"I found a copy of this book, Death of a Dreamer, by Amos Field," the first responder to the home of Lester LeTarte said to his assistant. "Don`t look like the old man bothered to read it, there`s dust on the jacket." The EMT, a tall man with a pimply face, spotted the book lying on the old man`s coffee table. An old market receipt, used as a book mark, was sandwiched between pages nine and ten. Returning the book to the table, he and his assistant drove off toward the medical center. There was no rush; the old man was dead, and his soul had already been delivered to the place he had, in life, chosen to spend eternity.
Lester LeTarte, a ninety four year old man, died of a heart attack two weeks ago. His body was discovered by his nephew from Vermont who had come to Maine to visit his uncle.
LeTarte`s nephew, Wallace Middleton from Burlington Vermont oversaw the packing of his uncle`s extensive library collection. The old man had everything from Shaw`s Pygmalion to Vidal`s Myra Breckinridge, and literally hundreds of historical novels. The one book that caught Wallace`s eye was the yellow and black jacketed Death of a Dreamer, sitting atop his uncle`s maple coffee table. He felt strangely attracted to the publication, an almost supernatural magnetism forced him to pick up the book and read the first few pages. It was a page turner for sure. He could see why it had been fifteen weeks on the NYT Best Seller`s List according to one review on the inside of the book`s dust jacket.
Wallace had never been a ardent reader, but he found it hard to put down this book. He was too busy making money as a stock broker to take time to read a lot of, in his words, trashy novels. The only thing he read was the Wall Street Journal and Forbes magazine, and then only because it pertained to business. That book, Death of a Dreamer, somehow fascinated him. He put it in one of the boxes of his uncle`s possessions he intended to keep for himself. The rest of the boxes would go to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. He had no use for all those books, and what he called dust collectors or knick knacks. His uncle saved everything, never threw anything away, contrary to the way his sister, Wallace`s mother did things. She threw everything away. "If you don`t use it in six months, you never will," was one of her sayings. After all, Wallace was his mother`s boy.
"Do I know you?" The white haired man with the wrinkled face asked Wallace as he sat eating a sandwich at the Wayfarer Diner.
"Don`t think so, I am from Vermont," Wallace said, not interested in having a conversation with the locals.
"You sure do look awfully familiar... you got any relatives here in Bickford?" The old man asked.
"Had an uncle," Wallace replied.
"Wouldn`t be Les LeTarte would it?"
"Yes." He hoped that would satisfy the old man, and he could finish his sandwich in peace.
"Me and Les go back a long way... worked together on old number six," the old man said. Then, as if he felt it needed further clarification, "Number six paper machine over at the paper mill."
"Good," Wallace said unenthusiastically.
"You ain`t much of a talker, are you? Not like your Uncle Les... he could talk the ear off a pregnant sow."
"Really?" Wallace finished his sandwich, paid his bill, left a meager tip and headed back to the Bickford Inn where he was staying while he got his uncle`s estate in order. Thank God he would be able to go back home tomorrow with all the paper work done, and the estate settled.
After dinner at the inn, he went upstairs, took a shower and laid on the bed opening the book he had taken from off his uncle`s coffee table. He began to read about Eben Whetstone, private investigator from Fairmount Maine who resembled Agatha Christie`s Belgian Detective, Hercule Poirot.
He looked at the clock on the bedside; 12:40. He had read for three hours. The story was so exciting he couldn`t put down the book. He felt a connection to the main character... a psychological attachment or something akin to bonding with a good friend.
He doesn`t remember how long he had been asleep when he heard a voice calling his name. "Wallace... Wallace Middleton."
"Wha...?" He sat up in bed, looked around the room. Over in the corner there was a dark figure standing by the maple bureau, arms folded across the chest. "Who...?"
"Don`t you recognize me, Wallace?" The stranger asked.
"No, should I?"
"You just read about me until midnight... in fact, you read one hundred pages of my... ah... Amos Field`s book."
"I must be dreaming. I ate too much beef before retiring. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge."
"You are not dreaming, Wallace, I can assure you. Let me introduce myself. I am Eben Whetstone." He bowed at the waist.
"You can`t be. He is a character in a book... this book." Wallace picked up the book and held it out in front of him, shaking it as he spoke.
"Oh, I am Eben Whetstone, and you are right. I am a character in that book. My creator, Amos Field died... ah ... my goodness, five years ago today."
"What do you want from me?" Wallace asked.
