The Plot полностью

Whoever TalentedTom was, his obvious (if faulty!) grasp of what had transpired between Jake and his former student meant that he, too, was connected to that community, or at least had crossed paths with someone who was. And yet, Jake had allowed his own investigation to lapse with Martin Purcell of Burlington, Vermont. Now this asshole had contacted him at home, not through some social media platform, not even through his own website or publisher, but at his actual, physical place of residence. Which he shared with his wife. This was painfully, powerfully close. This signaled an unprecedented intensification of @TalentedTom’s campaign. This was unacceptable.

Defense, never the best strategy, was obviously no longer an option, not after this. He had to return to what he knew for sure—Ripley—and start again, from there.

He hadn’t bothered to open the large envelope containing Martin Purcell’s manuscript pages when it arrived back in the fall. Since then it had been gathering dust in a box under his bed, mixed in among other manuscripts (sent by actual friends, looking for his “thoughts”) and advance galleys (sent by publishers, looking for blurbs). Now Jake pulled the box out and went digging through it. When he found Purcell’s mailer he slit open the end and extracted the cover letter:

Dear Jake (if I may),

I am so incredibly grateful to you for agreeing to look at these stories! Thank you so much! I’d be delighted to discuss if you ever have time. No comment too small … or too big! I’ve been thinking of this as a novel made up of short stories, but maybe that is because the idea of writing a “novel” is so huge and terrifying. I don’t know how you novelists do it!

Anyway, feel free to email or give me a call when you’re finished, and thanks again.

Martin Purcell

MPurcell@SBurlHS.edu

There had to be sixty pages in there, Jake thought. He supposed he would actually have to read them. He returned to the living room, sat down on the kilim-covered couch, and opened his laptop. The cat, Whidbey, followed him, uncoiled along Jake’s left thigh, and began to purr.

Hi Martin! I’ve been reading your stuff. Wow—excellent work. Lots to discuss.

Within a couple of minutes, Purcell wrote back:

Fantastic! Just say when!

It was late afternoon and the sun had swung around Greenwich Avenue on its way west. He was supposed to leave here soon, to meet Anna at a Japanese place they liked, near her studio.

He wrote:

I’m actually heading to Vermont in a couple of days. Why don’t we meet there? Maybe easier to go over the pages in person.

You’re kidding! What are you in Vermont for?

To find out more from you, duh. (Jake didn’t write.)

A reading. But I was thinking of staying for a day or two. Need to get some work done. And I miss Vermont!

He so did not miss Vermont.

Where’s the reading? I’ll come!

Ugh, he would, wouldn’t he? Where was the fictional reading?

It’s actually a private event, in someone’s house. In Dorset.

Dorset was one of the swankier towns in the state. Just the kind of place somebody might import a famous writer for a private event.

Oh. That’s too bad.

But why don’t we meet in Rutland? That is, if it’s not too far for you to travel.

He knew it wouldn’t be. Even without the prospect of a free private manuscript consultation with a bestselling author, Jake had long observed that Vermonters seemed willing to drive all over their state at the drop of a hat.

Not at all. Straight down 7.

They arranged to meet on Thursday evening, at the Birdseye Diner.

This was so good of him, wrote Martin, and Jake said no, it wasn’t, and that was no lie, not even an exaggeration. Martin Purcell was his best way into the place that had somehow produced TalentedTom: end of story.

Also, it was time to take a closer look at the town that had produced Evan Parker. Long past time, actually.