It’s not as easy as you think. To really go through with it, you have to commit to the craft. You’ve got to go in with the act itself already premeditated. Giving Pendel the go-ahead, I was setting him up for failure.

  Pendel wasn’t going to cut into Hendrix’s neck. No chance at all that he’d follow through, but sure, I watch from a sliver between the blinds. I watch how he pulls the knife on the editor, all those years shedding with every shiver. For that briefest of moments, I might have thought he could commit.

  Because that’s how this story’s going to elevate me, and by me, I mean us, beyond anything that passes for breaking news. This story must resonate, and we’re getting close. So close, in fact, I’m starting to feel it in my bones. Not one to be the anxious type, you could say I’m anticipatory. This is going really well. Too well?

  When I say the words “I’ll take care of it,” he’s already too far gone to put up a fight. It’s a pact of sorts, Pendel distantly aware that oblivion is the only possible end. I become the lingering possibility, a last dash of hope, or not quite hope, exactly, but rather that final flicker of motivation for a character as the final act reaches its penultimate scene.

  Pendel left with the body, I walk down that hallway, following his footsteps. From Pendel’s end, we’re facing an issue because he failed to commit. It’s his fault, this failure that ruined what should have been another line in my body of work. I’m altogether pleased, willingly allowing him to sit in those wayward emotions, bask in the feeling of failure and rejection. Enjoy what it feels like to be an author, one of his clients.

  The way things are, and the way things will come to pass… it’s all part of the story. Frankly, I’m enjoying how the details have fallen into place almost effortlessly, just like I know Pendel won’t be able to stay back for long. He’ll come after me, too afraid to be by himself.

  The employee hasn’t gone very far.

  The way this looks, it’s bad. It’s written to look bad.

  Bloodcurdling screams coming from an office after-hours? For a young employee like this production assistant, it’s nightmare fuel.

  More reason to play around with the details, make a few edits on the fly. I had expected there to be interference; pain cannot be inflicted without a physical response. This young employee, I find him in one of the back rooms where large printers and other equipment rest. Spread out across the large table, acting as the focal point of space, are hundreds of galleys, early copies of a most-anticipated book release. The assistant must have been staying late to work on mailing lists. I can hear the fear in his voice as he speaks to someone over the phone.

  “Yes, I know what I heard. Okay. Please hurry. I think he’s hurt. Maybe a stroke!”

  Security. It’ll take them 10 minutes to arrive, but it’ll only take five for me to step forward and for Pendel to spoil the story’s impact yet again.

  When the assistant is off the phone, I’ll time it perfectly, rushing into the room, my panicked breaths muddying every word, my face blemished with Hendrix’s blood.

  “Oh my god,” he says. He runs behind the table, unable to take in what he’s seeing. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…”

  Don’t piss yourself, kid.

  I’m really playing it up, making use of every moment he and I have before this becomes predictably an escape, a final straw. Chewing the inside of my gums produces some additional blood splatter, enough that it discolors my teeth.

  “You’ve got to help me!” I enjoy these sorts of details, the panic that comes with being so vulnerable, so near danger itself. It reminds you that you’re alive. For a story to truly shine, you need these details. They give everyone who may live through it later a moment of pause, a glaring reminder that they are alive… but for how long? And who might be plotting their own twist, altering the trajectory of their story?

  “Please, help me!” I start whimpering, letting the tears flow, and… yeah, why not? I trip and fall to my knees, taking a stack of galleys with me.

  “Please, he’s a monster. He wants me to… he…”

  Enter an unaware Henry Richmond Pendel.

  Watch as I change my tone, crawling forward, looking to get at the assistant, luring Pendel to chase after me. I lunge at the mortified assistant and whisper in his ears, “He made me do it. He makes his authors do it…”

  Then it’s Pendel grabbing me, and I’m playing it off like he wants me for dead. Could be a bit more effective, but the story registers, the assistant well-aware of the narrative possibilities. Hearing the elevator doors beeping, the assistant calls out, “Over here!”

