down at Topawa Elementary. When it rains, that whole place down there turns to mud.”
“If somebody can use it, they’re welcome to it,” Brandon said. “All they have to do is come pick it up.”
“I’ll have the tribe send out some trucks along with guys to load it.”
“Sure thing,” Brandon said. “They can come most anytime. I’m usually here.”
As soon as Gabe Ortiz’s Crown Victoria headed down the road, Brandon Walker returned to his woodpile. A reincarnated Andrew Carlisle? That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Still, there was one point upon which Brandon Walker fully agreed with Fat Crack Ortiz—writing
Four years earlier, on the day the letter arrived from Andrew Carlisle, Brandon Walker and Diana Ladd had already been together for seventeen years. They had come through the trials and tribulations of raising children and stepchildren. Together they had survived the long-term agonies of writing and publishing books and dealt with the complexities and hard work of running for public office. There had been difficulties, of course, but always there had been room for compromise—right up to the arrival of that damned letter. And from that time since, it seemed to him they had been locked in a downward spiral.
That was Brandon’s perception, that things had been hunky-dory before the letter and had gone to hell in a handbasket afterward, although in actual fact everything wasn’t absolutely perfect beforehand. They had already lost Tommy by then, and Quentin had already been sent to prison on the drunk-driving charge. But still . . .
The letter, ticking like a time bomb, had come to the house as part of a packet of publisher-forwarded fan mail. Diana had opened the envelope and read the oddly printed, handwritten letter herself before handing it to her husband.
MY DEAR MS. WALKER,
AFTER ALL THESE YEARS IT MAY SURPRISE YOU TO HEAR FROM ME AGAIN. FURTHER, IT MAY COME AS NEWS TO YOU TO KNOW THAT I HAVE RECENTLY BEEN DIAGNOSED AS SUFFERING FROM AN INEVITABLY FATAL DISEASE (AIDS). I AM WRITING TO YOU AT THIS TIME TO SEE IF YOU WOULD BE INTERESTED IN WORKING WITH ME ON A BOOK PROJECT THAT WOULD CHRONICLE THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT BROUGHT ME TO THIS UNFORTUNATE PASS.
I HAVE ALREADY ASSEMBLED A GOOD DEAL OF INVALUABLE MATERIAL FOR SUCH A PROJECT, BUT I AM OFFENDED BY THE RULES CURRENTLY IN EFFECT THAT MAKE IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR CONVICTED CRIMINALS TO REAP ANY KIND OF FINANCIAL REWARDS FROM RECOUNTING THEIR NEFARIOUS DEEDS, INCLUDING WRITING BOOKS ABOUT SAME. BECAUSE SOMEONE SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO MAKE AN HONEST BUCK OUT OF SUCH AN UNDERTAKING, I AM WILLING TO TURN THE ENTIRE IDEA, ALONG WITH MY ACCUMULATED MATERIAL, OVER TO A CAPABLE WRITER—WITH NO STRINGS ATTACHED—TO DO WITH AS HE OR SHE MAY CHOOSE.
YOU ARE UNIQUELY QUALIFIED TO WRITE SUCH A BOOK, AND I BELIEVE THAT OUR TWO DIVERGING POINTS OF VIEW ON THE SAME STORY WOULD MAKE FOR COMPELLING READING, EVEN IF WE BOTH KNOW, GOING INTO THE PROJECT, EXACTLY HOW IT WILL ALL TURN OUT.
DURING MY YEARS OF INCARCERATION HERE IN FLORENCE, I HAVE FOLLOWED YOUR FLOURISHING (PARDON THE UNINTENTIONAL ALLITERATION) CAREER WITH MORE THAN CASUAL INTEREST. THIS HAS BEEN DIFFICULT AT TIMES SINCE IT TAKES TIME FOR NONFICTION WORK TO BE TRANSLATED INTO EITHER “TALKING BOOKS” OR BRAILLE. (AS A RELATIVE “LATECOMER” TO THE WORLD OF BLINDNESS, BRAILLE CONTINUES TO BE SLOW-GOING AND CUMBERSOME FOR ME.)
THE MATERIAL I NOW HAVE IN MY POSSESSION IS IN THE FORM OF TYPED NOTES AND TAPES. I THINK, THOUGH, SHOULD YOU DECIDE TO TAKE ON THIS PROJECT, THAT A SERIES OF FACE-TO-FACE INTERVIEWS WOULD BE THE MOST EFFECTIVE WAY OF KICKING THINGS OFF.
WHATEVER YOUR DECISION, PLEASE LET ME KNOW AS SOON AS POSSIBLE IN VIEW OF THE FACT THAT WITH THIS DISEASE TIME MAY BE FAR MORE LIMITED THAN EITHER ONE OF US NOW SUSPECTS.
REGARDS,
ANDREW PHILIP CARLISLE
Just holding the wretched letter in his hand had made Brandon Walker feel somehow contaminated. And angry.
“Send this thing back by return mail and tell him to shove it up his ass,” he had growled, handing the letter back to Diana. “Where does that son of a bitch get off and how come he has your address?”
“Andrew Carlisle always had my address,” Diana reminded her husband. “Our address,” she corrected. “We haven’t moved, you know, not since it happened.”
“Did he send it here directly?”
“No, it came in a packet from my publisher in New York.”
“If you want me to, I’ll call the warden and tell him not to let Carlisle send you any more letters, whether they go to New York first or not.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Diana had said.
“You’ll tell him not to write again?” Brandon asked.
“I said I’d handle it.”
Looking at his wife’s determined expression, Brandon suddenly understood her intention. “You’re not going to write back, are you?”
Diana stood there for a moment gazing down at the letter and not answering.
“Well?” Brandon insisted impatiently. “Are you?”
“I might,” she said.
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“Because he’s right, you know. It could be one hell of a good book. Usually it takes at least two books to tell both sides of any given story. This would have both in one. Not only that, my agent and my editor both told me years ago that anytime I was ready to write a book about what happened, Sterling, Moffit, and Dodd would jump at the chance to publish it.”
“No,” Brandon said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Just what I said. N-O. Absolutely not. I don’t want you anywhere near that crackpot. I don’t want you writing to him. I don’t want you interviewing him. I don’t want you writing about him. Forget it.”
“Wait a minute,” Diana objected. “You can’t tell me what I can and what I can’t write.”
“But it could be dangerous for you,” Brandon said.
