Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(57)

“Well, that’s the nature of fiction, yes.”

“But he can use things that actually happened too.”

“Sure. Real experiences are often the foundation for stories.”

“So he might take, for example, an actual meeting he had with somebody. The first time he met Annabel, let’s say. But for the novel he’ll change where that meeting took place.”

“Sure. I mean look at Hemingway. Most of his work was in some way autobiographical. A fiction writer takes what’s real but changes it around, makes it more dramatic, more intense and interesting.”

“But there’s no way of knowing which parts actually happened and which are made up.”

“Not unless the writer tells you.”

“Okay. That’s what I thought. A couple more things. As far as you know, was it Thomas Huston’s habit to be up at dawn, maybe take a drive somewhere, find a quiet place to sit and think? I mean he had a big, beautiful house, an office there and one at the university.”

“Sure, but… Can you hold on for a second? Let me just pull something up here on my computer.”

“Take your time.” While he waited, he looked over the names on the yellow legal pad. Danni, Bonnie, Huston, Moby, Tex, Nathan, Conescu, Denton. He drew circles around the first and sixth names, the only individuals he believed he could trust.

“Here it is,” Nathan said. “Let me read this to you, okay? Thomas sent me this note, must have been like the second week of the semester. I actually fell asleep in workshop one night, but he was very understanding about it. He just teased me a little and then we moved on with class. Afterward, I apologized and told him I’d been having trouble sleeping, story ideas rushing through my head all night, things like that. He didn’t say much at the time, but next morning I found this note in my campus mailbox. I scanned it onto my hard drive. Can I read it to you?”

“Please do,” DeMarco said.

“Okay, this is what he wrote. ‘Dear Nathan, For the first few years, you might look upon your insomnia as a romantic affliction common to your profession, a creative badge of honor. Maybe you even enjoy it in a perverse sort of way, because after all, it is the ideas that are keeping you awake, all those potential stories and poems and novels, more validation that you have been chosen and gifted. But trust me, after you have lain awake a thousand or so nights, exhausted and longing for sleep, foggy and dulled throughout the day, the glamour of insomnia wears thin. The sooner you learn to discipline your hammering mind with meditation and progressive muscle relaxation, the more productive you will be. It would be quicker to take a sleeping pill or half a bottle of vodka, but then you would be ruined for work the next morning. You might even try soothing music or reading the work of some of your duller classmates. The thing you must never do is to reach for a pen or you will be awake and scribbling until dawn, then have to struggle all week long with a maddening kind of narcolepsy. Establish and maintain a discipline, Nathan. There are a lot of writers with talent but not a lot of talented writers with discipline. Good luck, keep writing, but get some sleep. Thomas.’”

“Sounds like he knew what he was talking about.”

“That’s just it. Later that day I thanked him for the note, and he admitted that he had never been able to put the advice into practice. He said he’s been a polyphasic sleeper most of his adult life. But a reluctant one.”

“Polyphasic. Sleeping in phases?”

“Right. What he told me is that he and Claire would go to bed around ten or so every night, watch a little TV, do what married couples do, I’m sure. Sometimes he would fall asleep after an hour or so, and sometimes he wouldn’t. He never slept for more than two or three hours. So whenever he could in the afternoon or after dinner, he’d catch another hour or so.”

“And when he was awake in the middle of the night. What would he do then?”

“Write. Read. Do research. If he was feeling especially restless, he might even take a walk or a drive.”

“So for him to end up thirty miles north of here at dawn some morning, sitting in a little park somewhere…”

“Not at all unusual. He told me that often he would use those times to scout out locations, like in a movie, you know? Except in his case for a novel. He liked to be able to visualize a scene in his head before he wrote it. It was a way of creating a strong sense of authenticity.”

“This is very interesting, Nathan. Thank you.”

“You know about his family history, right? About what happened to his parents?”

“I do.”

“So you can imagine how hard it must be for him to sleep.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Listen, you don’t think… I mean I don’t even want to consider this but…”

DeMarco waited.

“What happened to his parents. You don’t think it might have finally tripped something in his brain, do you? Caused him to just… Jesus, I hate myself for even thinking such a thing.”

“He was a troubled man. He hid it very well, probably channeled most of the grief into his writing. Even so.”

“But he was so fucking kind. To take the time to write me that note. To show such concern for me.”

The young man was weeping now—DeMarco could hear it in the quality of his voice, the hoarse deepening of sorrow.