  There’s our cue.

  I crash into Pendel, “We need to move now.” So unlike me to be afraid. It catches Pendel off-guard, resulting in him pulling me along with him as he breaks into a sprint. We navigate the halls, being spotted by at least one of the security guards as we take to the stairs. Two flights later, we’re breaking a sweat as we make it to the sixth floor, finding an unoccupied closet to disappear into while security makes their rounds.

  “What do we do now?” Pendel asks.

  “What do you mean?” I say, flashing him a grin. “Things are going swimmingly. Imagine, they’re in hot pursuit, and we’re suddenly being placed into a sequence of events typically reserved for crime thrillers! We’re in the thick of it, Pendel. We’re in the thick of it and we’re going to make sure nobody anticipates how it ends!”

  Chapter 6

  When Pendel’s phone rings, they’re still in hiding. Its ring echoes out like a siren call, directing those in pursuit to descend upon these two guilty criminals.

  Moyer shakes his head, “You keep fucking up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pendel says, rushing to silence the phone. He ends the call, only to have yet another line up. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Apologies mean nothing if you keep repeating the same mistakes.”

  There is a palpable sense of urgency. Though they skirted by without being seen, it starts to become clear that they shouldn’t have remained hidden in the closet for so long. The authorities have arrived. Moyer brings a finger to his lips. Pendel nods, cupping his mouth. Opening the door a crack, Moyer scans the hallway.

  He looks up and down the hallway and then gives Pendel the go-ahead.

  “Me first?” Pendel whispers.

  Moyer remains stone cold, “How would you tell the story? Prove your worth.”

  This could be his last chance, Pendel realizes, and no, he isn’t ready. Like the intended act of vengeance, fueled by betrayal, Pendel can barely think straight; he’s not going to win against the whirlpool of fear and feeling attacking him from within.

  “Now,” Moyer commands.

  Pendel steps into the hallway, each footfall feeling heavy, his knees buckling and cracking as he proceeds down the hall. Listening for the authorities, he hears only the low hum of white noise, an office at rest. After a few steps, Pendel can breathe, focusing just enough on the task at hand. The sixth floor is clear, cushioning them to follow through on their departure.

  “Stairs,” Moyer whispers.

  Looking over the railing to the floors below, another issue comes to mind: “The steps are steel. They are going to hear us.”

  Moyer pushes him down a flight of stairs.

  Pendel collides with the landing below elbows-first, the steel grate tearing into his skin like a cheese grater. Moyer casually takes the steps, joining him as he struggles to his feet. “Any other questions?”

  No. Their pace quickens from here. They make it to the second floor when they glimpse two outfits on the ground floor, likely alerted by their descent. Both Moyer and Pendel freeze mid-action, hiding under the thin veil of shadow cast across the second-floor landing.

  Doesn’t look good.

  And then Pendel’s phone rings again.

  Voices from below ascend to signal to Moyer the severity of their situation.

  “Failure, absolute failure,” Moyer says.

  The caller in question, it could be a familiar number, if Pendel had any ability to retain names or numbers. The call ends abruptly, replaced with a notification of a text message.

  “Pick up the phone.”

  From here Moyer takes the lead. He grabs Pendel by the arm and pulls him into the hallway, quickly moving through the cafeteria Moyer grabs a few items from the kitchen, and they head for the elevator.

  They duck inside.

  Moyer hits the button for the top floor.

  Pendel’s phone rings three times and then drops.

  “I said pick up the phone.”

  Moyer tries to grab at the device, but Pendel turns away, answering the call.

  “You’ve got nowhere to run, asshole.” He recognizes the voice. “We’ve found the body.” Detective Monroe. “I could have given you the benefit of the doubt, Pendel, but you see, unlike you, I’m actually good at my job. I know my role. I’m here to represent justice… but you, you represent what’s wrong with your fucking industry.”

