Nelson DeMille: Death Benefits

The morning dawned bright and sunny. Good boating weather. “Good day to drown my agent.”

Jack got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Little Scotsmen were playing bagpipes in his head and he took an aspirin, then washed up while he listened to the maritime weather channel. Seas were calm with one- to two-foot waves; winds were from the south at three to four miles per hour. Perfect day to take the twenty-eight-foot Sea Ray out on the ocean. Five miles should do it. In fact, since Stan Wykoff couldn’t swim, five feet should do it. But he needed to be away from witnesses. Five miles.

Jack slipped on a ratty flannel bathrobe over his boxer shorts and went downstairs.

He found Stan in the kitchen, already up and about, having a cup of coffee and reading the New York Times, which was delivered each weekend morning.

Stan glanced up from his newspaper, and Jack greeted him with a smile and a hearty good morning. He inquired of his houseguest, “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jack thought Stan seemed subdued, but he wasn’t dressed, packed, and waiting outside for a cab. So, as Jack had hoped, Stan had forgotten or dismissed the driveway incident. People rarely took that long leap from suspicion to absolute belief-from reasonable doubt to conviction. That was why juries returned verdicts of not guilty and why murder victims rarely saw it coming.

Stan was wearing stupid yellow pajamas-silk or synthetic-with idiotic bears on them. Probably a gift from his wife. Jack hated men who wore pajamas. And open-toed slippers. Wimp.

Jack poured himself a cup of coffee and noticed that Stan had found a frying pan and had scrambled some eggs in a bowl, and he’d also found some chives in the kitchen garden. Stan was one of those men who liked to cook. Jack disliked men who liked to cook. Skinny men, like Stan, who sliced and diced and made horrible healthy things to eat. The only green thing in Jack’s refrigerator was the mold on the cheddar cheese.

Jack sat at the round table and sipped his coffee. He asked Stan, “Is this decaf?”

“Yes.”

That, Jack decided, is a capital offense punishable by drowning.

The Saturday Times had the Sunday Book Review section included, and Jack picked it up from the table and flipped through it. None of the ads for other authors’ books included a blurb from Jack Henry, and he realized he hadn’t been asked for a blurb in almost a year. He noticed, too, that many of the reviews were of novels by hot new authors who Jack considered terminally cool or effete or just plain incomprehensible. But the Times loved them for “taking chances” or “making us rethink how we see the world” or some other cliche. Bottom line, the culture had changed, and Jack Henry’s fictional heroes-men who were men and women who were women-were no longer in fashion. In fact, his career was in a death spiral.

Stan put down his paper and asked, “Would you like an omelet?”

“Sure.”

Stan went to the stove and began puttering. Maybe Stan should write a cookbook, Jack thought. Cooking for Lonely Losers.

Stan was now pouring some liquids into the blender-orange juice, apple juice, milk-plus ice cubes and a powdery nutritional supplement from a can.

Jack said, “We don’t have to be at the Southampton book signing until three. I want to take you fishing this morning. This house came with a twenty-eight-foot Sea Ray.”

Stan flipped the omelet. “All right.”

Jack had thought Stan might find a reason not to go out in the boat, but Stan was making it easy for him.

Georgica Pond was actually a tidal basin with an inlet that went out to the Atlantic Ocean, and he’d tell Stan they were going for big game fish. Maybe, he thought, I’ll also chum for shark, and Stan will be the chum. But maybe a shark wouldn’t eat Stan out of professional courtesy. He smiled.

Stan Wykoff, for all his physical fitness, couldn’t swim, as Jack knew. And the life jackets, which should have been aboard in the sea locker, were still stored in the garage, as Jack had discovered last weekend and as Stan would discover if he happened to inquire about a life jacket, which was something prissy Stan might do.

One thing Jack would not forget to bring aboard was binoculars to look for other boats. Make sure there are no witnesses.

He thought about his statement to the police: “Well, Officer, I was at the helm with the twin engines roaring, making about forty knots, and Mr. Wykoff was sitting aft-or maybe standing-and a rogue wave hit the port side and the craft rolled, and the bow went up and slammed back into the water. I turned to see if Mr. Wykoff was okay, and… he was gone.” Add an appropriate facial expression. No smiling.

There would be questions, of course, and though he was in shock and distraught, he’d do his best to answer. “Yes, of course, I came around, but I didn’t see him. No, I don’t know if he knew how to swim. Apparently not. And unfortunately, there weren’t any life jackets on board. It’s not my boat. I circled and called out; then I got on the radio and called the Coast Guard as I continued my search.” He’d make sure to add, “This is all in the Coast Guard report.” Word for word with no inconsistencies.

Sounds good, Jack thought. Tight and to the point. No rewrites necessary. No plot holes. Murder on the high seas. Perfect crime. Just make sure not to mention that I pushed Mr. Wykoff overboard, waved, and yelled, “Fuck you!” Jack smiled.

Stan put a plate in front of Jack and asked, “What are you smiling about?”

“Oh… I just had a thought about… I forgot.”

Stan poured the contents of the blender into two tall glasses and set them on the table. He said, “This will clear your head.”

Stan sat and took a long swig of the foamy drink.

Jack sipped it. Not bad. Cold and sweet. He took another drink, then dug into his eggs.

Stan said, “There are actually a few things I wanted to speak to you about.”

Jack glanced up from his eggs. “What?”

“Well, your career.”

Not Jack’s favorite subject, but he was relieved that Stan didn’t want to talk about Jack asking him to get out of the car so he could run him over. Jack replied, “I’ve hit a rough patch.” He added, “What I’m working on now is a blockbuster.”

Stan reminded him, “You said that about your last two books.”

Jack was totally pissed off, but he kept calm. Why argue with a dead man?

Stan assured him, “I’m here to help.”

“Good. Go write me a few chapters.” He knocked back the rest of the smoothie and finished his eggs.

Stan said to him, “I need to be very frank with you, Jack, and I need you to just listen.”

Jack had the feeling that Stan was about to fire him, which, last week, would have been fine with him and would have saved him the trouble of firing Stan. But now, he didn’t want any unpleasantness-he wanted to get Stan on that boat. Jack said, “Let’s save it for later.”

“No. There will be no later.”

“Stan-”

“Listen, Jack. We’re both in trouble.” Stan explained, “To be totally honest with you, all my authors are either drunks, senile, lazy, burned-out, talentless hacks, has-beens, dropouts, or pending suicides.”

Jack stared at Stan but didn’t reply.

Stan continued, “I’m broke and in debt, and I know you are, too.”

“I… I’m not…” Suddenly, Jack didn’t feel well. His stomach was tightening, and his chest felt heavy.

Stan continued, “We’ve worked all our lives and now we face poverty, and worse-professional embarrassment and personal humiliation.”

Jack tried to reply, but he felt a tightening in his throat.

Stan said, “Don’t try to speak. I know it’s difficult.” He continued, “A few days ago I received a bill in the mail that you also received.” He inquired, “Did you see it?”