"I need someone to finish my story. I have been collecting dust on that coffee table for three years. I tried to get your uncle to help me, but he refused... said I was the result of drinking too much whiskey."
"I don`t drink, and I don`t believe in ghosts either," Wallace said.
"I am not a ghost... ghosts are dead people. I am as alive as you, well, almost as live."
"I`m going back to sleep. You are not here... you are a figment of my imagination... a specter... or something."
"I need your help, Wallace. Please help me... at least listen to me," Eben pleaded.
"All right, shoot."
"That book you hold in your hand was written by... me, not Amos Field. Amos was having a bad case of writer`s block. I came to his aid, and willingly let him take all the credit. I made him a widely read author with money and fame."
"And, I suppose you are going to do the same for me," Wallace said.
"That`s the idea. I will write my story... and in it, you and the whole world will know what happened to Amos Field on that little island in the Pacific five years ago."
"I thought you said two years ago."
"I said I have been stuck in this hick town for two years. I've been here ever since your uncle brought the book back from the island where Amos was murdered. I doubt he even knew who Amos Field was, but he found the book where it was sold at a flea market, and I come with the book."
"Every book sold?" Wallace asked.
"No, no my friend, just the original story book... the copy you hold in your hand."
"What do you expect from me?"
"First, you will have to stay here in Bickford until I finish the story."
"No way I`m staying in this one horse town another day. I am leaving tomorrow at ten in the morning. Period."
"I beg of you, Mr Middleton. Please stay... I will hurry as fast as I can."
"I leave tomorrow morning. Goodnight."
Eben had to think of a way to stop this man from leaving tomorrow morning. He could knock him out, trip him up; but, lo he was bound in the world of fiction unless Wallace, of his own free will, helped him with the book.
Wallace woke at six fifteen, showered, shaved and dressed to go down for breakfast. Suddenly he remembered his conversation with Eben Wetstone last night. Was he dreaming, he hadn`t had a drink in over five years, and he certainly didn`t smoke the funny stuff either. It seemed so real... couldn`t have been... characters in books don`t come alive. Do they?
After breakfast Wallace went upstairs to finish packing. He opened the door to find Eben Wetstone sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands.
"What`s your problem?" Wallace asked.
"You. Won`t you please reconsider?"
"Nope, but, I do have a question," Wallace said.
"What?"
"What happened to Amos Field anyway... you said he was murdered?"
"Yes."
"Well, what happened? How`d you find his killer?"
"The only way you are going to find that out is if you help me," Eben said.
"No... no way. I am not staying here one more hour." Curiosity is a strong urge; it tugs at you until you satisfy it. Remember the saying, "Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back?"
"Okay, then I guess this is goodbye." Eben reached out his hand, and Wallace`s hand passed through it like a knife through a bank of fog.
Eben disappeared while Wallace`s back was turned toward his suitcase on the bed. "So what are you going to do now?" He spoke into thin air. Eben was gone.
"Eben... Eben, where are you?" No answer. "Come on, Eben... where are you?"
As Wallace was getting ready to carry his suitcase downstairs the bathroom door opened and Eben stood leaning against the door frame, comb in hand. "What, even book characters have to apply good hygiene you know."
Wallace put the suit case down on the bed. "Okay, Eben, you win. How long will it take?"
"Not more than a week, probably four days... I`ll work night and day... I don`t have to sleep as you real world people do."
"All right, I`ll go down and sign in at the desk. I hope I can get the same room."
"You can, I already checked the appointment calendar... no one is booked until next Tuesday at nine a.m."
"You think of everything, don`t you?"
"I try."
"What do you want me to do?" Wallace asked.
"Find me a word processor... laptop, or whatever the common term is for writing implement these days."
"I can`t afford to go out and buy a computer so you can write your story."
"Then borrow one."
"From whom?"
"I leave that chore to you, but the longer we stand around talking the longer it will take to write this story." Wallace didn`t want to spend any more time in Bickford than was necessary. He left and returned with a Mac Ibook under his arm.
"Thank you, set it down, and go about your business. I need to be alone when I write."
Wallace went over to the Wayfarer for lunch. He ordered the meatloaf special with extra gravy, though asking for extra gravy was an exercise in superfluity.
He ate, paid his bill, left a meager tip, as usual, and went back to his room. Wallace sat staring at Eben Wetstone, still unable to understand if he were crazy, or if the specter he sees and talks with is real.
