The Real Deal

By Dan Krzyzkowski

Two years after his wife’s tragic disappearance, bestselling author John Mastenhock has quit writing and left his Georgia home to take up a life of debauchery. But what John does not know is that his life is about to be turned upside down.

After he is contacted by a bankrupt publishing company and told they hold secret information regarding the whereabouts of his missing wife, Lorry, they offer him a simple deal. John writes the struggling company a bestseller, and they hand him the info—and maybe the keys to his old life. Yet writing another book is anything but easy for a haunted man battling internal demons and a troubled past. While John works on the manuscript and searches for Lorry, he is ultimately led to a clandestine southern town and to a dead ringer for his wife who claims to have never met him. While he determines how to unravel the mystery of her identity, dark forces descend, his sordid past threatens to reemerge, and a cat-and-mouse game turns deadly. Now it is up to the sheriff and his small police force to prevent one man’s descent into madness from bringing an entire town to its knees.

In this thrilling tale, a renowned novelist blackmailed into writing a bestseller by a bankrupt publishing company is propelled down a dark path where nothing is certain, including his sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663251237

Dan Krzyzkowski

Dan Krzyzkowski attended Lafayette College in Easton, Pennsylvania, where he earned a degree in psychology. He is the author of the novels The Caller, One-Lane Bridge, and Critical Mass. Dan lives in Hunterdon County, New Jersey.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 Dan Krzyzkowski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5122-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5123-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023903623

iUniverse rev. date: 07/10/2023

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I

HANG TIME

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

PART II

CHARLENE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

PART III

THE REAL DEAL

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Für Elise

The novelist is, after all, God’s liar, and if he does his job well, keeps his head and his courage, he can sometimes find the truth that lives at the center of the lie.

—Stephen King, Danse Macabre

Take it off, sweetheart. All of it. I’m not going to tell you twice.

—Skagg the Butcher MacArthur

PROLOGUE

Magic Day

On May 18, 2001, John Mastenhock woke to birdsong and the buzz of traffic on Brock Street. Somewhere to the south, off Gin Mill or Sawtooth, an early-morning lawn trimmer sputtered to life. From the live oaks outside his bedroom window, fox squirrels filled the air with chatter. The sounds of high spring in southern Georgia. Edgar Porris had called them the lifeblood of inspiration. To John Mastenhock, they were sounds of pure magic.

He swung his legs out of bed and slid his feet into his morning slippers. He raised his arms to stretch. From the adjoining bath came the sound of running water. Johnny turned and saw Lorry’s shadow behind the frosted shower glass. He watched as she held her arms high to rinse her hair. She rolled a bar of Dove across her belly. She turned sideways at one point, and he caught a glimpse of her breasts rounding forth in shaded secrecy.

He turned and faced the window again. He closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths. Get up, John. The day is come.

He slipped into his pinstripe robe, went into the hall, and descended the stairs, humming beneath his breath. Into the kitchen he glided, running one hand over the granite countertop. The coffeemaker had been preset to begin brewing at 7:00 a.m., and a full pot welcomed him.

Steaming mug in hand, Johnny opened the front door and went out to the porch. The front porch was protected by an overhanging roof and ran the full width of the house. The floorboards were painted a mottled gray, like the skin of a porpoise. The porch overlooked the front yard and Brock Street beyond. Separating the front of the yard and the sidewalk that paralleled Brock Street was a perfect row of English laurel that Johnny pruned twice a year. The hedges were waist-high and home to the occasional sparrow or brown thrasher.

At the right-hand end of the porch was a two-person swing, suspended from a quartet of sturdy chains. In southern Georgia, everyone had a porch swing out front—not just John Mastenhock, who was known by most as Jonathan Dent. He moved past the swing and stood at the porch railing, mug clasped between hands, facing Ancey Mapplethorpe’s two-story Colonial, waiting for the old ways to return and wondering if they would.

