Retribution: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

take for the depression?” he asked.
    “Nothing, I see a psychologist.”
    “I take Chinese herbs,” he said. “Acupuncture.
    “They work on my blood pressure, my liver problems, but they can’t penetrate, get inside whatever it really is that we call ‘soul.’”
    “Adele,” I said.
    “Come on,” he said, getting up. I eased myself away from Jefferson and followed Lonsberg through a door. Jefferson followed. At the end of a short hall was a door, a particularly thick wooden door. Lonsberg opened it with a key and we stepped in.
    It was a strange sight. Inside the room was a huge vault, the kind you might see in a bank. This vault door was open. I followed Lonsberg in.
    “What do you see?” he asked.
    “Empty shelves,” I said. “Except for that box.”
    The wooden box sat closed about chest high in the middle of one of the dark metal shelves.
    ’Two days ago they weren’t empty,” he said. “They were filled with manuscripts, neatly bound, carefully placed in folders, everything I’ve written over the past thirty-five years.”
    It had been rumored that Lonsberg had written a few books since he went into hiding from the world, but these empty shelves represented more than a few books.
    “Someone stole them?” I asked.
    “Adele,” he said.
    “Why? How?”
    “She knew about the vault,” he said, surveying the empty shelves. “I showed it to her, let her read a few things.”
    “You didn’t call the police?”
    “I’m a recluse,” Lonsberg said. “You know that. I started out just wanting to be away from the reporters, the fans, the scholars, and then it became a minor literary myth. I began to live it. It grew. The more I tried to protect my privacy, the more I was sought out by the determined. And the more reclusive I became. Now I like it that way. No, amend that. I’ve grown comfortable in my relative isolation. There’ve been rumors for years about my ‘secret’ writing. I was stupid enough in the last interview I gave I don’t know how many years ago to a small magazine, stupid enough to say that I still write. I don’t want the police. I don’t want to be in newspapers and tabloids. I don’t want television crews parked at my gate. I dread stepping into a courtroom, a press of reporters, a gaggle of fans.”
    “A press of reporters,” I said. “A gaggle of fans. Like a pride of lions?”
    “A literary critic has finally entered my house,” he said flatly.
    “No, I’m a man trying to find a missing girl. You think Adele took everything?”
    “Yes, and I want it all back,” Lonsberg said. “No questions asked. No charges filed. I’m told the manuscripts are worth millions of dollars. Be worth more when I die. Those books and stories are my legacy to my children and grandchildren.”
    “Why didn’t you just have some of them published while you’re alive?”
    He looked at me intently.
    “I write because I must,” he said. “I don’t want to be misunderstood by a world that will laud, speculate, read my stories and contort them into their stories, turn my work into movies or television miniseries. It happens to them all. If it can happen to Tolstoy, Melville, Dickens who are perfectly clear, it can and will happen to a minor quirk in the history of literature named Lonsberg. Let it happen when I’m dead. I write them to stay sane, to trap my demons on paper. I’ve got some money that still comes in from my books, but I’m not rich. And every year the fewer and fewer things written about my work have grown more obtuse andstupid. People should read novels and short stories instead of reading books about novels and short stories.”
    Jefferson was sniffing at the shelves. Lonsberg and I watched. And then Lonsberg spoke again.
    “You know Adele,” he said. “You’re a process server. You know how to find people and you know how to keep quiet. Find her. Return my manuscripts. I’ll give you five thousand dollars if you get my work back. Quietly.”
    “And