Eben smiled, "It must seem strange to you to meet a fictional character in the fles... person. I would not be here if were not for your uncle, and for that, I am thankful. But I must say I was not happy listening to him rant and rave every night about, what he perceived as, his lot in life."
"That`s good old Uncle Lester all right... poor me..." Wallace said.
"Now if you get busy, you can probably have these pages transposed by... ah... next week sometime," Eben said.
"Wouldn`t it just be easier to take the pages you have already typed?"
"As I told you before, that is impossible. Understand one thing, you live in this world and are captive to one way of life. I am able to live in two different worlds... providing somebody like you is willing to help me. I have a purpose in both places; in fiction, I am a detective, and a darn good one I might add, and in this world, I am an author... not bad at writing either. However, I am restricted in the land of fiction by my creator`s... or, in this case, my... friend`s ability to help me write my story. You are my friend are you not, Wallace?"
"I don`t know, I`ve never had an imaginary friend before..."
"But, I am not imaginary, Wallace; How be it, I am real to you alone, no one else can see or hear me... nor can they read my manuscripts. That`s why it is so important for you to help me, and for that, you will get all the credit, money and fame that goes with it."
Wallace sat down and began to read what Eben had typed. It appeared to be grammatically correct, and without a single misspelled word.
Amos Field, noted author and philanthropist, was found murdered in his room on the island late Saturday evening. He had been shot twice in the upper chest.
Wallace skipped to the end to see who had killed Amos Field, but Eben had anticipated this move, and made the last few pages invisible.
"What`d you do that for?" Wallace asked.
"So you would not quit on me in the middle of my project. I told you the mystery would be revealed if you stayed with me, and did as I requested, and I always keep my promises. You shall know who killed Amos Field by this time next week."
"Next week? I thought you said a few more days," Wallace complained.
"Okay, maybe, if you do as I ask, we can be out of here day after tomorrow. But, it is going to take some work on your part." Eben smiled.
"What do I have to do? Don`t you know the very fact I am talking with a person... specter that doesn`t exist, only on paper is alarming to me?"
"Woe is me. Are you feeling sorry for yourself, Wallace, because if you are, take note, no one is listening," Eben said. "Now let`s get to work, start typing."
Wallace sat at the computer and began copying the words he saw on the ghostly sheets before him.
The first page started; Let`s continue the story of Amos Field, private detective, and his mysterious death on the island. If you remember his friend, Eben Wetstone found the character, Amos, lying on his bed with holes in his chest. The killer, who is known only to my source, a man I shall call Adam Felton, later revealed the killer to me.
"Wait, wait a minute," Wallace stopped typing. "Amos is not the character, you are Wetstone."
"Who`s writing this story, you or me? ... ah... I suppose one could say we with a measure of truth in doing so."
"How far do I have to type to find out who killed... your... creator?" Wallace asked.
"Ummm! Somewhere around page one fifty two I believe, or is it one fifty three. I forget. Keep typing or you will never find out who dunnit."
"Oh, and let me remind you, try to skip any pages to look for the answer, will be futile." A wide grin covered Eben`s face.
Wallace continued typing through supper and into the early morning hours before he collapsed, his head on his arms, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Eben let him sleep knowing tomorrow would be another long one for Wallace. He had only typed fifty nine pages since five thirty yesterday afternoon.
"Wallace, Wallace." Eben shook his writer`s body.
"Wha...? What do you want? What time is it?"
"Time to get up, get some breakfast, and get back to work on your book." He emphasized the word YOUR.
"What are you doing?" Wallace saw Eben light up a Pall Mall, his Pall Mall.
"I didn`t think you`d mind if I smoked one of your cigarettes Wallace. You don`t do you?"
"Er... would it make any difference if I did mind?" Wallace asked.
"Probably not, in the fiction world I smoke two packs of cigarettes a day... Luckies though, not Pall Malls," Eben said.
"In... your... world I don`t suppose you get lung cancer, or any disease for that matter," Wallace said.
"Oh, not so, my friend. My girlfriend, Marcena Libby died from breast cancer three years ago... right after I solved Amos`s death. She was struck down with the big C while we were on the island looking for clues. She died the day after I discovered the murderer.
"You mean you want me to write this expose, and name the killer so the police on an island two thousand miles away can arrest him and put his butt in jail?"
"Something like that. You see I can`t be seen by anyone, but you, on the other hand, you are flesh and blood. I can only work through whoever owns this copy of Amo... my book.