He sipped coffee and sat down in the swing to wait for Lorry. Soon she appeared, wearing a white blouse and a pleated gray skirt that topped out above her knees. Tan stockings accentuated her shapely calves. Her hair poured from her shoulders in a waterfall of walnut.

She carried not a briefcase, but a brown satchel—an article she claimed was more feminine. She let the satchel rest on the porch floor as she backed into the swing to Johnny’s left.

Morning, hon. Lorry pecked him on the cheek.

Morning, he said. You look scintillating.

Lorry smiled. Got your coffee, I see.

Yep.

After some time, Lorry said, So I guess this is the day, huh?

This is the day.

You’ll be careful, won’t you? She was watching him closely with her brown, steadfast eyes.

He turned to meet them. Dr. Matthews and I have been through it over and over. He hesitated. It won’t be like last time, Lorry. That’s a promise.

She smiled, then took his hand and squeezed it in both of hers. I love you, Johnny. I love you so much. Her brown eyes sparkled. After a while, she asked, Are you excited about this one?

Yes. He took a slug of coffee, then smacked his lips. "Honestly, Lorry, this may be my best one yet. It’s early, but … well, the idea, the potential … It’s all there, Lorry, waiting to come out—texture, voice, characters … And this is no Gulliver Wayne novel, either. This … He made a closed fist in the air in front of him. It’s gonna be good, Lorry. It’s gonna be very good."

Johnny, I’m so happy for you.

He turned toward her and said, You know you don’t have to work, Lor. I long for the day when you’ll quit and stay home with me.

She smiled and gave him the it’s good of you to say so, but I know what’s best for me look that she had mastered years ago, and his words seemed to die in space. That look said to him, We’ve been through this before, John, haven’t we? When Johnny had culled his first million with his breakout bestseller Trap Door, he’d pled his case that Lorry quit her job teaching insolent sixth graders at the elementary school in St. Mary’s. And she had quit, only to move on to another career. Four years after Trap Door, with the first two Gulliver Wayne novels on the shelves and two major film deals, her stance hadn’t changed. Johnny, she’d told him in earnest, "it doesn’t matter if you make a hundred million. It doesn’t matter if you own all the money in the world. I need to make use of my life. I refuse to sit around doing crosswords."

After her teaching job, she’d gotten her broker’s license and been hired as an investment advisor with Merrill Lynch up in Centerville. It was a mile and a half from home, a distance she walked twice every day, rain or shine. It was her part, she said—her part in the big play. Everybody has to play a part, Johnny. It was from this porch swing that he would watch, five days a week, as she moved up the flagstone path with her satchel and turned right along Brock Street, ambling past the row of English laurel on her way to the office.

Though he had never completely understood it, Johnny had come to accept that there was a side of Lorry that remained stubbornly hers. She had retained her maiden name, for instance. Two summers ago, she had planted her own peach tree. The sapling had gone in the yard between Ancey Mapplethorpe’s house and theirs. Johnny had watched from the sidelines. When she’d finished, filthy from the shoulders down, Lorry had placed her hands on her hips and said with a smile, There. It’s mine.

It had something to do with her tree. It had something to do with her annual visit to Savannah on St. Patrick’s Day to celebrate her Irish roots when the Savannah River flowed green from all that food coloring. It had something to do with her unyielding wish to work full-time when her husband, the tried and true Jonathan Dent, was grossing ten million a year.

You can do anything you want, Lor, he said now. The world is your playpen.

She smiled, rubbing his left leg. Yes, I know. Thank you, Johnny.

They were interrupted by a dog’s shrill barking. Johnny turned and saw Ancey’s Yorkshire terrier standing on the grass.

"Yike-yike! Yike-yike-yike!"

Johnny frowned. Someone oughta strangle that thing.

That dog never has liked you, has it?

Ancey Mapplethorpe, seventy-four and widowed, appeared at the far end of her yard. She saw them on the porch swing and raised her arm in a polite wave. They waved back.

