the most remarkable young writers we now have,' and strong reviews began appearing in cities like Boston and Chicago. Then
People
ran five pages on Santini …

“Peter called the Book-of-the-Month Club and gave them one week to reconsider. And then he called Royal, as he was obligated to do before announcing any auction, and received an offer of two hundred thousand.

“When Peter turned it down I was
certain
he was crazy. Phil looked
so
relieved …

“Then the Book-of-the-Month Club announced that it had chosen
Tunnel
as a featured alternate, and Peter's telephone started ringing with paperback offers.

“He stalled them for one more week to watch the
Times
best-seller list. The next week
Tunnel
appeared as number nine. Peter sent letters to the major paperback publishers, announcing that
Tunnel
would be auctioned to the highest bidder, in two weeks.

“He set the minimum bid at half a million dollars—much too high, I thought.

“The next day
Tunnel
climbed to number seven.

“The Monday of the auction Peter came to his office with a bag lunch and a sack of oranges, to find
Tunnel
at number five. By the end of the day he was in shirtsleeves, looking exhausted.

“He'd gotten six bids over half a million.

“Tuesday morning he called the last five bidders from bottom to runner-up to tell them that the first day's high was six hundred and fifty thousand. By four o'clock only three were left: the lowest at eight-fifty, the next at eight-seventy-five and the high bid at nine hundred thousand. It
sounds
insane, but these things take on a dynamic of their own.

“Wednesday morning's high bid was nine hundred fifty thousand. ‘For a million,' Peter told the others, ‘you'll get more than fifty thousand dollars' worth of publicity.'

“At three-thirty Peter sold
The End of the Tunnel
to Sea-hawk, for one million dollars—a record sale for paperback rights to a first novel.

“Then Peter ordered two bottles of chilled champagne and invited Phillip down to celebrate.

“I saw Phillip coming down the hall toward Peter's office. His face was a study: pleased in spite of himself about the money, desolate that Peter would stay, relieved that he had decided to forget their quarrel. Then he turned through Peter's door and found Peter sitting there, the champagne already poured, grinning up at him with that slight tilt of the head—exactly like my photograph of Charles, hanging right behind him on the wall.

“Phillip stared past Peter's head at the picture of his brother, speechless. ‘I thought it was time to decorate,' Peter explained blandly. He pushed a glass across the table, raising his own, and said, ‘To my father.'

“Even as he drank, Phillip's eyes never left the picture.” Ruth smiled without mirth. “It was sheer poetry—if Black Jack Carey had been a poet. Peter hadn't just humbled Phil—he'd taken Charles's place. And I knew then that he'd planned that all along.”

The window behind her was glazed with frost. She lit a cigarette, and looked expectantly at her brother, exhausted by her narrative. But Levy could say nothing: something in the story's end had made him close to sick.

Finally, it was Ruth who broached it. “Peter frightened me, Bill—then, and now again, today.” Her voice fell. “Do you understand why?”

Their eyes met. “Yes,” he answered softly. “You're afraid that, subconsciously, Peter Carey harbors the same suspicion of Phillip that you say you've abandoned.”

Slowly, Ruth Levy closed her eyes, and nodded.

“But you've
never
abandoned it, Ruthie, have you? And that's why you sent Peter Carey on to me.” When she did not contradict him, Levy asked her gently, “Have you ever said these things to Peter?”

“That I can't stop wondering if Phillip killed his father?” Her eyes snapped open. “How could I?”

There was silence; thinking of Phillip, Levy felt Ruth's burden pass between them, merging with his own. “Then I shall,” he finally murmured. “In my way.”

Noelle Ciano bent over her suitcase, wedging in a pair of boots. “Why El Salvador?” Carey asked. “It's the worst possible timing—a month before elections, with the war heating up.”

“They've sent me places before, Peter.” Noelle kept on packing. “Anyhow, it'll give us both a chance to think.”

The thought of her leaving shook him. He fidgeted on the edge of her bed. “How long will you be gone, then?”

“Three weeks or so.” She tossed a quick smile over her shoulder. “Got to be back in time to shoot Doug Sutcliffe. Hand me that workshirt, will you?”

Carey picked up the shirt folded next to him and stood with it. “I'll miss you, you know.”

Taking the shirt, she stopped for a moment, holding it between them. “Enough to sleep over?”

“I don't know, Ciano. The dreams …” Carey looked away. “I haven't been much good for you, lately.”

“No sweat.” She shrugged. “Anyhow, I can sleep when I get to San Salvador. They say it's great.”

“Yeah—air conditioned.”

“Well, think about it.” She turned to the suitcase; in that moment, Carey knew that she would not return.

“Noelle?”

She glanced back, a pair of jeans in her hand. “Uh-huh?”

“Come here. Please.”

Her eyes seemed to widen. Then she turned, one hand on her hip, casually pointing at the half-filled suitcase. “Who's going to pack this for me?”

“I will. Later.”

Her mouth curved slightly upward. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Deal,” she said, moving toward him. Gratefully, he reached for her …

Her skin felt warm.

Peter Carey felt Noelle Ciano's bare shoulders grazing his: in the twilight drift between sleep and waking, he hung suspended. Once more, Levy asked him: “Tell me, Peter, when did you first have the dream …”

Carey's eyes opened, closed, and then he felt himself drawn, helpless, into the vortex of sleep …

“
Can I see a picture of Daddy?
”

Uncle Phillip glanced up from the storybook. “A picture, Peter?
”

“
Yes.” Timidly, the child Peter explained, “It's getting harder for me to see him now
.”

Uncle Phillip looked at him strangely. “Perhaps later. Don't you want to hear about Rumplestiltskin?
”

“
No.” Peter's mood turned stubborn. “I want to see my Daddy
.”

His uncle shifted on the bed. “You can't, Prince Charming
.”

“
Why not?
”

“
Because we don't have pictures.” Uncle Phillip's voice sounded small to him. “It was for
you,
Peter
—
really. I thought keeping them would be too hard
.”

“
Then where did you put Dewey
.”

“
He was
lost,
Peter.” His uncle reached out. “In the accident
…”

Peter's mouth quivered. “Leave me alone
.”

Uncle Phillip hesitated, hand frozen in midair, staring at him. Then, touching Peter's shoulder, he left the room. Peter kept himself from crying until he heard the door, closing him inside
.

He cried himself to sleep; suddenly, in the deep black of the night, his father came for him. They were in the tunnel
…

Peter Carey awakened screaming.

Clayton Barth waited in the darkness.

“No one else must see me,” the voice had said. “Leave your office dark, and the door unlocked. I'll find you there …”

Slowly, the door opened.

In the dimness, Barth saw the frail figure of a man even smaller than himself. Silently, the figure slipped inside.

Barth switched on his laser lamp and aimed it toward the room. Stabbing the darkness, its light caught an arm, then a bow tie.

The figure froze. Above the tie, Barth saw the death's-head of a man.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The death's-head smiled. “My name,” its voice said softly, “is John Joseph Englehardt.”

The two men watched each other.

Slowly, Barth waved him forward. “What is it you want?”

Even in the semidark, Englehardt saw that Barth thought himself much larger than he was: the gesture had the sweep of a six-footer's, and he swayed with an imagined bulk. But he could not find this amusing: megalomaniacs too often became what they imagined, and he had too much at stake. Respectfully, he answered, “I've come to give you John Carey's firm.”