Todd turned around. A man about his own age was standing there. He was wearing a longshoreman’s jacket and blue jeans.

“Evening,” said the man. He stuck out his hand. “The name’s Jake Turner.”

Eight

EIGHT

Todd couldn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “I thought you were dead.”

“You read the confession, right?” said Jake. “Yeah, I’m dead. Happens to all of us in the end, right?”

“You were hit by a truck,” Todd said, almost accusingly.

“Is that right?” said Jake. He didn’t seem too concerned about it. “I guess that’s what they call ‘dramatic irony.’”

Jake looked at Todd quizzically. “I guess you know what that is, being a writer.”

“How’d you know that?” said Todd.

“Why else would you be here?” said Jake. “Jesus, look at this.”

He took the copy of All My Colors from Todd’s hand.

“This was gonna be it, you know,” he said. “Reviews, sales, everything. I poured my fucking life into it.”

“You poured her life into it,” said Todd.

“Thanks,” said Jake. “Nice to be reminded. At least I fucking wrote it, know what I mean? Yeah, I took someone else’s life—literally, as it turned out—but I did the writing, pal. Helen told me her story and I used it as the raw material. I shaped it, I gave it a structure and you know what? I gave her a voice. They should have given me an award for what I did. Instead—truck.”

He slammed his hands together.

“Todd Milstead,” he said. “I just realized. You’re Todd Milstead.”

Todd didn’t know what to say to that. He’d never been recognized by a dead person before.

“That’s why you’re here,” said Jake. He laughed. It was a pretty nasty laugh. It was a laugh that actually smelled bad. Good trick, thought Todd.

“Fuck me, Todd Milstead. You know, you’re kind of a legend in here.”

“I am?” said Todd, almost pleased despite himself.

“Yeah,” said Jake. “You know why? Because you’re the copyist. Come on,” he added before Todd could ask him what he meant. “There’s a lot of people want to meet you.”

As Jake spoke, two figures stepped out of the shadows. Todd almost screamed. One of them was Timothy, or used to be him. Where Timothy’s mouth should have been, there was a red hole like a ragged fleshy bomb crater. And the other was Billy Cairns. Billy didn’t even have a face. The front of his head looked like someone had been using it as a skating rink.

“I guess you already know these guys,” said Jake. “Come on, let’s go.”

And before Todd could move, the things that used to be Billy and Timothy took one of his arms each and propelled him gently back into the shadows.