They're Calling You Home

Chapter One

Chapter One Themanilaenvelopeliesonthedesk,thatdamnclaspasgoldasacapped incisor. I’ve picked it up over and over, sometimes shaking the contents, using my fingers to feel the stack of photos inside. I’ve smelled the envelope, touched it, stared at it, and even prayed over it, although I didn’t know what to say, so I just kind of held the thing and meditated, then placed my rosary on top of it and climbed into bed. now, I take the envelope, and for the first time in the two weeks since it arrived from the hartford County, Indiana, Prosecutor’s office, I actually open it some, slide my index finger under the seal and rip it partway open. I’d expected something cold and evil to come rushing out, but nothing happens, and I put it right back where it’d been when the phone rings. It’s 2 p.m., and I know it’s my agent, the man who will tell me how unlikely selling my novel now is; it’s been to every editor who likes him, and some who don’t, and this call is his sixth attempt to get me to write about the murders, to give up on being my generation’s J. D. Salinger, at least for now. “Come on,” he’ll say, “true crime books aren’t the kiss of death they once were. your career’s not dead yet. and it might help with your own family’s . . .” he doesn’t finish the thought, and I assume it’s because he doesn’t want to add, “criminal aspects.” at least that’s how I finish his sentence in my head. I gaze at the caller ID and think about not answering, but he’ll only hang up and call my cell phone. I grab for the cordless just as the last ring peters out, just before Michael Willet from Willet, Masching and Wallace literary reps gets the bland voice mail that only specifies my phone number with the 912 prefix of southern georgia. “you screening?” says Michael, his voice stuffy, as always, an allergy sufferer who hates spring even in new york. 6 D o u g C r a n D e l l “always,” I say, tense, waiting to hear why a certain editor liked The Lost Children of the Tabernacle, but couldn’t figure out how to market it to the masses. of all the rejections, every one of them has said something about the book being too dark, the violence and gore too much for a literary press, and the use of language too highbrow for a mass-market publisher. “So what are you up to?” asks Michael, clearly trying to stifle a full-blown sneezing attack, his breath rapid and shallow, careful, as if he were working with nitroglycerin. “I’ve been waiting like a lab by the phone for your call. you’re the master, I’m the dog.” Michael laughs and says, “Don’t be so morose. I’ve got good news.” I know it’s not what I’d call good news, but still, I’m eager to make him tell me that Lost Children has been blasted away once again. “oh, you sold my dark and miserable novel?” “oh, now, come on. We both knew it would be a tough sell.” Michael goes ahead and sneezes, then takes off on one of the common riffs we often explore in these abbreviated calls. “The publishing world is like a big balloon that’s losing air, you know that. It’s gotta be filled with the heat from best sellers, and then you get a chance, and hopefully one day you’ll have the heat to replenish it.” “okay, so what’s the good news?” “Well, I had lunch with a new editor who’s really into true crime. I pitched the book to him, and he liked the part about one of the bodies never being found. anyway, he wants to see the sample chapter and proposal.” Michael pauses, and I can hear him suck on an inhaler, the phone lines ringing optimistically in the background; it’s the one sound I like to hear on his end, because I imagine the calls are all good news, a novelist getting her debut scooped up for a cold million. “What about the novel?” I say, staring again at the envelope, realizing I’m getting closer to having to look at the photos. “Well, it can’t all be...