Beautiful morning, isn’t it? she called.

Splendid, Lorry answered. We couldn’t ask for better.

Let’s go, Giggles, Ancey said. You’ve woken all of Brock Street. Inside. Seconds later, both she and dog were gone, to Johnny’s relief.

He turned to Lorry again. Hey, you think you can come home early today?

Whatever for, Johnny? She was smiling in spite of herself—indeed, almost laughing.

I thought we could make some ends meet out back. It was his way of saying, We’ll have some glorious sex, babe, in the Love Palace. I figure I’m gonna crank out that first chapter today, and … well, I thought we could celebrate.

John Mastenhock had employed a small part of his fortune transforming their backyard into a veritable Garden of Eden. A half acre of land was beautified with roses, orchids, marigolds, lilies, tulips, lilacs, irises, and every other nameable flower that stood a chance in the Georgia sun. The black loam was shipped down from up north once a year. In the center of the garden was a diamond-shaped fishpond with a marble fountain. Two dozen koi lazed about in the shallow temperature-controlled water, their scaly red, black, orange, and white bodies clashing with one another.

Ten feet behind the fishpond stood the Love Palace—a gazebo furnished with screens, windows, and air conditioning. The floor of the palace, twelve feet in diameter, was not really a floor at all, but a custom-designed water mattress, black, silken, and with laced pillows lining the edges.

When the sensuous mood struck them, it was here they’d retire, here to the Love Palace, in the middle of Johnny’s garden of dreams. He would take Lorry into his arms, and they would generate their beauty to the beat of down-home southern jazz from the in-wall speakers, or the slow roll of an adagio, or on rare occasions, hard-core rock ’n roll. On the cool nights of late fall and early spring, they might sleep the night through, stirring to an early breeze sifting through the screens and the gentle sounds of the koi popping mouthfuls of air at the surface of their sanctuary. The entire backyard was fenced in with twelve-foot lacquered pine, so there was no fear of their privacy being compromised.

Johnny snuck a peek at Lorry’s face and saw she was smiling—indulging in the fantasy, perhaps. She smiled so hard she began laughing.

Johnny said, You enjoy the sound of that, don’t you? Don’t you, babe? He snuck his left hand beneath her pleated skirt and slid it gently up her nyloned thigh, exerting a terse squeeze.

Her body tightened, and she brushed his hand away. Not here, Johnny … geez. But her voice was jovial.

What do you think, then? Come home early?

We’ll see.

It’s a date then. I’ll escort you out back, my fair lady, through my garden of roses, and then shower your bare body with kisses. I’d especially like to pay a visit to my little island, if you’re open to the idea.

Sounds like a luscious prospect to me, darling.

The island he spoke of was a small, hook-shaped birthmark near the top of Lorry’s right buttock. Johnny had long ago claimed the mark as his. Adept at pushing his buttons, Lorry would often threaten to have the birthmark removed—a notion Johnny would not tolerate. That island drives me nuts, babe, he’d argue.

Well, I’ve got to be off, she said. Rising to her feet, Lorry used one hand to brush out the folds of her skirt. She reached for her satchel and hung it over her shoulder. Tardiness is the food of fools.

You’re sure you won’t let me drive you uptown?

It’s nice of you, hon, but I’m a big girl. And I need the exercise.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his. They held the kiss for several moments before she broke away, standing full and tall before him on the sunlit porch.

Good luck with the opening chapter, she bade him. If I wander in early to take you up on your offer, perhaps you’ll tell me about it? It was a half question, half statement, tempered by the knowledge that Johnny only rarely shared his ideas with her when they were in the rough-hewn stage. She would become his most valued critic come time of a second or third draft, but early on, when the material was so fine and delicate, it was different.

We’ll see, he said, grinning.

She grinned herself and went down the steps. Her heels clicked down the flagstone path toward the sidewalk. Have a good day, hon, he called. Love you.