Wallace, you have the distinction of becoming a world famous author... the publicity and money will give you an elite status... everyone will know the name, Wallace Middleton."
"So what do I say to people who ask me who revealed this to the police?" Wallace asked.
"You cite the confidentiality of the writer and his source. They can never force you to reveal your informant. Neat how that works isn`t it? Get`s you off the hook, because who would ever believe you if you told them a fictional character in a book wrote your story?"
"That`s what I just said," Wallace said. "I wouldn`t do this if I didn`t want to find out who killed Amos Field, whoever he was. For all I know, he is a fictional character as well."
"I can assure you, Amos Field is... was not a fictional character. Go online and Google Amos Lunt Field`s death, and you will see he was a real live... dead human being," Eben said.
After Wallace returned to the inn from the Wayfarer Diner, he began typing. He wanted to go to page one fifty one or three, and see who killed the main character, Amos Field. In the meantime, he Googled Amos Lunt Field and saw the account of his demise, discovered he was a real person and had been killed three years earlier on a small island in the Pacific.
At eleven o`clock that evening Wallace stopped typing, his back was killing him, and he was tired beyond belief. He looked at the paper... page one hundred and forty two, only a few more pages and he`d have the answer. He fell asleep thinking about the story of Amos Field and his life on the island. He realized Amos Field didn`t live a terribly exciting life, a few published stories in small circulation magazines until he was in his forties, when he hit his stride with the story of Eben Wetstone, private eye. He read the reviews, and found they were remarkable, he even won a Pulitzer. People magazine called him another Hemingway. American Book Review said, he was better than Hammett and Chandler combined. His book sold in the high millions. Amos spent a year doing book signings all over the country, where long lines stood, waiting to meet the author, and get their copies signed.
Wallace dreamed that night that he won several awards, and was fifty weeks on the NYT`s Best Seller List, nearly a record. He dreamed he bought a house on the ocean, a new Lincoln four door sedan, and a sixty foot yacht he anchored off Cape Elizabeth.
He woke with a start, looked at the clock; 7:56. He shook his head, not sure rather it was morning or night. There was no red light on the clock, it was morning. He showered, shaved and dressed.
Where was Eben this morning? Why didn`t he wake him?
Before he went down stairs, to get some breakfast, Eben appeared. "Morning, Wallace."
"Where have you been? You usually wake me early."
"Thought I`d let you get some sleep this morning since it will likely be the last day of typing for you. No need to push so hard. Besides, I went over to the Wayfarer, to see what the attraction is... why you go there every morning. I can see why you do... the waitress is a smash don`t you think?" Eben said.
"She is pretty, but she is also married. Besides, I don`t like blonds... partial to redheads myself," Wallace said.
Wallace went upstairs and began typing. "Wow, he thought to himself, page one fifty two." He searched the page, but the killer`s name did not appear. It must be page one fifty three. He kept typing.
Suddenly the door opened and a small man, about the size of Eben Wetstone stood looking at Wallace, a dour look on his face.
"Who are you?" Eben asked.
"Who do I look like?" The stranger said.
"I don`t know, suppose you tell me," Wallace said standing to his feet.
Before the man could answer, he vanished before Wallace`s eyes. Wallace stood shaking his head, maybe I`m going crazy... fictional characters coming to life, people appearing and disappearing before my eyes. I need to rest.
"But, you only have two more pages to find out who killed Amos." It was Eben, who had appeared near the bathroom door.
"Are you trying to drive me crazy, Eben? Who is that guy you sent to see me..."
"I didn`t send anybody to see you. What do you mean?" Wallace explained about the vanishing man.
"What`d he look like? Describe him to the best of your ability... don`t leave out a single detail."
"He was about five eight, very little hair, small mustache, and black eyes, the kind that penetrate right through you. He had a raspy voice, and..."
"And what Wallace?" Eben asked.
"He was wearing a suit that was in style fifty years ago... dark brown with vest, a gold watch chain dangling from a pocket in his vest."
"Was his hair white... an eight strand comb over?"
"Yes, I`d say so. Why?"
"Hurry up and type that story... it is imperative you finish it today. Hurry... it is of the utmost importance."
"What do you mean?" Wallace said.
"I can`t explain it right now. It will become evident shortly... once you finish that story."
Next time Amos Field`s killer and the disappearing stranger will be revealed. Don`t miss the story`s ending. Eben says he will have it done in a month. If you can believe a fictional character.
The End?????????
