After Midnight

“Maybe a little. How about you?” he asked. “Are you weird?”

“What do you think?” Reaching out, I grabbed a few pretzels out of the bag between us. “You’re the mystery writer. What do you make of me?” I chomped a pretzel and grinned at him.

Taking a long drink, he gazed at me over the upper rim of his mug. Then he set down the mug, turned sideways on the couch so he faced me, and said, “I’ll say this about you. You’re not what you seem.”

It made me feel a little sick to hear him say that.

And it probably showed on my face.

Suddenly, the pretzel in my mouth went so dry I had a hard time swallowing it. I had to wash it down with some beer. Then I asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, “you’re not really a redhead. That’s either a dye job or a very good wig, I’m not sure which.”

“What makes you think it isn’t natural?”

“A couple of things. Redheads usually have light skin and freckles, whereas you’ve got a nice dark tan. Also, you have brown eyes and eyebrows.”

“Ah. Okay. You’re right. It’s a wig. Anything else?”

“I guess that’s about it,” he said.

Alarms went off inside me.

I could tell by the look in his eyes that there was something else.

Something a lot bigger than my hair color.

“What is it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “This and that. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who you really are.”

“I’m just me.”

“And what’s really going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Hang on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

“Okay.”

I sat there with my beer while he got up and walked over to a corner of the living room. There, he crouched over a cardboard box and opened its lid.

I thought about bolting.

I also thought about attacking him.

But I had no idea what he knew—or what he thought he knew.

Besides, I sort of liked him.

He took a book out of the box, then came back to the couch and handed it to me. A hardbound copy of Deep Dead Eyes by Murphy Scott.

The front picture showed a dead woman under water. You seemed to be looking down at her from the surface of a lake or river as if you were in a rowboat or something. She was a few feet below the surface, and sort of blurry. She seemed to be naked, but you couldn’t make out the details very well. What you could really make out was the way her eyes were gazing up at you.

“That’s for you,” Murphy said.

“Really? Thanks. Will you autograph it for me?”

“Sure thing. But first, take a look at the back cover.”

I flipped the book over. On the back of the dust jacket was a black-and-white photograph of Murphy standing in front of a tree. In jeans and a plaid shirt, he looked like a hunter or fisherman. The picture, taken at an odd upward angle, looked as if the photographer had been more interested in the tree than in Murphy. The tree sure looked a lot more menacing than the author.

“Do you recognize me?” he asked.

“Sure. Nice picture.”

“Thanks. And it shows that I am who I say I am, right?”

“A writer, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s either you, or you’ve got a twin.”

“It’s me,” he said.

“I believe you.”

“Want the autograph now?”

“Sure.” I handed the book to him.

Holding it, he bent over and searched the cluttered table until he found a pen. Then he stepped around the table, sat on the couch and opened the book on his lap. He turned to the title page. At the top right corner, he scribbled the date. Then he smiled at me and asked, “Do you want it personally inscribed?”

“Sure.”

“To…?”

“Me.”

“Fran?”

“Sure.”

“Are you sure? Is Fran the name you want on here? Is Fran your real name?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

He made a little shrug, then lowered his head and wrote a brief message in the book. Below the message, he scratched his autograph. Then he passed the book to me.

The inscription said:

To Fran,

My mysterious and beautiful guest—

Tell me your story.

Who knows? Maybe my next book will be about you.

Warmest Regards,

Murphy Scott

I lifted my eyes to his. “Thanks,” I said, and shut the book.

“How about it?”

“Tell you my story? What makes you think I have a story?”

“Your red hair.”

“And what else?”

“Your telephone call to Tony’s sister.”

“What about it?”

“It was a fake. You were still on the phone with her when I came back from checking for Tony’s car. Remember?”

“Yeah.”

“And you told her that Tony’s car was gone?”

I nodded.

“Well, I could hear the busy signal.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, I could. I was standing right next to you. I heard it coming out of the earpiece. It was very quiet, but…”

“There wasn’t any busy signal. I was talking to Tony’s sister.”

“The question is, why?”

“She was worried about him.”

“You weren’t talking to her. You were talking to a busy signal. But that’s all right. Okay? I just want to know