The Writer

By Augusto Pinaud

George Mason was a loner before he published the three books that made him famous. Each novel solves a crime; each one had been about real crimes, all of them involving real and influential people. The problem, the FBI and police couldn’t solve the crimes until the clues showed up in the books. His secret is that he never wrote any of them, and when a fourth one shows up on his doorsteps he decides that the best thing he could do is to destroy it. The manuscript for the previous book cost him too much. Agent Chen Pak was following him almost all day and night. He was a loner and having Chen on his back made him really uncomfortable. The problem was the real writer was threatening George to come through or he would destroy him, while the killer in the manuscript is also looking for him to destroy him and the manuscript. That generates an adventure of intrigue, crime and mystery. Twist after twist, George runs to Colorado to look for the missing clues on the fourth manuscript and that’s when the heat increases, putting his life and the life of those around him in great danger. Will George publish the manuscript and bring the killer to justice, or will he be the protagonist of a fifth manuscript?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Augusto Pinaud
• Release date: May 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452420882

Augusto Pinaud

I am a writer, a BestSeller Author in the US, UK, Germany, Spain and France. In another life I was a Lawyer in recovery and a former Technology Consultant and Salesman. My Passion is to Write. I have studied productivity and helping people with their productivity for the last ten years. I am living in Fort Wayne, Indiana. I am married and has a little girl, a boy and two dogs who keep him company. He spends his day teaching his daughter things, writing and washing dishes, because he believes in what Agatha Christie once said: "The best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes."

Book preview

The Writer

A Novel.

Augusto Pinaud

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Augusto Pinaud

All rights reserved. This book or any portion of it may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews or mentions of the book.

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Table of Contents

DEDICATION

Other Books by Augusto Pinaud

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 22

FEEDBACK, COMMENTS AND REVIEWS

SPECIAL THANKS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To Veronica, who, beyond all reason, chose to love me and believe in me ... You are my better half.

To Alicia, the person that forces me to learn new things everyday ...

OTHER BOOKS BY AUGUSTO PINAUD

- Putsch - A Hannah Fisher Thriller

CHAPTER ONE

George Mason was a loner. He woke up early every morning, walked around the block for around thirty minutes, thinking about the day ahead, about better times. Some days he stopped in the park, just to observe people walking by. He was convinced that watching regular people, the way they acted, was the way a writer feeds his soul. Other days, he walked as far as he could, and then he walked back home. He always drank coffee afterwards, daydreamed and prepared to write the rest of the day; that morning wasn't any different. He woke up, walked around the block for thirty minutes or so, and was getting ready for a nice, big cup of coffee. He would sit by his computer to read blogs, catch up with his Twitter, and maybe write a little. The day seemed like any other. Nothing special to remember; the weather was regular Los Angeles weather. The noise, the usual noise of the neighborhood. At least it seemed regular and usual until he walked up his front porch and saw the yellow envelope. He knew the contents all too well; sadly for George, he had received three envelopes like this one before. It was four years ago when he received the first one after receiving a weird call. The reason the call was weird was because this person wanted to give him a manuscript, for publication, all the rights and money would be for him. All he needed was his name and he had to make sure that they got published, even self-publishing was fine. George agreed. At the time he was unemployed, broke, and on the border of desperation. He was in need for some income, and this could be it; actually, it was.

Life can be sweet when you don't need to worry about money. It is sweet but not in the way most people imagined. You still have worries. If you were a loner before, you will be a loner after. You had fears about being broke before; you can end up broke after. It comes with a lot of stresses, the real and the imaginary ones.

This time, when he saw the envelope, he knew that he didn't want to deal with another book. He really wanted to finish his masterpiece. He knew there was something serious there; the previous ones were serious and horrible crimes. Why would this one be any be different? He had a bad feeling; strong enough that he decided to leave the envelope closed and think about it later. He brewed his coffee and added some of that Old Parr that he had in the cupboard. Just opening the bottle to pour some in the cup brought back some great memories. It was on his first trip to Mexico that he discovered Old Parr, a whisky that was not for sale in the US for reasons that he ignored, but in his opinion, the best you could drink. He opened the bottle, it didn't matter that it was only nine in the morning; he needed something strong to get over this. After a little drink he decided to open the envelope.

If his instincts were right, this envelope could be the fourth manuscript. The content of the envelope kept the format of the original ones, and a sour taste began to take over George's mouth and a rapid heartbeat over his heart. It was hard to forget the mess that came with the first manuscript and the headache of the second one. Sadly, the third manuscript kept Agent Chen Pak on his back too long. Maybe that was the worst part; George was a loner and honestly, having Agent Chen Pak of the FBI on his back wasn't fun at all. Anywhere he went, Pak went; anywhere he stopped, Pak also stopped. It took a long time for Pak to stop following him, and for George to have his solitude back.

He pulled his laptop closer, opened the browser and then the e-mail application. He tried to ignore the manuscript but he could not concentrate. He tried Twitter, but all he could think about was the manuscript. So he simply closed the lid and decided to walk outside. After forty more minutes, his mind was still on that envelope, so he decided to do the only thing he knew would keep his mind quiet: jump into his 1959 MG and drive around until his brain calmed down. He took his jacket, the keys, and the envelope; his instincts were telling him that leaving that there was too dangerous. He jumped into the car and drove for over two hours. He thought of the envelope every second. This was the first time since he got the car that it didn't work as a relaxing tool. He decided to finally stop and read it. Sometimes the only thing you can do to get something out of your head is stop and do it.