Love you too.

She made her usual right turn along Brock Street and moved east up the sidewalk, visible from the belly up beyond the row of green hedges. Johnny watched her in profile from the side, her satchel slung from one shoulder, arms loose and head angled down. He recognized her as both a woman who held the universe in her hands and one who took nothing for granted. I love you, Lor. I love you with all the weight of the world.

John Mastenhock hadn’t seen his wife since.

PART I

HANG TIME

34940.png

CHAPTER ONE

1

The small, pissant watering hole was called the Lone Cabbage. It stuck out like a horrific nose job along the eastbound lane of Florida’s Route 520. Less than ten miles west of Cocoa Beach and built along the St. Johns River, it had been named by bar-hoppers as the Oasis of Brevard County. It was little more than your average bar and grill—a place with dusty floors, cold beer, and loud music. On evenings and weekends, locals would gather on either side of the bridge to fish for bream with cane rods and cork floats. A frog-gigging contest was held once a month on the full moon. The heaviest bullfrog would fetch a cash prize of one hundred dollars. Airboat rides on the river were available at ten bucks a head. And behind the restaurant were several ramps where one could launch a boat or hire a fishing guide.

Aside from the occasional fistfight between drunk rednecks, the Cabbage attracted little attention from local authorities. The place had a decent track record, actually. There’d been one drug-related arrest in the past four years, and a handful of bookies had passed through, foraging for business. Local cops had more pressing matters to deal with: prostitution rings in seedy motels east of there; heroin in the city; lost pets in retirement communities.

At 1:00 p.m. on this Tuesday afternoon, the sandy, pebble-stone parking lot was deserted when the black Lexus pulled in. The car was in pristine condition—shiny alloy wheels, sidewalls gleaming, front and rear chrome bumpers shimmering in the Florida sun. The out-of-state plates bore not a speck of dirt. For several minutes, the driver’s identity was masked behind the tinted glass as the engine thrummed.

Finally, the ignition was cut. The driver’s door opened, and out stepped a man in a gray Armani suit and Bally loafers. The fellow was short and lean. His perfectly arranged hair was a dark chestnut color, slicked back past the ears. A pair of metal-rimmed spectacles rode low on his narrow nose. His face was cleanly shaven.

Pensive, the man stood near his open car door, as if contemplating retreat. Then he sighed and swung the door shut.

He entered the Lone Cabbage through a swinging screen door. A rusty sign hanging from the door proclaimed, STRANGERS WELCOME. He found himself standing in a boxlike entry hall. On the wall to his right was a pushpin board covered with business cards advertising the services of local fishing guides. He tilted his head back and saw that the small ceiling globe had been busted out.

The main door was thick glass, covered with smudges and fingerprints. He entered and found himself standing in a cool, shadowed sanctuary. There was a lengthy mahogany bar in front of him, steepled with two sets of beer taps. To his left was a small, dark alcove that housed a pair of rustic arcade games. To the right was the main dining area. Ten or twelve haphazardly placed tables were situated in a fifty-by-fifty open space. In the far corner of the room was a stage platform, probably for local gigs—or perhaps dancers.

The walls were adorned with artifacts of local origin—most notably, oversized stuffed fish with huge fan-wave tails and black gaping mouths. He also noticed large framed photos of local swamp rats wrestling with alligators. On none of the walls did the man see a clock.

He pushed up one sleeve and checked his Rolex. It was 1:07 p.m.

Hey there, mister!

Startled, the man looked up and saw a tall, slender woman standing behind the bar, visible from the belly up. She hadn’t been there seconds ago and must’ve come through the batwings leading to the kitchen, he reckoned.

Afternoon, he acknowledged, stepping forward. From a back pocket, he withdrew a white handkerchief and used it to gently dab the corners of his forehead. It’s hot. Must be ninety-five out there.

Welcome to Florida, honey, the woman said with a sharp southern accent. You’re from outta town, I take it.

