Ghost Writer - Pandora Pine Page 0,38
Cope when he rang the doorbell. He knew it wasn’t coming from him. It had to be Jamie. Cope would do everything in his power to make this easy for the man.
“W-Who is it?” a shaky voice asked.
“Copeland Forbes and Jude Byrne. We spoke this morning, Mr. Hale.” Cope kept his voice gentle and hopefully, non-threatening.
Locks started clicking from the other side of the door. Cope wondered how the hell many this one door had. The door opened as far as the chain allowed. A sallow face came into view. The man looked back and forth between Jude and Cope before shutting the door and releasing the chain. “Jamie Hale. Come in. Come in. Quickly before someone sees me.”
The street was empty. Cope wasn’t about to bring that to Jamie’s attention. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today.”
Jamie nodded and led them through the house. The formal living room featured a grand piano whose lid was cluttered with silver picture frames. Some of the pictures were in black and white, others in color. They moved through what his mother would have called a parlor and down a long hallway before Jamie opened a door. The room was dark and murky, much like its owner.
“This was my office. I wrote Darkest Before the Dawn here.” Jamie spread his arms wide.
The office was dominated by large windows that extended from floor to ceiling. They were shut up with heavy beige drapes, but beams of sun filtered through. A large desk sat in front of the windows facing the opposite wall. The sound of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks below the house was soothing. Cope would have turned the desk, so his view faced the ocean. Although he supposed he wouldn’t get a lot of writing done with the mesmerizing waves crashing against the rocks. “What do you mean it was your office?” Cope’s voice was gentle, non-accusatory.
“After what happened to me, I didn’t see the point in trying to write another book.”
Cope took a seat on the beige sofa that lined the back wall of the office. “What happened was that you wrote a bestselling novel.”
“On a haunted typewriter and then I lost my shit on national television. There’s no coming back from that.” Jamie perched on the edge of his desk.
“I disagree,” Jude said. “Americans love a good comeback story.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. The house is paid for and I was smart enough to put all my royalty money away. I’ve been living off the interest since that last night.”
Cope didn’t want Jamie to go any further down the self-pity rabbit hole. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah, you’re one of the psychics at West Side Magick. That’s why I agreed to see you. What I don’t understand is why you want to talk to me about that old Remington. I sold it to some antique shop downtown. It was the first thing I did when I got back from New York City, after that disastrous late-night appearance.”
That’s right,” Cope agreed. “My husband gave me the typewriter for my birthday. I was using it to write my life story. When I got up to leave the room, it started typing on its own. Sound familiar?”
Jamie shook his head. “You saw the Letterman interview. That’s how you know what happened to me.”
Cope reached into his back pocket and pulled out the sheets of paper. “The ghost writer typed these.” He held them out for Jamie, who reluctantly took them.
All the air in Jamie’s lungs whistled out. “This isn’t funny! I want you both to leave now.” Jamie threw the papers toward Cope. They fluttered uselessly to the floor. “I thought you wanted to meet with me to help me. Instead all you want to do is torment me.”
“You recognize the words on those pages as hymns. Just like the page you left with Mr. Crenshaw at Play it Again, Sam, when you sold him the typewriter.” Cope wanted to hold back that little nugget of information, but it felt like this meeting was spiraling out of control.
“Go! Now! I want you both out of my house!” Jamie’s voice shook with emotion.
Jude tapped his phone and turned it around to show Jamie. “That’s our eight-month-old son, Wolf. He was sleeping in the room next to the typewriter when it started writing on its own. My husband couldn’t get out of his office. He’d been locked in by a door with no lock. Whatever this thing is kept my