Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“The young lady is correct,” McTavish interrupted. “Though I do consider both books one half of a two-parter. Of course, The Dawn Rises won’t make any sense if you don’t read The Night Comes first, which is out in a new paperback this week. There are so many release dates and formats and countries to keep track of, it’s easy to get muddled. What I’m really saying is: just buy both.” McTavish mugged for the crowd and was rewarded with a laugh.

“I can’t imagine how complicated it is bringing a series of sixteen books together for a finale.” Majors got back on topic. “How did it feel to say goodbye to such a popular character?”

“Uh, well that’s a tough one.” McTavish faltered. A light slur nudged on the edges of his words and the previous sparkle had disappeared. He clearly had an alcoholic’s touch for delivering pre-rehearsed lines but little room for improv. He was scanning the crowd, and I noticed his eye line settled on Wyatt, but it wasn’t for reassurance, like why I’d hunted out Simone. His eyes blazed with annoyance. Wyatt shrank a little in his chair. Owner of the company or not, it was clear who was in charge. McTavish directed his answer at him. “Goodbye is such a strong word. I don’t want to spoil it for the people here who haven’t finished it yet, but no door is ever closed.”

“I feel like that’s as much of a scoop as we’re going to get from you,” Majors responded smoothly, reading McTavish’s deliberate aloofness. “One more question for the craftspeople in the audience, then. Is it true you write all your books by typewriter? I heard that you do it to protect against spoilers, by only having a single typed copy of every manuscript. That seems quite an extreme solution.”

“It’s not so extreme if you think about it. J. K. Rowling’s manuscripts used to be handcuffed to her publisher’s wrist, like the U.S. president’s nuclear codes. Dan Brown’s publishers required his translators to work out of a basement in Milan for a month: no internet, security guards if you wanted to use the bathroom. You can’t take it lightly. You should see some of the things people have threatened to do to me to get their hands on a manuscript. And with everything online these days, I just don’t trust my computer. Besides, I like the feel of the keys.”

“What if your house burns down?” I couldn’t resist asking. Admittedly, I was a little emboldened by the fact he’d taken my side earlier.

It was the first time I’d spoken directly to McTavish and he looked askance, as if he was trying to decide if he was offended. I wondered if he’d really been sticking up for me, or if he’d just wanted to disagree with Wolfgang. Eventually he said, “I would take that as a sign from the universe that I probably need another draft.” He unscrewed his flask again and took a long swig, in a clear sign to move on.

Royce looked like a dog ready to go outside, such was his enthusiasm to finally have a question of his own.

“And last—”

“But not least!” he chipped in.

“Yes. Of course.” I realized here that Majors said of course as a polite way of saying shut up. Whenever she was interrupted, in fact. I chalked her up as a woman who took great care with her words and didn’t wish to be either diverted from them or spoken for. “Alan Royce, author of the Dr. Jane Black series, whose novels take place on steel tables and in morgues. Very chilling reading!”

“I prefer to think that I write novels about society, depravity and humanity, and the crime itself is just the engine for a more . . .” Royce paused in the same deliberate spot as he had over breakfast, and I realized this was a man who took himself very seriously and wanted to advertise that he did everything with great effort. He was the type of person who picked up and carried a suitcase with wheels, just so he could complain about how heavy it was. “A more enlightened conversation around some real-world issues.”

“Of course.”

“I think that’s our job, really. To interrogate society. Which I think is what Wolfgang was saying, with regard to the French modernist move—”

“Plus you’ve got firsthand experience with all the gore and grisliness, right?” Majors was taking pleasure in reducing Royce to his most sensationalist identifiers. To her credit, the crowd did prefer to hear about morgues over Wolfgang’s tangent on French modernism. “You used to be a forensic pathologist yourself?”

“Oh yes, that’s what inspired me to write fiction.” Royce exaggerated the last word, lingering on the f sound by pulling his bottom lip under his front teeth and flinging it like a trebuchet. It looked like he was aiming the word at me for some reason, which didn’t make any sense, given that I was the only one there who hadn’t published any.