Eight hours later, he finally relaxed. His brain stopped the chatter; he had never heard of any of this. This was the work of fiction. He was so relived. He drove back home, finally enjoying the drive, relaxed, smiling. There was nothing to be worried about, this was not real; this was the work of fiction. He got home and pulled the laptop open again, opened the browser and typed Natalie Truman on Google and quickly discovered that this was not fictional. Google brought up two thousand entries. He quickly discovered that Natalie was real, but there was not much information about her, maybe she wasn't friendly enough. He tried to look for any presence on social media sites; all he could find were a Facebook and a MySpace profile but they were not really abundant on information or friends either. He decided to Tweet. Over the years, and with the success of his books, he had an incredible amount of followers, so he decided to ask, and to his surprise, in less than five minutes, he had people sending him messages asking him if he knew anything. Apparently this girl had been missing in Colorado for over twelve months and there had been no news. Police dropped the investigation and there was no new information. For the preliminary study she was just a normal girl, a student at the schools in Colorado Springs; nothing fancy, just a girl. With some of the information that the Twitter fans sent to him, George was able to discover her Facebook and MySpace profiles. He noticed on Facebook, as well as on her MySpace profile, that she was attractive, really attractive.

That was the moment when all that calm came to an end. This was another real crime. All that reading was not fiction, it may not be a famous model, or a football player, or an heir, but all the reading of the last hours was about a real life, on a real case. He needed to do something. Should he publish the book or not? After the last one, he swore that he was never going to publish another one, he reminded himself, but his mind ignored the comment and began falling into a dangerous thinking spiral. After a lot of thought, he decided to destroy the manuscript. The last book got too much attention and generated too much interest from that FBI guy who was on his ass for a long time, and he was finally gone. He loved being a loner, as much as he hated Agent Chen Pak being in his life.

I don't need this, he thought, and proceeded to destroy the manuscript.

He then proceeded to clean the shredding machine, and began page by page to destroy it. It was impossible not to question himself, why was he not going to let this reach public light? He asked himself many times if he was doing the right thing, but he always answered in fear. After the last book, this FBI agent really made his life difficult; he followed him, standing outside, questioning him many times. Really, George was done with all that. Actually, this was, in a way, a curse. He never thought that he was going to hate the success of the books so much, and even though it was true that he had a nice house, he was able to buy his dream car, as well as that MG, but he really wanted to be alone, to think, to remember, to write that book that had tormented him for many years and being followed and questioned was not his idea of how things should be. The job of destroying page by page took a while, but that was the best way to guarantee that no one read those pages.

He later proceeded to burn the little pieces of paper that came out the shredder. No more crime, no more novel, no more nothing. He didn't want to know anything more about this. He thought this was a one-time deal. He had already published more than that; three books were enough. He didn't need that much money; actually, he didn't keep that much of the money anyway. He had learned that you could be an anonymous donor, and his accountant had taken care of that. He had enough money saved to live like a regular Joe for the rest of his life; upgrading his Jeep every two years. Those were the instructions given to his accountant; after that, the rest of the money he gave away, and he was proud of that. There were so many people that had more needs than him, and he wanted them to use it. After finally making the decision and destroying the manuscript, he was definitely in a better mood, so he went to bed.

The next morning, he woke up, walked around the block, like always. He didn't stop, just walked around, in a relaxed but fast pace, and when he was back in the house, there was another envelope. This time there was also a note on top of the envelope. He took the note and read it: Remember, I made you, and I can also make you disappear. Cold sweat ran over George's hands. There was no signature, no nothing, no name, nothing, just a simple and clear threat. This was the first time he thought of not publishing the book, as well as the first time he received a threat regarding this. He went inside and decided to read it again; as much as he was not interested in more money, he wasn't going to risk anything else. He would read it again, send it to Marc Jacobs, his publisher, and make publication in ninety-six hours from tomorrow.

Another Old Parr with his coffee, he decided that this time he needed more Old Parr than coffee, since he was getting really anxious. What to do? Looks like not publishing was not going to be an option, and obviously whoever wrote this knew what he was doing. There was no hiding for him. George spent the next hours thinking of the possible effects, the fears. Finally, he decided to open his computer. There were thirty-seven e-mail messages, and over fifty direct tweets, all asking for Natalie Truman. At that moment, George knew he had made a mistake. Even if he had already discovered that she was not fiction, that much noise most likely would only put the heat back on him, and if the killer was just a little cautious, he would find out that George Mason was asking about the girl, and that was enough, especially with George's reputation. He was in trouble now.

He began to get ready for the publication of the manuscript. The routine was simple, he needed to type all the pages into the pages file, and then submit it. His publisher would release the e-book ninety-six hours later. By the length of the printing copy he had in this hands and his typing speed, he guessed that would take him a little bit over five days to type it all. It was not exactly tomorrow, as he thought originally, but it would be in the next seven days, and that should be fine. He was in full concentration mode. George was beginning to type when the doorbell announced that someone was outside. Quickly, George saved the information he had typed, and proceeded to hide the manuscript behind the picture of Saint Michael that he had hanging in his working room. That room worked as a living area, working area and reading area. He then went ahead and opened the door, but something went terribly wrong. After he opened the door, something came to his face and everything went black incredibly fast.

George woke up with a terrible headache. It took him a moment to recognize that he was in his home. It was almost all destroyed, they searched everywhere, and he was sure it was for that manuscript that they were searching. He looked behind Saint Michael and the manuscript was there. He remembered that four years ago, when the first book came out, this Saint Michael showed up at his front door with a note that said that Saint Michael was the Protector, and he would protect him and keep hidden what he needed to keep hidden. He had never used it until today, but he was glad he had. Somehow George was feeling that he was alive only because no one was able to find that envelope. George's anxiety level went up again. What to do? "This is ridiculous.