Plot Line Read Free

to help in
that area.”
    Ray shook his head. “I don’t want to veer
off course. I need to stay with the plan. It’s the only way I’ll
make it.”
    “You can still write your novels, Mr.
Beeman. Write them to your heart’s content. All I ask is that you
give us some time when we need you. You’ll be on retainer. I’ll see
to it you get paid monthly whether you do any work or not.”
    “You’ll pay me a salary whether or not I
produce anything for you?”
    “This isn’t full time
employment. You will be needed from time to time and when we need
you, you must be
there. The rest of the time is yours to do with as you see
fit.”
    The offer seemed too good.
What wasn’t Devlin saying? Ray pushed aside his bowl of salad.
“Just who is this we you keep mentioning.”
    “I work for a department in the government,”
Devlin said. “We do research.”
    “What department?” Ray pressed.
    “You wouldn’t recognize it. We keep a low
profile.”
    “CIA?”
    Devlin laughed. “No, not at all. We’re not
CIA, DIA, FBI or any other espionage department. We’re not spies,
Mr. Beeman. I don’t know if that’s a relief or a disappointment for
you.”
    “Relief. What do you need a writer for? Why
me? I’ve never written anything for the government.”
    “That’s the point. I can get
some kid fresh out of college if all I needed was someone to write
reports. I’m looking for a unique mind, a creative mind. A novelist doesn’t
think like the rest of the world. He sees things others can’t. Just
like an architect can look at a two-dimensional drawing and see a
three-dimensional building, a novelist can look at everyday life
and make a mystery or a suspense book from it. It is a distinctive
and matchless gift.”
    “But what does the government need with a
fiction writer?”
    Devlin leaned back in his chair and said,
“That’s one of those things I can’t talk about until you’re
onboard. It wouldn’t be prudent.”
    “I don’t know,” Ray said. “This is coming
out of nowhere.”
    “I don’t need an answer now.” He reached in
the front pocket of his sport coat and drew out a business card. It
was a simple white card that read DEVLIN CHAMBERS and had a phone
number. “That’s my private number. Go home and think about it. I
know you’ll make the right decision.” He leaned forward again.
“Think of it Ray, freedom to write, to use the creative genius
locked in your head.”
    Ray took the card and studied it for a
moment. He was in dire financial straights and his career could be
over. If so, he needed a job—badly. “I’ll think about it.”
    “That’s all I ask,” Devlin said. “That’s all
I ask.”

 
     
     
     
    Two
     
    Ray sat on the old and worn
bench of the picnic table centered in his
backyard. A three-quarter-moon cast ivory light through a sheet of
diaphanous clouds.
    It was nearly 8:30 in the evening and he
hadn’t seen his wife or his daughter. At first he was angry, then
concerned. It was then he remembered Nora telling him that morning
that she and Skeeter would be gone when he got home. Nora was
visiting her sister in Fontana and Skeeter was at church. The plan
was for her to pick their daughter up on the return trip from her
sister’s. He expected them any moment.
    Upon reflection, Ray decided, it was good to
be alone. The news of his publisher’s bankruptcy had shaken him
deeply. Everything Devlin said earlier had been true. It could take
months, maybe even years to land a new publisher, and what was he
to do in the meantime? Ray felt as if his heart had been cut out
and handed to him—still beating. His emotions cycled through the
extremes, one moment angry, the next depressed to the point of
tears. During the hours of solitude, he had played and replayed his
options. He could return to his former job, but the thought of hour
after hour of mind-numbing work writing computer programs made him
ill. He’d rather grill hamburgers at minimum wage. He would not go
back