  The elevator reaches the top floor, doors sliding open with a ding.

  “Where are you going, Pendel?” The detective elongates his inquiry, confident in how the pursuit will conclude. “You’re all out of options. Continuing to evade arrest will only worsen the circumstances that follow.” Tonight, the detective believes the case will be closed. Yet there’s still something in the shadows. Moyer presses the door close button and sends the elevator down. It’s Moyer, and he knows how the story ends.

  They take the elevator to the ground floor.

  “We’re waiting for you,” says the detective.

  Moyer listens in on the one-sided conversation, informing Pendel to remain silent—don’t put it on speaker. Their next sequence will prove to be a challenge. Moyer is energized by the events, unable to keep from a wide grin forming ear to ear. When the elevator doors open, they won’t be there. Rather, it’ll be as Moyer planned: Taking to the darkness of the basement, following the cramped spaces and halls toward a back exit, a set of double doors reserved for large bulk shipments.

  “Pendel, you’re just delaying the inevitable,” says Monroe.

  Yet they’ve dodged police pursuit. In the alley between the office building and a nondescript warehouse, Moyer directs their next choice, beckoning for Pendel to search through the garbage bags, tearing into them and promptly removing the innards, while Moyer listens to the detective’s threats, each new utterance acting more like a geolocator.

  The garbage doesn’t yield anything they can use, so Moyer demonstrates what must be done as a plan B. They use the trash bags as clothing, the odor and grime caked between their skin and the suffocating plastic of the used bags.

  “Find them!” The detective quickly loses sight of that confidence at the top of the call, taking it out on his subordinates.

  Moyer continues to listen in on the call as they walk the avenue, block after block, becoming lost to the downward spiral of the night. People keep a wide distance, the would-be suspects having effectively donned the appearance of yet another showing of the city’s homeless population.

  “I’m going to find you, Pendel! You’re fucking done!”

  The call drops as they reach 14th Street. While waiting for the light to change, Moyer takes a breath and says, “We all have a story to tell…”

  Pendel finishes his sentence, “…Some are willing to do anything to tell it.”

  Chapter 7

  Oh, how he needs me. A story about him becomes a story about me. Eventually it’ll be a story for the masses to examine and interpret, an entry point into a body of work that baffles and requires study and further understanding. He is clueless when caught off-guard, the foundation of life itself crumbles at his feet. Pendel has been reduced to a pupil, someone who needs my every instruction, especially now that the illusion of safety has been shattered.

  We have only one objective, and that’s to lengthen the time between now and our capture. So I’ll take him back to where it started. It isn’t safe to return to his apartment, yet it’s safer to return to the hotel. It could be said that the killer often returns to the scene of the crime, motivations aplenty, likely to relive a memory from a previous act.

  “Keep quiet and follow my every command.”

  He agrees. There’ll be no more slip-ups. Pendel is an echo, and I’m the scream. We’ll opt for the same room where I stayed. The smell of garbage lingers, but if you pay them enough under the table, anyone will look away.

  Once we’re in the room, he asks me, “How can you afford any of this?”

  I peek out the window at the street below. “A death in the family opens doors.”

  This is where we will remain, in between the moment when they find us and the last hurrah. You could say we need one last workshop. You could say I need to get this last sequence right, so when I sit him down, it’s as much a kill as it is a lesson.

  “Listen to me,” I say, his face in my hands. “We’re not going to make it out of this. You must accept that we are both going to be arrested.”

  He nods, “I accept.”

  “Do you, though?”

  “Yes,” he says. For once, I believe him.

  “Good,” I say, inspecting the hotel room. “This was where I stayed, waiting for housekeeping to find Jerry’s body. I couldn’t sleep, you could say I was a mess of emotions. Everything was on the line. Now, in hindsight, that could be the formative moment in my entire career. It set the tone, and it taught me about patience. I learned by doing, and that in every act there is an opportunity to workshop a memory, a motivation, and finally, the misery of others.” This is my last chance to reminisce, a chance to offer a retrospective. “Things could have easily fallen apart. Patience… yeah, I learned by doing. All those nights watching you. All that time learning the ins and outs of your authors. You could say I earned my MFA. A master of patience and pacing, the body of work I’m building, it’s second to none. Really, think about it…”

  He sits on the edge of the bed, listening to my every word.

