The Rabbit Factory (54 page)

"I wish I could take credit, Danny, but I had nothing to do with it."

"Don't sell yourself short," Eeg said. "The Lamaar lawyer we've been talking with said that Ike Rose respects you. You must have said something that changed his mind about me."

"I told him that you tried to help," I said. "Ultimately, I think that little talk we had in Woodstock led me in the right direction to solve the case. I think I might have mentioned that to Ike."

"I think maybe you did," Eeg said. "Thanks." Y

It was a warm night, so I took Andre out for a light jog. When we got back I waded through a stack of bills that had been piling up. I did my laundry, cleaned out the fridge, and got into bed by 11:30. I was about to go to sleep when I remembered what day it was. I turned on the TV and watched the first half hour of Leno.

At midnight I turned off the television, got out of bed, and opened the wooden box that was still sitting on top of Joanie's dressing table. I ran my finger over the plaque Mike and Joan... till death us do part.

It was officially the 18th of the month. Today I was supposed to be reading letter Number Seven, but I had cheated and opened it weeks ago. I couldn't wait till June to read the next one or July to read the one after that. I pulled out letters Number Eight and Nine.-s>

The envelope had a big number eight on the front. Joanie had filled in the top circle of the eight with a happy face. The bottom circle had a sad face. Conflict. The letter was dated four days before she died. It was written in black ballpoint on yellow legal pad paper. Apparently neatness didn't count. The handwriting was shaky, and when she made a mistake or changed her mind, she just scratched out the words she didn't want and kept on writing.

Dear Mike,

I'm out of time. Today is October 14 and I don't think I'm going to be around for Halloween, unless maybe I come back and visit you as a ghost.

So this is the last letter I'll write. I know, I know, you already have letter Number Nine, so how can this be my last letter? Well, Detective, that's because I wrote Number Nine a few weeks ago, before the OxyContin took its toll on my brain. It's filled with my memories of the times we shared together. Sweet memories, happy ones, sad ones,

stupid ones. Just memories. And then I found myself writing about the future. Things I wish we could do together if I didn't have to die. And finally, I started writing about a different future. Yours. Without me.

And now that I poured out all my hopes and dreams for your life, I'm writing to tell you that I don't want you to open it. Not next month, not next year, maybe not ever. But I don't want you to throw it away either. I just want you to keep it close.

When I was in high school I read this really cool short story by O. Henry. It takes place in New York City in the 1890s. Two young women artists, Sue and Johnsy, are living in the Village and Johnsy gets pneumonia. The doctor says she doesn't have much of a chance, because she's made up her mind that she's going to die.

It's late autumn and Johnsy just stares out the window at the brick wall on the next house. An old vine is growing against the wall, and as the leaves drop off the branches, she counts backwards how many are left. Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, the leaves continue to fall. Johnsy refuses to eat. She tells Sue that when the last leaf falls, she too will wither and die. Sue pulls down the shade and puts her to sleep.

In the apartment downstairs there's this old artist. He's always saying he's going to paint a masterpiece but he's a failure. To make some money he agrees to model for Sue. She tells the old guy how the vine is killing Johnsy. He carries on that Johnsy is an idiot for thinking like that.

That night there's a freezing rain. In the morning

Johnsy tells Sue to pull up the shade. One leaf is still on the vine. It's dark green and yellow, and it's hanging from a branch high off the ground, fohnsy says it will fall today, but the next morning, after another cold night of wind and rain, the leaf hangs on.

fohnsy decides if the leaf can cling to life, so can she. She asks for a bowl of soup and vows to get better. The next day the doctor tells Sue that fohnsy is out of the woods, but that the old artist died this morning. Two days ago they found him in his apartment. His clothes were cold and wet all the way through. Then they found a ladder in the yard, and a lamp, and some brushes, and some green and yellow paint.

Sue tells fohnsy to look out the window and says, Do you know why that leaf is still there? It's the old artist's masterpiece. He painted it on the brick wall the night the last leaf fell.

Do you get the metaphor? I'm not the dying girl. You are. I'm the crazy artist and letter Number Nine is my masterpiece. My last leaf. But if you read all the things that were in my heart, then you'll know everything I think, everything I feel, everything I am, everything I could have been. And then you'll have nothing more of me to look forward to.

But if you don't open the letter then there will be one piece of me, still unknown to you, that you can wonder about, daydream about, get mad at me about because I haven't yet shared it with you. And that, to my drug addled brain, becomes the part of me that will never die.

I'm dying much faster now. You know it, I know it,

the doctors know it, so this is the last letter I will be able to write. Let it be the last one you read. Keep the other one sealed till you 're about 80 or 100. Just keep it. Cling to it.

My life is slipping away, and I can do nothing to stop it. But I don't want my love to slip away. Hold me in your heart forever.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

J.sf;'(/ ŚŚŚ

I folded up the pages and put the letter back in its envelope. I picked up the last unopened letter. It had nine number nines on the envelope. I squeezed it between my thumb and forefinger. It was thicker than any of the others. I'm sure it was filled with feelings, secrets, instructions, confessions, and all the wit, wisdom, and wonder that were Joanie.V .

I went back to her dressing table and picked up the double sided silver picture frame. "I don't buy your logic," I said to her picture. "You're not the old artist keeping me alive. You're just helping me keep you alive. Thanks."

I put both letters back in the wooden box, closed the top, and went back to bed.

If you have dreams of writing your first novel, it doesn't hurt if you know James Patterson. Jim and I worked together in the advertising business. A few years after he became a literary legend, we had lunch and I pitched him the bare bones concept of this book. "Good idea," he said, "but what if..."

I sat there dumbfounded as The Master Storyteller suggested ways to make it better. He has continued to give me encouragement, advice and support. Recently he paid me the ultimate compliment. He said, "I don't know why I still talk to you. You're the competition now." Well, Jim, since that lunch you've published 24 new books and I managed one. Some competition. I am in awe of your talent and grateful for your generosity.

I would also like to thank Marty Delaney of the Bergen County New Jersey Prosecutor's Office, Dr. Paul Pagnozzi and the staff of the Kingston Hospital Dialysis Center, Alan Wagner, Matthew Diamond, Steve Darien, Hal Eisenberg, Larry Dresdale, and a true World War II hero, Irv "Uncle Icky" Ziffer.

Thanks many times over to Detective Frank Faluotico of the Ulster County Sheriffs Office for helping me give my criminals

and my cops the ring of truth.

Special thanks to Sandi Gelles-Cole who helped take the fear and the mystery out of how to fill 600 blank pages. And to Jonathan Pecarsky, who pushed me to do "just one more rewrite" at least three times.

My gratitude to David Poindexter and his team at MacAdam/Cage; Scott Allen, Melanie Mitchell, Dorothy Carico Smith, Julie Burton, Melissa Little and especially to my editor/ consigliere/point man, Jason Wood.

And last but not least, thank you Craig Alan. You're a real life saver.