Small Town полностью

America’s Most Wanted was on. They’d just dramatized the story of a West Virginia man who’d violated an order of protection his girlfriend had taken out against him, and in the process had violated his girlfriend and the girlfriend’s eleven-year-old daughter. The actor chosen to play the serial violator seemed an odd choice for the role, slim and blond and nerdy, until they showed a photo of the real miscreant and he looked as though he ought to be running Microsoft.

And now it was Carpenter time. John Walsh told how tips had led law enforcement officers to kick in a door at a motel in Waycross, Georgia, while others surrounded an RV parked at a KOA campground in Kalispell, Montana. In each case, an elderly gentleman who on close examination proved to look nothing like the photo of William Boyce Harbinger was arrested and released with apologies.

“But we’re getting closer,” Walsh assured his viewers, and went on to announce that another New York City murder, that of real estate agent Marilyn Fairchild, had been definitely credited to the Carpenter.

“He makes it sound as though the program’s responsible,” Susan said. “Not a word about James Galvin, PI, or the public-spirited author who hired him.”

“I talked about him this afternoon. Gave him credit.”

“By name?”

He nodded. “If they don’t cut it,” he said, “it’s a nice plug for him.”

He’d spent the afternoon at NBC’s Rockefeller Center studios, taping a show segment with Matt Lauer. They’d watch it tomorrow morning on CNBC, and it would air later throughout the week on both of the network’s cable channels. It was not the first national TV he’d done since Leona Fabrizzio’s press conference, nor would it be the last; Tracy had booked him on Dominick Dunne’s new show on Court TV, and was working on Larry King. He was, she’d told him, a dream to book. He was a writer, bright and articulate, and he’d been accused of a horrible crime with yummy sexual overtones, and not only was he as innocent as a newborn lamb, but through his efforts the crime had been added to the Carpenter’s lengthening list. It was early for publicity, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

“Call me crazy,” she said, “but when the book comes out, I’m not ruling out Oprah. She’s done with the book club, but that doesn’t mean she’s not booking authors.”

The publicity was so hot, and making everyone at Crown so happy, that you could easily lose sight of the fact that there was a book in there, too. But there was, and Esther Blinkoff was reading it over the weekend. He had the feeling she’d love it whether she liked it or not, but he also expected her enthusiasm to be genuine.

Because he’d felt right about this one from the first day, and the three readings the book had had so far confirmed his feeling. He’d read it himself, of course, catching typos and overused words and redundancies and the occasional awkward phrase, and his was hardly an objective reading, but it was a relief to discover that he liked what he read. Susan was his ideal reader, the one he’d been writing Darker Than Water for before he knew she existed, the one for whom he’d been writing all his life. He’d expected her to love it, as indeed she had, and for all the right reasons; her reaction was reward enough for writing it.

But not the only reward he could expect, according to Roz, who could be counted on for an honest appraisal. Artistically, she assured him, it was at least as good as anything he’d written, and probably his best work. From a commercial standpoint, it was even more impressive. “The crime angle got you the contract,” she told him, “and the numbers plus the publicity angle had this book headed for the list before you wrote it. But Darker Than Water would be a candidate even if, God forbid, those cops had never come knocking at your door. What’s so funny?”

“ ‘God forbid’?”

“Well, face it, the way it turned out it was a blessing. But without all that, if you just walked in and laid this on my desk, I’d do the same thing, I’d run half a dozen copies and have an auction. And I wouldn’t get three million dollars, but I’d get something in the high six figures, I guarantee you that. You’re already rich and famous, sonny boy, and you’re gonna be richer and famouser. What do you think of that?”

Susan heard him singing in the shower. She loved that, it was such a guy thing. Like karaoke, but without making a public spectacle of yourself.

She’d joined him in the shower the other day, effectively ending the concert but starting something even better. She loved soaping him, loved that he had all that hair on his body. It contrasted so nicely with her own.

Should she go in there now? No, she decided, it wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted to do too often. She’d think of something else, something special.