  “Are you thinking about the scale, the sheer magnitude of this story?”

  Pendel has no idea, but it’s good that he plays along, “Yeah. I am.”

  “Uh huh,” I say, continuing the retrospective. I walk up to the far wall and press my palms against the surface. “I remember hearing the scream from behind this wall… the lone signal that it was all falling into place. You work on something for years, hoping that the story will add up, and when it finally does… there’s just no replacement for that kind of rush. It’s addictive, the essence of life itself. You feel me?”

  He nods, “It’s true.”

  I join him on the bed, sitting next to him. “What about you? What made you feel that rush, that feeling of being alive?”

  Pendel’s latest command: Reminisce, play along.

  Naturally, he needs instruction, so I give him his prompt: “We’re having our final moment before the big grandiose final scene. This is your chance to reminisce about your career, that moment when it first made sense.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  Still needs more instruction. Pendel’s fading fast, the menace he had become no longer present. In its place, I see a broken man, a person stunted emotionally, lost to a sense of defeat and loneliness that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. On second thought…

  “Okay fine, answer me this: What did you get out of seeing your authors compete for your attention?”

  “Well,” he exhales, “I think it was when Jerry, J.D. Church signed with me. He was already an established author. By then I had too many clients, too many authors, but I needed to earn enough to stay afloat.”

  “I see. Keep going.”

  He doesn’t notice that I’m recording our entire conversation.

  “Jerry sold well, and his deals were easy. I saw in him this hunger for validation that sort of… I don’t know… jostled free an understanding of just how fragile and sensitive authors are. When I saw the very same Jerry fall apart when faced with a bad review of his latest book, I think I figured out how to psychologically manipulate an author into always feeling that high of validation. When they didn’t meet my mark, I’d ice them out, make them feel like nothing, which would cause them to work even harder.” He stalls on a thought, “…anyway, yeah they all started to fight for my attention, and I loved how it made me feel.”

  I end the recording and stand up from the bed, “Well…” Back to the window, the street below, spotting the vehicle, our ride to the final scene. “You’re about to get one more opportunity to feel.”

  “What, umm?”

  Grabbing his arm, I offer his latest instruction: “We’re going on a trip.”

  “But they’re looking for us…”

  I nod, “Yeah, and they’re going to find us in the bright lights, right in the open, for all to see and discuss!”

  Pendel can remain in the dark, unwilling to see the full picture. Our little retrospective ends with more evidence and an inclination of how I see this story ending. Though he might be catching up, I leave a few details out, just in case Pendel needs an extra push when it comes time to deliver.

  “The car’s waiting outside,” I say. “We don’t want to be late!”

  Better to go out in a blaze than be lost to the silence after the last sentence.

  Chapter 8

  Author of MURK and the acclaimed MY TIME IN THE HEARTLAND Mallory McAllister’s THE NOT SO ENDLESS NIGHT, an examination of masculinity under the guise of serial killers and their upbringing, to Gretchen Olsteen at Hachette, in a significant deal, for publication in fall 20█, by Erin Gossamer at Wiley.

  Pendel sees the deal announcement on the ride to the airport. By the time they make it on the plane, the cops have swarmed the terminal. Lucky, one could say, in that both make it off the tarmac, into the sky, well on their way to the planned demise. Moyer keeps him in the dark, though Pendel is beginning to solve the puzzle. If the story must end tragically, he assumes that Moyer will take his life. Eventually, the same blade that has tasted many an author’s blood will spill his own across the carpet, leaving behind a scene that will be celebrated by some and studied by others. This is Pendel’s only hope, the story yielding his own death.