endings.
I completed my first draft of Desert Places in the winter of 2000, working with my writing professor at UNC Chapel-Hill, the great Bland Simpson. At the time, I thought I had just finished the best novel I'd written to date. The ending was a gutsy, surprise mindfuck if there ever was one. I got an agent with this draft, but when she tried to sell it, a number of editors had issues with how the book ended. Maybe it was a little too ambitious. After a lot of hand-wringing, I decided to rewrite the last hundred pages of the book (that rewrite went on to become my first published novel and the version of Desert Places with which all of my readers are familiar).
One of the beautiful things about ebooks is that I can now share the original, uncut ending of Desert Places.
This picks up at the moment when Andrew Thomas is hiding in Orson's house in Woodside, Vermont. He hears a Lexus pull up, and watches Orson get out of the car. In the original ending, Andy sees someone else, and it takes the book in a completely different, much darker direction (the last two chapters are stunners).
I'm still very proud of the original ending, and it's a substantial chunk of text, clocking in at 22,000 words, or roughly 100 printed pages. This alternate ending has never been edited, proofread, or copyedited. It is in the same raw, uncut, unpolished state from which I downloaded it off an 11-year-old, 3.5-inch floppy disk.
I hope you enjoy this exclusive look at a Desert Places of a different feather.
# # #
The alternate ending takes its turn into left field in the existing Chapter 24, following this paragraph:
ALTERNATE ENDING
The slim figure of a woman, between forty and fifty, with frosted hair that may have once been jet black, walked up the sidewalk towards the front porch. She wore a long, navy trench coat that dropped to her ankles and carried a brown briefcase in her right hand. The sky darkened fast behind her, and as she ascended the steps and disappeared from view, my mind turned to chaos.
When I heard the deadbolt turning, I ran from the study, through the living room, and past the staircase. I turned right into the dining room and stood by the open passageway which connected it to the kitchen. From here I could watch the sunroom where I'd made my entry, and make sure she never saw the broken glass.
I held the gun by my face, pressed my back up against the wall, and listened. The front door opened and slammed shut. High heels clicked against the floor, and I heard her drop her briefcase. I could tell that she walked through the living room, and I prayed she'd go down the hallway, but instead she stepped into the kitchen. My chest raced furiously up and down.
The answering machine came on, and as the messages played, she opened the fridge. Her back is turned, I thought. Go now. I didn't move. The refrigerator door shut, and she walked to the kitchen sink. She turned on the water, and I thought again, her back is turned. Go.
I stepped out of the dining room into the threshold and pointed the gun at her back. She was bent over the sink trying to scrub something off her hands.
'Don't move!' I shouted. She gasped. Slowly, she craned her neck, trying to see me.
'Turn back around!' I said. 'You wanna die?'
'Oh God!' she cried. 'Please, no.'
'Shut up!' I screamed as she hunched over into the sink. 'Turn off the water,' I said.
She cut it off, and aside from her quiet sobbing, the house was silent again. My voice lowered, I said, 'If you look at me, I'll kill you. You got towels in the kitchen?'
'Yes.'
'Blindfold yourself.'
She opened a cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a large, white dishcloth. She opened it, rolled it up, and then tied it around the back of her head.
'Back slowly towards me,' I said. When she was several feet away, I said, 'Stop.' I made sure the cloth covered her eyes and cinched the blindfold tighter.
'You can have whatever you want…'
'Walk to the study. I'll guide you.'
She stumbled through the living room, and I pushed her through the narrow doorway. When we were inside, I shut the door and knocked her to the floor, at the foot of a tall bookshelf.
'On your stomach,' I said.
Immediately she obeyed, remarkably calm, as if she'd done this before.
'What's your name?' I asked.
'Mary Parker.'
'Do you work at the university?'
'No, just my husband. I'm a lawyer.'
'You're married to David Parker?'
'Yes.'
'How long?'
'Why?'
I leaned down and put the gun to her temple.
'Six years,' she said.
'That's impossible.'
'I swear.'
'When does he get home? I'll know if you lie to me, Mary.'
'After seven. He has a meeting tonight.'
'You expecting company?'
'No.'
'Why's the fucking table set?'
'It always is. I swear.'
'I'll kill anyone who shows up besides your husband.'
'No one else is coming,' she said, her voice begging me to believe her. 'I promise.'
'You have children?' I asked.
'No.'
'Does your husband expect you to be home?'
'Yes.' I sat down on the floor, breathing easily again, resisting the exhilaration.
'What do you want?' Mary asked, her voice so calm it unnerved me.
I took the radio from my fanny pack and spoke into the receiver. 'Fred Flintstone,' I said. 'Complications. Safe now. Bring it home.'
'Roger that, Wilma,' the radio squeaked.
'How well do you know your husband?' I asked.
'What do you mean?'
'You've heard of the Heart Surgeon?'
'You're not…'
'No. David Parker is.'
'There's no way,' she said. 'Are you FBI?'
'I know a hell of a lot more than the FBI. You know the name Orson Thomas?' I asked, but she didn't answer. 'Have you heard the name?' I asked again.
'Yes.' She trembled. Her back heaved heavily up and down against the floor as she panted like a dog, nearly out of breath.
'How do you know him?' I asked.
'He taught at the university, but he left, he disappeared. I don't know where.'