Yeah. Outta town. He folded the hankie into perfect fifths and returned it to its respective pocket. Don’t you keep a clock around here?

Us folks don’t believe in keepin’ the time.

Why does that not surprise me? the man asked.

There something I can help you with, mister?

The fellow looked up into her sparkling silver eyes, a good two inches above his own. The woman to whom they belonged was stunning—thick brown hair falling past her shoulders, deeply tanned skin, and high cheekbones. He ran his eyes down the front of her shirt, and what he saw made his skin tingle. Her white halter top was pulled so tight that her nipples pressed clearly through. The small garment exposed her cleavage and midriff. He saw a flat, brown belly sloping down to the top of her jean cutoffs. She probably had legs that could make men cry. He was thankful, in a way, for the obstruction the bar provided.

Actually, I was hoping you could help me with something, yes.

But if you’re here to sell me something, the best I can do is offer a beer and show you the door.

The man shook his head. I’m not here to sell you something. He checked his watch and continued, The name is Porris. Edgar Porris. I’m from Atlanta, actually, so I’m not too far from home … although I spend a considerable amount of time in New York. I’m a businessman.

The woman behind the bar nodded. She leaned forward and propped her elbows on the bar top. Her cleavage became a canyon.

The man named Porris reached beneath one lapel and withdrew a photograph. He held the photo in one unsteady hand, gazing down at it. Then he slid it across the bar toward the woman.

I’m searching for this man and would like to know if you’ve seen him. My sources tell me he’s been down this way. It’s an urgent and … rather complex matter. Porris paused. Have you seen him?

The woman picked up the photo and held it in front of her face. The man depicted was visible from the shoulders up. He had dirty-blond hair and sharp features, with deep-set, inquisitive eyes.

He’s handsome, she said. Very good-looking, indeed.

Porris said, His name is Mastenhock. John Mastenhock. It’s possible, though not likely, that he’s traveling under the name of Dent—Jonathan Dent. It’s very important that I locate him.

The woman was slowly shaking her head as she examined the image. I see a good lot of folks show their faces here, Mr. Porris, some of them each an’ every night, others just once. I’m sorry to say I don’t recognize him. Is he in some kind of trouble? She removed her eyes from the photo, looking at Porris.

Not at all, Porris replied. There’s a business matter we need to discuss, and it’s imperative we do so in person.

I see. The woman with the silvery eyes and brown hair appeared to consider the matter a moment longer. Finally, she shook her head. I’m sorry, Mr. Porris. I just don’t recognize him. She slid the photo across the bar again, where Porris laid his fingers on it. If he should wander in sometime—she lowered her voice a notch—should I be leery of him?

No. Porris was fumbling around inside his lapel again. He produced a scrap of paper and a pen. But if you should happen to see him, please contact me at this number. It’s my cell phone, and it’s always with me. He scribbled his name and number on the scrap of paper, then slid it across the counter.

The woman picked it up and held it between two fingers, regarding it with mock suspicion. All right, she said in her cheery southern voice. I’ll keep my eyes open. Can I send you off with a soda or lemonade?

No, thank you, Porris said. But I appreciate your time. After returning the photo to his lapel pocket and checking his watch for the third time, he turned and left the building. He sensed the woman watching him as he exited into the parking lot, the tails of his suit rippling in a stiffening breeze.

2

The man on the docks had not seen the black Lexus, nor had its driver spotted him. The waterfront was located behind and slightly west of the Lone Cabbage. The ground sloped sharply down before meeting the river’s edge, and the view from up top—and vice versa—was limited.

Standing at a well-proportioned six-foot-one, bare-chested in the midday sun and with a red-checkered bandana tied over his head, the man on the docks appeared as endemic to this place as any native Floridian could. In truth, he was not from these parts—was not, in fact, a deep southerner. He hailed from Kentucky, where he’d grown up on his parents’ farm. The farm had been equidistant from Louisville to the north and Mammoth Cave National Park to the south.

