Characters in Later

… When Mom realized how bad things were, I heard her talking to Anne Staley, her editor friend, about Uncle Harry on the phone.

… Barbara Means was fresh out of the English program at Vassar, and was willing to toil in the agency at bargain-basement wages for the experience, and she was actually pretty good, which was a big help.

… But the main thing was my sister Bess. She married this guy who worked for one of the big investment companies.

This boy’s in shock. He needs medical attention.” A burly man in a white shirt with a badge hung around his neck—the Chief, I assumed—had gotten out of the SUV and was in time to hear this last. “You take him, Caroline. Get him looked at. Are there confirmed dead?”

You wait until I say ‘Go ahead, start again.’ Got that?” She listened until Colton—whoever he was—said he got it. You say, ‘If Ken Therriault was really Thumper, he was always talking about finishing where he started. I’m calling you because we talked in 2008. I kept your card.’

… Danny Miller was one of those guys. Six months after joining the Green Hills Country club, he was riding on a Greenwise garbage truck.

… David Robertson—old friend, colleague, and former department head—suffered a stroke at his retirement home on Siesta Key in Florida last evening and is now in Sarasota Memorial Hospital.

The only three women who’d gotten it were my mother, Mrs. Richards (an old lady he was friendly with on the fourth floor of the Palace on Park), and Dolores Magowan, the woman Mrs. Burkett had mistakenly predicted her widower husband would soon be asking out to lunch.

… His name is Donald Marsden, and when he filed his taxes, he listed developer as his former occupation and retired as his current one.

They didn’t hear her because they couldn’t, and they didn’t hear me because they were doing adult things: comforting for Mom, blubbering for Mr. Burkett. Mr. Burkett said, “I called Dr. Allen and he came and said she probably had a soak.” At least that’s what I thought he said.

I didn’t mind; it actually felt sort of good. “No questions, Dwight. This boy’s in shock. He needs medical attention.” A burly man in a white shirt with a badge hung around his neck—the Chief, I assumed—had gotten out of the SUV and was in time to hear this last.

I liked her for that, and there were other things I liked her for, but there were also things I didn’t like. Big things. I’ll get to that, I’ll have to, but for now let’s just say my feelings about Elizabeth Dutton, Detective 2nd Grade, NYPD, were complicated.

… Meaning Fiona Yarbrough, who worked for Doubleday, Mr. Thomas’s publisher. “Her only job was writing Regis a letter after she got each new manuscript, telling him that he’d outdone himself this time.”

… a place where Bess, Danny, and my niece Francine could lay down their heads at night without getting rained on.

… “The only body Regis ever buried was his pet parakeet, Francis,” Mom said. “Named after Francis Drake, the explorer. And he never had a dog.”

She was pretty freaked out. She asked about Frank Wilcox, he’s Regis’s business manager, and I said I’d get in touch with him. In time I will, but the last time I spoke to Regis, he told me Frank and his wife were in Greece.” “Press?” Liz asked.

… I was loved by my best friends Frankie Ryder and Scott Abramowitz (although of course we didn’t talk or even think about it that way).

Mom: “Hannah makes the Seeking Fire? The stuff that almost got her hung as a witch?” Pause. Me: “That’s right. And he says George Threadgill sneaks after them. And he says that looking at Hannah makes George tumescent. What’s that, Mom?” Mom: “Never mi—” Liz stopped the recording there.

Know all about it. It’ll pass.” Then she made a call, identified herself as Detective Dutton, and asked for Gordon Bishop. She must have been told he was on the job, because Liz said, “I don’t care if he’s on Mars, patch me through. This is Priority One.”

… “Takes it to Hannah Royden. They go into the swamp together and find the cave.” Mom: “Hannah makes the Seeking Fire? The stuff that almost got her hung as a witch?”

… It used to be her brother, my Uncle Harry, but Mom took over his business a year before the time I’m telling you about.

… Uncle Harry checked it out, talked to some big bug who worked for the Fund (although not to James Mackenzie himself, because Uncle Harry was just a small bug in the great scheme of things), and put in a bunch of money.

… My name is Jamie Conklin, and once upon a time I drew a Thanksgiving turkey that I thought was the absolute cat’s ass.

… Plus, there was Jane Reynolds, a librarian from North Carolina. Her novel, a mystery titled Dead Red, came in over the transom, and Mom just raved about it.

I told her I did. He had been Liz’s partner for a couple of years, and a couple of times Mom brought me along when she and Liz had meals with Detective Hernandez and his wife.

Ted Bundy got caught because he forgot to put his headlights on. Thumper—real name Kenneth Alan Therriault—was nailed because a building super had a minor accident on trash day. He was wheeling a dolly loaded with garbage cans down an alley to the pickup point out front.

… consisting of George Threadgill, Purity Betancourt, and Laura Goodhugh. Who ended up getting pregnant. Poor Laura always got the shitty end of the stick.

Lester and Norma Conklin were killed by a drunk driver while on their way to a Christmas party. Harry did come back to Illinois for their funeral; I found an article in the Arcola Record Herald that says he gave the eulogy.

But she had to know what was happening on Long Island, and so did I. She turned on the TV and we sat on the couch to watch. Lewis Dodley of NY1 was doing a stand-up on a street with police sawhorses blocking it off.

… And don’t forget Lily Rhinehart, who once put a big smackeroo on my mouth. She also gave me a Hallmark card before I changed schools.

Maybe he’s in the master bedroom, recalling all the happy times he spent there boinking his whores. There were many after Madeline left. Probably before, too.” “I don’t want to go up there.” “Why not? The place isn’t haunted, Jamie.” “It is if he’s up there.”

She grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake. “Ask him, I said!” So I did. “Where’s the rest of the dope, Mr. Marsden?” “I told you, that’s all there is.” His voice was fading, fading. “I keep a few on hand for Maria, but she’s in the Bahamas. Bimini.”

… not expected to live, or even to regain consciousness, but I have known Dave and his lovely wife Marie for over forty years and must make the trip, little as I want to, if only to offer comfort to his wife and attend the funeral, should it come to that.

I only played JV basketball, and the season was over, but I still qualified. Some days I checked out the art room, because this foxy chick named Marie O’Malley occasionally hung out there. If she wasn’t working on one of her watercolors, I just went home.

Were the settlers dead? Was there really an ancient city beneath Roanoke full of ancient wisdom? What did Martin Betancourt mean when he said “Time is the key” before expiring? What did that cryptic word croatoan, found carved on a palisade of the abandoned community, really mean?

As most of you know, I do not carry a personal phone. I apologize for any inconvenience. Sincerely yours, Prof. Martin F. Burkett (Emeritus) “He’s old school,” I said to Mom as we ate our breakfast: grapefruit and yogurt for her, Cheerios for me. She nodded.

… Mary Lou Stein was kind of a goth intellectual in spite of her girl-next-door name and a huge cinephile. We went to the Angelika just about once every week and sat in the back row reading subtitles.

… Mona Burkett was a prize pain the ass, he might actually be better off without her, but right now he’s gutted.

… Monty Grisham, the lawyer who helped with contracts back then, not only told her not to put in more, he told her to get out while the getting was good.

The problem is as easy as soft butter on toast, and I’m just finishing when Mr. Hernandez, the assistant principal, sticks his head in. He and Ms. Pierce have a brief murmured conversation, and then Ms. Pierce asks me to step out into the hall.

… By the time Mr. Laghari told us to turn in our papers, I still hadn’t solved the last five problems. I got a D- on the test, and there was a note at the top: This is disappointing, Jamie. You must do better.

… Mr. Provenza had also cleaned up the broken glass, and put a sign in front of the elevator that said TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER.

“I was just about to call you,” she said, and then, looking down, “Oh my God, that’s a new pair of jeans!” “Sorry,” I said. “Maybe you can patch them up.” “I have many skills, but sewing isn’t one of them. I’ll take them to Mrs. Abelson at Dandy Cleaners.

Then she wiped at one of her eyes. Crying after all. “Listen, I need to talk to Mrs. Ackerman—she’s the boss-lady here—and sign some papers. Then I need to go down to his room and see if there’s anything I need to take right away. I can’t imagine there is.”

Mrs. Quayle. Davina. She and a part-time gardener were the whole staff. Nice woman. She called me right after she called for an ambulance.

The only three women who’d gotten it were my mother, Mrs. Richards (an old lady he was friendly with on the fourth floor of the Palace on Park), and Dolores Magowan, the woman Mrs. Burkett had mistakenly predicted her widower husband would soon be asking out to lunch.

… she walked me to school, and Mrs. Tate told us about dinosaurs, and life went on for two years in the good ways it usually did.

… especially Mrs. Wilcox, my third-grade teacher, who hugged me and said she’d miss me on the day school let out.

… I thought briefly of talking to Ms. Peterson, who was the school’s guidance counselor, but she’d assume I was having hallucinations, maybe a nervous breakdown.

… I’m in the third grade, and Ms. Pierce has me doing a fractions problem on the board because I’m good at shit like that.

Lester and Norma Conklin were killed by a drunk driver while on their way to a Christmas party. Harry did come back to Illinois for their funeral; I found an article in the Arcola Record Herald that says he gave the eulogy.

It was quite possible because her brother Pablo played.

The other half was bullshit. I have to give him credit for invention, though (full marks, Mom’s British romance writer Philippa Stephens would have said).

… Death Swamp of Roanoke included some steamy stuff going on between Laura Good-hugh and Purity Betancourt, the widow of Martin Betancourt (pure she wasn’t).

… I was thinking of this girl named Ramona Sheinberg. She was in a couple of my classes at the beginning of the year, but then she was gone and my friend Scott Abramowitz told me her father snatched her during a custody suit …

… “Is it Regis Thomas?” I asked. “Yes indeed. Good old Regis, who pays our rent.” “Is it about Roanoke?” “Do you even have to ask, Jamie?”

… Before Richard Scalise (that was the pay phone man’s name), a long period of time went by before each new explosion.

… Before I left, I asked him his name and he said it was Richard Scarlatti. Then I knew where I’d seen him. His picture was on NY1. Some big boys drowned him in Swan Lake, which is in Central Park.

… His name was Robert Harrison. At four I was already reading at a third-grade level, my mother was very proud of that, and there were no tough words in the headline of the story, which was all I read: CEO OF LIGHTHOUSE FOUNDATION DIES IN TRAFFIC ACCIDENT.

… I was loved by my best friends Frankie Ryder and Scott Abramowitz (although of course we didn’t talk or even think about it that way).

… Mr. Burkett said that Siobhan had gotten all the good pieces of Mona’s jewelry, and besides, “If you snooze, you lose.”

“Look,” I said. “Stacy-Anne Conway! She’s on NY1!” “Ask me if I give a shit,” Liz said. I didn’t. We had been lucky not to run into reporters at Central Park or City of Angels, and I realized the only reason we hadn’t was because they were all here.

… Even Teddy had arrived. He stood in the doorway the cops had vacated, perhaps drawn by the commotion, maybe just on a whim.

… Tia Conklin did quit her job and go to New York to help her brother in his new literary agency early the next year.

When I left the apartment, Therriault wasn’t on my mind. He spent less and less time there, and I used some of the newly available space to think about other things, mostly girls. I was dwelling on Valeria Gomez in particular as I walked down the hall to the elevator.