Will Staeger - Painkiller

Laramie blinked and said, “Two years of my salary.”

“I believe that is how the figure was calculated.”

Bartleby stacked the contract, check, and deed on the bedside table, withdrew a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, set the pen on the contract, then removed another item from the folder: a thin, colorful paperback book.

“You would be required to travel extensively but would receive a per diem and be entitled to first-class travel and accommodations. All such arrangements would be subject to your approval, and paid by my clients on a direct-billing basis.” He held up the book, which Laramie saw was called Caribbean Hideaways. “Your assigned scouting duties would include the list of resorts described in this publication. You would be required to submit a report on each resort at the conclusion of your stay. My clients will provide you a notebook computer with wireless Internet access for this purpose.”

He set the book on the table.

“If the terms of my clients’ offer are acceptable to you, sign the consulting agreement at your leisure and fax the executed agreement to the number provided. And I apologize,” he said, “but I nearly forgot to mention that you would of course not be expected to travel alone, and may bring a guest. My clients would pay the travel expenses of your guest as well.”

Laramie narrowed her eyes, deciding it must have been the anesthesia that had made her a little slow on the uptake. “Mr. Bartleby,” she said. “One question on the guest that you mention. Are you saying I can bring anybody of my choosing?”

“Anybody? Yes. Oh. Well, anybody but one, apparently.”

“And that would be-?”

Bartleby nodded noncommittally. “I was told that an individual by the name of ‘Professor Eddie Rothgeb’ is not permitted as a guest on your assignments.”

“Ah,” Laramie said.

“But anyone else is fine.”

“Of course.”

Bartleby offered his curt but pleasant smile one last time. “Thank you again for your time, Miss Laramie,” he said. “Speedy recovery.”

Then he left.

Laramie got about halfway through the complicated series of actions required to crane her neck and get a look at the book and short stack of papers; then she stopped in mid-crane and slumped back into her mattress.

Considering there was a good chance that the odd visit from the little man in the blue suit had occurred only as part of a postsurgery dream, the only thing she figured it made sense to do was to go back to sleep. Yes, she thought, that’s what I will do: sleep. And when I wake up again, I’ll take another look at the papers on the bedside table.

If, after I’ve slept, the papers remain stacked where the man in the blue suit left them, I will consider the possibility that the man, and his papers, and his pen might have been something more than a figment of my imagination.

Decision made, Julie Laramie closed her eyes, tilted her head into the pillow, and fell back to sleep.

I owe a deep debt of gratitude to my parents, Bill and Gail, for encouraging me to pursue my dreams no matter how ludicrous each new dream sounded-and still sounds. Same goes for Bart, my brother, for being my partner in crime in both art and life. And it goes without saying, for anyone who knows me-and yet still I will say it-I would never have finished this or any other novel without the inspiration found in my home every minute of every day. I mine this inspiration from my impossibly flawless wife, Nadine, and the bundles of thrill-seeking ambition she’s given me so far, Sophie and Brick.

All that said, once the first draft of Painkiller had completed itself, I was lucky enough to count as a friend one Gregg Hurwitz, whose generosity confounds me to this day. Through Gregg came my introduction to the keepers of the real-life Force: Marc H. Glick and Stephen F. Breimer-men with no equals. Heroes, in fact. And to the most brilliant of mad scientists, Jess Taylor. And to warriors (and literary agents) Matthew Guma and Richard Pine. In the end, this greatest of teams took a supreme leap of faith on Cooper, Laramie, and, partially, me, delivering me to some of the smartest men alive: Michael Morrison and Rob McMahon. The razor-sharp judgment found in Michael and Rob led them to conduct the brash act of actually purchasing the publishing rights to this book-and then to instruct me on how to make it better.

To each of you, a salute: Live slow, mon.

Will Staeger Jr. currently serves as Director of Strategic Acquisitions & Original Development for all ESPN original entertainment. Before joining ESPN, he was Senior Vice President for Weed Road Pictures-Academy Award-winning screenwriter Akiva Goldsman’s film production company. Prior to that, he was director of development for Warner Bros. based Silver Pictures, where he worked on films like The Matrix. A graduate of Miami University, he resides in Fairfield, Connecticut, with his wife and family.