As a boy, his responsibilities had been numerous and demanding—things like feeding the chickens, collecting eggs in the morning, milking, stacking hay, and shoveling corn down in the corn barn. He’d loathed every minute of it. Later, his father’s troubles had begun, and they’d moved east in search of new beginnings.

His responsibilities here were few and required little thought. These were things like hauling ropes on the docks, gassing the engines, and greasing spare parts. During the day and evening, he conducted airboat rides for the hardy tourists who occasionally stopped by. There weren’t many—not out here along Route 520, what many called the road to Disney—but every now and then, a group of bored Yankees would pull off the road, having seen Tomorrowland one too many times and in the mood for something more down-home. If he was especially lucky, he would get a group of young women from New York City or Boston—what he called his chicklets. He’d ferry four or five chicklets per ride, exalting in their spiffy dresswear and northeastern, cunt-like demeanors, as they sat pertly with white legs crossed and over-attended hair billowing behind.

He would pilot them out to the swamps, where oftentimes he would make them scream. He loved hearing chicklets scream. He’d become proficient with the airboats. His navigational skills across the St. Johns and its adjacent marsh flats were unparalleled. Rocketing the airboat at speeds of fifty miles an hour and up would usually do the trick, eliciting the shrillest of screams from the most stoic chicklets.

And then there were the gators. Everyone wanted to see the gators, not just gators per se, but gators in the wild, right here in their home environment. And he would show them. Gladly, he would show them. One time with a band of hoo-howling chicklets aboard, he’d pulled broadside to a fifteen-foot male, its stipple-backed hide jutting like green teeth from the water’s surface. The male had been territorial, not wanting to abandon its water space. It had showed no fear at all, even bumping the side of the boat with its snout at one point. The chicklets had been horrified. Get us out of here! one had shouted, turning to glower back at him. Get us out of here right now!

He had taken immense delight in their fear but had perhaps gone too far that time. Back on the dock, the woman who’d shouted at him had stepped up and slapped him across the face. She and her companions—one of whom had been crying—had demanded a full refund. Unsuccessful, they’d stormed off to their red convertible and sped away in a cloud of dust.

At night there were other pleasures on which to spend one’s time. There was beer. There was poker. There was good loud music—heavy rock ’n roll. One or two nights a week, there was live entertainment—local gigs that drew large crowds. There was the usual walk and talk of a life mainly devoid of responsibility and filled with good fun and instant gratification.

And there was Donna Childs. Most of all, there was Donna Childs. Before coming to the Lone Cabbage six months ago, a year and a half following his wife’s disappearance, the man would have scoffed at the notion of a sexual addiction. But his first night with Donna Childs—a night on which she’d bent him around twenty-eight ways to Tuesday—had gone a good way toward changing his thinking. He’d spent his first evening in the Lone Cabbage straddling a barstool with a beer in hand as the gorgeous woman moved right to left behind the bar, then left to right, momentarily locking eyes with him at each pass. He’d been mesmerized by her silvery, moon-glow eyes, the porcelain curve of her cheeks, and her tight round breasts that ballooned beneath her small stretch shirt. And her legs—not since Catherine Bach stormed the wild saloon halls of the Boar’s Nest had he seen anything like what he’d seen that night below the waist of Donna Childs.

Watching Donna work the bar that night had invoked in him one clear and ineluctable thought—he had wanted to have sex again. For the first time since Lorry’s disappearance, he had felt the urge—the need—to make love to another woman.

He’d stuck around until the end of her shift. Last call was issued, and people started to get up and leave. It was close to 2:00 a.m. when the place emptied out, leaving just the two of them. So what’s your story? she’d asked finally.

No story, he’d answered. Or maybe a long story.

You’ve had a few beers, mister. Sure you’re fit to drive? Be a shame if you was to go off the road into the drink. The gators love drunk outta-towners.

How dare you accuse me of being drunk, darling?

She walked the length of the bar and came out on the floor to join him. She dropped onto the stool next to his, then scooped up his right hand in both of her own. She held it for several moments, watching him. Then she deftly slid his hand between her thighs. Her skin was hot and smooth. She pressed her legs tightly together.

How do you like the feel of that, cowboy? she whispered. How’d you like to have more than your hand there?

So had sparked an eventful night. Countless others had followed.

His thoughts today were interrupted by a rumble of distant thunder. He shielded his eyes with one hand and looked toward the southwest. A line of dark clouds was building—far off, but fast approaching. In Florida, nature mandated that it rain at least once a day. In his short tenure at the Cabbage, he had witnessed some spectacular storms.

Back home on the family’s Kentucky farm, the man’s father had had a name for these violent weather systems. Doll-kickers, he’d called them. On a late afternoon in July or August, one might spy Red Mastenhock standing outside their farmhouse, leaning against one of the porch posts with his dirty, callused thumbs tucked under the straps of his bib overalls, cheeks stuffed with Copenhagen. Staring at the skyline, he’d say in his guttural voice, Got us a doll-kicker comin’ in, Jude, or Make sure your windows are closed up tight, Johnnyboy—we’re gonna get a doll-kicker.

They’d had their fair share of doll-kickers in Kentucky, never mind the occasional tornado. When a doll-kicker passed over their farm, Red Mastenhock would often do a little doll-kicking of his own. Wife-kicking was more apt a term—and sometimes kid-kicking. On more than one Sunday morning, Jude Mastenhock had shown up in church with a bruised eye or swollen lip.

Something overcame Red Mastenhock during the passage of a thunderstorm, some faulty wiring run afoul in his brain. He’d killed the family dog once, an old Collie named Nettles. The dog had been blind in one eye. One night a storm had rolled through with thunder so intense that the house had shaken. Nettles had been sleeping in front of the dishwasher, and Big Red had decided it was time for the dog’s life to end. He’d kicked the old Collie to death, shattering its ribs with relentless thrusts of his steel-toe boot. Johnny had found the dog in a pool of dried blood the following morning.

This was not his most poignant memory pertaining to his father’s neurosis. That distinction belonged to a sprightly day in mid-autumn when Johnny was nine—roughly a year before the Louise Clearwater troubles started. One Friday afternoon, Johnny had come home with a new issue of the Bloo-Grass News rolled into his fist. The publication was a combination school newspaper and literary magazine. The latest issue featured Johnny’s first-ever printed short story. Titled Dorothy Maine, it told of a young girl who each morning had to climb a hundred spiral stairs inside an old clock tower to tend to her dying grandmother, who she suspected was a witch.

Johnny had come running onto the farm, the new issue of Bloo-Grass News held over his head. His mother was sitting on the front porch with some neighbors, drinking lemonade. Red Mastenhock was there too, along with two other local farmers.

Jude Mastenhock had burst off the porch, taken one look at Johnny’s story, then exploded into gulps of delight. "Look here, everyone! We got us a writer! She’d beamed at her son. Oh, Johnny, I’m s’proud of you! Gods darn it if I ain’t!"

The magazine was passed around by everyone present. They all congratulated the boy on his achievement—Johnny was so embarrassed his cheeks flushed red—and all were in line to read the story.

But then his father held it in his hands, his big, gritty, farmer’s hands, and things quieted down a bit. Red Mastenhock seldom offered praise to his son, and Johnny unwittingly found himself on the verge of receiving it. He was so wrapped up in the moment, in fact, that he failed to look beyond the hills to the west, where some dark thunderheads were brewing.

Well, looky here! Red Mastenhock bellowed in his throaty voice. Our little Johnnyboy’s written himself a pert-perty story! Go figure that!

The tall man in the bib overalls laid the magazine on the edge of the front porch, then wrapped a lanky arm over his son’s shoulders. Excuse us, folks, if you will. I’m gonna take a walk with the new celeb-erty here. Come on, John.

His father led him past the farmhouse where Miss Louise lived, down the steep drive, and into the corn barn. The open barn floor was covered with a mountain of freshly reaped cow corn. Here, John, his father told him. We’ll have a talk, just you and me. When they had moved ten paces into the corn barn, his father said, Okay, son, now look at me.

Johnny turned around, only to be met by the back of his father’s hard-knuckled hand. The blow sent Johnny reeling. He careened backward into the pile of corn. When he looked up, he saw his father coming at him. Another blow was dealt to his head.

What’s this now? his father said. Huh? I asked you a question, boy!

Johnny tried to get out of the way. But every time he ducked to the right, his father blocked his path.

Hey! I’m talkin’ to you, girly-girl! You listenin’?

His father lunged and smacked him high on the head. Johnny moved left, then right, trying to get out of the way. Big Red’s face loomed in front of him, large and grinning, lips parted to reveal rotting, tobacco-stained teeth. His father’s foul breath basted his face.

"Think you wanna be a writer? Huh, Johnnyboy? ’Cause you know somethin’? Writin’s for pussies!" Again, his arm lashed out, landing a blow on the side of Johnny’s head.

Johnny heard himself mewling like a kitten. Tears were streaking down his face.

"You wanna be a man, you gotta work like a man. And there ain’t no man that don’t work with his hands. What you wanna be when you get older, boy? You wanna be a big pussy, that what you want? Huh? Wanna be some big, smelly flap ’a skin with hairs growin’ outta it? Huh, boy? Huh?"

Ten miles to the west, the skies split and unleashed their bounty. Thunder boomed. Lightning lashed out in jagged white sticks. Not a drop of rain darkened the soil, however, and somehow that was worse.

For John Mastenhock, lifting a pen again was a long time coming.

3

The bungalow was located six miles west of the Lone Cabbage and removed from Route 520 by over a mile of winding, sand roads. The primitive roads forked in places, the new roads leading to others. There were twenty or so ramshackle homes spread across a makeshift village, each seedier than the one before it. Parked in front of each, one might find one or two run-down vehicles, many of them trucks. Their rusted bumpers sagged toward Mother Earth, windshields cracked into grinning sneers, license plates discarded in lieu of the Confederate flag.

The smattering of homes set back in the high marsh grass was referred to by many as the Hollow. The hovel at 15 West End Road overlooked a section of the western shore of the St. Johns. At this time of night, with barely a sliver of moon to speak of, the river was a murky ribbon of ink, fraught with mystery, beauty, and danger. A bug zapper hung from the eave of the rear porch, dispatching a trite litany of snap-pop-drap! into the torpid, insect-rich darkness. Occasionally, a big luna moth would drop in for a landing, and then a bona fide electrocution was at hand. Zedda-zedda-zedda-zedda…blam! Drap-a-zam-blat! Periodically, a hungry gator might cruise past the dock edge thirty feet away, its eyes glowing red in the porch light.

The house was one story, featuring a minuscule kitchen with linoleum floor, a living room, a bath, and one bedroom. Along the back wall of the bedroom was a sliding glass door through which one could access the back porch.

In the center of the bedroom was a queen-size mattress laid directly on the floor—no bed frame whatever. It was upon this mattress that John Mastenhock made love to Donna Childs. It was upon this mattress that they’d made love an uncountable number of times in the past months, and tonight was no different—vigorous and rude and crude and with lots of horseplay.

He entered her again, pushing as deep as he could, exhilarating at the pressure of her long, slender legs wrapped around him. He bent down and licked the concave base of her neck and up along the side of her chin. As he came closer to touching her lips with his own, she climaxed for the third time tonight. Oh, Johnny, she crooned. Oh, Johnny, yeeesss!

To the right of the mattress stood a bottle of cheap cabernet, along with a pair